#LONG CLAW IS RIGHT THERE AND 6 FEET UNDER | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

baiabay · 7 months

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No Role Modelz (ATSV Black Cat Variant! Reader Insert)

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6: Current Chapter

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^^links 2 chapters!! this story is also on ao3, wattpad, and quotev under the same name

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Chapter Six: Bye Felicia!

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Fucking exhausted.

At this point you weren’t even thinking, just letting adrenaline drive your movements. But the thing about adrenaline, it runs out. And you weren’t sure how much of it you had left, or how long this mess was supposed to last.

While dodging debris and hauling around citizens, you came to a realization. Unlike the others, you didn’t have powers. You were never bitten by a radioactive kitten, and neither was your father as far as you’re aware. You didn’t shoot out hairballs from your palms or have super-strength, you couldn’t claw your way up walls or always land perfectly on your feet, unlike the others, you were just human. And your human-ness was really starting to weigh down on you right about now, as you felt your feet slide out from under you, and your wrists start to ache while you did your best alongside Pav to keep a city bus from toppling over the edge of a broken bridge.

You grit your teeth and groaned, nothing in your mind but fuzz, body fueled by the desperate willpower the screams of civilians around you provided. Squeezing your eyes shut, you felt the ground rumble behind you, deepening the cracks that formed around your feet. A pained shout of Miles’ name from Gwen sounded out.

After what felt like forever, the strain on your arms had been slightly relieved. You cracked your eyes open, met with Hobie by your side, joining you in the upward pull of the city bus. After a few more hearty tugs, the bus was finally on solid ground. You heaved a heavy sigh, finally feeling the full weight of your adrenaline crash. Your mind spun and your stomach churned. Under you, your legs began to wobble. With nothing but exhaustion on your mind, you embraced the slump of your body that followed. Before you felt yourself hit the ground, a firm hand gripped your shoulder, steadying your unstable form. Besides you, an English accent mumbled some sort of consolidation your ringing ears didn't manage to pick up. Still, in your hazy state, you turned your head towards Hobie and shakily parted your lips. “...Is it over?”

Before you could catch a response, you felt a new pair of arms wrap themselves around your form. You clamped your eyes shut in surprise, and by the time you opened them, the intimate squeeze that engulfed you was gone. In front of you, Pav stood with a hand on his chest, head lowered in a silent ‘thank you’. Despite everything, a smile crept its way onto your face.

The tender moment was quickly cut short with more rumbling. But this wasn’t another signal of more destruction, it was different. This time it felt…warbled…time bending. In the direction of the noise, what looked like a giant, spider-shaped ship descended from a bright portal. It landed with a heavy thud, and opened its large mouth to release what looked like…more? Spider-people…? You let out a wry laugh. You were beginning to sense a pattern.

Walking first out of the ship with an air of authority, was a familiar face. “Okay, guys, secure the area, clear all civilians, and let’s contain this quantum hole.” Your mind flashed back to the night you and Miles jumped headfirst into this mess. In the midst of Spots’ destruction that night, her holographic form stood alongside Gwen. Just as you were about to turn to mention this revelation to Miles, he was already taking confident strides towards the pregnant hero. Not before grabbing a hold of your wrist and dragging you behind him, forcing you to join him in his determined trot towards the now-frowning Spider-woman. Of course.

Your brows began to knit together and a nervous smile plastered itself on your lips. “Hah…Miles, what do you think you’re doing,” You tried to tug your wrist away, which he did loosen his grip, but his stride didn’t falter once. Breaking your train of worry, he spoke your name. “Just trust me with this.” He replied with a shrug in his shoulders and a smile clear in his voice. “Trust me.” He squeezed your wrist before letting go and quickening his pace, now walking in front of you.

Similar to his determined stride, the cheeriness in his voice refused falter as he began to address the Spider-heroine. “Hey, I’m Miles, and uh, that’s Black Cat back there,” The pregnant hero jutted her chin into the air, walking with clear frustration thinly veiled with nonchalance. Despite her obvious display of ignorance towards him, Miles continued. “Uh- we all actually met before, when I was invisible and Cat-” A knot began to weave and tighten in your stomach as you felt the gaze of the older woman meet yours. She lowered her chin, looking at you through her eyebrows. She walked quicker now, towards you. You gulped. “I know who you are,” She mumbled, finally addressing Miles. “But you, Hardy,”

huh?

She stopped before you, never once breaking her glare. She let out a deep sigh, letting her shoulders slump. You, on the other hand, couldn’t be any more tense. “You’re really not supposed to be out here.”

How did she know my name?

“How do you know my-”

“Okay- wait, let me explain-” Gwen stepped between the two of you. “Miguel wants you back at HQ.” Gwen was quickly shut down before any sort of explanation could escape her masked lips. “Wait, where are we-” “All of you.” Your confused sentiments were quickly shut down as well, met with a quick sweep of the hand of the hero before walking off towards the ship. The knot in your stomach loosened. Only slightly. Beside you, Miles whooped excitedly. “I’m going to HQ?”

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“I just can’t catch a break, huh?”

You shouted towards the rest of the group from the ceiling. Or was it the floor? Or maybe just a wall? This building made no sense to you. Granted, it probably wasn’t designed with Cats in mind. While Miles, Gwen, and Hobie walked comfortably upside-down, their feet sticking effortlessly to every surface they touched, you relied on swinging your form around via grappling hook. Occasionally, gravity would be on your side and you would catch yourself walking like normal across what you assumed was a floor, but just as you would start to get comfortable, you began to fall upwards. Or would it be downwards?

“It’s a bit much, innit?” Hobie mumbled back. “Pff,” You chucked. “More than a bit- SHIT-!”

Doubling over in pain, you let go of your hook. Screaming out, you tried to grab at yourself in an attempt to ground the sting that shot through your nerves. You tried to grab at yourself, but you felt nothing. You felt like you were coming undone. You were coming undone, you were falling apart, you were-

“Here.”

And as the pain was never there, it was gone entirely. A pressure on your wrist. Looking towards your arm you were met with a bright blue rubbery band.

“It’s a day pass. Keeps you from…” You heard the same pained grunt from Miles, who now crouched beside you, face contorted in pain. “…doing that.” He snapped the band across his wrist, sending you a worried glance before helping you up.

Continuing your trek through the HQ, you subconsciously felt yourself grow more on guard. You recognized this feeling, it was the exact same one you would always feel while sneaking past security during heists, the exact same feeling you would get slinking around CCTV cameras late at night.

You were being watched.

Glancing around the space, you easily confirmed that yes, you were being watched. Quite intensely too. As you trudged behind the group you instinctively rested your hand on the holster of your whip, noticing how the masked eyes of the Spider-people around you seemed to follow your every move. You lifted your chin, adjusting your posture to walk with a stronger, cockier air in your step. The staring turned to whispers, the whispers turned to murmurs. Your lips began to pull into a smirk. Once again, The Black Cat was watched, feared, the center of attention.

Would it be wrong if you said you missed this feeling?

If you focused enough, you could decipher the mumblings that floated around you. And one thing especially kept on putting you off.

…The Black Cat…Cat is here?...Black Cat…Hardy…Cat Burglar…Thief…Hardy…Cat.. Hardy?…Hardy…Hardy…

…Felicia?

They all knew your goddamn name. Your last name, at least. Fearful mumbles of ‘Hardy, Hardy, Hardy’ filled your ears, mixed with another name you didn’t recognize. ‘Felicia, Felicia, Felicia’. You tried to not let how disturbed you were show on your face. Lifting your head higher, you continued your strut.

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“Who’s in these lazer cages?”

You asked, eyes illuminated orange by the glowing prison before you.

“Anomalies,” Answered above you, a small, weirdly fashionable, digital avatar. “Folks who ended up in the wrong dimension. We kick their butts and send them home.”

Glowering looks were sent in the direction of the group as you and Miles curiously peered at the multiple caged anomalies in the room. Men with eight tentacled arms strapped to their backs, tall figures with crystal balls for heads, a man with the posture of a vulture, a literal vulture- the oddities were neverending.

One in particular caught your eye. A leaner, more feminine figure stood with a cocked hip and arms crossed. The knot was back. Tightening, twisting, as you stepped slowly towards the orange enclosure. As you got closer, more features made themselves apparent to you. Thin heeled boots blended seamlessly into a skin-tight, grayscale suit. Crossed arms lined with white fur lead into ladylike hands, with long, pointed nails decorating their fingertips. A deep v-neck, prominent collarbones, red-painted lips, blue eyes, a tight, high ponytail-

Cat ears.

It seemed both you and the lady before you felt the same way about each other's presence, watching with wide eyes as hers widened as well. By now, the knot has doubled, tripled, tied around itself and every organ in your body. Whatever type of confidence you managed to muster in yourself earlier was long gone now. In front of you, plump, red lips parted to speak.

“Felicia?”

That name again. Shocked still, you shook your head ‘no’. The lady let out a wry laugh. “I know a Cat when I see one,” The click-clacks of high heels sounded out as she stepped closer towards the edge of the cage, now crouching so her face was leveled with yours. She had an elegant, mature face. Her lips were stretched into a small, relaxed smile, but the pained scrunch that was knit into her forehead told you that relaxed was the last thing she was feeling at this moment. “But you’re so…young.” A sigh, followed by a feline-like stretch as she stood back up in her enclosure. “They’re not gonna like you in here, y’know. They’ll make you ‘Go Home’ as soon as he finds out who you are.”

“Wait- wait,” You finally spoke up, breaking out of whatever trance the two of you were caught up in. “Who’s ‘he’? And who are you? And why do you look like me but not…really? And everyone in here knows my last name for some reason and it’s been driving me fucking crazy-”

“Let’s go!” Down the hall behind you, Hobie called out over his shoulder. Another sigh from the anomaly. “Listen, kid. Stay safe. Please.” “You’re not telling me anything-” “It’s too complicated to explain right now, kid.” “I’m not a kid-”

“Felicia Hardy. Black Cat.”

“...you’re…but I-”

“And you’re not the first, or the last, that’s been in this place. Trust me, I’ve seen my fill.”

“But…how?”

“I don’t know how. But I do know that you need to be careful, please. Knowing you, er- us, getting tangled in situations as big as this never ends well-”

“Cat, c’mon!” Hobie called out again. Felicia pressed her lips together, sending you a knowing gleam in her blue eyes and a slight nod. Backing up from her cage, you nodded back. A silent pact, a mysterious bond formed between the two of you that you didn’t really understand. Nevertheless, you trudged on.

“Coming!”

#miles morales x reader #atsv x you #atsv #reader insert #atsv x reader #atsv reader insert #spider-man: across the spider-verse #across the spiderverse #across the spiderverse x reader #black cat! reader #hobie brown x reader #gwen stacy x reader #pavitr prabhakar x reader #miguel ohara

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who-knew-a-sheep-can-write · 2 months

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Police Dog: Bigby Wolf x Fem!Cop!Reader - Chapter 6

To say things were tense would be a horrible understatement.

The cab was silent, the driver kept his lips sealed after you had given him the address to the Woodlands as though he already knew why things were so strained. You felt like you were suffocating just sitting there in the backseat with him barely two feet to your left. He hadn’t said a single word to you, most likely afraid of what you might do- what you might say. He was nearly pressed up against the side of the door, brawny arms tucked, hands limp in his lap, eyes trained to look out of the window at the city passing by. He was almost still enough for pigeons to mistake him for a statue had it not had been for his knee bouncing ever so lightly, most likely afraid to shake the cavity of the cab and draw even more attention to himself.

That’s the last thing he needs right now.

You could see his hands, you could see those knuckles and nails. His knuckles were all scratched and busted open but shockingly sealed up to be light scabs, the bruising just made them look more worse for wear. His nails still had blood underneath, all crusty and dusty and needing a good long wash. It was odd to you, obviously never seeing a werewolf in real life before, that just maybe ten minutes ago those pale nails of his were just long black claws. The rest of his person was in nearly the same state as his knuckles, blood speckling the bottom hem, but he had solved that issue by tucking the loose ends into his dark slacks- though you could still spot a few little drops here and there just peeking over his belt. His tie was missing, his collar was completely rumpled and needed to be pressed again, and the top few buttons he kept closed were torn open to reveal his chest.

It felt wrong looking at his chest, heat pooling in your cheeks- from embarrassment or something a schoolgirl would feel, you couldn’t tell - and looked away, staring out your side of the cab’s windows.

Your mind was wandering; whether you let it or not, you knew it would round back to the same question: Are you really the right person for this? With how things just went down, does Bigby still want you around? You’re only here to “keep him on a leash” as Bluebeard had stated, but what all could you do with something like this?

Instead of numbing your mind with the thoughts of doubts, you instead picked at a loose stitch in the backseat of the cab, messing with it using your nail when you realized you too had blood under your nails. You tried to pick it out only to be jerked out of your haze when the cab driver stopped short and announced that you had arrived.

You exited first, Bigby only getting out when you were already closing the door. He kept his gaze low and fished in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes and his metal lighter. He lit it effortlessly as you both passed through the brassy gates of the Woodlands before heading inside. He grunted softly when you held the gate door open for him, busying himself on shoving both things back in his pockets, not that you minded the missing words. You thanked him back when he held the door open for you, the sheriff looking away, eyes still holding shame as he avoided looking at you.

The lobby was still the same lobby, nothing much had changed besides the doorman sleeping in a different position; Slumped over onto his desk where he had knocked down a cup of pens long ago, the mess getting all over the keyboard and floor.

Bigby walked past you and hit the call button for the elevator as you debated on picking up the mess when the chime summoned you.

The elevator ride was just as tense if not more than the cab. At least with the cab, there was a dull hum of the engine and the not so faint noises of Manhattan to fill in the void. In here, it was just the stale buzzing noise of the elevator and the clunking of old and probably rusted gears carrying this death trap up a few floors. That and Bigby’s breathing.

‘Say something,’ your mind chided.

You probably should. It’s not like it was his fault that it happened. You both were being attacked and you went down. It was two versing five, you’re human going against Fables. You couldn’t blame him. Besides, he was probably thinking some awful things right now if how he reacted to you nailing the tense vibes on the head your very first hour of being here proved anything.

“Hey Big-”

“I’m so-”

You both found yourselves staring at each other, eyes wide and mouths a little agape. The tension became a little more bearable. He seemed more apologetic, blowing smoke away from you and tapping the ashes off.

“You go ahead,” he offered.

“You can go,” you countered back.

“No, no,” Bigby shook his head a bit. “I interrupted you, I’m sorry.”

For someone who’s made out to be the villain in all of these scenarios, he was really acting like a gentleman. It made your stomach feel light.

“I was gonna ask if you’re alright.” Bigby didn’t answer, but he kept his eyes locked on yours. “I know you’re not supposed to do that, right? That’s the whole reason why I’m here; So you don’t werewolf out?”

“Yeah,” he stated begrudgingly.

“I don’t blame you, and I’m not scared of you if that’s what you’re worrying about. It was a shock to see it, yeah, you only ever see werewolves in movies or whatever, but I know why it happened.”

Bigby puffed out another cloud just as the elevator came to a stop. He had an unreadable expression as he left the elevator. You followed quickly behind him, keeping pace with him as best as you could.

“I’m not supposed to do that. Do you know how many years I’ve been like this? I shouldn’t lose control like that, especially after what happened the last time.” He stopped walking for a second, nearly startling you as you came close to colliding with his back. He turned to face you, cigarette now between his fingers as he looked down at you with eyes full of remorse. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that. And I’m sorry I dragged you into all of this.”

You shrugged your shoulders.

“I signed up for this.”

“You signed up without knowing you’re gonna be tethered to me; and I’m a goddamn walking trap for trouble.”

“I still signed up for this, I don’t plan on quitting anytime soon.”

He was taken back by that, shoulders slouching a bit. He took another drag on his cigarette before nodding behind him.

“C’mon, I don’t wanna keep Snow waiting. It’ll only make my ass reaming worse.”

He started back down the hall to where the Business Office was. You felt both a little hopeful and pretty standoffish. From what you heard about her, Snow seemed to be the only other voice of reason around here. But if she was going to reprimand Bigby for what happened, you would feel a bit bad about it all. Bigby opened the door to the office and held it open for you before he let it swing closed behind you.

Almost immediately you heard the faint clicking of heels on the polished floors.

“Bigby?” a woman called out. “Bigby is that you?”

“Yeah,” he chuffed out blankly as he took another drag of his cigarette.

You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of seeing this place. You stared around in awe once again, completely distracted by all of the magic going on. You caught sight of that green monkey Bigby mentioned, the little guy flying around with a bottle in his hands, perching himself in the rafters.

“So, how did it go?” her voice called from beyond the bookshelves. You spotted her stepping out just as Bigby walked up to what looked to be her desk. “Judging by your hands, I don’t think they gave you the answers peacefully.”

She was very beautiful. Tall and slender, it was no wonder she was a princess who started an entire industry for you humans. Her hair was as black as coal, her lips were blushed red almost like a rose, and her skin was unblemished and pale like snow. She wore a simple navy blue blazer with a matching pencil skirt with a light gray blouse underneath, and her hair was tucked back in a low bun.

“Not at all.”

“Do you mind putting out the cigarette, Bigby?” she chided like an exhausted mother. “Flycatcher just polished the floors.” She pushed forward an ashtray, manicured nails shined from the expensive-looking polish she wore. “I take it you didn’t get any good answers out of them?”

“They said they didn’t do.”

“Typical,” she rolled her eyes. She was busy going through her desk, messing around with papers and such. “Nothing of interest, I assume?”

“No. But (Y/n) tried asking questions before shit hit the fan.”

Snow stopped her rummaging and cocked a questioning brow.

“(Y/n)?” She suddenly bolted up, eyes wide as she finally looked over at you. “I’m so sorry!” she gasped as she hurried over to you. “Things have been so hectic around here, I’m so sorry I didn’t notice you.” She took your hand and shook it firmly. “Snow White, Deputy Mayor of Fabletown,” she introduced herself.

“(Y/n) (L/n), NYPD.”

A chirping noise came from her wrist and upon pushing her sleeve up, she scoffed at the expensive looking watch she wore.

“I’m sorry to cut things short, but I have to take this.” She shuffled around in a few more drawers of her desk before pulling out a thin folder. “I got a call from someone, I don’t know who, but there’s a male Fable that was causing trouble last night. I took down what I could, but they hung up pretty quick,” she handed the folder to Bigby. She looked to you again and offered to shake your hand once more, and you did. “It was great to meet you, and I’m sorry it’s been a rocky start to things. Hopefully, we can catch up soon.”

And with that, she was off, hurrying out the front door of the Business Office as fast as she could in her heels. You looked back at Bigby who was looking through the folder. You looked around a bit more, eyes wandering over to a small table by the near bookshelves when you noticed it had books opened regarding pirates and Neverland as well as some books seemingly used to keep track of the Fables around here.

You walked over, marveling at the books. The book on pirates was opened to Captain Hook, but he only had two pages to himself compared to the other pirates, and one page was nothing but an intricate drawing of him and his ship.

The book on Neverland was opened to Peter Pan’s little makeshift abode in The Hangman’s Tree when you noticed something obvious staring you right in the face.

“Hey, Bigby,” you called. He made a noise as he kept reading. “Can you come over here?”

You heard his heavy footfalls start to come closer to you as you kept your eyes pinned to the eight heads on the pages. He stopped right beside you and looked over at what you were staring at.

“What’s wrong?”

“How many lost boys are there?”

Bigby closed the folder in his hand and stayed quiet for a minute in serious thought when it suddenly dawned on him as well. He looked down at exactly who was missing, the blond kid in the fox clothing with that stupid smug grin on his face like he was already mocking you both.

“Fuck,” was all Bigby grit out. “I knew something was fucking wrong.”

“What are we gonna do?”

“I’m gonna go back to that fucking club and get some answers,” Bigby tossed the file onto the table. “Stay here, I’ll be back.”

You stopped in your tracks, eyes wide as you were taken back by his choice of words.

“Excuse me?”

#the wolf among us #twau #bigby wolf #bigby wolf x reader #bigby x reader

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nostalgicnarrator · 10 days

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Over Hill and Under Mountain

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Word Count: 5,243 Parings: Thorn X Bilbo Description: Bilbo is fed up.

Chapters: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6

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─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

⚠️ WARNING ⚠️

Mild mentions of physical violence.

Note:

this is it, we've come to this stories end, i hope everyone who has stuck it out this long love this story as much as i have loved writing it. good day, afternoon and night

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Bilbo was vaguely aware as he drifted in and out of consciousness, a tone of voice or a few words would make it to him in the void he was stuck in.

His mind felt like it was floating in mud as it throbbed in pain. He hadn’t been sure how long he had been like that.

He had dreams, or was it memories? He couldn’t tell anymore, they were all blurred together, strange fragments of what once was or had never been.

He opened his eyes in the shadows of Mirkwood, he stumbled a bit as he walked along with his friends. The trees loomed, their twisted limbs stretching out like skeletal hands, clawing at the air as if to snatch any who dared trespass.

A thick mist curled around the underbrush, muffling the sound of crunching leaves. The world was cast in an unsettling twilight, where everything seemed to move in the corner of his vision but disappeared when he tried to focus on it.

He looked around, he felt sluggish as he looked at Dwalin, Nori, Fili, Kili, and Thorin. his friends. Right, he had been with them hadn’t he? They had all marched together once, but that was a time ago by now was it not…?

Bilbo looked around again attempting to make sense, his friends had their blades drawn, each held a grim face. He felt like something was wrong. He hadn’t been here like this, where was he…?

He was suddenly aware of the unnatural silence that clung to the forest, suffocating. And then, they struck.

Out of the trees, from above and below, the spiders came. Massive creatures, larger than horses, with blackened bodies and legs as thick as a man's arm.

Their eyes held a hunger Bilbo did not remember from before, they seemed darker than before, their fangs dripping deadly venom, Bilbo was acutely aware that these terrors were not the same as the spiders he had faced before.

The air was thick with the sound of limbs rustling through lives, the crackling sound of skittering feet, an orchestra of death as they descended upon them.

Before they could react, one of the beasts lunged for Dwalin. The dwarf swung his war hammer hard, splattering the spider they came at him all over the ground. But there were too many.

Another came from the side, pincers snapping, and dug its fangs into the dwarf and wrapped him in its sticky webbing with terrifying speed.

He struggled, but not for long as the venom quickly kicked in and the last Bilbo heard of the dwarf was a roar of fury, Bilbo watched as Dwalin was quickly hoisted into the air, bound in silken threads.

The others shouted, Bilbo whipped his head back to them, he watched as they hacked and slashing at the swarm that was descending on them.

Bilbo watched as Nori managed to dodge the initial attacks, his knives flashing as he severed the limbs of one spider after another. But soon he, too, was overwhelmed.

Bilbo tried to shout to warn his friend as a shadow loomed over him, and before Nori could react, he was bitten and wrapped in webbing and dragged screaming into the branches above.

Bilbo covered his mouth when the scream was stopped far too abruptly. Fili and Kili were next, Bilbo watched as they fought together, Fíli twirled his twin blades as he brother notched arrows drew back and released.

Fíli cut through the legs of one of the largest spiders. But they couldn’t keep the pace, soon Kíli released his last arrow and Fíli lost a sword.

Before they had a chance, webs tangled them up. Kíli called out to his brother desperately, he begged for help. But it wasn’t long before they were bitten and dragged away into the shadows.

And then came the whispering.

The voices slithered through the trees, a sickening melody that wormed its way into Bilbo’s ears. "Tasty, delicious... so tender..." The spiders were speaking, their voices like poison seeping into his mind.

Thorin was last. His sword was cast aside as it had fallen to the ground, Bilbo’s eyes felt wide as he watched Thorin stare up at the towering spiders as they descended. He could see it clearly now-Thorin's face, twisted in horror as the creatures bore down on him.

Bilbo couldn't move, he couldn't speak. It was as if his body had betrayed him, leaving him frozen in place, forced to watch. He could hear the cracking of bones, the wet squelch of flesh torn apart.

The largest of the spiders opened its jaws, revealing rows of jagged teeth, Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut. He let out a whimper. He could still hear the horrible noise. Then it fell silent and Bilbo dared a peek.

Before he could really see anything the world around him began to fall away, the forest of Mirkwood bled into something else. Soon enough Bilbo found himself standing in a deep valley, a familiar mountain range not far ahead now, this was a place he was sure he recognized.

His mind told him that it was all too familiar. The wind suddenly whipped viciously around him, carrying with it a horrible smell. He whipped his head around as he heard the snarls of wargs and the harsh, guttural speech of orcs.

The enemy came like a wave, crashing over the horizon with a force that shook the ground. Wargs with their fur matted mounted by orcs with gnarled faces, Bilbo was sure the reek of blood came from them.

The group, who just moments ago had been caught in Mirkwood, wrapped up in a hellish web, were now surrounded, barely able to react. Dwalin swung his axes, Nori darted around as well as he could manage, and Fíli and Kíli fought side by side. But there were too many-too fast.

When Thorin fell the rest followed just as quickly, Bilbo barely registered the screams, the flash of steel, and the bodies hitting the ground. It all blurred together horribly. His eyes darted from one friend to another, each of them falling, each death a punch to his gut. He could feel the panic rising, choking him as he was once again forced to watch. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly

Once more the world fell silent and Bilbo opened his eyes after a moment, but before he could make anything out his vision blurring, he squeezed his eyes shut again as dizziness began to take over.

He felt himself begin to fall so he snapped his eye open and gasped, it was becoming difficult to breathe. He looked around afraid of what horror waited

Snow fell heavily around him, it whipped and clawed at him, quickly the snow turned a blinding white that made it impossible to see more than a few paces ahead.

They were on the narrow path of a cliffside, their steps precarious as the wind threatened to knock them off balance. Bilbo began to wish he had a coat. Something warm to hide from the wind with.

Bilbo watched as Thorin led the way, his eyes set forward, determined. The look was etched into every line of the dwarfs face. Bilbo trudged not too far behind him, then Thorin’s boot slipped, and in an instant, Thorin was gone.

He could hear Kíli and Fíli scream, the sound piercing through the storm. They rushed to the edge, reaching out, Bilbo watched as Thorin tumbled down, down into the abyss below.

Kíli let out a broken sob as he watched his uncle disappear. Thorin’s body twisted in the air, his arms flailing as he tried to grab onto something, anything, but there was nothing to grab. The dwarf disappeared into the blinding depths below

The group stood frozen, helpless, as Thorin disappeared into the darkness. No sound followed his fall. Just silence. Then it all faded away.

Next he remembered inky darkness, the eerie silence. He vaguely wondered when he got there. Sometimes Bilbo would see large pale eyes watching him from the shadows of his mind, sometimes he would hear the music and whisper again.

It was as if Something was calling out to him, beckoning him. It wanted him to go somewhere. He wanted to follow it, but then he would hear a deeper voice telling him he can’t just yet.

So he would stay. Bilbo wasn’t sure why the voice didn’t want him to fallow the other but he listened. The music he once heard slowly became less and less and instead he could hear a different tone.

A soft voice would sing in rolling sounds, sounds he came to hear under his feet when in the shire. He remembered them from when he was a child.

The voice was of a woman, her tone was warm and caring. It reminded him of his mother, of a warm place and a soft bed. Of the love of the shire.

Eventually when Bilbo came to, the first thing he could understand in his fevered daze was the sound of arguing. Voices, not singing or humming, normal voices, reached him, distant at first, but growing louder, pulling him from the depths of his sleep.

One painfully familiar, a deep, tone that sent a wave of warmth coursing through him like warm tea on a cold day. Bilbo felt his heart leap. He knew that voice.

“Th…Thorin…?” Bilbo croaked, his voice barely a whisper. He tried to lift his hand, reaching out for something, anything. The arguing stopped abruptly, replaced by a heavy silence.

“Thorin…?” He asked again-

“I’m here, Bilbo, I’m right here,” Thorin’s voice broke the stillness. Bilbo felt his hand being taken in a firm tender grip and the warmth of Thorin’s calloused palm.

“Thorin… you made it,” Bilbo murmured, his lips curving into what he hoped was a smile. “I was worried… you wouldn’t.” His voice was softer than he meant, causing Thorin to lean in closer.

Thorin squeezed his hand gently. “We’re here, and we’re all safe,” he assured, his tone soothing. “You’ve nothing to worry about now.”

Despite the pain, Bilbo felt a wave of relief wash over him at Thorin’s words. He could hear more mumbling, but the words were indistinct, blurred by the haze that clouded his mind.

Whatever was said, had Thorin nodding gently, though his eyes never left Bilbo’s face. Bilbo found he couldn’t look away ether.

“You need to sleep, Bilbo,” Thorin urged softly. “Rest now, and I’ll be here when you wake.”

Bilbo’s eyes fluttered, his body fighting against the pull of exhaustion. “Promise… you’ll stay?” he whispered, his grip tightening slightly on Thorin’s hand.

“I promise,” Thorin replied, his voice a low, comforting rumble. “I’m not going anywhere.”

With those words, a calm settled over Bilbo, and he allowed himself to relax, slipping into a dreamless sleep, comforted by the knowledge that Thorin would be there when he woke.

The next time he woke up, it was to the soft light of dawn as it filtered through his room. His eyelids fluttered open, still heavy from sleep, and he blinked a few times before his eyes settled on a figure sitting on the floor beside his bed.

Thorin was there in the room, an elbow resting on the bed, his face softly framed by the golden morning light. Thorin looked out of the window. Bilbo shifted a bit to get a better look at the dwarf.

Thorn turned to him and smiled, Bilbo stayed quiet as he looked over Thorin's face. Despite the darkish bags under the kings eyes the gold of the rising sun made his eyes gleam ‘He looks handsome like that’ his mind supplied to him and he couldn’t help but agree

“How do you feel…?” Thorin eventually asked, breaking the silence.

And Bilbo’s heart thudded a little harder in his chest at the dwarfs' voice, his face suddenly felt very warm. ‘Answer! Answer him you fool of a Took’ Bilbo blinked blearily.

Thorin kept waiting patiently for an answer, he had turned to face him now, Thorin’s rough hand took Bilbo’s gently. Thorin let his thumb trace over Bilbo’s knuckles.

He watched Throin’s hand for a moment before turning back to looking at him, “…alright… I-…you’re pretty…” Bilbo felt himself say. ‘No! Don’t say that! Stupid’ his mind yelled at him

Thorin looked up at him then chuckled, the sound low and genuine as a smile broke across his features. Bilbo felt his face get even hotter.

Thorin had to take a few moments before he was calm enough to answer. “Oh, thank you Bilbo, why don’t you go back to sleep?

Bilbo blinked and whined, “no, I wanna be with you.”

“I’m not going anywhere, I promised I’d stay. Okay?” And when Thorin smiled a little more Bilbo felt himself try to melt.

Bilbo couldn’t help but nod, his gaze remained fixed on Thorin even when Óin entered the room. Thorin turned to quietly talk to him. Bilbo turned to watch the healer for a moment as he moved around the room, and busied himself with preparing herbs.

Bilbo decided that he was boring so his gaze drifted to Thorin again, watching the dwarf as if afraid he might vanish the moment he looked away.

The days started to pass, as slowly as Bilbo had expected them to. At first it was a hazy mess of thoughts and watching his dwarf. Thorin stayed true, he never strayed far from Bilbo’s side.

It had been a few days by the time Bilbo found himself lying in bed, watching Thorin, it was strange, almost like waking up but never sleeping. He wasn’t sure how long it had been.

He watched as Thorin sat near him, his mind wondered after a moment, drifting and settling somewhere he couldn’t quite name. He couldn’t place it; he was sure it had one.

It was something that Bilbo hadn’t always felt, but he had come to know it after he met Thorin. something that made Bilbo’s heart feel lighter even on the most difficult of days.

He didn’t understand it, he couldn’t. But it was always there when Thorin was nearby, and as he got to know the dwarf the loneliness he had once wished for seemed less appealing.

There was something about Thorin that calmed the constant buzzing. Bilbo hesitantly extended his hand. Thorin didn’t hesitate, when he noticed, his hand reached out immediately and took Bilbo’s.

Soon Bilbo found himself looking forward to every opportunity he had to see Thorin. The dwarf would bring him tea and sit with him for hours. Or on the rare occasion they would talk and on the less rare occasion he’d just sit quietly and hold Bilbo’s hand.

Bilbo also found himself huffing in annoyance when Óin eventually had to shoo Thorin away and make Bilbo rest. Thorin’s presence became as vital as the sunlight filtering into the room.

And as Bilbo got better, Thorin’s visits grew longer, the dwarf staying until the stars curiously peaked through the trees. Bilbo often found himself smiling more easily, his heart feeling lighter each day.

Óin would, each and every morning, check Bilbo’s wounds. He would often shake his head with a frown that almost bordered on disbelief.

Óin shook his head and sighed again. “By all accounts this doesn't make sense. A recovery this quick… by rights, it should’ve taken months, not weeks.”

Gandalf, who had been watching from the doorway, spoke. “Indeed you are right my dear Óin. It’s been many years since I’ve witnessed such a thing.” Gandalf stroked his beard thoughtfully, his eyes twinkling with a familiar knowing gleam.

“Is your magic doing this then?” Óin asked, “honestly Gandalf I would like to know when you-”

“No no, nothing like that Óin, I could not help with these injuries more than I have. There are few forces in this world stronger than myself, except, maybe, perhaps,” But Gandalf didn’t finish; he mumbled to himself, nodded and walked away. ÓIn sighed and began changing Bilbo’s bandages.

“Wizard’s” the healer said and Bilbo nodded.

One afternoon, as the sun dipped behind the trees, casting a soft golden light into the room, Bilbo glanced over at Thorin. The dwarf sat comfortably in a chair, pipe smoke curling lazily around him.

Bilbo watched as Thorin absentmindedly fidgeted with the silver ring on his finger, his brow furrowed in thought. The sight of him, calm, steady, it made Bilbo feel something strange, something warm. It made him feel safe.

Bilbo had been told that he should stay in bed. Óin had been quite stern about it. To the point where the dwarf had rules, No sitting up too long, no wandering, and absolutely no trips outside or anywhere, not even to the balcony. It was maddening.

Bilbo could feel his restless energy building up inside him like a storm. He longed for the open air, to feel the breeze on his face, to see Rivendell’s beauty firsthand. But most of all, he just wanted to do something. Anything.

Then, an idea struck him.

“Thorin…?” Bilbo asked, turning his gaze to the dwarf. He hadn’t meant to speak so suddenly, and he was surprised to find Thorin’s eyes already on him.

Thorin hummed in response, his deep blue eyes caught Bilbo’s and for a moment he couldn’t help but stare, Thorin’s eyes were deep and blue, but Bilbo felt that comparing them to water or the sky would cheat them of how beautiful they really were.

Bilbo was suddenly sure he was silent for too long as Thorin’s expression shifted to concern. “Bilbo? Are you alright…?”

“YES! Of course, yes!” Bilbo said, perhaps a bit too quickly. He cleared his throat and smiled. “I mean, yes, I’m fine. I just… Well, will you do something for me?”

Bilbo felt his breath leave him as Thorin’s expression softened, and for a moment Bilbo felt his question disappear from him.

“Always.” Thorin said, smiling. Bilbo had to look away for a moment. His face heated up as his mind began racing. ‘What in vala’s name is wrong with you’ Bilbo looked back at Thorin as he kept talking. “What do you need? Are you hungry, or-“

“No, no, I’m alright for now,” Bilbo quickly interrupted. He offered a smile to Thorin. Bilbo could still feel his heart thumping wildly in his rib cage.

Thorin tilted his head a bit and put his pipe away quickly. “Then what is it? What’s wrong?” Concerned began to take Thorin’s face.

“Nothing! I’m okay! Just… Could you read to me?” Bilbo asked quietly.

Thorin blinked once, the again. Bilbo could tell he was clearly taken aback. “Read… to you? You want me to read to you?”

“Yes! If, if it is not too much trouble,” Bilbo replied, hoping he didn’t sound foolish. He surely felt a bit foolish asking, he felt a bit childish too. But the need for some form of distraction soon waved that feeling away.

Thorin furrowed his brow, a flicker of doubt passing through his eyes. “Bilbo, I haven't read-I don’t think I’ll be very good at it.”

And Bilbo felt himself deflate a bit at that, but he wasn’t going to give up here. “Oh, come now Thorin! I’m sure you’re a wonderful storyteller.”

Throin took a deep breath and looked outside to the balcony of Bilbo’s room. “I don’t know, Bilbo-“

“Please?” Bilbo pushed himself up some and flinched a little, Bilbo fought a grin as his plan worked, Thorin immediately got up and pushed him back down gently. Bilbo grabbed his hand and kept it on his chest.

“…I’m terribly bored Thorin, as much as I love youuu-‘re company, if I don’t do something soon, I’m going to go mad!” Blibo looked up with as pleading a look as he could manage, he hoped it looked pitiful enough to work. “I would read them myself but Óin nearly had a fit the last time I tried.”

Thorin gave a long-suffering sigh, and Bilbo grinned at him as he walked over to the small pile. “Alright, alright. Just one chapter.”

Thorin reached for one of the books that had been left on the bedside table, flipping it open, he flipped a few pages and scanned the words for a moment before he began to read for Bilbo.

Thorin’s voice was deep and steady, it was clear and strong yet soothing, Bilbo struggled to pay attention to the words that Thorin was saying.

Bilbo’s eyelids began to grow heavy. The warmth of Thorin’s presence, the sound of his voice, was almost too much. It wrapped around Bilbo like a blanket, soft and reassuring.

Before long, Bilbo’s eyes fluttered shut, and he drifted into a peaceful sleep.

Bilbo could feel something simmering between him and Thorin as the days went, something that had been there for some time. He hadn’t been sure if the name he wanted to call it was true

But now Bilbo was sure, It was love. Simple, undeniable love.

He felt it whenever Thorin looked at him. He was sure of how his heart would flutter and speed up. The way his breath caught in his throat, the way he had to fight the blush that crept up his neck.

Then, Bilbo wasn’t so sure anymore.

Thorin’s visits became less frequent and at first it was small things; Thorin sitting farther away, the conversations growing shorter or stopping abruptly.

Bilbo really did try not to dwell on it. Thorin was, after all, a king. And being so far from his kingdom was sure to make him busy.

The days began to drag on again, Bilbo couldn’t help but notice the distance anymore. And when Bilbo had to remind himself of this over and over, to try and convince himself that it wasn’t anything personal. Thorin was simply busy.

It began to feel like a lie, Thorin was in Rivendell, halfway across the map and a storm had apparently taken to settling over the Misty’s, that no raven would want to fly through.

So what could he possibly be doing? And why was it taking so long? Why did it feel as though Thorin was slipping through his fingers? Then there was the avoidance!

If Bilbo could manage to slip away from Óin long enough to find Thorin the dwarf would basically run away from him, disappearing in some cases.

So Bilbo decided to try to distract himself, focusing on anything else. Bilbo had begun to spend more time with Dwalin, Fíli, Kíli, and Nori. But it felt like people were hiding things from him again. Keeping secrets. He decided to test his theory.

“Where’s Thorin today?” Bilbo asked one afternoon, trying to sound casual as Fíli, Kíli and himself were playing a game of cards.

Fíli glanced at his brother before shrugging. “Busy with… things, I imagine.”

“What kind of things?” Bilbo muttered, frowning as he looked up from his cards. That was the same answer Dwalin and Nori had given him the day before.

Kíli looked to his brother and they both looked a little uncomfortable as Bilbo watched them. “Uh…wouldn’t know. I believe it’s your turn Bilbo.” Kíli said and offered a fake smile.

It most certainly was not. Bilbo tisked and nodded.

Another time, Óin had come to check on him, the healer was still prodding Bilbo’s bandages, “You’re healing fine, lad. I’d say you can take all the stitches out soon.”

Bilbo nodded, he tried to be subtle as he asked. “Do you know what Thorin is up to, have you seen him?”

Óin didn’t look up from his work. “Oh, …I’m sure he’s around lad.” was all he said.

Frustration began to claw at Bilbo’s insides. Later that day Bilbo caught Gandalf. He wasn’t meant to be up but his patience was nonexistent at this point. “Gandalf, do you know what Thorin is doing?.”

Gandalf looked at him, his face frustratingly neutral. “I’m sure Thorin is occupied with important matters, Bilbo.”

“Important my left foot! What is so important for him to ignore me,” Bilbo pressed, he threw his hands up in frustration. “He hasn’t visited at all! Runs away at any attempt I make to talk to him!”

Gandalf’s gaze softened. “Give him time, my dear boy. Thorin will come around and tell you in his own time.” With that, the wizard walked away, leaving Bilbo feeling more frustrated than ever.

Days turned into weeks, and Bilbo’s frustration simmered, his thoughts circling endlessly around one question: Why? Why was Thorin avoiding him? What had he done wrong?

He replayed their conversations over and over in his head, searching for some clue, some indication of what had gone wrong, but found nothing.

That’s when he felt something snap, weeks of worn patience. The excuses about “kingly duties” didn’t add up, ‘we are in Rivendell. What kind of kingly tasks could Thorin possibly be doing’

He had had enough.

Ignoring Óin’s warnings to take it easy once again, Bilbo threw off his blanket and on his cloak then marched out of his room, a determined fire lit inside his stomach. His injuries be damned, he needed answers.

The sunlight was filtering through the trees of Rivendell, casting soft patterns of gold across the path, but Bilbo did not pay it mind. His attention was fixed solely on the figure he spotted in the distance.

Thorin was there, standing in the gardens, he seemed to be speaking with a raven, one Bilbo hadn’t seen before. It was much bigger than Hugin was, Bilbo vaguely wondered if Raven‘s really could get through the storm that settled over the mountains.

That thought was swiftly pushed away. As if sensing Bilbo, Thorin’s head jerked up, and for a split second, panic flickered in the king’s eyes. He turned to leave but Bilbo would not let him.

“Thorin—THORIN OAKENSHIELD, DON'T YOU DARE RUN AWAY FROM ME!” Bilbo’s voice rang out, clear and sharp, startling the birds from the trees and causing a few passing Elves to pause before quickly averting their eyes.

Thorin froze mid-step, his broad shoulders tensing. Slowly, he turned back to face Bilbo. The raven on his arm tilted its head side to side as Bilbo came closer.

“Bilbo,” Thorin began, his voice low, almost apologetic.

But Bilbo wasn’t in the mood, and he really couldn’t stop himself from snapping at the dwarf. “No,” Bilbo said as he stopped not too far away. “Don’t you ‘Bilbo’ me. You’ve been avoiding me for days, Thorin! And no one will tell me why, at least not the truth! I’ve done nothing wrong- at least, I don’t think I have!” His voice wavered, the frustration and hurt bubbling to the surface.

Thorin opened his mouth as if to respond, but Bilbo wasn’t finished.

“I don’t understand!” Bilbo’s fists clenched at his sides. He threw his hands up and began pacing back and forth. “You came all the way here, risked everything to make sure I was alright. And then what? You disappear? Is that it? Was it just some sort of duty to you, Thorin? A box to tick before you move on to whatever ‘kingly duties’ you’ve been so conveniently busy with?” He scoffed, he turned to face Thorin. He pointed to him aggressively. “We’re in Rivendell! There’s no kingdom here for you to rule!”

The accusation hung in the air like a blade between them. Thorin’s face, for a moment, stirred with a thousand different emotions, but it landed on anger.

Thorin’s brow furrowed and he lifted his arm up dismissing the raven. “Bilbo, it’s not—”

“Then why are you ignoring me?” Bilbo pressed, he couldn’t feel his frustration boiling over inside him. “What have I done? I don’t understand! I’m sorry if I’ve upset you!”

Thorin raised a hand as if to placate him or tell him to stop talking. “You have not-I’m not upset, Bilbo-”

“THEN WHAT?” Bilbo shouted, his voice cracking. “Tell me!”

“If you would let me-!” Thorin growled out angrily.

“NO! No! No more excuses, no more lies!” He had reached Thorin now, standing right in front of him, he stood on his tippy toes to glare up at him.

Tears begin welling in his eyes as his dam of emotion he’d had been trying to keep in all these weeks burst, and he fought to keep them from spilling over.

Thorin’s expression was torn between anger and something softer, his hands hovering in the air as if he didn’t know whether to reach out or keep his distance.

“What is it?” Bilbo choked out, his voice barely a whisper. “TELL ME! What is so horribly wrong with me that you will not visit me? You came all this way, Thorin, you braved a raging storm to find me, and now you cannot- no, you will not, be in the same room as me for even a moment! Tell me! You insufferable Dwarf!”

Bilbo’s voice broke, dissolving into a sob as angry tears streamed down his cheeks. His whole body shook with anger and sadness and- he didn’t know what and he didn’t care what!

Thorin’s eyes softened as he watched Bilbo crumble, his anger seemingly melting away. “Well?!” Bilbo demanded again, his voice had begun to go hoarse. “SPEAK, DAMN IT! TELL ME!”

Thorin’s face contorted with emotion, and when he finally spoke, his voice was raw. “I AM IN LOVE WITH YOU!”

Bilbo froze, the words ringing in the air between them like a thunderclap. He reeled back, shock rooting him to the spot. Bilbo felt a little numb as he stared at Thorin.

Thorin let out a shaky breath and stepped closer, his hands moving to grip Bilbo’s forearms, steadying him-or perhaps anchoring himself.

“I-I am in love with you,” Thorin repeated. “I do not know when it happened, but it did. It was so subtle, I didn’t even realize it until it was too late. When we’re together, I… I forget everything else. For a while, I am not King under the Mountain, not Thorin Oakenshield. I’m just… Thorin. And when I realized what that meant. I felt that, I thought, if I stayed away, it would go away. But it hasn’t. I am in love with you, Bilbo, and I’m sorry. I understand if-”

Thorin’s confession was cut short as Bilbo, driven by he didn’t know, but he couldn’t stop it, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Bilbo reached up and pulled Thorin into a rough kiss.

Thorin stiffened in surprise, but then melted into the kiss, his arms quickly wrapped around Bilbo. One hand found perches at the back of Bilbo’s head.

When they finally pulled apart, both were breathing heavily, their foreheads resting together. Bilbo’s cheeks and neck felt incredibly hot “Oh, you insufferable Dwarf,” Bilbo huffed, “You horrible fool. I wish I could hate you.”

Thorin’s lips curved into a small smile, he held Bilbo’s face gently. “But you don’t,” he whispered, his voice rough.

Bilbo shook his head, he couldn’t help as a wet chuckle tumbled out of him. He had to fight tears again, but a different kind. “No,” he whispered back. “No, I don’t.”

For the first time in weeks, the weight between them lifted, and they stood there, Thorin's hands still holding Bilbo's face. Neither spoke, but in that quiet moment, neither needed to.

They had both found exactly where they were meant to be.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

farewell for now

@m4yh4ps @bllbabaggins

but just real quick:

Bilbo: Thorin? Thorin: yes Amrâl? Bilbo: Who was that other raven I saw? Thorin: ah, that is my raven Valka. I have raised her, and her family for many years now. Bilbo: oh! Does she know Hugin? Thorin: I would hope so Kurdel, she is his mother Bilbo: oh! …tell her I think she looks very pretty. [Thorin laughs and nods to Bilbo]

#the hobbit #bilbo baggins #fanfic #bagginshield #the hobbit thorin #the hobbit bilbo #thorin company #thorin x bilbo #thorin oakenshield #gandalf #dwalin #nori the dwarf #fili durin #fili and kili #kili durin #lord of the rings #angst #im bad at tags

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jadienjaystoriesandart · 1 month

Text

Had this idea for a Super Hero AU in a dystopian future. Based slightly in Hermitcraft. With some magic and fantasy elements.

A world that is set in a post apocalyptic time.

Watchers have pretty much desired the world’s ecosystem and atmosphere.

Humans died or became pets to them. Those that did escape made these advance dome cities in the sky, land, and underground.

Two people made and created the Mod Project.

Which took 13 humans and mixed their dna with that of various hostile mobs to create Super Soldiers to fight the watcher and protect their chosen city.

Of the 13 only 8 survived the process.

These soilders don’t need sleep. They feed on the blood usually of Watcher monsters they’ve slayed.

Because most people don’t travel outside their chosen city they don’t have much contact with each other.

Meaning each solider of the dorm city has various levels of what they consider to be ‘morally right’.

They can also eat normal food but not as much as a normal human.

Hybrids do exist in this. Often these were the first attempt of the Mod Project. They still need basic human functions. And have bred with humans to make natural born hybrids by this point.

The story follows HotGuy, the ‘hero’ and ‘protector’ of the Crystal Dome City. In the east. His code name is The Vex

As to why humans don’t leave the city. The oxygen levels around the dome are of 60%

The farther you get from the dome the less you have and the more monsters you encounter.

The Dead Zone to the far west has only 10% oxygen.

Supposedly a few miles from it is a dome city in the sky? Land? They aren’t sure. And is protected by their solider called The Dragon.

There is one under ground run by The Warden

Two in the sky to the far north called the Phantom and the one to the south called The Blaze.

And one to the east also near the coast line, roughly a few weeks from HG’s city. It’s under the protection of The Guardian.

It’s unsure why the ‘Dead Zone’ is so well dead. But some speculate that this is where the Watchers first started their assault of Planet Craft.

There are 8 creatures with their own city.

The Vex

The Guardian

The Warden

The Phantom

The Blaze

The Dragon

The Ender

The Spider

The failed ones were

The Wither

The Husk

The Skeleton

The Piglin

The Ravager

They failed mainly because during the process the human died before the full transformation could be realized.

The Vex, or Hotguy/Scar, is able to turn into a monster like vex. He’s taller than the usual vex, about 6 or 7 feet tall. Long claws, sharp teeth, perfect hearing and smell. But has low eye sight in daylight, mostly can only see when something moves. He also has an aversion to fire in this form as vexes are cold beings.

The story in my head is HG with his friend Mumbo are trying to get back in contact with the 8 cities the Hart Foundation is still in contact with. In order to try to come together to stop the Watchers once and for all.

Of the ones he’s met so far is The Warden (Cub), The Blaze (Tango), and The Guardian (Grian). (Yes we are going with Sea Grian for this.)

Each of these groups of ‘Heroes’ have different ideas of what they consider to be ‘good’. Mainly due to the fact society is very different for each of them.

The Warden’s city is in the east but is deep underground.

The Blaze’s is in the south and is a city far in the sky. The only reason HG got tos we is is because, after contact with the Guardian and Warden, the Blaze opened up his teleporters to meet with The Vex in person.

Despite being of the same project, they don’t know each other and have foggy memories of their time being tested on.

Feel free to write for this or draw if you guys want. I’m just coming up with ideas. I’ll write a oneshot later.

If you have any questions feel free to ask. :3

Btw the ‘oxygen levels’ is mostly the amount of ‘breathable air’ for them. It’s not the amount of pure oxygen, it’s just the percentage of air that is breathable.

#hermitcraft #grian #gtws #cubfan135 #tangotek #mumbo jumbo #superhero AU #dystopian AU #watchers #fic ideas

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hottpinkpenguin · 2 years

Text

The Way of Winter - Chapter 3

Joel Miller series Female reader insert A/n: takes place at the end of episode 6 (spoilers if you haven't seen!). I took a few liberties with the location. Taglist: @missdragon-1 @this--is--music @caravelofthesun @ishouldclean @mezmerwrites @babypeapoddd @ay0nha @tpwkstiles @one-sweet-gubler @coolninjavoid @ameliabs-world @superflymaterial Word count: 1,715 | Tags: slow burn | Warnings: none

*y/e/c = your eye color*

Joel woke up like he was coming off a nasty bender. He felt dizzy and disoriented, his limbs heavy like lead. He opened his eyes and squinted against a wan, early morning light. He tried to sit up, but the stab of nausea in his gut and an accompanying burn of pain on his right side made him think better of it. He settled for gently turning his head around to take in his unfamiliar surroundings.

He was in a small, one-room log cabin. An old cast-iron stove sat in the dead center of the cabin on four clawed feet, a long slender chimney climbing up to where it disappeared through the ceiling. Its top was flat - a cooking surface, judging by the soup pot sitting on top of it and steaming merrily. Near the foot of the bed he was in, he saw Ellie, curled up under a thick wool blanket, her brows knitted together even in sleep. Joel felt his chest loosen slightly at the sight of her, apparently unharmed.

“How do you feel?” The voice startled Joel. He tried to twist towards the speaker, but that same white-hot agony ripped up his entire right side, stealing the breath from his lungs.

Joel laid back against the pillow, trying to regain control of his breathing as he heard footsteps make their way around his right side. He looked over to see a woman crouching down next to him, her y/e/c eyes gliding over him and inventorying his condition with a stoney expression. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but where he knew her hung just out of reach of his mind like the contents of a dream.

“Like shit.”

The woman’s lip twitched in a half-smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She offered Joel a mug, the comforting smell of bitter coffee tickling his nostrils.

“Probably should drink water, but you seem like a coffee kind of guy.” Joel took the mug gratefully as he slowly, gingerly, sat up. He moved cautiously, testing each movement as he made it. The pain in his right side ebbed and flowed, but with slow motions he was finally able to prop himself up on an elbow and take a sip of the coffee. It burned his tongue, but the bracing heat felt good.

After a few sips, Joel began gently prodding the painful point on his right side with his fingers. It hurt too much to turn his head, but he could feel a ragged seam of his skin stitched together with something thick and smooth. His brows knitted in confusion as he tried to remember the last few hours, few days maybe. The woman watched him curiously for a few moments before she stood, moving around him to stir whatever was in the soup pot on the stove.

“You got stabbed, apparently,” she offered. Joel’s memory swam with a few scattered recollections at the woman’s explanation, but he couldn’t force the memories to organize into a story.

“You stitched me up?” he asked. The woman nodded, her attention on the soup pot. Joel thought he smelled brown sugar.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me til you’re better,” the woman countered as she ladeled what Joel now recognized as oatmeal into three bowls on a counter at the back wall of the cabin. “You lost a lot of blood. You need to rest and let that wound heal up before you and the girl head off.”

Joel shot a worried look at the chair, where Ellie was still ensconced in sleep.

“We won’t overstay our welcome, ma’am,” he replied softly. The woman walked over to Joel with two bowls in her hands and offered one to Joel. He set his coffee mug down hastily on the floor next to his cot, breathing in the sweet aroma of the brown sugar mixed into the oats.

His host walked over to Ellie, shaking her gently in the chair. Ellie woke with a start, her eyes instantly settling on Joel as her face split into a grin.

“Joel, you’re awake!” She nearly leapt off the chair in his direction before the woman’s hand gripped her shoulder.

“Easy, tiger,” she chided. “If he rips those stitches, you’ll be doing the next round of sewing.”

Ellie shook off their host’s hand in irritation, her attention fixed on Joel. He returned her bright grin with a close-lipped smile of his own, careful not to show her the half-chewed oatmeal in his mouth.

“You alright?” he asked her after he’d swallowed.

“I’m fine.” For the second time that day, Joel felt himself relax a little at the confirmation of Ellie’s safety. He nodded, shoveling another spoonful of hot oatmeal into his mouth. The soggy oats didn’t have much taste, but the warmth felt good on his raw throat. The three of them ate in companionable silence for a few minutes.

“What happened?” Joel asked Ellie after he’d cleaned his bowl. He noticed that the woman was watching him intently from where she leaned against the deep basin sink, her expression inscrutable. The intensity of her gaze made him prickle slightly with a feeling he didn’t quite recognize.

“You got stabbed,” Ellie mumbled through a mouthful of oatmeal.

He rolled his eyes at her smart remark. “I meant after that,” he shot back. Ellie shrugged, helping herself to another heaping spoonful.

“Rode for a while,” she replied vaguely. “You fell off after a while.”

Joel thought he remembered snippets of being on horseback. Images of the snow-dusted ground drifting by from a few feet above danced in his mind, the gentle bounce of a horse’s gait. He also remembered the feeling of warmth on his back, and two strong arms holding him upright in the saddle.

“Found you two on the railbed,” the woman chimed in, interrupting his reverie. “Good thing, too. Doubt you would have lasted long in last night’s snow.”

Joel’s ears pricked at the word snow, his mind suddenly lurching into muted panic.

“It snowed last night?”

The woman and Ellie nodded in unison.

“Our tracks… did anyone follow us?” Joel’s mind spun with the possibilities. He couldn’t name exactly who had stabbed him, but there was a nagging sense of danger at the base of his skull that he couldn’t ignore. He saw Ellie’s eyes widen slightly at the thought, her head swiveling to look at the woman who’d rescued them both and brought them - apparently - to her home. She took an easy sip of her coffee, nonchalant.

“No one’s tracking you,” she replied confidently.

“How do you know?”

“My dogs would have smelt them.” Joel couldn’t remember any dogs from the day before, but under the aura of terror that had seized him his memories felt even more nonsensical than before. Even so, the knot of dread in his chest loosened slightly at her reply.

“Thank you for that,” he breathed out, wincing as the motion caused a jab of pain on his right side.

“Don’t thank me,” the woman replied. “The dogs don’t protect you, they protect me.”

Joel recognized the hardened defenses of a person who’d been fending for themselves - and only themselves - for a long time in the woman’s tone. He nodded in acquiescence.

“Well, I thank you all the same. You’ve been mighty generous with your time and supplies.”

His words hung in the air like smoke for a few breaths before the woman set her coffee down on the counter suddenly.

“I got to check on the animals,” she offered. “Bathrooms outside. But don’t go too far. Snow’s deep.” She moved towards the small door nestled in the back corner of the cabin from where Joel’s cot was, throwing on a thick jacket hanging from pegs next to the door. Joel watched as she shimmied into fur-lined boots, zipping the jacket all the way up and throwing up the hood before she opened the door to the cabin. A blast of cold air swept through the cabin and a puff of dust-like snow danced into the warm air of the interior. The woman paused halfway out the door before turning back to look at Joel. The bright morning sunlight dancing off the fresh snow made her eyes look like glowing embers.

“You should get some rest, Joel. You’re not out of the woods.” Without a backwards glance, she closed the door behind her, the inside of the cabin returning to a hush as her footsteps faded to silence outside.

Joel turned to Ellie. “Where are we?”

She shrugged, setting her empty bowl down on a cluttered side table atop a stack of books with spines so cracked from use that Joel couldn’t make out the titles. “I don’t know. We rode for about an hour, mostly north on the railbed.”

Joel tried to summon a mental map of the area where they’d last been, but he felt himself sliding down towards sleep. Using his remaining clearheaded consciousness, he turned towards Ellie.

“You need to find a map, figure out where we are. We can’t stay here too long.” The need to get Ellie linked up with the Fireflies burned like a signal fire in Joel’s mind.

“We aren’t going anywhere until you’re better,” Ellie replied stubbornly. Joel resented the paternal tone in her words.

“We’ll leave as soon as I can ride,” he growled through gritted teeth. Out of the corner of his eye, Ellie shook her head.

“I need you to get better, Joel.” Ellie’s voice turned serious and worried. The sound tugged on Joel in a way that frightened him. He turned his head towards her, struggling to keep his eyelids open.

“We’ll be fine here for a few days,” Ellie replied calmly. She took a sip of coffee, grimacing at the bitterness. “Y/n’s alright. She sewed you up pretty good, after all.” Joel wanted to argue, to press Ellie on what else she knew about their host, but he was hurtling towards sleep.

“Keep your gun close,” he urged her. Ellie nodded seriously, pulling back the blankets sprawled over her lap to show Joel the pistol he’d gifted her tucked between her knees. He nodded, wishing desperately to do more but eventually giving in to the tug of sleep as he slipped under the edge of exhaustion.

**********

You stepped off the small porch of your cabin into two feet of fresh snow, your legs sinking in up to your knees. The biting cold from the night before had eased somewhat under the light of the morning sun. You plodded your way to the barn, the legs of your jeans soaking through quickly and sending a cold chill up your back. Your entire body felt knotted up and stiff as a board, making your movements lumbering and uncoordinated.

You swung open the heavy barn door, the damp smell of animal waste assaulting your nostrils. You left the door open for light and fresh air as you stepped inside, slamming the excess snow off your boots by stomping on the hard packed dirt floor. The dogs leapt up from their straw pile bed at the back of the barn, swarming around your ankles and licking your hands in greeting. You greeted each one with a gentle rub on the top of their head, making a mental note to take them out and check the rabbit snares later that day.

Rambo and the chestnut mare that Joel and the girl had ridden lifted their heads up and over their stall door. You’d penned them in together last night, knowing they’d like the shared body heat in the night’s cold. Both of them were still fully tacked from the night before, and they were both chewing on their bits in frustration. You set to work on removing their bridles first, then their saddles one by one. Your back screamed in protest at the effort of lifting the heavy, double-seated saddle off Joel’s mare’s back and onto the saddle rack in the center of the barn. You noted the fine handiwork of the saddle and the sheen on the newly oiled leather, along with the fully stuffed saddlebags.

“Seems our new friends are rather well supplied,” you mused quietly to yourself. Rambo’s ears pricked at the sound of your voice and he nuzzled your shoulder affectionately. You smiled, scratching the sides of his head and up behind his ears as his eyes softened. Joel’s mare regarded you warily from the opposite corner of the stall, grateful to be relieved of her tack but unwilling to approach you.

You set to work on the rest of the barn’s residents: a half dozen chickens, two goats, and five rather scrawny pigs. The chickens hadn’t laid in almost two weeks, and you were disappointed to find their nests empty again this morning. The goats, for their part, gave you almost a full pail of fresh milk. The pigs rutted happily when you emptied the meager helping of your food scraps from the prior week into their trough, although your mind turned sour as you pondered on how you were going to feed an extra two mouths. You made a silent inventory of all the traps you needed to check later that day, cringing when you realized that meant you’d have to get back in the saddle, your seat and thighs already bruised and tender like a brown apple.

You’d just finished slinging a fresh bale of hay into the horse’s stall when the sharp, staccato pop of gunfire split the quiet, winter morning outside. You startled, almost knocking over the pail of frozen water next to you in the process. Your body hummed with adrenaline as you moved quietly, half crouched, toward the barn door. You grabbed the spare rifle you kept propped against the wall next to the door as you leaned against the doorframe, leaning carefully out into the light and surveying the vast, white expanse in front of you. A few hundred feet away was the cabin where you’d left Joel and the girl, a faint wisp of smoke curling out of the chimney in the center: a dead giveaway that there was someone inside.

Another chorus of pop’s drew your attention up the slope on the other side of the cabin to the treeline at the top of the ridge where a handful of dark shapes swam into view. You squinted against the bright light as you pulled the cocking lever on the rifle gently, a soft click of the cold metal indicating the weapon’s readiness. You lifted the rifle up to your shooting eye, closing the other and aiming the gun’s muzzle up towards the dark shapes. Through the gun’s scope, you counted seven mounted riders bobbing through the sparse woods that ran along the ridge’s spine. For a half second, you wondered if Joel’s fears had come true and someone had managed to track you, although in the next instant you realized these riders were coming from the opposite direction. A coincidence, you realized. They’d probably ended up here by accident, gotten disoriented in the snow storm maybe. You couldn’t imagine where they were from, although that hardly mattered now. All that mattered was that they would pass you by without incident.

You followed their progress in your scope, a few more pop’s announcing their presence. The lead riders seemed to be shooting at something on the ground, jerking their horses in haphazard zigzagging patterns, pursuing a prey you couldn’t see. None of them so much as lifted their heads in the direction of your cabin, and for a few tense moments it seemed that luck would be in your favor.

All but one of the riders had disappeared over the opposite edge of the ridgeline when the last one suddenly turned their head in the direction of your cabin. Shit. Your heart dropped in your chest.

“Keep on riding, pal,” you urged the distant figure. “Not today. Not this. Not now.”

As if in spite of your wishes, you watched as the rider reigned their horse up sharply, their eyes fixed on your cabin in the middle of the freshly snow-coated field, its chimney merrily smoking like a calling card. The rider whistled to his comrades: sharp and high and shrill, but faint at this distance. A few moments later, the others came back into view. You watched as the riders exchanged a few words, gesturing wildly back and forth amongst themselves. For another fraught moment, you dared to hope that they might decide to pass your place by, even after spotting it.

Your heart fell out of the bottom of your feet when the group all reigned their horses around in unison and kicked off into a trot down the slope in the direction of your cabin. You wondered if Joel and the girl had seen them yet. Although he had the steely composure of a man who’d seen his fair share of tight spots, you doubted Joel would be much use in a gunfight in his condition.

Knowing what you had to do, you took a deep breath in as you steadied your shooting arm, lining up the frontmost rider in your sights. You let out an even, slow breath as you squeezed the trigger, the deafening shot shattering the peacefulness of a bright morning light on new snow…

**read chapter 4 here let me know if you'd like to be tagged if you like this series, check out my Joel Miller masterlist for other works

#joel miller #joel miller last of us #joel miller x reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x you #joel miller imagine #joel miller angst #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal angst #hbo last of us #pedro pascal joel miller #pedro pascal last of us #pedro pascal imagine #way of winter series

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nomsfaultau · 2 months

Note

Daily ask №27!

Turn the lights off x Fault edition because why not!

For context TTLO is my unpublished fic that I'm working on. The main plot is that Tommy accidentally gets into the cryptid world where he meets new friends and uncovers the truth about his past.

1. In TTLO cryptids are people who have died in some unusual way and then stayed in the community's memory as folklore, cautionary tales, etc. After some emotions and belief are poured into them, they reappear as monsters aka cryptids. That could include anything from vampires to sirens to a girl who cut their head open on a rock and emerged as some mushroom monstrosity. Now that that's out of the way, what sort of cryptids would Fault characters be, if they were one?

2. What sort of a cryptid would YOU be? On that note, I might've made you canon in TTLO for the funsies. You're a mute author who lived in the main town quite some years ago, but one time the town's connection to the other towns got temporarily cut off for whatever reason and with that, a paper and ink shortage happened. You, due to not being able to express your stories and ideas, went completely mad and wrote all over your walls with blood. And died shortly. Now you're chilling in the cryptid world. Thoughts?

3. Do you have any fic ideas that you really enjoy but don't even try to fulfil because you know you won't be able to? Share 'em!

4. How would YOU like to mess up my story if you got the chance to enter it? Yk how I interact with the Fault characters but in reverse. Go on, cause chaos.

5. Would you actually be interested in me ranting about TTLO? Not in asks, of course, just in general? °👉👈°

Philza.

There’s an old man who lives at the edge of town. Been there far longer than you or me, and some say our grandparents could claim the same, and so could theirs. His smile is meltingly warm, but something ain’t right. Might be the look in his eyes, distant, like he’s lookin at a memory instead of you. Might be the crows that always circle over head, like they know he’s already decomposing. The old man’s nice enough folk if you ever talk, but don’t ever linger too long. Not that you’ll run out of welcome; it’s the opposite you best be worrying about with that one. Every few years a kid gets too curious, gets taken underwing by the old man. He collects the oddballs, the ones who don’t quite fit in. Always young, always someone who won’t be missed. The kids who go to him look happier but…only for a little while. Hard to smile when you’re gone. Anderson was the most recent, good head on that one. He is going big places one of these days. Or was. Now his only destination is 6 feet under. And the old man? Well. There’s a young man who lives at the edge of town. Been there far longer than you or me, and some say our grandparents could claim the same, and so could theirs.

Wilbur.

Nobody looks the homeless in the eyes. Fingers drumming on dashboards, pinned on stoplights and passengers and mirrors and anywhere but the man on the street corner whistling for loose coins. Nobody looks the homeless in the eyes, and so no one sees when the winter hollows them out to something hopeless. No one sees when starvation claws out everything inside until all that’s left is hunger, hunger, hunger. No one sees when life leaves those eyes. No one sees. Today there was a new stranger in town. It doesn’t draw more than glances despite being a head taller than the crowd. No one can bear to look the new stranger in the eyes. Maybe he doesn’t have any. But the town does notice when people begin to go missing, if only because these ones were important enough for their deaths to matter. The new stranger doesn’t beg like the others do. He doesn’t need to. The new stranger whistles a jaunty tune as it drifts in and out of so-called society, its lips stained with blood.

The Blade.

A good soldier never falters, never loses, never ceases. They say he was the best soldier, once. The war was a brutal one, long and cruel. Maybe there was honor in it, maybe there wasn’t. It doesn’t matter so much when there’s an enemy before you and a threat to your life. It matters even less when you’re losing. The fort was over run, the flag long since ripped down. His fellow warriors bled out in messy, unremarkable ways. Sudden, with no time to mourn or care, as if they weren’t his brothers in arms. The invading army was taking prisoners if you lay down your weapons and accepted indignity. Not for a second did he consider surrender, though there wasn’t a hope of surviving when outnumbered twenty to one. But a good soldier never falters. They say he was the best soldier, once. He did not hesitate, throwing himself at the next foe, and the next, fighting tooth and nail. One man can’t take on an army, but he tried. The soldier fought day and night. It was not an enemy that laid him low but the collapsing of his own exhausted body. Sleep claimed him once and for all. But a good soldier never loses. They say he was the best soldier, once. So he simply picked himself back up and continued until panting and soaked in viscera he alone stood in the husk of the ravaged fortress. And yet, he had not yet won. A soldier’s duty does not end with one battle. One man can’t take on a war, but he did. The soldier hunted down every last opponent, a wave of slaughter shredding through battalions until the brutal was over. But what is a soldier during peace? Nothing. Relentlessly, the soldier continues to wage war upon any and all he encounters, prowling the wilderness and waiting for the next fight. Because a good soldier never ceases. They say he was the best soldier, once. They don’t say what he is now.

Tubbo.

You hear about Rhodes’ kid? Shame. Damn shame. Such a sweet kid, friendly. Too friendly. Got drawn in like a moth to flame with those- well, I mean cult’s strong language and I don’t want to tread on toes with whose god is right, but…mm. Bad sorts. Sweet as honey, sure, but I had a feeling in my gut it was going to break bad when the kid started hanging around at their church meetings. Should’ve opened my mouth, but you know how desperate they were for friends. You remember the news article, right? How many pieces did they find the kid in again? Somethin like four hundred thousand? Huh. Well all I’ll say -and you don’t tell Rhodes this yah hear? He don’t need no more heart break. But I don’t see how the cops figured out it was them. And- and you really can’t repeat I said this- but I could’ve sworn I saw his kid today, handing out fliers for that cult like they weren’t all arrested years ago. Hey! I know they’re dead! And yet…well. Couldn’t’ve been anyone else. Maybe it’s nothing, Mrs. Fletcher, but I saw Jasmine talkin to them, and- and has she come back from school yet? …oh. Maybe we should round up the search party. Better safe than sorry.

Tommy.

They had to chain the door to the water tower, though it’s far too late. Not that anybody lives in the surrounding town anymore despite all the new vacancies; they say the tap still tastes of iron. The chain is bulky and intimidating, but everyone knows it was locked before too and it didn’t save anyone. If anything it makes it a challenge, and all the threatening signs they put up after would only tempt more dares from reckless teens if the town still had those. It had to have been a dare gone wrong. Had to be. Because otherwise that meant there was someone in town who’d drag a teenager all the way up a water tower just to drown him, and nobody could handle the thought. The faucets ran red for weeks after. The health officials swore up and down it was safe despite the color. Maybe they were right. Maybe what happened after had nothing at all to do with the dead kid, but nobody really believes that. Because even if no one held that kid down thrashing and gurgling, surely there was someone to blame. Everyone, maybe. The friends who pressured him to climb up, the parents who didn’t enforce curfew, the maintenance worker who forgot to lock the facility. Each dragged out, their every flaw magnified and contorted into something intolerable. The lucky were ran out of town mottled with bruises. The justice didn’t stop there, of course. Onto the bully who must’ve driven the teen to it, the neighbor who could’ve warned the parents when he snuck out of the house, the passerby who might’ve seen them crossing the street. Fewer and fewer survived the trials, the fingers pointed at one another quick to turn into claws. It spiraled out into uncontrolled accusations, mobs descending upon any and all and soon unraveling into pure anarchy. The town ripped itself apart. Literally, viscerally. The rivers ran scarlet with their blood, staining the banks and their hands. It couldn't be helped. The town had developed a taste for blood.

brooo your world building is so sickkkkk ahhh.

2.Yeah that’s probably how I go out tbh. I’d not be functional without the ability to write or draw. Hope someone at least copied down the bloody words otherwise that was waste of time smh. Some people just don’t appreciate the fact that the ~5 liters of blood the average person has doesn’t actually go that far.

And God already assigned me vampire for my monstersona. But a couple years ago I had a dream about a fallen angel who was deeply in denial about it. They were a thick ring of white feathers and periodic wings covered in golden eyes that wept as they were forced to confront the fact that the human world was soon to be invaded by demons, and the forces of hell would be slaughtered. So like ideal bod am I right gamers.

3.Not a fic, but a game. Multiple endings. Had it before SBI, but more vague notions in the years I’ve had it. Starts with Phil moving into a new house. Some clear trauma hidden, world building set up. Then teen hero Tommy stumbles into his house suffering a concussion, thinking it’s his house. Real bad off. Phil helps him out natch, ends up with a bleeding kid asleep on his couch and is just trying to cope with that. When Tommy gets better he’s freaked out and defensive and runs away immediately. But also…now he knows someone who can do stitches. And so the next time is weeks later and he’s dragging in a hissing and panicking fellow teen hero, who is far less okay with a civilian knowing they’re hurt and possibly learning their identity. Cue Phil beginning to run into more and more teen heroes and slowly earning their trust. It’s mostly about picking the right dialogue to build up rapport, though with some minigames for things like giving the kids medical aid, getting them the right presents that are helpful for either vigilante or civilian life, and making tasty food to fill their scrappy bodies and win them over. It is very, very difficult though.

Cause like. The reason they’re all kids is because heroes kinda don’t last long enough to become adults? It’s a very gritty setting, focusing on the factors that drive kids of all different backgrounds into becoming heroes and the poor ways they cope with the pressure. With Tommy it’s like a sanctioned way to get out his anger issues and receive adoration. Techno’s dead parents were villains so he feels like he has to prove he isn’t like them bc of societal pressure. Probably in foster care, so it’ll be time consuming to try and adopt him. Tubbo was meant to be a sidekick but got shoved into the role, technically with the support of a hero agency but there’s way too much pressure to fill an adult role. It’s a toxic situation, but Tubbo is convinced he has to do this to save everyone (but himself) and the heroes have enough power to make things very difficult for Phil if he tries to help Tubbo too much. Niki is absolutely seething about the state of things, and is honestly more a vigilante because she refuses to sit back on corrupt ‘good guy’ practices. She’s homeless, but wary of any authority figures so has to warm up to consider crashing at Phil’s. Stuff like that idk its very nebulous and I’m kinda making stuff up rn. Thoughts about abusive parents, or parents that force into the good hero role in a perfectionist way (Ranboo maybe?), maybe a kid starting villainy? It’s a very extended cast thing.

Some are way more trusting, others have bad experiences with adults, others think Phil is a civilian and so needs to shut up and be protected. Bonding scenes like helping protect a secret identity, or distracting a villain in a fight, or patching up wounds, or baking to keep up with superhero metabolisms, or giving life advice (be it for prom date or nemesis). Phil is running around herding cats and lots of the time supporting one means others might not stay safe. Also Phil in the past got like ptsd from a villain attack and so has to deal with his own problems, idk details. And also finds out his corporate job is helping the BBEG uh oh. Phil probably get kidnapped to draw out all the heroes to save him. Or, well, the ones with negative relationships are unlikely to help, making it harder for the rest to succeed.

The endings come into play considering how many kids you’ve managed to take care of/win the trust of/get to safer situations. Some are far far harder to convince to trust Phil, or may be down but Phil’s ability to help may be limited. Essentially, the higher the relationship bars are with everyone the better the ending. Neutral or negative relationships lead to stuff like injuries or deaths, though not necessarily related to the kid with the low stats always. Cause obviously you’d care more about the kids that you went through the effort of getting their routes right. So it could be like a teammate failed to help, or they weren’t able to cohesively function as a group, or Phil hadn’t knocked in enough sense to stop being self sacrificial/more invested in taking the villain down than making sure no one’s hurt, or the kid that could’ve dragged the injured one to get healed by Phil didn’t trust him and the injured hero died without medical intervention. With better endings being very difficult since a lot of the kids have conflicting needs and you’d have to play like perfectly to get even good stats with everyone (impossible to max out everyone). But that leads to things like no one getting hurt, and progressing to getting kids with the highest stats into safer lives thereafter and more support for others.

4.I don’t know too much, but based on the world building I would try to disrupt all the folklore that the characters survive off of. Make like a youtube/podcast debunking all the myths, get hella famous, and do everything I can to disrupt the word of mouth belief that the cryptids rely on. In the human world I'm hailed as fighting disinformation. In the cryptid world I'm like thanos probably.

5.I am SO DOWN oh my God yes please.

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awingedinsect · 7 months

Text

-Flood me like Atlantic-

Chapter 6

Word count: 2.7k

Warnings: swearing, blOOd, allusions to witchcraft, nudity, reference to drug use, wound cleaning, talk of de@th.

The forest is trying to swallow him. He wants to close his eyes and banish the vision of the branches reaching for him, draped in billowing sheets of moonlight and clawing at his limbs. But every time he does he falls; tripping over the bony roots choking the gravel path.

His feet are numb now, and his knees scraped from the countless amount of times that they’ve hit the ground. He wants to be held. Wants any arms but his own to wrap around his shaking shoulders. But all he feels are his own nails, skittering over his body and digging new marks into his ashy skin.

The moon seems to be changing shapes above, but he concentrates on the tiny stones as the light flickers on them like a dying bulb. He needs to move. He needs to find somewhere to curl up and sleep for as long as possible. And maybe then, just maybe, he’ll wake up from this nightmare.

There’s new voices in the wind and it terrifies him. The light flickering on the leaves around him are a million eyes and they’re watching him. Taunting him. Staring at his inadequate self and how much it’s failing him. His voice is stolen- even the sobs slipping past the wobbly line of his lips are silent and pleading, so that not even a god can answer them.

The moon flickers with its last bit of strength before zapping out in the big black ceiling. It abandons him, and so does the ground beneath.

He falls either up or down and loses his own body somewhere in the darkness, probably never to get it back. And he’s resigned to either wake up some day or just die here, where the night has claimed him as its own.

“Hey mate, you alright?”

Gravel is crackling somewhere beside him. He’s still not awake.

“The fuck you on, bruv, you need me to call an ambulance?”

He groans hoarsely, unable to peel his face off the rocks. His body is curled up on the ground and leaking black blood between the tiny ravines, gluing him in place as what seems to be a hand comes up behind him and turns him over.

“Jesus Christ, you’re fuckin bleeding man! What the-“

He’s vaguely aware as he’s flipped over and his face is brought into the light. There’s a moment of nothing but pure silence; the newcomer suspending his limp body like fresh roadkill. Then he’s fucking dropped back to the ground and an obnoxious cockney accent starts cursing in rage. He thinks they walk away.

Seconds later, but what feels like a small eternity, the hand is back on him and flipping him over with less ceremony than before. His eyes are glued shut with blood and tears and exhaustion. But either way, he doesn’t give a fuck what’s going on as long fingers grab his face harshly and inspect him in what seems to be revived moonlight.

“What the actual fuck.” The voice bites.

Where has he heard that voice? He swears it’s pissed him off before. And yet right now, it sounds like music to his battered ears. He could almost cry, feeling lean arms snake under his and start to haul him across the gravel. The ground shreds his heels, a hot breath cursing above his sticky bangs. He doesn’t remember getting cut in the forehead, but then again-

Everything is hazy.

He’s vaguely aware of being dragged through a doorway before everything goes black once again.

• • • •

“I don’t know, he was passed out on the fucking driveway!”

Vessel hears a distant voice seemingly screaming into a phone. The few seconds of silence between bouts of panicked explanation sounds like they’re coming from the end of an enormous tunnel; probably somewhere back in the land of the living.

He groans, feeling his skin come in contact something cold and slippery as he tries to move.

He’s in a tub.

And not one he can flop out of easily; as his vision comes to, he sees his own blackened body sprawled out in what appears to be a vintage claw foot, set in a tiny bathroom filled with shelves and the musk of dried herbs.

It’s dark in here, save for a few candles dripping down the sides of a drawer table, casting his sprawled body in a flickery orange that makes him recoil. He was evidently dumped here, long limbs stuffed quickly into this porcelain prison, and abandoned.

“…no, no, stay right fucking there.”

The voice is starting to come clearer through the wooden door. “-Both of you. I can handle it.”

Vessel rolls his head over the back of the tub and is immediately clobbered by the spout. As if he wasn’t in enough pain.

“I don’t fucking know! I’ll figure it out. No, no, I’ll figure it out. I know I can’t bring the cops up here. Where the hell did you put the gauze though? And I need, like, disinfectant or something. Fuckin’ wanker was rolling around in something and he’s absolutely disgusting.”

Vessel doesn’t care what happens at this point. However, he’s starting to feel his mind clearing up. And it’s now that the situation is slowly, truly seeping in.

He’s shaking uncontrollably, trying to look down at himself. His head is throbbing, probably from the latest in a succession of falls. He wraps an arm around his stomach, panting and feeling his fluttering heart rate climb in his carved-up chest.

The bleeding looks like it’s stopped, for the most part. But he can feel the lack of blood turning his mind and body to tar. Every move hurts. He starts to grit his teeth, trying at all costs not to scream when his thumb touches the slash down the front of his stomach.

There’s tears in his eyes again.

“It’s the same fucking guy, I’m telling ya.” Comes the voice. “He’s covered in ash and shit. And… and runes. Bad fucking runes. Like, I don’t know if I’ll get it out of the house, bruv. I’m serious.”

Vessels sticky eyes roam slowly, wincing painfully with every breath he takes. This place reeks of witchcraft. And noticing the collection of little bones on the window sill, he wonders if he’s gonna get sacrificed again.

If so, he wishes they’d get it over with.

He’s shivering so harshly he swears it’s shaking the room, then suddenly he wheezes and scrunches his eyes when the overhead light flicks on and the door swings open.

And now he remembers.

It’s the bass player from the Blacklit Room. His hair is down and in eyes, but Vessel can feel the wrath in them all the same as long legs and dubious intentions carry him to the side of the tub, staring down at the pitiful sight. Vessel suddenly feels very exposed.

“You?” He croaks up at him. He hasn’t heard his own voice in hours, not since he’s pretty sure he spoke to a god. It’s hoarse from screaming.

“Shutup.” The man commands, bending down to pull a square basket out from under the drawer table and shuffle through it. He doesn’t look him in the eyes. “Don’t fucking talk.”

Okay.

Crumpled up against the wall of the tub, there’s nothing he can do but try to stay conscious while he waits for whatever happens next. And after some muttered curses in an accent almost too thick to understand, the bass player gets down on his knobby knees, long fingers clasping a collection of medical tape, bandages, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol in a talon-like vice.

“Hold still.” He commands, setting the articles on the lid of the toilet and reaching for the dangling detachable shower-head. He turns the handle above Vessel's head in tiny increments, until a thin stream of ice-cold water splatters into the tub and makes Vessel seethe in shock.

“I’m gonna rinse off the bad bits and bandage em up quick as I can.” The man… III? Says. “Then you’re getting the fuck out of here.”

Although that’s fair enough, the idea of continuing to pursue existence he’s not directly forced into living makes him want to throw up. But all he does is nod, a pained, deep sound that he hopes resembles confirmation leaving his cracked lips. He closes his eyes.

“The light.” He whispers half-intelligently. His voice sounds like a broken motor, wheezing on smoke and rumbling from somewhere deep. He hates the sound of it. “Off. Please.”

“I said shut up.” III says, continuing to adjust the knob until a semi-warm stream trickles over Vessel’s chest. Then he hunches over him, the bathrobe on his shoulders falling in as he starts making circles with the water across Vessel’s torso. Black water runs off in little waves to reveal pinkish white skin beneath, turning a harsh red around the path of Venus's knife. He shudders hard at the feeling.

Murky grey water rises slowly up around his hips, and he’s at least thankful for the warmth for a second before III notices and unplugs the drain, leaving him once again a shivering and now wet shadow of a person.

He wants to simultaneously kiss and murder this man.

After a few minutes, III deems him sufficiently peeled and turns the water off. Vessel watches through tunnel vision as he grabs a roll of bandages off of the toilet and starts unwrapping them on his large hands, eyes flitting between the cuts and the antiseptic as he apparently forms a plan.

“…Why don’t you call the cops?” Vessel whispers, wet bangs dripping into his mouth. His eyes drag up to IIIs, wondering if they’ll meet. They don’t. “Aren’t you… confused?”

Surprisingly, III doesn’t tell him to shut up. Only glares at him briefly as he unscrews the bottle of alcohol.

“Think they’d help you?” He asks. “Look at yourself in the mirror, blud. You look like you got jacked up on shrooms, rolled around in the ashes of your victims, and turned yourself into some kinda human sacrifice.”

“I didn’t kill anybody.” Vessel says, voice severe. “…It wasn’t fucking me.”

III pulls the bandage off his hands and sets it down momentarily, reaching into the tub to pour the contents of the bottle over Vessel’s stomach. “Sure, man.” He says. And immediately, Vessel decides that even though he hasn’t killed anybody so far, tonight might actually change that.

“Fucking Christ!” He screams, writhing under the liquid fire as it’s poured mercilessly over him.

“Fuck…”

“Hold still.”

“Fuck you.”

“And you, bitch.”

After a few seconds he stops, reaching instead for some cotton. And Vessel is left to sit there in the aftershock and pray that things take a less painful turn.

They don’t, really. Over the next few minutes, he’s completely at the mercy of the musician. And he can feel his frown growing, lips curling as he fights hard to stop the tremble in his jaw. Eventually, as a hand splays over his chest and III starts to tape down the strips of cotton, he does catch a sight of himself in the mirror behind his nurse’s bowed head. And the sight is a pitiful one.

His face is still mainly black, with big white trails cutting down his cheeks and pooling in the dip of his neck. His eyes are blown out and swollen, not as hidden as he’d wish by his hair. But as he looks he could almost swear he sees something strange on his forehead. He notices for only an instant before he’s startled by a hand touching him exactly there; pulling his face back into the light and swiping his bangs with a long thumb.

“Fuckin- what are you-“

“I've fixed up your stomach, now I gotta deal with this shit.” The bassist mumbles, now holding Vessel’s face in one hand and squishing his mouth no doubt on purpose.

“Jesus…”

“What is it?” Vessel asks, unperturbed by the palm over his mouth.

“You should know, you were there.” He replies. “You’ve got a symbol on your forehead. Branded, like some sick fuck. You telling me you had nothing to do with it?”

“Branded?” Vessel repeats, eyes stinging as the skin on his forehead is pulled and prodded beneath the pads of calloused fingers.

“Of course I had nothing t-to do with it. You think I’d do this to myself? What’s it say?”

III sighs, releasing him only long enough to grab more cotton and rubbing alcohol.

Brilliant.

“I think it’s a mix of some old runes. And no, I’m not gonna read them. There’s probably enough bad mojo in this place as it is to have me making protection spells for weeks. But it’s ain’t cute, blud. It ain’t cute.”

There’s something vaguely sensual about the next few minutes. It’s probably the blood loss. III’s hot breath on his face as he holds his hair out of the way, dabbing carefully above his eyes…

It doesn’t sting as bad as it did earlier, either. And Vessel honestly feels close to falling asleep again. It’s only when his eyes finally meet III’s that he clears his throat, looking up hazily as the last bit of bandage is wrapped around his head.

“Thank you.” He says quietly.

III looks down at him, silently, tucking the end of the cloth strip in. He pulls Vessel’s hair out of the front and lets it fall back into his eyes.

“I’m gonna find you some fucking pants.” He says, standing up quickly and collecting the crumpled paper and mostly-empty bottle on the toilet.

“I can’t get up.” Vessel says, testing his limbs and immediately wincing. He’s sore as all hell.

“Give it a minute, you’ll be fine. Just get up and wash your fucking face, you look like a fuckin’ pound hound.”

Suddenly Vessel is hit in the face with a towel, and if it weren’t for literally everything else he’d have something to say about it. But he just counts it as a blessing, instantly doing his best to wrap himself up as he stumbles out of the tub like a newborn giraffe.

“You can have the sofa.”

Although he hasn’t even half-considered finding a way back to his motel, the invitation surprises him all the same.

“Do you live alone?”

“No, dipshit, but my boys are at the doctor an hour out. Getting a checkup on that fucking arm you broke.”

“I broke?” He repeats, still struggling to make the little towel enough for his whole body as he collapses against the wall. He rolls his head back against the flowery paper, wishing death on himself once again. “You mean that bloke IV?”

“Met him?” III asks, washing his hands and opening the door. Vessel glimpses a short hallway and some more modest furniture beyond, yellow light leaking into the space as the bathroom overhead turns off. “Fucker. You don’t get his room.”

“Hey, I’m still getting over this fuckin’ black eye, you know.” He shoots back. “You absolutely flattened me, you bastard.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t hard. You’re built like a twig and now you’ve got the strength of one, so watch your damn mouth.”

Vessel watches from the doorframe as III leaves down the hall, shouting back at him and turning into another room. “They’re gonna be back in a few hours, so don’t be a cunt and stay on the fucking sofa, else I’ll dump your ass back outside. Understand?”

Vessel ignores him, instead doing his best to stay upright as all the pain in his body flares. After a minute, III returns, chucking black sweatpants at his head with a final command to wash his fucking face. He does so briefly, bringing a handful of water up from the sink and smearing it around before spending ten minutes putting his pants on.

He throws up bile and the few bites he took of a bagel sandwich for the next five.

Once he finally leaves the bathroom, the cabin is dark, III nowhere in sight. But he couldn’t care less as he finds his way to the living room and falls down on the leather, hoping to god that when he wakes up, he’ll be anywhere but here.

He barely manages to pull a quilt off the floor and onto himself before passing out deeper than dreams can find him for the next several hours.

#sleep token fanfiction #vessel #vessel sleep token #sleep token iii

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lonewolfinthetardis · 5 months

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A master post about my Nameless Ghoul OC, Glacier

So this is a post about my Ghoul oc, Glacier, who will be one of the main characters in my Ghost x TF2 fan fiction when/if I post it. If you're unfamiliar with the lore behind Ghost, I do explain little bits in here. Ask me if you have questions about him! --------

This also contains some headcanons of the official Ghouls. I will make a post about the Prequelle/Impera Ghouls soon. Post begins below!

Who and what is he?

Glacier is an Air Ghoul in the band Ghost, he plays the drums and does backup vocals. While Air Ghouls usually play keys in the Ghost project (the in lore name for the band), Glacier can play piano, he is however, much more gifted at the drums, resulting in two drummers being in the band instead of just one. Since I added him to the current Ghoul line up, that makes 9 instrumentalists instead of 8. Glacier is the younger brother of Cirrus, and was summoned at the same time as both her and her girlfriend, Cumulus, all three are Air Ghouls. I haven’t really figured out what his voice sounds like yet, but it’ll most likely have a soft Australian accent to it (like myself), I also imagine that he sings kinda like Hugh Jackman in "The Greatest Showman".

I’ll quickly list off the other Ghouls: Aether, rhythm guitarist, Dewdrop, lead guitarist, Rain, bass guitar, Mountain, drums, Cirrus, keyboard/keytar, Cumulus, keyboard and backing vocals, Swiss, semi-acoustic guitar, tambourine, backing vocals, and Sunshine, vocals and tambourine.

The majority of the stuff in here is based on my headcanons mixed with the fandoms’ ones. Any other Ghouls I mention in this are actual Ghouls, not ocs.

His pack (and a small Ghost lore dump)

Pack dynamics are generally centred around one Ghoul (or human), Glacier’s pack follows Aether and Copia, since Copia is the current leader of the Church, making him Papa Emeritus IV. To people on the outside, Ghoul packs can seem like a big polycule, but it’s something much deeper than that, it’s a relationship built on fierce loyalty for their leader. Usually a pack has multiple relationships inside of it, this is the same with this pack, there are currently 6 different relationships among the pack members. Ghouls sometimes like to sleep in a “pile” (just picture a cluster of 9 vaguely humanoid figures cuddled together), the pack leader is usually at the centre of this pile.

Appearance

He’s around 6’1, and has a nice bit of fat to him, meaning he has stretch marks on his belly, hips, and under his arms. His hair is mostly a lovely royal blue that has hints of different shade of blue in it, the rest of the hair on his head is a dark brown, he also has a short beard (pretty much just long stubble). The fur that runs across his back, chest, shoulders, and tail is the same brown as the hair on his head. His skin is a light grey, with a large smattering of freckles across his face, arms, and shoulders. His eyes are a glowing green, with the classic slit pupils. Like most Ghouls he has pointed ears that can be moved independently (like a cat, or drawing from my inspiration, the Na’vi), he also has a prehensile tail with a spaded tip, both the ears and tail are extremely expressive. He has sharp claws on both his hands and feet, and on his feet, and he has paw pads (cute). His chest, upper back, upper arms, and the base of his tail are covered in a layer of soft fur that, during the colder seasons, grows thicker and slightly longer (spring is a nightmare in the Abbey, if you have pets that shed you’ll understand). Like all Ghouls, Glacier has extremely sharp teeth and a rough, forked tongue. He also wears a few bits of jewelry: Three rings on his left hand, one on his right thumb, leather cuff bracelets, and two piercings on both of his ears. On his right arm is a sleeve tattoo, styled to look like the Japanese cloud design you see in art. This is in a light blue, almost white colour.

His horns are a bit different from the model, since I had limited resources on the website. They're black, with a grey gradient that gets lighter on each ridge. They also have glowing blue cracks towards the base of the horns (this will be explained later)

Ghoul qualities

Like all Ghouls, he is telepathic, this can be used by Ghouls to communicate when absolute silence is necessary, and is also used to communicate with any Ghoul who can’t or doesn’t feel like verbally speaking. Glacier also knows several forms of sign language, since Mountain uses it when he’s in his human appearance. Alright, so a general headcanon is that normally the Ghouls look like… well, Ghouls, but on tour or out in public they wear something called “glamour” which gives them a human appearance, but this also removes their abilities, such as telepathy. All Ghouls have their own scent, Glacier’s smells like a warm summer's day with a hint of orange. Scents are a way of telling who is a pack member, mate, or friend. As an Air Ghoul, Glacier can use Air magic, along with general spells. He has an excellent sense of smell, sight and hearing, like all Ghouls. He also has great night vision.

Bit of backstory

Glacier is bisexual and transgender, and underwent an extremely painful but worthwhile transformation, using a spell designed by a few older Quintessence Ghouls and Primo. Resulting in his horns growing and cracking, revealing a glowing blue interior. The whole transformation took a while, since some of his bones were reshaped and moved. He has top surgery scars, which like his horns, glow blue, and had magic bottom surgery basically (I won't go into detail), the transformation also swapped his body from producing estrogen to testosterone.

Personality and some likes

Glacier is a shy Ghoul, and will usually stick to the back of the pack in stressful or new situations. He’s extremely quiet when meeting new people, and can take a while to warm up to them. His stage personality is vastly different, he loves hyping up the crowd during the gap before Cirice, if he is called for. He can be a very energetic drummer, and will sometimes compete with Mountain (the other drummer) to see who can perform a certain trick. At the end of a Ritual he gives away any spare drumsticks he has, as well as collecting anything that fans have made for him or the band in general (normal end of Ritual stuff). Other than that, he enjoys stargazing, swimming, cooking, and helping out with chores or just helping around. Glacier also has ADHD, and will get overstimulated in stressful environments, resulting in a flight response.

Strengths and weaknesses

Glacier, like most Ghouls, is fiercely loyal and protective of his pack and family. This is also one of his greatest weaknesses. Glacier is also a great listener and will be there for anyone to talk to.

TF2 x Ghost

A few of you may know that I ship Glacier with Engineer, and am currently planning a few fics containing them. I won't give anything away, but I will be making a fic that explains how these two completely different universes end up coming together. A little I will give away is that Glacier and Dell are a T4T relationship, and that the start of their relationship is really cute. I shall leave you with this image

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gothdaddyissues · 1 year

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The Devil Came to a Small Town

A Ghost AU Fanfic - Cardinal Copia/Female OC

The Satanic Church of Emeritus moves into an old Abbey on the outskirts of a bougie small town. Sister Imperator and the shy Cardinal Copia strike up a business relationship with Isabelle, the local witchy shop owner. This sets in motion a series of events that uncovers long-hidden secrets, solves mysteries, and unites the town and Church against a common enemy. And also: two lonely people fall in love...

TAGS: Glacially-slow slow burn. Lots of OCs. Romantic fluff. Mutual pining. Sex. Violence. Humor and melancholy in equal measure. Ghoul hijinx. All the Papas are alive and well, and very silly. Small-town weirdness. Drug and alcohol use. Bad language. Marginally accurate witchcraft. Very-likely-inaccurate religious imagery and practices. Magic, psychic abilities, and prophetic visions. Intolerance and discrimination. A happy ending will happen...

Chapter 7 is now up!

Read on Ao3 or below the cut... (~5100 words)

October 7

She ran, her feet pounding the frozen ground. The light dusting of snow on the forest floor was illuminated by the moon above, bathing everything in an iridescent blue glow. The trees soared high into the clear night sky, cradling the stars in their bare, spindly branches. It had been a night of celebration and reverence - a night of worship under the full moon - quickly transformed into a night of terror when they came looking for her.

So she ran, deep as she could into the woods, hoping they would not follow, hoping they would never find her. She could barely catch her breath, her heart slamming in her chest, but she dared not stop. She was running for her life.

The chill air bit at her cheeks, her ears, her fingers. She was so, so cold. She was further into the forest than she had ever been. Nothing familiar here, no bearings. And still, she ran. It was her only option.

"Bella...."

It was his voice. Whispered, drifting through the trees on the wind, meant only for her to hear.

"Bella!" More urgent this time.

He was close. She slowed herself as she came to a small clearing. Gasping, frigid air searing her lungs, she leaned against a tree trunk to hold herself up. She couldn't see him, but she sensed his presence, surrounding her like an embrace. Calm. Safe.

"How did you find me?" she asked, breathless.

"We are connected, you and I," he replied from the emptiness, "I'm with you always."

"Copia, help me."

He stepped out of the darkness — majestic in his long, black and gold military jacket, his skull paint crisp and pristine. Gloved hands reached for her, pulling her close. She melted into his strength, his warmth... his love. He wrapped her in his arms, resting his chin upon the top of her head, stroking his fingers through her tousled, wind-blown hair. The steady thrum of his heartbeat soothed her as she lay her cheek against his chest.

"Mia ragazza coraggiosa," he whispered, "Mia bella principessa. We cannot stay long. They are coming."

She could see the congregation far off through the trees. Their white robes shone in the moonlight, the orange flames from their torches shimmering pinpricks of light in the distance. They were chanting, their combined voices a dull, incomprehensible drone that grew louder and louder the closer they came. Like a poorly edited film, they were suddenly closer. Glitching again, closer still.

"Slut. Witch. Whore. Slut. Witch. Whore."

Copia took her hand tightly. "Come, my love. We must go. Rapidamente."

Together, they sprinted through the trees, but no matter how fast they ran, their pursuers were always right behind. Their voices were amplified by the wind, filling her with panic: "SLUT. WITCH. WHORE. BURN!"

She sensed another presence in the woods. Something animalistic. Demonic. A dozen shadowy figures paced in the darkness just beyond her vision, claws scraping against trees and frozen earth. Gurgling and growling. Angry. But they were not her enemies - they were guardians. They were at Copia's command, and he was leading their pursuers right to them.

Copia let go of her hand and pushed her ahead. "Go!" he ordered as he came to a stop. "Keep running. I will find you."

She turned back, reaching for him. The men in the white robes were almost on him, their faces covered with Venetian Bauta masks, their torches held high. "Copia, please!" she cried.

The demons emerged from the shadows around her, ready to protect their master and his lover. A pack of horned beasts with fangs and talons and long pointed tails. Their eyes and skin glowed incandescent in the pale light, various shades of purple, blue, orange, and green. They flew past her, tearing into the flesh of the white-robed men, snarling and vicious. There was blood. There were screams. She heard Copia again telling her to run, and this time, she obeyed.

She ran for what seemed like forever, but the screams still rang in her ears, the demon guardians chasing down every last villain who took after her. The forest grew dense as she sped blindly through the underbrush, branches scratching at her skin. Even without leaves, the trees blocked out most of the sky, with only thin slivers of moonlight cutting through here and there. She could barely see her hand in front of her face, lost in the darkness. She had to trust in Copia's promise that he would find her and return her to safety.

Finally, the screaming stopped. She slowed her pace somewhat, taking the opportunity to look back behind her. Nothing but pitch black night.

A sudden thump sent her flying backward, hard onto the ground with the wind knocked out of her. She had run headlong into something solid concealed in the dark. Dazed, she pulled herself onto her hands and knees, and reached out her hand; it brushed against hard stone. She slid her hand up to feel more stones, bricked together and covered with fuzzy moss. A solid mass in front of her. A wall? She had no idea how high it rose or how wide it spanned. She’d reached a dead end.

Her entire body ached and she was shivering in the cold. All around her was silence, save for her shuddering breaths. Terrified, disoriented, she wanted to cry out for Copia but thought better than to draw attention to herself. Instead, she wrapped her shaky arms around her torso in a feeble attempt to keep warm.

Then she heard the footsteps. The soft crunch of boots on the snow behind her. Copia? She scrambled to her feet and spun around. Her stomach dropped. A lone man, clad in a hooded white cassock, his face hidden behind a masquerade mask, had found her. "Slut. Witch. Whore." She tried to scream, but the man was on her, his hands around her throat. "Slut. Witch. Whore."

She clawed futilely at his wrists as she gasped for breath, and when that didn't work, went for his face with fists. She punched at him hard, dislodging the mask and sending it to the ground. The hood of his cassock obscured his eyes, but she could just make out his dark skin and white beard. "Slut! Witch! Whore!" he roared.

She was dizzy, losing consciousness, going limp under the man's grip. But his chokehold suddenly loosened, distracted by the sound of branches breaking, pounding footfalls, and beastly growling getting closer fast. The burliest demon yet, its skin pearly grey, burst through the brush and tackled the robed man, dragging him to the ground and tearing into him with its razor-sharp claws. Screams filled her ears again, and she was falling, faint, spatters of blood wetting her face from the carnage beside her.

Before she hit the ground, Copia caught her, lifting her into his arms. He cradled her against him, his hand on her cheek. "Bella? Wake up. Wake up!"

Isabelle's eyes shot open to see Poe sitting on her chest, licking and pawing at her face. The cell phone on her bedside table was ringing and vibrating, the 'old phone' ringtone blaring at full volume. The cat meowed angrily, annoyed by the shrill sound.

"Okay, okay," she grumbled, fumbling for the device in her half-awake state, the dream still clinging to her. She was bleary-eyed, couldn't make out the number on the call display, wasn't quite sure what time or even what day it was. But she managed to answer, her voice hoarse and barely working. "Hello?"

"Uh, Izzy?" There was a man's voice on the other end, "Hi, it's Alex, across the street. I woke you up, didn't I? I'm so sorry. I tried calling you a little while ago but there was no answer."

As he spoke, she nudged Poe off of her, struggling to sit up and look at the clock. The sun was up - it was morning. Her first thought was that maybe she overslept. But Ari would have called her if that was the case, not the man who owned the antique shop opposite her. She blinked a few times to clear her vision and saw it was just after 8 a.m. "Oh... uh, hi Alex. Yeah, it's okay, no worries. I'd be getting up soon anyways." She rubbed at her face, willing herself to wake up faster. "What's up?"

"I guess that means you haven't been outside yet?"

His words broke sleep's spell hard and fast, hitting her like a bucket of cold water. Something was wrong. 'Good news sleeps 'til noon,' her mom always said. "No. Oh no... what happened?" She shuffled out of bed and to the window. It faced Main Street and Alex's shop. All seemed normal outside from her vantage point; she could see Alex standing outside his door, his cell phone pressed to his ear as he looked across the street.

"You got hit with some vandalism overnight," he said, his voice soft and apologetic.

"Shit," Izzy muttered, "Again? Is it bad?" She raked her fingers through her hair to tame the bedhead and grabbed a zip-up hoodie off of the chair nearby. She needed to see the damage. At least her pajama pants were somewhat respectable.

"Well," Alex began, "You've had worse, but it's definitely not good."

In the living room now, she stuffed her feet into the closest pair of shoes and took her keys off the hook by the door. "I'm on my way down. I'll see you in a sec," she told him, ending the call.

It was a chilly morning, and thankfully the streets were mostly quiet. She hoped that not too many people had gone by and seen the aftermath; she'd already suffered enough public embarrassment at the coffee shop the week prior. By the time she got down the stairs and around the front of the building, Alex was on her side of the street, giving her a sympathetic look as she took it all in.

An entire carton of eggs had been thrown at the storefront. The metal gate did its job of protecting the windows - nothing broken that she could see. Eggshells and gooey debris splayed across the glass, in the crevices of the gate, and all over the sidewalk. But more distressing were the slurs spraypainted over the gate itself, in giant letters: slut, witch, whore.

Slut. Witch. Whore.

"Oh..." Izzy whispered, her voice trembling, "Oh my god..." Panic, confusion, and anger all welled up inside her, and she put a shaky hand over her mouth. A nasty mess. Plus the words from her dream plastered on her storefront, distressing her more than anything else. What the fuck…? But it wasn't like she could tell this to the nice man across the street without making herself sound completely unhinged.

She felt Alex’s hand on her shoulder. "This is awful Izzy, I know. I'm so sorry. I just got to the shop and saw it. Not a great way to start your day. But I thought it better to let you know as soon as possible. I hate having to be the one to tell you about it."

"No, hey, don't apologize. Thank you for letting me know, I do appreciate it. Really."

"I can help you clean up if you need a hand," he offered, "I know you don't open for a couple of hours yet."

She was grateful for his invitation but was reluctant to accept it. Alex was a kind soul, a bow-tie-wearing, nerdy, goody-two-shoes type, always ready with a dad joke or some historical trivia. The string of expletives she wanted to unleash over this situation would likely shock him to his very core. Probably best for their acquaintance if she saved him from witnessing it.

"Alex, you're so sweet," she began, "But I know you open soon and I don't want to keep you. Let me call Ari and get him over here... if we need any extra help, I'll let you know."

"You sure? I don't mind, really!"

"Yes, I'm sure. I really do appreciate the offer though. If I get stuck, I'll call you." She didn't want to sound rude... but fuck, she needed some time to scream into the void before she could even begin thinking about cleaning up. "And I should probably call and make a police report first too, in case there’s anything they can do." It would be a futile, useless endeavor - chances are they wouldn't even show up when they found out it was her shop - but it did buy her a little more time to calm down.

"Oh yeah, good idea," he agreed, before giving her a nudge with his elbow, "Good luck with that, eh?" He knew as well as she did how the entire police force was bought and paid for by a certain group of people in this town. "I'm right across the street if you need anything - anything at all - okay?"

"Okay. Thank you again." She managed a wave and a feeble smile as he returned to his shop. With a sigh, she turned back to the disaster on her doorstep. "Fuck," she muttered under her breath, "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck." I bet it was those fucking punks that harassed the Sisters yesterday, thinking they were getting me back for giving them shit.

She scanned the area, looking for signs of anything she could use to prove who did this - footprints or something left behind. Nothing. She took out her phone and snapped a few pictures up close, then backed onto the street to capture the whole storefront at once. From there, she could see Poe sitting in the bedroom window upstairs, looking down at her with the disdain of a cat whose breakfast was late. It unsettled her to realize this happened right underneath her while she slept - with the windows open, even - and she didn't hear a damn thing...

Before she stepped back onto the sidewalk, she noticed the security camera on the nearby light post. The previous year, the town council had convinced residents that installing cameras all along Main Street was needed to discourage petty crimes and keep businesses safe. She’d been skeptical, considering the ineffectual Police were the ones doing the monitoring, and also because the company hired to do the installation was a subcontractor of Andrew Francis' land development company. And Andrew Francis was best buddies with the town's mayor - it was all blatant cronyism.

Regardless of her feelings on the matter, there was a camera every 15 feet or so on both sides of the street, and the one closest to her was aimed right at the corner of Main and Richmond, directly in front of her shop. That was the best chance to prove who had vandalized her property. But it was going to mean getting the police involved.

She made her way back upstairs and dialed the non-emergency number. An extremely disinterested woman answered the phone: "Police."

"Yes, hi," Izzy began, "I'm calling to report some vandalism that occurred at my shop overnight. There were slurs spray painted onto my storefront."

"Okay." Izzy heard her begin typing. "Address?"

"The corner of Main and Richmond. Shadow and Light Metaphysical Boutique."

The typing stopped. "I see," the woman replied. "Were any other businesses affected?"

"No, just mine."

"Hmm.... so you were targeted. Sounds like something personal," the dispatcher said, the hint of a sneer in her voice.

Izzy figured the call would go this way, but she persisted as calmly as possible. "Be that as it may, it was still an act of vandalism. Will you be sending someone out to investigate?"

"All of our officers are currently dealing with other matters. I can pass your information along when someone becomes available."

"Any idea when that might be?" Izzy asked through gritted teeth.

"It will be when someone becomes available," the dispatcher repeated.

Izzy squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose, hoping to quell a rapidly blossoming headache. "What about the cameras?" she asked, "One of the town's security cameras is aimed right at the front of my shop. Would you be able to pull the footage off that and see if we can identify who did this?"

"That would be up to the officer who investigates the incident. Who is yet to be determined. I will pass the information along..."

"...when someone becomes available, yeah, I got that part." Izzy interrupted. "I've taken pictures of the damage. Can I start cleaning it up, or do I have to wait for Officer Yet-To-Be-Determined to come?" Oh, she was so close to losing it.

"Suit yourself," the woman replied, "And mind your tone, ma'am."

Mind MY tone?? "Oh, I do apologize," Izzy said sarcastically. "Thank you ever so much for your help. Your assistance has been invaluable, ma'am." She stabbed the phone with her finger to hang up the call and flung it down on the couch beside her with an exasperated growl. She instantly regretted being so snarky. But being nice wouldn't have mattered - the dispatcher’s attitude was set the moment she heard the shop name. FUCK.

The stress had her head throbbing. She reached for the joint she’d left in the coffee table ashtray the night before, a calming blend she enjoyed when she needed to settle her mind after a long day. She lit it, closed her eyes, and took a few small hits; not enough to get high, but just enough to take the edge off. Would it help? Maybe. Definitely wouldn’t hurt.

She heard the pitter-pat of paws, Poe jumping up on the coffee table and plopping himself down, blinking his big green eyes at her. Then a soft 'tap-tap' on her knee, the cat trying to get her attention. When she opened her eyes, she was met with an inquisitive "Mmrrrow?"

"Yes, yes baby, I know. Let's get your breakfast," she sighed, scratching his head. For now, she could focus on something else: getting the cat fed, brushing her teeth, putting her hair in a ponytail, and finding some clothes. An old pair of paint-stained jeans and a worse-for-wear Metallica t-shirt was her standard uniform for grunt work like this. And she needed to call Ari and start the cleanup before the whole town saw the debacle.

Izzy dialed his number and it rang at least five times before he finally answered. "Hrgrarlo?" he croaked sleepily.

She was pacing her living room, back and forth in front of her altar space. His awakening was about to be as rude as hers. "Ari?"

He groaned. "Iz? What time is it?"

"8:30-ish. I need..."

"Too early," he slurred, "Call later."

"Aristotle! Wake up!" she snapped. "The store got vandalized last night. I need your help to clean up."

"Wha...?" He cleared his throat, finally rousing now, "What happened? You ok?"

"Yeah, I'm okay. But it's a fucking mess. We got egged, and the gate got spray painted."

Slut. Witch. Whore. It echoed in her brain, filling her with dread.

"Shit, okay. I'll be there as soon as I can. Give me 20 minutes.”

"Okay, I'll meet you out front. Thanks."

She hung up the phone and continued to pace, images from the dream consuming her. The white-robed men chasing her down with torches, wanting to burn her. Demons protecting her, killing for her. And Copia in his skull paint, right in the middle of it all, infiltrating her dreams again.

Slut. Witch. Whore.

"Why is this happening?" she asked out loud. "I still don't understand." She looked at the statue of Lilith on her altar as she paced, rolling the anxious thoughts around and around in her head. Things were going so well. Things were calm, people were finally leaving us be. Then I met Sister Imperator and everything's been fucked up since then! The weird dreams. The coffee shop last week, the Sisters yesterday, now this… I'm trying to be kind. Friendly. The people from the Church seem like good people. I want to help them. And Copia. I want… Ugh! How much shit will I have to eat? Is it worth it? Why am I putting myself through this?

As she passed the altar again, Izzy saw movement out of the corner of her eye, something falling from the top of it to the floor. A piece of paper. She stopped, bending down to pick it up.

It was the Cardinal's business card.

She’d placed it under Lilith's statue the week before - completely underneath the statue, she was sure of it. His familiar energy danced around her as she held the card, the same frisson of pleasure she felt when in his presence. That feeling of calm and safety she’d felt in her dream when he embraced her…

Or maybe it was the weed kicking in.

"I'm with you always.”

She wanted a reason why this was happening, and Lilith answered: Copia.

“Okay then,” she mumbled, sliding the card back underneath the statue’s base. If her goddess was conspiring to bring her and Copia together, she wasn’t about to argue. But she hoped it was worth it… “Message received,” she kissed the tips of her fingers and touched them to Lilith’s feet, “Thank you.”

With a resigned sigh, Isabelle put on her work boots and made her way downstairs to begin dealing with the mess. She unlocked the shop’s back door, turned off the alarm system, and went to the storage closet for cleaning supplies: gloves, rags, scrub brushes, garbage bags, and spray paint remover. She also needed a bucket full of hot, soapy water to wash away all the dried-up egg gunk. The buckets were under the sink in the tiny kitchenette, and as she crossed the length of the back of the shop, she glanced through the doorway that led to the shop floor. People were outside the front windows, on the other side of the gate. She did a double take, thinking it was a crowd of gawkers.

But no. Six Ghouls in their shiny silver masks were there, scrubbing and scraping, hard at work cleaning on her behalf. The Church of Emeritus had come to her rescue.

Incredulous, Isabelle went out the back door and made her way around to the front of the shop. They turned to her when she came around the corner. “Uh, hi,” she said tentatively.

She recognized Aether right away. He put down the rag he was using and greeted her with a happy wave. The five others joined in. They’d brought their own cleaning supplies, including a heavy-duty paint remover far superior to the kind she used.

“What the heck are you guys doing here? I mean… I appreciate you coming to help, but how did you even know this happened?” she asked.

Aether pulled his phone out of his pocket, typing quickly before turning the screen to her.

“One of us saw the mess this morning,” it said, “And so we came to help clean up. We’ve had to deal with this sort of thing before too, unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately,” Izzy sighed. They had already made great progress, doing a faster and more thorough job than she and Ari could have done on their own. After all the stress and anxiety of the morning, this simple act of kindness brought all her emotions to the surface. “You guys,” she said, her voice breaking, “You didn’t have to… this is so wonderful of you. I don’t know what to say.”

Aether typed again: “You don’t have to say anything, Miss Izzy. It’s our pleasure to help! You’ve already done SO MUCH for us, we’re just paying it back. Like you told the Cardinal, we take care of each other.”

She blinked back tears. “Yes, I did say that, didn’t I? And I meant it.” Aether gave her a gentle touch on the shoulder and she felt relief for the first time today. “Thank you so much, Aether, and all of you, for the help.”

“Let me introduce you to everyone,” Aether typed. He went down the line of Ghouls, giving her the names of each: “Rain, Mountain, Sunshine, Cirrus, and Dewdrop. But you can call him Dew.”

“Hello,” Izzy greeted. “I think I recognize you, Dew. And Cirrus too. I met you both in the coffee shop last week, didn’t I?”

The mention of the word “coffee” made Dew hang his head and cover his face with his hands. Aether gave him a playful nudge on the shoulder. “We don’t talk about coffee around Dew anymore,” he typed, “It doesn’t agree with him.”

Izzy nodded, sympathetic. “Honestly, I understand… Since that day, coffee hasn’t agreed with me either. But I still want to thank you for your kindness.”

Dew placed his hands over his heart and bowed, the same gesture that Aether often used, acknowledging her thanks.

“I had no idea there were so many of you,” Izzy remarked.

“There are 15 of us all together, for now at least,” Aether told her, “More wanted to come and help but Sister Imperator needed some of us to stay behind this morning.”

“I hope the Cardinal is managing alright without you,” she teased. She couldn’t help but smile at the thought of him, wondering if maybe he had encouraged Aether to go as a way of checking up on her…

The sound of hurried footsteps approached from around the side of the building, and Izzy saw each of the Ghouls perk up, on alert. Aether stepped in front of her, shielding her from whomever it was, while the others surrounded her protectively. She felt the tension radiating off them as they stood guard, and the faint rumble of… growling?

Ari burst around the corner, still disheveled from sleep, and skidded to a stop, face-to-face with Aether. “Jesus fucking…” he gasped, startled, “What the fuck?”

The Ghouls closed in around her. None of them, save for Aether, knew who Ari was or that he was her friend. She saw Aether touch Ari’s arm to steady him before he waved off the other Ghouls, showing them there was no threat. Aether pointed to Ari, made motions with his hands like he was drawing in the air, and then mimed pinning something up on a wall. He then pointed back and forth between Ari and Izzy and brought his hands together to make the shape of a heart. The others nodded, backing off as their wariness eased.

“I ask again: what the fuck?” Ari looked at Izzy, confused.

“It’s okay, Ari, it’s okay. They came here to help clean up. They’re just being extra protective because of what happened and because they don’t know you. Aether told them you’re the artist that made the poster we gave him, and that you’re my friend. Right?” Aether nodded, happy that Izzy interpreted him correctly.

Ari was in disbelief. “You understood all that?”

“Yes, of course,” Izzy said, unsure as to why he didn’t. “You just have to pay attention.” She grabbed Ari’s wrist and pulled him closer as she turned back to the Ghouls. “So this is Ari, he’s my best friend and he works here with me. He’s cool, okay? No need to worry. Ari, this is Rain, Mountain, Sunshine, Cirrus, and Dew. And you already know Aether.” She nudged him in the side and whispered, “Say hi.”

“Uh, hello,” Ari said with an awkward wave. “Nice to meet you.”

Aether typed quickly and showed his phone to Ari: “They like your art!”

“Oh… well, thank you!” he replied, “And thank you for coming to help, we appreciate it.”

“Listen,” Izzy began, “I’m going to go inside and get some soap and water to help clean all this off. We’ll be right back, alright?”

Aether and the Ghouls all gave her an enthusiastic thumbs-up and returned to their work as she ushered Ari to the back of the building. Before she could say anything to him, he pulled her into a tight hug.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” he swore as he embraced her, “You’re okay, right? I can’t believe this happened *again* Iz.”

“Yeah, I’ll be okay,” she replied, hugging him back just as hard, “I’m pretty sure it was those rotten teenagers that messed with the Sisters yesterday, trying to get back at me. But I’ll never be able to prove it, though.”

“Did you call the cops?”

“Yeah…”

“And?”

Izzy pulled away then and gave him a telling look before opening the back door for him. “It went about as well as you’d think. They’re doing jack shit. Even though there’s a camera right outside the shop. I may as well not’ve bothered. But, at least we’ve got some help cleaning up…” She motioned to the front window where the Ghouls were working away. “If I had known they were coming, I would’ve let you keep sleeping. Sorry…”

Ari seemed as stunned as she had been. “So they just showed up on their own?”

“Yep, and they’re doing an awesome job.” She squirted some soap into the bottom of a bucket and turned on the hot water, watching them through the doorway while waiting for it to fill.

“Getting by with a little help from our friends, huh?” Ari observed.

Isabelle nodded. She was so grateful for their kindness. But now she had to worry about what sort of repercussions this would bring. If word got around town that the Satanic Church was at her service, would her haters be less inclined to hassle her, or would they double down on their hostility? How was she going to play this?

A fleeting recognition, familiarity, prickled down her spine as she observed the Ghouls. The protectiveness they’d had over her? She recognized it, felt it before. Images from her dream - those demon things saving her from the torch-wielding mob - flashed through her mind, her brain attempting to connect the dots while ignoring the rapidly filling bucket. Ari reaching around her to shut off the kitchen faucet jolted her back into reality.

“I’ll take this outside,” he said, not noticing she had spaced out, “You bring the sponges and stuff, okay?”

Oh, uh… yeah, okay,” she stammered, “I’ll be right there.”

Isabelle took a moment to collect herself. It was almost nine o’clock. The town was coming to life. People would see her and Ari outside with the Ghouls. People would talk. Her association with the Church of Emeritus would be indisputable. This was the tipping point; she’d have to choose her allegiance…

She recalled the feelings of safety and calm that enveloped her in Copia’s presence. The Ghouls had gone out of their way to come to her aid. Even her Goddess had given her a definitive sign. It all felt decided on her behalf.

I guess I’m on Team Dark Side. I wonder if they like cookies?

#ghost #the band ghost #ghost fanfic #my fanfic #ghost fanfiction #my fanfiction

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euphoricfilter · 2 years

Text

Devil That I Know (Part 9)

~ Oddly Human

Pairing: Demon! Jungkook x Human! Reader

Genre: (Inaccurate) Historical AU || Strangers to lovers AU || Supernatural AU || Smut || Fluff || Angst

Summary: A step back into time— and how Jungkook ended up at the palace. (takes place between the end of chapter 5 and beginning of chapter 6)

Word count: 10k

Tags/ warnings: the tiniest hint of fluff at the end, angst, kinda graphic descriptions of murder, blood, self inflicted injury, mild violence in comparison to other events of this chapter (a slap to the cheek), jungkook feeling human emotions, kidnapping, there's some kinda morally questionable scenes (he bathes with her while she's passed out, descriptions of fantasies-- not sexual- where she's passed out), the rise of king yoongi, i think that is all?

Notes: this whole chapter takes place between the end of chapter 5 and start of chapter 6, all written in jungkook's pov this time. i only proof read this once so if there are mistakes, no there arent.

my full masterlist || devil that i know masterlist

+ + +

(1865- 33 years before you wake in the palace)

Jungkook watches as his home burns, heat of the fire caressing his skin. Wispy flames curling into the claws of a beast as it rips through the structure he’d worked so hard to build. Countless memories he’d made, fizzling into a pile of ashes. And years of hard work crushed within minutes of the villagers’ arrival.

The outside of what was once Taehyung’s room, stained red with the blood of the humans reckless enough to trespass onto his property, hands soaked in ruby red that he wipes down the front of his shirt. The crackling of their fire louder than their cries for help, begging the demon for his mercy as he rips their hearts right from their chests.

And he thinks it’s ironic, begging him for his pitiful charity when they had been the ones to start this fight. Pitiful that they thought for a moment he would spare their sad little lives when they’d been the ones to waltz into his house and destroy it.

If he wasn’t so worried about you, then maybe he would have taken his time killing them. Maybe let the beast they unleashed sear their skin until they were unrecognisable, and he could skin them alive and watch them bathe in their own blood.

And maybe Jungkook would have thought it was amusing. How such low beings could try and kill him with a few nasty flames—though he sees the tail of the beast over the bridge that connects to his bedroom, jaw ticking as he takes one final glance at the scattered corpses at the foot of Taehyung’s grave. Stone charred and soil saturated with blood.

And briefly he wonders if Taehyung’s dead corpse is finally warming up six feet under, rotting away at the expense of Jungkook’s selfish needs. Or if his old friend was laughing in his grave at his misfortune, maybe angry that his only refuge had been painted red.

With one last gentle nod to his former friend, Jungkook takes off towards the corner of the Hanok, only praying that the fire hadn’t been able to reach where you were as he had to make a pitstop before the two of you would make an escape.

His legs take long strides to one of the back rooms, what was once an empty room turned library with all the books, he never wanted you or Taehyung to ever see. The door barely holding onto its hinges as he yanks it open; all four arms shoving piles of paper out of his way until he reaches the chest of drawers in the back corner of the room.

“Pieces of shit” he grumbles, crackling of the flames devouring the surrounding area. Though he had no worries of his prized possessions crumbling to ash; the small room having been enchanted years back when he’s first built the place—impossible for anyone but himself to enter, and no natural force being able to destroy the near perimeter.

Maybe if he had honed his powers sooner the rest of the hanok would have been saved, the thought slipping his mind once Taehyung had entered his life and then evidently, you as well.

He grabs hold of the book he’d been looking for; his saving grace in helping you live for eternity—his gateway to entwining your souls, bonded for as long as the earth turns, and stars twinkle in the sky. And Jungkook will continue to love you until the day both of you can no longer walk, until each of your last breaths shall be taken, he’ll love you in life and death and although it may be selfish the thought of you aging beside him is enough to swallow the guilt of lying.

He shuts the door to the room before he’s taking long strides back towards the bedroom.

His hand flies over his mouth as he inhales thick, black smoke, the wooden bridge creaks under his weight as he pushes through the flames, skin flushing red as he swats at his clothes as they catch alight. Annoyance laced in his features at the trouble of this all.

Jungkook catches sight of you, slouched on the floor and he can’t help but run his eyes over your body, checking for any sign of injury. His tongue darts out to wet his lips when all he’s met with is the top half of your body covered in your flimsy little undergarments. And if the both of you had been in a different setting, where your home weren’t—well not a home anymore, he may have indulged you a little, always ever so pretty without even trying that he can’t help wanting to spoil you a little, until all you knew was his name.

He falls to his knees besides you, all four arms reaching to pull you into his chest. You fall forwards into him, hands grabbing onto whatever was left of his shirt. Your body trembling in what he can only assume to be both fear and adrenaline as it courses through the veins, thrumming underneath your skin.

The dull thud of his book dropping to the floor is nothing but a whisper behind the hissing of the flames. Jungkook can’t help but run his hands over your body, a silent reminder that you were there—that you were okay. His head drops to your shoulder, lungs squeezing a shaky breath through his windpipe as he feels the skin of his chest damped with what he can only assume to be your tears.

He wonders if you’re scared. Curious where he’d been, why he’d taken so long. Wonders if you’d let the boiling questions drip off your tongue, and maybe he’d just kiss them away because for once, even Jungkook didn’t know what to do.

This had never been part of his plans. Never an issue he thought he’d need to deal with. Jungkook was always 2 steps ahead of everyone else and albeit not that many, he always had a head-start. Always knew what was coming because he made his own path, never stuck to the original plotline of the tragedy called life. And for the first time, Jeon Jungkook had walked himself to the edge of a cliff, tips of his toes over the edge, moments from falling into a fate that he had no control over and that scared him.

Jungkook pulls you away from his chest, watching as shiny tears slip down your cheeks like liquid gold as they reflect the yellow of the flames.

Both of your heads turn when you hear the large tree in the courtyard crack, the fire clawing its way up the trunk. And uses that as his cue, Jungkook takes a hold of your wrists, pulling you from the ground. He crouches down, picking up the book he’d bought in the capital before he pulls you towards the gate.

Neither of you say anything. And maybe it’s because neither of you know exactly what to say. What is Jungkook meant to tell you? That everything was going to be, okay? Because he didn’t know if it was, and he hated lying to you.

The both of you turn back towards the hanok once you’d passed the fence, and Jungkook slips his fingers between your own, sending you a reassuring squeeze, but you don’t turn to look at him. Both of you just watching as your home burns, the fire never-ending as it consumes what had become so familiar.

Jungkook licks his lips, all the years he’d spent there suddenly gone to waste and he thinks the sadness of it all is finally starting to sink in at the sight of what was once so precious to him. All the books he’d collected, the rooms he’d constructed himself, the house he’d built from nought, amounting to nothing more than ashes and broken memories.

“What about Taehyung’s stuff? His grave?” you ask, hand coming to cover your mouth as you cough. And Jungkook frowns because he can’t even offer you any water to soothe your throat. The sinking feeling of failure settling in.

Jungkook hums, “I’d assume it’s all burnt”

The sigh you let out is shaky, hand coming to push the stray hairs out of your face; though you don’t cry, and Jungkook wants to reassure you it’s okay to do so.

“Let’s go” Jungkook tugs at your hand, not daring to look at your face.

Maybe he would cry if he looked at you. How could he look at you when he had failed you once again?

Everything was meant to get better, not worse. You were meant to live your secluded life together; in the home he had built. He would have found you another pet, watched as you danced around the courtyard in the spring, and during the winter months, he’d have an excuse to hold you extra close. You were meant to watch the world change together, laugh about the past and make plans for your infinite future spent together.

You were meant to have the perfect love story, written by the best poets. A story told of two beings whose love was magical—nights spent cooking with one another, watching the world develop, watching people you knew grow, having a separate house by the sea for the summer where kisses were sea salty and skin was kissed by the sun, only Jungkook would kiss you twice as much. Neither of you would have to rush with kids, all the time in the world to bask in each other’s company before you decided to try for a baby.

How was Jungkook meant to look at you when he clearly couldn’t give you the world?

“Where?” you ask, little resistance coming from you as he pulls you down a familiar path.

“We can’t live here anymore, my love”

You take one more glance, diverging your gaze to settle on Jungkook’s back as the two of you made your descent from the mountain.

+ + +

Jungkook hadn’t known where to take you. He only really had 2 options, neither he particularly liked—but with nothing but the moon as his light and your limbs slowly giving up on you, Jungkook knew this was the only safe place he could take you. Even if your memories of this village weren’t fond ones, at least it gave the two of you shelter for now.

The village was a ghost town, anything living having been eradicated all that time ago by the disease, that to this day no one had a cure for. Rumours of the land inhabitable, and ever so perfect for yours and Jungkook’s temporary stay.

“Did the people of Namjoon’s village do that?” you motion towards the mountain that loomed over the village you both stood in. And Jungkook can see how tired you are; feet dragging behind you with every step you took, eyes sunken and he only hopes you can hold on for a little longer.

“I think so” he briefly turns his head to look at you, “This village and Namjoon’s are the only two close to the mountain. I know my kind aren’t well liked anymore but I doubt anyone would travel more than a day just to do this”

You nod, feet bringing yourself to a halt when you both reach the centre of the village.

Jungkook turns to you with furrowed brows, opening his mouth to ask you why you’d stopped. You just tug your hand from his own, and Jungkook watches as you take a step towards a large wooden pole stood upright.

“Y/n?” Jungkook asks, coming to stand beside you.

You turn to look over your shoulder, and Jungkook feels his heart skip a beat.

You were ever so pretty in his eyes, skin almost glowing in the light of the moon. A silver halo cast over your head like you were an angel. He wonders if Taehyung’s art would have done you justice in that moment. If he would have been able to capture something so ethereal that Jungkook’s heart squeezes tight in his chest. An overflowing amount of love too much for his cold heart to handle. An overflowing amount of love for you that seemed to grow with every second in the day, because Jungkook just couldn’t seem to ever get enough of you.

His fingers itch by his sides, your skin drawing him on like a moth to a flame; body his temple to worship and soul his love.

“You remember I told you about a friend?” you say, expression turning a little sour.

Jungkook nods. An emotion akin to jealousy plaguing his mind at the mention of the friend you still clearly hold dear to your heart. But Jungkook didn’t feel fickle emotions like jealousy, not a demon as great as he was. And he thinks the only justifiable way to rid of this illness in his heart is having to erase those insignificant memories from your mind. Slowly but surely clawing his way in, until the only man you can think of is himself.

“They killed him here, tied to that” you point to the thick pole, “And they locked me up in there” you use your thumb to point to the structure behind you.

“I’m sorry. This was the only place I could think would be safe for us” no actual remorse in his tone, because what else was he supposed to do?

“It’s okay” you wave him off, “They all look dead by the looks of things anyways. I know a good place we can camp out in”

Jungkook follows behind you, nodding in satisfaction as you open the door to the village chief’s house.

“This should be spacious enough” you nod, cringing as a spider scuttles across the room.

“What are we going to do for food?” Jungkook kneels on the floor, running a hand over his face, “And money?”

Jungkook can feel you watching him as he fiddles with the pockets of his pants, a few coins jingling as they knock against one another. And he knows that they won’t take the both of you very far, but he hadn’t exactly been prepared for this situation either.

You drop yourself in front of him, “We’re really fucked this time” and he can’t help the smile tugging at his lips. Because maybe you were right, maybe the both of you really were fucked. But at least you were together; that, he was the most grateful for.

Jungkook just watches as you fidget, the dusty floor less than ideal; “I’ll see if there’s anything we can eat”

+ + +

For the first time in all his years living, Jungkook finally knows what panic feels like.

He can feel it fizzling uncomfortably under his skin; heart squeezing so uncomfortably in his chest he’s moments away from ripping it out—letting whatever desperate creature that dares lurk the village chew on the muscle until it’s been digested and shat out, so he doesn’t have to feel what he can only describe as impending dread consume his entire being.

What if you starved to death? He knew damn well that there wasn’t anything left in this town. What if you froze, the nights still a little too chilly for what you’re wearing without a proper fire to keep you from catching pneumonia.

He pushes open a door to what he assumes to be an old home. Family name painted on the door, though it was half eaten by mould. The door creaks, off-tune welcome accompanied by a sneeze as a wave of dust caresses his face.

He wanders into the kitchen, prominent frown etched onto his face when he sees there’s nothing for you to eat. His fingers clasp around the handle of a woven basket, the bitter taste of defeat on his tongue as he’s met with the sight of a family of maggots.

He continues his search, hoping that at least one of the baskets had something edible for you to eat until he came up with a better plan.

Although the thought was a fleeting one, he takes a moment to consider sending you to Namjoon’s village. The young man and his mother probably more than happy to house you until Jungkook could figure out where the two of you could go.

However, that would mean leaving you out of his sight for too long. He wouldn’t be able to stay with you; not when the men of that village had probably marched home in victory of slaying a demon.

He knew his fate if he were to dare step foot in that village when they had announced him dead. Burnt at the stake if he’s lucky, and that’s only if they’re feeling particularly generous.

Jungkook was selfish—selfish enough to possibly let you starve if it meant he could stay by your side.

The thought of leaving you alone—with another man—too much for his fragile little heart to take in that moment. The thought of you not being within arms’ reach, a thought he couldn’t stand.

His jaw clenches when all he can find are a few forgotten tea leaves; dried to be preserved. His gaze travels down to the book in his hands, and briefly he wonders if now is really the right time. But when had it ever been the right time to convert you?

It doesn’t take long for him to weigh out the pros, ignoring the consequences if anything were to go wrong. Even if it meant you’d sleep for a while, this time for however long, food wouldn’t be an issue. His blood enough to sustain you until you wake. Your body would finally get the rest it so craved, so if anything, he was doing you a favour.

It’s as he’s walking back through the centre of the village that his eyes flit to look at the chief’s house, no movement from you inside.

Even better if you’d dozed off, that would make his job a little easier.

He stops outside the blacksmiths, tongue peeking out to wet his lips as he pushes open a window at the back of the shop. Silver light of the moon his only source of light as he rummages around for what he needs, smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he drops the piece of flint into his pocket. Muscles in his arms flexing as he picks up a slab of steel.

One of his free hands grab a bucket, ears picking up the sound of the river.

The stream is cold between his toes, numbing them as the water splashes against the bare skin of his ankles. The tight grip he had on the bucket loosens, almost falling off the tips of his fingers as he tilts his head to look up at the moon.

He lets out a shuddering breath, air rattling his lungs as he takes a moment to just breathe.

He felt… oddly human.

Petty feelings consuming his thoughts and selfish desires driving his actions. He could feel ever new wave of water that brushed against his feet, and he could feel his heart hammering inside his chest. Body oversensitive and mind overactive that he couldn’t think straight with the voices that plagued his mind.

He could feel all the ugly, sad little emotions a human would feel when nothing seemed to be going their way, and panic was clouding his vision. Hands a little shaky and air a little hard to breathe, never enough but too much all at once.

He wished everything was nothing but wished he could feel things all at once. Thoughts he’d never had too much, but so intriguing he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

Jungkook was starting to feel human, and he didn’t like it.

Stupid human emotions that he had no interest in feeling.

Because humans felt minor things like guilt and pain and Jungkook had no interest in either of those. He couldn’t be guilty when he knew what he wanted, guilt an invisible wall that prevents you from pursuing your dreams.

And Jungkook wouldn’t be stopped. Not when every passing day is a step closer towards his ideal world. A paradise he’s so close to reaching where you and himself could live in freedom with no worries. A place of love and happiness and your smiles and giggles. And just you you you. Because Jungkook could never get enough of you.

And that’s why he’s doing this—because of you. Because he loves you. Adores you more than any other insignificant morsel ever could, and he can’t wait to show you his paradise.

The grass tickles his legs as he wanders back into the centre of the village. Lips tugging up into a smile when he spots the pole that your friend had died on.

He drops off his supplies a little further away from the chief’s house, wary that you’d be able to hear him shuffling around if he were to work too close.

Your head snaps up to meet his gaze when he pokes his head through the door, “I found some tea, pass me that pot”

He watches as you push yourself off the floor, legs shaky as you stagger to the other side of the room.

“Thank you, doll” he presses a kiss to your cheek, “Get some rest, I’ll be back soon”

He waits until he hears the door slide shut before he gets to work. Frustration tickling his spine as he tries to light a fire, annoyed grunt dripping off his tongue as he slowly starts to lose patience. He freezes when he hears shuffling from the room you were in, lips tucked behind teeth as he waits for you to settle down.

He swallows thickly, nimble fingers chipping the flint against the steel. A laugh bubbles up his throat when the pile of dry wood catches alight, orange flames illuminating his face.

He balances the pot of water over the fire, fingers tapping against his knees as he watches it start to bubble.

He turns away from the flames, digging into the pocket of his trousers to pull out a dagger. He flicks open his book, chewing on his bottom lip as he skims over the few words written on each page before he stops, fingers tracing the intricately designed circle.

He doesn’t hesitate as he slashes his hand open, no wince of pain or cry of agony; he simple dips a finger into the pool of red gathering in his palm before he begins tracing the same design from his book onto the dusty floor. His blood soaks into the ground, almost black from the light of the fire.

One pair of hands fall onto his hips as he stares down at his work, eyes flicking back to the book. Checking he’d drawn it out right.

Humming, he nods. Fingers tracing his jaw as he wanders back to the boiling water, tipping the jar of tea leaves into it before he bends down beside the remaining water in the bucket.

He watches as the water swirls red, deep gash in his palm gone as he throws the evidence into a nearby bush before he pulls the pot off the flames.

+ + +

“Are you not going to have any?” you catch Jungkook’s attention, voice so soft he almost missed it. But Jungkook simply shakes his head, not daring to look up at you. He thinks he would confess if he were to see the look in your eyes; tired from the events of the evening and body a little bruised and battered.

He can see the gentle nod you send him from the corner of his eyes, and he swallows the growing lump in his throat.

He dares look up when he thinks you aren’t looking, only his eyes meet your own and as much as he wants to look away, you draw him in, “Is there something wrong? You’re acting weird” you ask him as he just shakes his head, eyes flitting down back to his book.

“Aren’t you going to sleep?” he asks after noticing you’d finished your tea.

You shake your head, “I’m not really tired after what happened”

“Pretty thing… you really should get some rest” he encourages, and he winces when you flinch as he closes his book with a force he hadn’t intended, the thud echoing off of the walls, amplified by the lack of furniture. An apology on the tip of his tongue but you beat him to it.

“I’m really okay”

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion when he stands; long legs helping him saunter towards you.

“What are you doing?” you lean back when he crouches at your side and Jungkook feels his fingers itch by his sides. A pang of hurt grating at his heart as he watches your eyes flit over his face, wary of what his next move was. That hurt morphing into annoyance the longer he watches you try and scoot any from him; far from subtle as your eyebrows furrow—you were scared.

You were scared of him.

Scared of Jungkook?

He can feel a laugh crawling up his throat at the mere thought of you fearing him.

Didn’t you trust him?

“Can’t you just listen for once?” his voice drops as octave, hand coming to hold your face.

Seemingly unaware of his own strength, Jungkook’s hand tightens its grip, and he wants to scoff as you wince. Is this what you really thought of him? Some lowlife that was willing to hurt you?

How dense did you have to be?

He pushes your face away, hard enough you fall backwards; head slamming against the hardwood floor. Though he doesn’t seem to take any notice as his mind races. Thoughts on how he was going to get you outside consuming him. He didn’t mind playing your games but not today, not when he needed you to just listen to him for once.

“What is your problem?” you glare at him, trying to push yourself to sit up once again. And when he sees this, Jungkook straddles your waist, first pair of arms coming to hold your own hands above your head.

“Jungkook?” you wriggle, and he only lets out a grunt. Patience slowly waring thin the more you struggle. Was it really that hard just to sit still why he thought for a moment? Was it really that hard just to cooperate when he clearly needs you to calm down?

“I’m sorry” he whispers, leaning down to press a kiss between your eyebrows. No real remorse behind his eyes, calculating his next move.

“Jungkook, please” you cry, so pitiful and weak that his resolve crumbles briefly.

The grip he had on your arms loosen, heart pitter patting so loudly he can hear it in his ears. And in a moment of weakness, he second guesses himself. Because maybe this was wrong.

It’s the glint of your pocketknife that pulls him out of his reverie, wisps of guilt brushed away as he takes a hold of his dagger.

“I’m so sorry” he whispers, watching your mouth fall open in pain, his hands shaking as he thrusts the knife in a little deeper.

“Baby, I’m sorry” he bites back a sob, “So sorry, you’re doing so well for me. It’s all okay”

He watches as blood gathers at the corners of your lips and that’s when the tears fall, his chest releasing a stuttering breath as his tears fall into your cheeks; swirling pink as they mix with your blood.

A sob wracks up his spine and he really does try to wait. Hoping, praying, that if you had a moments rest, it would hurt a lot less when he finally brings you outside.

Bile rises up his throat at the pained sob you let out, and suddenly waiting doesn’t seem like any good. He winces when you let out a particularly loud cry, his arms jostling you too much that he can only imagine the searing pain that paralyses your body.

He steps into the circle, fire barely holding on as he lays you in the centre of the circle. He wipes his cheeks with the back of his hand as he flicks through the book, mind unable to comprehend what he was reading so he starts spewing words that seem right, hoping that your suffering would end soon.

“No no, baby. Don’t close your eyes just yet” he taps your cheeks, “It’s almost over just stay awake a little longer”

+ + +

You lay motionless beside Jungkook. His arms slung over your waist as the two of your lay there. His shirt flung loosely over your chest, soaked in your blood but he had nothing else to keep you warm with.

The sun caresses his skin, a gentle kiss that he’d much rather have from you. His thumb skims over the skin of your cheeks, rough from both of your dried tears, blood painting your skin a cracked red. He hadn’t bothered cleaning you up yet, though he thinks you still look pretty even like this.

Red really did suit you.

The gentle rise and fall of your chest is enough for him to close his eyes, head tucked into your neck as he lets his lips skim over your bare skin. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, gentle smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he pulls you further into his chest.

It must be gone mid-day when he finally decides to get up, muscles aching in protest as he lets you rest, picking up the empty bucket and wandering back towards the river.

He crouches down beside you minutes later. Hand cupping to gather some water, he doesn’t mind his hands staining red as he washes your face. Thumb running gently over your cheek as a lovesick smile takes over his features.

He kisses your cheeks when he deems them clean enough, the sun drying your damp skin before he’s peeling back his shirt from your chest, throwing it somewhere behind him before he picks you up.

He finds an old, tattered bed, enough to keep you cushioned and comfortable for a few days.

He takes one final look at you before he’s sliding the door closed to the bedroom.

He takes one final look at where you rest before he’s making his way back up the mountain.

It takes him until nightfall to reach the hanok, or what was once the hanok. He wanders through the grounds, standing before the centre room where you, Taehyung, and himself would spend most of the day.

It didn’t resemble a building anymore. Charred wooden frame mocking him as he stands there.

One of his hands brushes against his cheeks, confused grunt the only sound in the courtyard as he wipes away a stray tear.

His feet fall into the river, bridge having been swept away after the structure had broken. Though wet feet wouldn’t stop him as he wanders towards the back of his land; the only building left standing his only sanctuary.

He pulls the door open, eyes adjusting to the darkness before he’s rummaging around for clothes. He couldn’t show up to Namjoon’s village half naked, nor did he think he could show his face. His clothes would be too big for you, but it would have to do as all your belonging were now gone.

His eyes catch sight of a candle, forgotten on the floor from the last time he’d couped himself up in this room to study without Taehyung disturbing him.

He’s unsure how long he spends back at the hanok, the sun shining bright in the sky when he finally decides it’s best for him to get going. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to leave you alone without it becoming an issue. And the last thing he needed was you dying amongst all this chaos.

He runs a thumb over his bottom lip, humming in satisfaction when he finds the specific spell he was looking for.

“Illusion huh?” he smiles, the perfect way for him to make it through Namjoon’s village without them figuring out it was him.

+ + +

Was kidnapping Namjoon the most conventional way to get him to listen? Maybe. Jungkook felt his options had become quite limited and if he wanted to get his way then a little force on his part seemed justified. He didn’t like it when he wasn’t in control of his own life, and the last few days had tipped him over the edge.

Jungkook wasn’t all that bothered with what it would mean for the village boy, not when he didn’t know how long the illusion spell would last and he really needed to get back to you. It had been a simple job, his body part of the shadows and footsteps carried by the wind; no one knew he was there.

Especially not poor Namjoon who had been cleaning the stables. Horses restless as Jungkook lurked in the dark corners, finger twitching by his sides.

It had been a quick job. In and out with no issue. Namjoon’s muscles more for show, his strength no match for the demon as he knocks the village boy out with a brass horseshoe.

Jungkook’s foot taps impatiently against the floor, his fingers running through your hair as he watches Namjoon; body tied with rope so he wouldn’t try to run the moment he wakes up.

It must have been hours before Namjoon had gained consciousness, afternoon sunlight spilling into the room through the open door like the floor had been painted with gold.

“Make a noise, and I slit your throat. Got it?” Jungkook whispers, wary of your resting state.

Namjoon nods. Eyes flitting to you, shallow rise and fall of your chest enough for him to know you were still breathing—still alive.

Namjoon wonders if you knew what Jungkook was doing, what he had done. Wondered if you knew your friend had kidnapped a man. Had threatened to kill him. He doubts you’d be sleeping so comfortably if you knew. Though you make no move to wake up when Jungkook stands, footsteps heavy as he wanders towards where Namjoon is sat.

“You’re going to do something for me” he crouches.

Namjoon scoffs, “Over my dead body”

Jungkook smiles, “Come on, Namjoon” he pouts, “You don’t want her to die, do you?” he motions towards you.

Namjoon looks behind Jungkook where you lay, “Die?” he whispers, you didn’t look ill.

“Yes. We need to get to the capital otherwise my sweet little darling might die. I would carry her, but your carriage is faster”

“She doesn’t look sick” Namjoon meets the demon’s eyes, swallowing thickly when he sees them darken; narrowed, challenging the villager to argue with him.

Jungkook stands at full height and Namjoon feels his lungs constrict in his chest as the demon looms over him. He watches Jungkook slink towards where you lay, hands fisting the front of the shirt you were wearing, tugging you until you sat up.

You fall lax in his hold, head tipping forward so Jungkook tugs you up by your hair. Namjoon’s eyes dart between the two of you, evident confusion written on his face.

Namjoon winces when your face flies to the right, harsh slap echoing off the walls of the empty room.

Jungkook lets go of you, and Namjoon watches as you flop back onto the floor with a dull thud. Though you make no move to wake up.

“What?” Namjoon laughs, “What have you done to her?”

Jungkook’s eyes stay glued to your face, cheeks flaring red from his hands. A sign to Jungkook you were alive, that there was still blood coursing through your veins. He looks down at his hand, a trickle of guilt plaguing his mind.

“What had to be done. Bring your horse and carriage here by sunrise” Jungkook pulls the rope from around the human’s hands, “Don’t show up and I kill your family, okay?” and he watches as Namjoon runs, scrambling towards the gates of the village without daring to look back at Jungkook once.

“My baby” Jungkook whispers when he falls beside you, lips brushing against your red cheek, “My poor baby”

+ + +

Jungkook stares down at Namjoon’s dead body, mouth open in the harrowing pain he’d experienced before death. He had meant to make it easy for the village boy, a quick kill. Nothing too messy that he would have to stray away from your side for too long. It was a shame Namjoon had to put up such a fight, almost catching the attention of a few passers-by with his annoying shrill voice.

He’d considered gutting the human and feeding his insides to the strays that hung around the area; a deserved punishment for all the shit he’d tried to tell you during your little trip. But his patience had worn so thin he ended his life without much joy on his part, a shame but he supposes will be other opportunities to have his fun in the future.

The woman at the front desk of the inn had gone to bed by the time Jungkook had finished cleaning up Namjoon, so it wasn’t all that hard for him to lurk back upstairs with bloodstained clothes and red-painted hands.

You lay peaceful on the bed as Jungkook runs a bath, pretty scented soap softening his skin, and after he’d bathed himself, he takes the time to strip you of your clothes and let you soak in the water as well. He pulls you closer between his thighs, head falling onto your shoulder, and he wonders if you’d be giggling right now; his wet hair tickling your bare skin, the silence deafening.

His arms tighten around your stomach, his eyes squeezing shut. Deft fingers skim over the skin of your chest, heart beating languidly behind the rough skin, body working overtime to heal the wound he’s inflicted on you.

“I killed one of your friends again” Jungkook admits, “Are you mad?”

“You’d never be mad at me, would you?”

“Answer me” he begs, tears wetting his cheeks when he feels your head fall onto his shoulder, “Y/n, answer me, please”

The image of you scared, wanting to get away from him burns behind his eyelids every time he closes his eyes. He can hear you begging him to stop, his hands coving his ears as he sits in the corner of the room. You covered in your own blood, chest stuttering as you gasp for breath. Even as Jungkook watches you from the other side of the room—alive, okay, breathing, safe. He can still see it all. Hear it all.

And maybe the first twinge of regret he’s ever felt burns, because even just looking at you haunts his mind. Too loud, though the room held no sound.

+ + +

(1868- 30 years before you wake)

Jungkook wonders how he got here. All four of his arms itching to throttle the baby that won’t stop crying.

A bastard child from the late queen—killed by her husband for birthing a boy with a servant that worked on the grounds.

A useless kid in the king’s eyes. A perfect project for Jungkook.

Not much else was happening with you asleep and Jungkook had no idea when you’d wake up. He’d moved from inn to inn in the capital for three years and pickpocketing was only getting the two of you so far.

Jungkook’s first order of business before you woke up was to annul the shitty rules about the demons that roamed the lands. If he had complete freedom then the two of you travelling shouldn’t be an issue, and maybe just maybe humans would be stupid enough to spare their extra change in hopes that said demons will bless the lands they grow crops on.

For now, however, he planned to weave his way into baby Min Yoongi’s life.

It hadn’t been hard to sneak into the baby’s bedroom, a little shed in the far corner of the palace where the king didn’t have to see the child of his lover who had no interest in the thrown; too consumed with a serving boy that she committed adultery with the hopes of not getting caught. What she failed to understand was that the king had eyes and ears in all corners of the palace, and one meagre whisper from a lady in waiting about the queen’s untimely pregnancy while the king had been away was all it took for the woman’s downfall.

Unfortunate for her she’d slept with a young foreign boy, shipped overseas per the king’s request, the product of their affair a precious little boy with hair that looked like thread made of gold, features that of his mother but there was no doubt it hadn’t been the son of the king.

It’s a mystery as to why the king had decided to keep the boy alive, but alas Jungkook couldn’t give a flying fuck. Not when he had the light of his future wailing in its cruddy little crib. The room damp with mould and air too musty for such a small child. None of the serving staff had been in to check on him all day either and Jungkook wonders if the tiny human was hungry.

“Don’t cry now” Jungkook whispers, “One day, you’ll be king. And a king shouldn’t cry”

+ + +

(1875- 23 years before you wake)

“Why can’t I tell anyone about you” Yoongi asks, kicking his feet in thee dirt. And he must have asked Jungkook this question every time he came to visit.

“Because I said so” Jungkook mutters, eyes narrowing at the kid, “You want your father to accept you right?”

“Yeah” Yoongi nods, grin toothy. And he’d proudly shown Jungkook his lost tooth the morning after, though the demon hadn’t been able to school his expression—utter confusion written on his face as to why the tiny being had wanted to show him something so gross.

“Then you don’t say anything, to anyone. Got it?”

Yoongi nods, “Why do you have four arms? No one else in the palace has as many arms as you”

“Because I’m a demon”

“Demon?” Yoongi tilts his head and Jungkook sighs, fingers pinching between his eyebrows.

“Yes. That’s why no one must know of my existence. You don’t want me to disappear right?”

The boy shakes his head, “Why do you always come and visit me then if you could get in trouble?”

“Why do you always have so many questions?”

“Because you always keep secrets and never tell me anything fun”

Jungkook tips his head back against the trunk of the tree, “Because someone I love isn’t very well. And I want them to be happy when they wake up. And you might be able to help me when you grow up, okay?”

“Your friend?” Yoongi sits in front of Jungkook, legs crossed and eyes eager. It wasn’t often Jungkook spoke about himself, and Yoongi didn’t really have any other friends so it was always exciting when Jungkook would come to play.

Jungkook looks down at the boy, head tilting because he wasn’t all that sure what the two of you were. You’d never explicitly told Jungkook how you felt. He’s made it clear how he felt about you. But he supposes he had never thought to ask either; the two of you existing in one another’s lives without a second thought as to what you actually were.

“No…” he shakes his head, “More than friends”

“Your wife?”

Jungkook smiles at that, “Not yet, but she might be when she gets better”

“Can I meet her?” Yoongi rocks back and forth, toothy little grin tugging Jungkook’s lips to reciprocate the young boy’s joy. And maybe it was because he had an excuse to show you off.

“One day. When you’re the king, I’ll let you meet her”

“When I’m the king? I thought brother will take the throne?”

Jungkook only shakes his head, “Nothing for you to worry about right now, kid. Just grow up fast, okay?”

Yoongi hums, “Do you have any more candy from the marketplace?”

+ + +

(1883- 15 years before you wake)

“When can I finally become king?” Yoongi looks up at Jungkook, the demon sat on a chair in the corner of the boy’s room.

Jungkook looks up from his book, “When you’re an adult”

“Why not now?”

Jungkook looks at the 15-year-old, a scrawny little kid. Nothing like his brother, a few years older and years away from taking the throne. A shit bag as well, even if Jungkook hadn’t met him personally. His ego so big that his head looked moments from exploding just because he was meant to rule over the country. Nothing like his little brother who cried when he would step on insects and cling onto Jungkook when he thought monsters lurked in the shadows of his room.

The irony being that he should really only be afraid of Jungkook.

“You’re not ready yet”

“I train with my sword every day” Yoongi complains, flopping onto his bed, facing the ceiling.

“You’re built like a stick. We still have a lot of work to do before you can take the throne and be king.”

“What if I fail?”

Jungkook meets to young boy’s eyes. He blinks, lips downturned in a frown.

“Failure isn’t an option, kid. You fail, you die. And it won’t be by my hands”

“Who then?” he tilts his head to look over at Jungkook.

“Your brother”

Jungkook watches Yoongi’s face morph into confusion. “Why would my brother want to kill me?”

And Jungkook wants to laugh at how naïve the child was. And he thinks maybe he’s been too soft on his over the last 15 years. That the next 3 years of his training were going to be absolute torture, so the kid toughened up a bit. He couldn’t have him second guessing himself not what he’d been drilling this dream into his head since he could talk.

Jungkook’s eyebrows crease in worry. If Yoongi was unwilling to kill his father and brother, there’s no way he’s rising to power. And if Yoongi isn’t king then Jungkook can kiss goodbye to ever having the freedom he wanted so badly. And he wasn’t about to let some gangly little kid ruins his way to paradise.

“Because no one likes a bastard child” Jungkook hums, “But don’t worry, you’ll take the throne, and my darling will get better”

“Will you leave after that?” Yoongi pushes himself to sit up, watching Jungkook’s stoic expression as his legs swing back and forth.

Jungkook turns his attention back to his book. “You won’t need me once you rise to power” he shrugs.

“But you promised I could meet your friend” he whines and Jungkook’s lips quirk at that.

“If she gets better”

“She’s still sick? It must be really bad if she’s been sick this whole time”

“She’s stable, so I have hope she’ll wake up soon” Jungkook smiles, “And then I’m sure she’d be overjoyed to meet you”

“When I become king, I’ll get the best doctor in the country to help her, okay?”

Jungkook hums, “It’s not something a doctor can fix. I like your ambition though”

+ + +

(1886- 12 years before you wake)

Yoongi stares down the stairs, the courtyard a bloodbath. It’s odd how he feels no remorse, his father’s eyes still open staring up at him though there’s no life behind them. His brother wasn’t fairing any better. And Yoongi can still see it, the brief moment of approval from his father’s eyes as he watched his first son die at the hands of a bastard child.

And Yoongi thought he’d feel overjoyed at the fact his father had finally recognised him, though the brief approval in his eyes made Yoongi feel sick. And so he killed him soon after his son with no remorse.

“Good job” Jungkook claps from behind where Yoongi is stood, sat on the golden throne.

And Yoongi feels a shiver run down his spine at the image. As he’d grown older Yoongi had become acutely more aware of Jungkook’s aura, a thick black smog that plagued the air around him until you choke on it and succumb to his power.

As a child he’d been fascinated with the fact a demon had chosen him, that he wasn’t alone in that shitty little cabin where he’d be lucky to get a meal a day with nothing but what lurked outside his window as entertainment. Resenting the birds that flew so freely when he was the one caged in a room, verging on insanity. Watching Jungkook now, Yoongi understands why tales are told of demons, why the world shunned them. They were cunning, there for their own personal gain. Why you shouldn’t involve yourself with such foul beings, because once you’re entwined with their lives there is no escape.

Yoongi’s fate set in stone the moment Jungkook had snuck into his bedroom 18 years ago.

“What are you going to do now?” he dares ask.

Jungkook hums, running a thumb over his bottom lip in thought, legs spreading as he makes himself comfortable in the king’s chair. “I’m not sure. I have one last favour to ask of you and then I’ll be out of your hair”

“And what is it?”

“Nothing you need to worry about for now. My darling hasn’t woken up yet, and I suppose you’ll be busy now that you’re king”

“Why don’t you move into the palace? I’ll spare a room for you and the lady” Yoongi offers, wiping his cheek of blood, eye squeezed shut from where his half-brother had slashed him, a gnarly scar sure to be his prize, a reminder of the events that had taken place on this day, one that will be written in history books for years to come.

Jungkook’s lips quirk into a smile, “Is that really okay?” and Yoongi knows that Jungkook isn’t actually concerned, faux worry easy to miss if he hadn’t known the demon for so long.

“I know you’ve been hopping from inn to inn with the money you’ve stolen. Stay here for a while until your friend wakes up and then we can sort out that favour you need”

“You’ve been following me?” Jungkook laughs, a hearty one that shakes his shoulders. And he thinks he must be getting old, suddenly becoming unaware of the boy—no, man—that had been lurking in the shadows, blending in with the darkness.

Jungkook feels a sense of pride, his hard work stood before him. A brutal king that didn’t think twice before he murdered his family, a man hungry for power that nothing could have gotten in his way. Years of training shaping him into something so perfect that Jungkook hadn’t even noticed him when he’d been sneaking around behind his back.

“You have too many secrets, Jungkook. And I hate it”

“Shame” the demon drawls, “You don’t need to know about me, all you needed to do was rise to power. And you did it”

“That’s it? So what?” Yoongi scoffs, “So I could fulfil your little wish? I’m not stupid, Jungkook, I know you want me to set you free. I know what your kind are like, I know how those people beyond this gate see you. You can’t hide everything from me”

“And how do they see me?”

“A monster”

Jungkook leans forwards, elbows resting on his knees as he tilts his head at the human, “But you let this monster raise you, control you so you could help him. You knew and still kept me around, you knew and yet you still killed your father. For what, Yoongi? Because I told you to?”

The boy’s mouth falls open, only to close. Because he was right. Today had been acted out on his own accord, though he knows Jungkook is partially to blame. Feeding him a fantasy all those years that his mind was power hungry, and the sad part was, he hadn’t felt an ounce of regret either.

“You could have told someone. Could have told that little friend of yours—what’s his name? Seokjin? He had the favour of the staff, he could have said something; I could have been dead years ago, but you kept me around.”

“No one would have believed me” he scoffs and Jungkook laughs.

“Bullshit, Yoongi. Just admit it, if I’m a monster what does that make you?”

“You piece of shit. I’m not a monster”

“Neither am I” Jungkook shrugs, “I’m a demon. People are scared of monsters Yoongi. Look at the palace staff, they’re terrified of you.”

Yoongi turns towards where his father’s serving staff all stand, hands all shaking by their sides, eyes wide with worry as they all look up at him—perhaps waiting for a similar fate to their master. All seemingly ready to die by his side by the bloodthirsty king that now ruled the land.

“People aren’t scared of my kind anymore, kid. They despise my people—don’t look at me like that, use this power to your advantage.” Jungkook waves him off, “I didn’t raise you to be soft, this is your time. Your victory.”

Yoongi watches as Jungkook pushes himself to stand. Rolling his shoulders as he saunters towards the young boy.

“My offer still stands, about you staying in the palace” he look up at Jungkook, only a few inches taller than him but Jungkook seemed to loom over everybody.

“I’ll pack my stuff up then. Make sure the room faces the east, my Y/n likes it when the sun rises outside the window of a morning”

+ + +

(1898)

Jungkook spent most part of the last decade hauled up in the bedroom on the far side of the palace. The less rumours that spread about him around the palace the better, and slowly the news of the new king housing a demonic entity had dwindled to overexaggerated fables that no one really believed. His body could go months without food, and it wasn’t all that difficult to wanders the halls at night when all the serving staff had wandered off to bed. Luckily no one seemed to notice the little bits of food that would go missing either so it was an easy life he was living.

With each passing day the sliver of hope Jungkook had of you waking up was fizzling to embers. And it was getting hard to convince himself that you were going to finally wake up one day. You never moved in your sleep, face never changing from the relaxed expression you held. The wound on your chest had healed over a decade ago with the help of Jungkook’s blood but you’d made no sign of any other recovery.

He’d visited the library, begging one of the elder demons to help him. Begging them to explain why it has taken so long for you to wake up because you’d never been out for this long and he just needed to know you were okay.

They’d simply shrugged, unable to answer any of his questions before he had to leave—the worry of leaving you alone in the palace too much for him that he couldn’t go out to buy you gifts anymore without the thought of the king slipping into your chambers plagues his mind. He doubts Yoongi would be stupid enough to harm you, not when he knows how much Jungkook adores you. How his head would be balanced on a stick for the whole capital to see if he were to even lay a finger on you.

But Jungkook was slowly slipping into insanity, tugging at his hair as he paced back and forth around the room. He couldn’t enjoy reading, eyes flitting up to check if you were still breathing ruining the plot of his favourite stories. He hated going into the bath house because he couldn’t bring you with him that he just began to rit in the bedroom in hopes that you would wake up and he could get some normalcy back into his life. Jungkook was slowly starting to give up but he continued to hold on, praying that soon he would be able to look into your eyes again, hear your laugh, listen to you speak and dance and just anything. He would take anything.

Jungkook curls his body tighter around yours, tangling his legs with your, relishing in the fact that he could still feel the heat of your body warm his skin. And even if it was only for a moment, Jungkook could pretend that you were really here with him; that you were just sleeping and that as the sun rose you would slowly start to wake up too.

The this would all feel like a bad dream, and everything could just go back to the way it was.

He’d thought about what it would mean for him if you were to stay like this forever, stuck in an eternal slumber. He supposes he wouldn’t mind it; some days would be harder than others, but his imagination would surely keep him entertained. He would have to get used to the fact you couldn’t answer him anymore, though he supposes he could still kiss you, your lips still warm, though pale. He could still read to you and tell you stories of his adventures. Could still brush your hair and make you look all pretty as he hums you a song, watching your serene face through the mirror, careful not to pull on your hair too hard.

Jungkook shoots to sit up in bed when he feels you shuffle around, ripped from his own little fantasy world as your hands tug the sheets further over your ears, and Jungkook feels his heart in his throat. Wondering if this was a sick dream, one where he would soon wake up and see you still in the same position, he had put you in years ago.

His fingers find their way to the top of your head, dreading the headache you’re sure to have after such a long nap. He bites his bottom lip, smile hard to contain as you lean a little into his touch.

He watches as you peek out from behind the blankets, eyes a little bleary from sleep, your eyes meet his own, but it seems you’re unaware of who you’re looking at. And Jungkook’s heart momentarily sinks at the thought of the memory loss this time round, how you could have completely forgotten about his existence.

He swallows thickly, watching as your eyes squeeze shut. You let out a strained groan, and he can’t help the laugh that bubbles up his throat—you were awake.

He leans down to press a kiss to your cheek through the sheets before he’s pushing himself up off the bed. A skip in his step as he rummages around for a cup, he can’t imagine how parched you must be after such a great nap.

“The window is shut, pretty thing. Your eyes shouldn’t hurt as much now” Jungkook whispers, aware that you must feel groggy as you just shuffle under the blanket, pulling it further over your head. This time, you curl your body around his, hoping that somehow, he’ll heal your pain.

“My head hurts” you tell him, voice hoarse and scratchy from where you clearly hadn’t been using it.

“I can’t help you if you hide from me, love”

And Jungkook feels his heart swell, all his love for you overflowing as he watches you, heart so full he thinks he might explode.

And phase two of his plan was complete, though it had taken three decades that was the least of his immortal worries—you were breathing, alive, ever so pretty and perfect and now he could work towards phase 3; his own freedom and bringing you one step closer to immortality.

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Text

Conquest, Chapter 6: Entertainment

Chapter 6 of Conquest, a novel-length fantasy whump story about a timid royal clerk captured by the disgraced prince who needs their help to rule their newly conquered country. This series is best read in order. Masterpost here.

Contains: fantasy setting, nonbinary whumpee, male whumper, fearful whumpee, royal whumper, whumpee on display for a crowd, degradation

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Miranelis

Gyoras passed Miranelis off to a heavily scarred Wolf who didn’t bother hiding his resentment at his assigned chore. He took his resentment out on Miranelis, pulling their clothes off with such impatient force that the fabric tore, then dousing Miranelis in freezing water that made them gasp.

Within a few moments, Miranelis was dressed, and the Wolf was tugging them back toward the banquet hall. They were still wet, with a dead stranger’s clothes clinging to their skin. The clothes were all wrong for a clerk. They had belonged to one of the palace servants, with a mere two layers and a skirt so long it nearly touched the floor. But at least the blood wasn’t clinging to their skin anymore.

The other Wolves had applied themselves to their work with equal speed. When the Wolf pulled Miranelis into the banquet hall, several woven rugs covered almost the entire floor. Miranelis recognized one rug from the sculpture room upstairs, and several more from the bedrooms set aside for visiting diplomats. Torches burned at regularly spaced intervals, filling the room with acrid smoke and sending distorted shadows crawling up the walls.

Laughter and conversation filled the room, which was now packed with more Wolves than Miranelis had ever hoped to see in their life. The Wolves didn’t seem overly bothered by the lack of tables. They sat in rows on the rug, their legs tucked under their massive bodies, giant serving bowls of stew laid out in a line before them. No one shifted uncomfortably or offered a word of complaint.

The smell of the food was even stronger now, reaching Miranelis’s nose even through the odor of unwashed Wolf. From this close, the smell was no longer slightly off, but bordering on intolerable. And Miranelis had thought the undercooked beans and the hard strips of meat were bad. Judging by the smell, the Wolves had indeed chucked a full jar of spices into whatever gooey concoction they had formed from the dried beans in the pantry. Miranelis would have needed a cook’s training to understand the right combination of spices to use in such a dish, but they needed only the evidence of their own nose to tell them the combination the Wolves had chosen was nowhere near correct.

Kezul was the only one standing. His gaze fell on Miranelis, and he crossed the room in a few quick strides to pull Miranelis away from the Wolf who had brought them here. The Wolf immediately faded into the crowd and found a seat, visibly relieved to be rid of them. Kezul’s sweaty grip tightened painfully around Miranelis’s wrist as he widened his stance and cleared his throat.

That was all it took for the harsh sounds of conversation to fall away. The assembled Wolves didn’t so much as glance up at Kezul. They kept their eyes fixed stubbornly to their unfilled bowls, which struck Miranelis as a jarringly rude gesture from the warriors who were supposed to follow him. But despite the Wolves’ refusal to look his way, they were clearly listening.

“Tonight, we celebrate two great victories,” Kezul said into the silence. “The first is the victory of the exalted Vorhullin the Unmaker and his tireless Wolves, whose teeth and claws have brought one more soft ruler of the south between his jaws like a fattened rabbit. And the second victory… that one will belong to all of us. The Unmaker conquered this land, but we will rule it. We will make it ours.”

A series of raucous cheers went up at that. The Wolves slammed their hands down on the floor beside them with such enthusiasm that the tile shook under Miranelis’s feet. Kezul waited patiently for the noise to die down.

“Unlike my brothers,” said Kezul, “I’m not one for lengthy speeches.” He paused as a burst of laughter rolled through the room—apparently the Wolves all knew what he was referring to. Miranelis snuck a glance at Kezul’s face, and saw a hint of triumph there at having drawn that reaction from the crowd—or maybe that look was relief.

When the laughter died down, Kezul continued, “I prefer to let the evidence speak for itself.” His fingers tightened around Miranelis’s arm until Miranelis thought the bone might snap under his unforgiving grip. He yanked Miranelis forward in a sharp motion. Miranelis stumbled. Only Kezul’s grip kept them upright.

“Here,” Kezul said, “we have a pristine example of all we’ve conquered, and an example of what we will rule. This is what my father’s army has won for us—and it is what we will win for him.” He gave Miranelis a little shake, drawing out an involuntary whimper of pain.

“What do you think? It may not work look worth the effort at first glance, but I promise you, these creatures are full of surprises.” His eyes caught Miranelis’s for a split second. Miranelis drew in an involuntary gasp at the strength of the anger they saw there.

Miranelis squirmed as all the eyes in the room came up at once to land squarely on them. Mouths split in hungry greens; lips curled in skepticism or disgust. Within instants, the banquet hall was filled with opinions—all of them different, none of them flattering.

“He’s got less meat on him than a starving horse. If they’re all like that, we might as well have killed them all and been done with it.”

“Isn’t that the one that wouldn’t fight? What kind of insult is this, making us breathe the same air as that thing?”

“She’s a pretty one. I wouldn’t mind having her in my bed. Wonder if there are any more where that came from.”

Kezul raised a hand for silence. Gradually, the comments and cruel laughter fell away. The hungry eyes remained.

“This one will serve as our entertainment for tonight’s celebration,” Kezul announced. “We’re here to celebrate our conquest, after all—why not enjoy the fruits of our labors?”

“Bring him out to the courtyard,” one voice immediately suggested, and several more shouted their agreement. Several more Wolves called out considerably more obscene suggestions, which made Miranelis’s cheeks burn and their lips ache with the effort of holding their face expressionless.

“Not the courtyard,” Kezul said. “I’ve seen what happens there. I want this one kept alive at least a little longer. And those of you who want them as your teapot girl—if you have so little self-respect, you don’t belong in my army. Don’t you remember what this one did when my father’s Wolves showed up?” Miranelis didn’t know what a teapot girl was, or if teapot was even the proper translation, but they could guess the meaning well enough.

“My exalted father didn’t see fit to teach me much about Danelor,” said Kezul. “And why would he? Their army hardly put up enough of a fight to make us lift our swords, let alone formulate a strategy. But the one thing I know—the one thing we all know—is that Danelor is famous for its arts. The talents of its poets and musicians are prized throughout the south. I’ve always found their work too sentimental for my tastes, but maybe it’s time to expand our palates. We should learn about our new home, should we not?” His voice lowered, a thin growl meant only for Miranelis’s ears. “And since you refuse to teach me anything else about your country…”

He raised his voice again as he shoved Miranelis roughly forward. He released Miranelis’s arm, but in a room packed with Wolves, Miranelis knew better than to run.

Kezul gestured over his shoulder. A pair of Wolves came through the door, carrying a tray of familiar instruments between them. Miranelis’s breath caught as he recognized the gleaming array. They belonged to the queen’s private collection, or they had. Her personal musicians had brought them out only during special ceremonies. Each one had to be worth more than everything else in the banquet hall combined—every weapon, every jewel the high-ranking Wolves wore on their fingers. Certainly more than Miranelis themselves.

Miranelis’s throat tightened unexpectedly at the sight. Not because they had any sentimental feelings for the instruments themselves. No, it was the way they lay pristine on the tray, still polished to a shine, when everything else in this place—living or not—had been broken, ruined, destroyed. Underneath the rugs, the faint ghosts of bloodstains still marred the tiles. The deepest stains would never come out, no matter how much Miranelis scrubbed.

Miranelis would have expected the Wolves to smash the instruments on sight, rather than allow such beauty to exist in their presence. But no, these two Wolves were holding them out to Kezul like the precious items they were.

Something of the palace had survived. It didn’t mean a fraction of what it would have meant to see just one other living survivor. But like the blossoms on the courtyard trees, it was a tiny scrap of beauty amidst the endless violation of the Wolves’ presence.

Kezul swept his hand toward the tray in an expansive gesture. He placed a hand in the center of Miranelis’s back and shoved them forward. “Pick one,” he urged in a voice full of honeyed venom, “and show us the crowning achievement of the newest addition to my exalted father’s empire. Choose whichever you like—I’ve heard every child here learns at least one.”

Miranelis stared wordlessly down at the instruments, not understanding. They had been prepared for Miranelis to thrust them forward into the crowd and let the Wolves tear them apart. And instead he wanted them to… play them a song?

The Wolves looked just as confused as Miranelis felt. “We don’t want music,” one of them complained. “We want to see her bleed!”

“Where’s the fun in tormenting a terrified mouse?” Kezul asked. “If that’s what you want, I’ll go catch you one right now. But this creature has hidden gifts—don’t you, Mir?” He grinned into Miranelis’s face, his eyes bright, his smile cruel. “So far, all we’ve seen of Danelor is its weakness—and how satisfying is it to conquer the weak? Wouldn’t you prefer to see their strength, so you can know them as a worthy adversary? How much more satisfying would it be to take this one out to the courtyard then?”

He gestured again toward the instruments. “And this, here, is their greatest strength. Its value is questionable, but it is what they have. And think of it like this—a Danelor musician who hasn’t finished their training is worth more than the most prosperous villages in our lower valleys produce in a year. A fully trained one is worth four times that. Even I know that, and I haven’t exactly made a study of these people. Even if this one’s performance is only a fraction as good, wouldn’t you like to get it for free?”

Somewhere between the first word of Kezul’s sneering speech and the last, Miranelis began to understand.

The Wolves hadn’t preserved the instruments because of some reluctance to snuff out that last remaining bit of beauty. They had preserved them because they wanted to destroy that beauty even more cruelly. Or at least Kezul did. He wanted to take what made Danelor what it was—more than the shimmerstone of the palace steps, or the gentle green hills, or even the queen herself—and make it his own. He wanted to make Miranelis his own. He wanted to show Miranelis that however much Miranelis refused to give him what he wanted, Miranelis was his all the same, to do with as he pleased.

It might have been easier if Kezul had let them take him out to the courtyard. Miranelis’s whole body still tightened up at the memory of those arrows sailing past their head. But at least if they wanted to hurt them, if they wanted to kill them, it would them doing it to him. Miranelis might even have been able to find the courage to fight back. This, though… as soon as they picked up one of those instruments, they would be doing it to themselves. They would be giving themselves to the Wolves—and giving the Wolves Danelor’s music, the one thing their swords couldn’t conquer.

Miranelis stared down at the rug and pictured the freshly scrubbed floor underneath. Now they understood Kezul’s real purpose in setting them to that task. It wasn’t simply that it had needed to be done and they hadn’t wanted to do it themselves. It was about making Miranelis scrub the blood away themselves, wash away the last of Danelor for the Wolves so they could make themselves at home.

It was about showing Miranelis that whether they picked up their pen or not, they would help complete Kezul’s conquest. The only question was whether they would do it in a way that could earn them back some creature comforts, or do it covered in blood and trembling in front of a hungry crowd.

Underneath their sick disgust—at the Wolves with their greedy looks of anticipation, at themselves for unwittingly playing into Kezul’s hands—they couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of admiration. This was a more subtle bit of cruelty than Miranelis would have expected from a Wolf. Miranelis had thought the enemy’s thought processes began and ended with the most efficient ways to slice apart an enemy. As Miranelis glanced up at Kezul, and caught the look of cruel triumph in Kezul’s eyes, they knew they had been wrong. Kezul looked capable of crushing a person’s bones between his fingers, and the sword at his side could have taken Miranelis’s head off in one swipe. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t clever.

And a clever enemy was twice as dangerous.

Kezul seemed to grow taller and broader as Miranelis watched. That smile of his filled their vision. A wave of despair rolled through them, so potent they were tempted to curl into a ball on the floor here and now. After all, what could the Wolves do to them that they weren’t already planning to do anyway?

Then Miranelis took a long breath.

They understood what Kezul was after now. In a way, that made it easier. This was just the same decision they had faced in the throne room, but with a different face put on it. And they had already made that decision, knowing what it would cost them. All they had to do now was go on making it.

They took a step back from the tray of instruments and shook their head. “No,” they said. And although a tremble of fear ran through them as they said the word, their voice was a little louder than it had been last time.

It wasn’t so hard. The trick was knowing you were probably going to die for what you said, and then just… saying it anyway. And like everything, it grew easier with practice.

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