#anyway read unexplain the unforgivable

[keldabekush]

YOU KNOWWWWW

[safely-in-vhagars-belly]

The Song of Ice and Fire (DARK BOOKMOND X STARKREADER/OC)

Aemond (book) x Reader

🔷Summary: After getting kidnapped on your way to King's Landing, you end up in another time where you meet a dangerous prince.

🔷Author's note: Either hit or miss with this one

🔷Wordcount :6756

🔷Warnings: This is Bookmond because im a little too sad to write showaemond atm. Bookaemond is my deranged honeybee he can do nothing wrong. Ok almost nothing.

WARNINGS: Kidnapping, drugging, forced marriage and war crimes and aemond being a sexist little bitch. Also spankings.

Maybe it was for the best. You always dreamt of leaving the cold and quiet town of Winterfell behind. You dreamt of a bigger, exciting life. A life of tourneys, of exciting feasts, of noble men fighting for your hand. It should have been as simple as that.

Except it wasn’t.

Sansa, your sister is going to be the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Your father would be the hand of the king, one of the highest positions at court.  You, Arya, and her will soon travel with him to King’s Landing.

Until something happened.

Something unexplainable.

And something terrible.

Lately, your dreams have been getting worse. From nightmares that you didn’t pay any mind to darker things, things you barely could keep to yourself. Nightmares and dreams filled with unexplainable things, unknown faces and the death rising and marching. 

_____________

It is clear to you that your mind is simply toying with you. You are likely nervous for the future that awaits you. You are nervous for the suitors you’ll meet and that your life finally will begin. It will just be like all the romantic novels you read. It will be ball after ball and feast after feast.

Your dreams always start the same way. You are alone, surrounded by trees as big as towers, in the snowy woods. You hear the sound of the crispy snow as you set feet on it, moving in any direction, to find something. Home, you assume. The stars above your head are the only light to guide you, and it is unforgivably dark in the cold forest.

The cold winter winds pick up and toy with your hair, sending it in all directions. You never know why, but you always turn your head slightly sideways. You can’t control it. You don’t have a say. As a chestpiece moving over the board, you do as you are told by someone controlling you. 

It is always a surprise to see the wall close by, no matter how many times you have dreamt this dream. The majestic tall, ancient structure that has been here long before you were born and will be there long after you have gone. Something about it tells you are not supposed to be here. You feel chills.

You had heard reasons why the wall was built. Wildlings, mostly. The Nightwatch was installed to guard the wall, to make sure no threat could climb over it. You know your brother, Jon, dreams of becoming a brave member of the Nightwatch. It is all the honor he will gain as a bastard anyway. You are the same as his twin sister. But your father kept your bastardy a secret.

But the most important reason why the wall was built was the threat of white walkers. Cold, icy and deadly soldiers of an army without needs and without a will, forced to march forever beyond the wall. And when you are all the way North, you can only go one way: South.

You knew it wasn’t true. You knew when your father told you about them, they weren’t real. But any Northern child grows up with the same tales. Creatures with eyes as blue as ice, that could freeze you in pure terror so they could easily squeeze your eyeballs out of your head, killing you. A fun tale in a tavern. But not in the castle. 

You aren’t a foolish girl, no matter what the world tells you. You don’t believe those lies. You never did. You are not as brave as Arya perhaps or as pretty and polite as Sansa but you never believe in those ghost stories.

But here, in your dreams, beyond the wall and far away from your safe warm room at Winterfell, even someone as skeptical as you could understand why people believed those stories.

What would come next in your dreams was also always the same. You turn your head away from the wall. In the far distance, you can make out someone standing there, holding a lantern. The person is hooded, unrecognizable. But the person would always lift the lantern, and wave with it. Your eyes follow the movements, as the light of the lantern becomes brighter and brighter, shedding light over the forest, making the snow almost look like liquid gold.

It always seems so magical, as a scam shopkeepers tell their far too trusting clients before selling them magical rocks or potions. You know the hooded person never reveals themselves. You tried running at them, screaming, but you couldn’t move nor speak.

Then, you notice you are standing on something. A great lake, made of ice. Gone are the trees of the forest. Through the ice, you make out the skeleton of a human being. Someone from a long time ago. You watch the skeleton, wondering how long ago this person met their end, and how. And beneath the ice, poking halfway out of it, is a steel forged sword with a black handle. The tip of it is still in the ice, covered in a dark rusty coat of old blood. You notice your hands reach for the sword, picking it out of the ice.

The sword feels different than most swords. Lighter, better to wield. Safer. It feels like wielding one of your own arms. It feels safe, comfortable. Yours. Impossible. Ladies do not wield weapons. Not such obvious ones, at least. Ladies wield lies, poison, tricks, schemes. 

You turn to the hooded figure, sword in hand, still standing on the ice, with the skeleton safely beneath your feet. The hooded figure is gone. As is the light. The world is once again covered in darkness. It is suffocating you, in a way. 

Fear and anxiety fight inside of you, as you try to get off the ice. But you can’t move. Not anymore. It is not your body, anymore. You don’t have a say, anymore.

The sword is starting to hurt your inexperienced arms, and you try at all cost to drop the weapon. Your head snaps as you hear the sound of something you never heard before, but somehow you  know exactly what it is. A dragon’s roar.

You never felt fear like that, as you look around the lake for any sign of a dragon. But instead you are met with a thin skeleton made of ice and rotting flesh that reaches out with their hands, trying to grab you. A white walker.

You scream.

But before he could grab you, drag you into the lake with him…

You wake up.

You sit straight up in your bed, clutching the sheets of your bed. Your heart is still beating and your fear hasn’t left your mind yet. You are glad to see you are in your rooms, at Winterfell. Several familiar stuffed animal toys glance back at you from their spots on high shelves, calming your troubled mind instantly. You are coming of age so put some of them away, but unlike Sansa, you could never throw them out. 

You climb out of bed and prepare yourself for the exciting day ahead. The day your life will change forever. You just had no idea how much. And how terribly.

As always, Winterfell is busy. Servants go about their day, greeting you with nods or smiles as they carry in potatoes or walk around with freshly washed linen.

Your father and ‘’mother’’, brothers and sisters are already at the table, gathered for breakfast. They seem to have been waiting just for you. You greet them with a relieved smile. The food smells delicious and makes your stomach rumble in unladylike ways. You sit down on your chair and begin eating. 

You can almost hear Lady Catalyn’s thoughts. Everyone seems to know it. This might  be the final time you might all be together. This is goodbye, in a way. Jon will go to the wall, and you and your sisters to King’s Landing. 

You grab an apple and begin biting down on it, while also making yourself a cup of nice honey tea. You can not wait to leave the boring North and the nightmares finally behind. The north is a boring and cold place. Nothing exciting ever happened. Your sister, Sansa, also looks more happy than usual. Normally, she is grumpy at this hour.

‘’Do we need to leave soon?’’ Arya mutters next to her, playing with a fork and a potato. Your parents share a look, and your father speaks to the youngest Lady of house Stark. 

Even with their differences, their arguments and their fighting, you can see that Arya dreads the day that her and her  would leave for the capital. She likely wants to remain here, in the cold North forever. Eddard speaks, smiling with pride and joy and you feel jealous of how easy Sansa will become the Queen. ‘’Sansa will be the Queen. I will become the hand of the King if all goes well. Perhaps you’ll like King’s Landing.’’ Arya’s brown eyes fill with worry at imaginary scenarios. She looks at her sister, who always was said to be prettiest and who always has focussed on how to be a lady. She imagined King’s Landing would be filled with Sansas.

‘’No, thank you.’’ she mutters. Yet she does not have a choice.

You begin eating the apple first. At that moment, Maester Luwin comes from the courtyard, bringing likely fresh news, plucked from a raven. He brings the news first to your parents, the Lord and Lady of Winterfell.  ‘’Lady Lynantha is expected to be escorted to King’s Landing today. Her carriage is already here.’’ You drop your apple, distraught as all eyes are on you. ‘’Why aren't we traveling together?’’ You ask your father. He does not meet your eyes. 

‘’I received a letter. A nobleman from King’s Landing, one of King Robert’s nephews, wishes to get to know you. It is of importance that you leave right away.’’ You know why. There are rumors you aren’t a true born Stark. That you are a bastard. Rumors that are likely true.

You understand. You are eager to leave, in a way. Lady Stark stands up from her seat. ‘’I wish you well, Lyantha.’’ You never liked her. She never liked you. But you do respect her. You nod, respectful as you make a final curtsy. 

Luwin coughs, reminding you all that time is not on your side. You finally stand as well, excusing yourself as you mutter. ‘’I must pack for the journey-’’ You will need clothing, books, maybe jewelry.

‘’O, there is no need, truly.’’ An almost magical light voice rings out. A woman with raven dark hairs, a green gown with beautiful gold patterns stitched onto her skirt greets you with a curtsy. ‘’The Capital has everything you could need.’’ She assures you, a sweet but horrible hollow smile on her lips. The Lady makes a bow for her as well. ‘’I am Lady Alys Rivers. I have come to escort you to your Prince.’’ You know that Rivers is a last name used for bastards and commoners, and wonder silently how someone as Alys could have acquired such a position at the royal court. But you would never dare to voice that concern. Of course not. A prince, a title, it is almost too good to be true. ‘’A prince?’’ You ask, beaming with excitement. Sansa huffs, and you see Alys nod, almost a little too pleased with your excitement. 

The woman smiles as if you two are long lost friends. ‘’A true born royal, a fierce skilled warrior and an intelligent man. Few are blessed in so many ways.’’ You are certain your smile only grows.

He sounds so charming.

So perfect.

So kind and gentle and gallant and strong. 

‘’Very well.’’ You say. Your father is the first to hug you, whispering in your ear that you’ll always be a Stark, and his little girl. If you have trouble, you could write to him and he’d be there before you could blink with your eyes.  

The Starks remain loyal and firmly rooted outside in the yard as the carriage slowly departs to the roads, leaving Winterfell behind. Such sorrow the Starks all share And such more sorrow they would share if they had known what would become of Lynantha.

–

The carriage is comfortable and to your liking. It is warm as a mother’s embrace and has soft pillows that make the long journey comfortable. You imagined you would stay at multiple ins down the King’s road. Lady Alys has been nothing but kind to you, offering you sweets and cake when the landscape and scenery outside of the window changed. 

The lemon cakes you eat are heavy on your stomach, and soon you feel tired. Exhausted for some reason. It must be the weird nightmares that kept you up. 

As a true future Princess, you  try to stay awake in the carriage but the more she fight against the instinct to sleep, the more tired you become.  Eventually, you fall asleep in the carriage.

This time you too dream of the strange sword, the strange lady with the Lantern and the wall. But you can hear a voice this time as well. ‘’Do not go to the wall! Return! You don’t know what you are unleashing!’’ You can not place the voice, and you assume it belongs to the lantern lady. But when you look at the normally covered lady, you see Alys instead, wearing the common cloak and dress, holding the same lantern. Her eyes are red and sinister, burning like hellfire and her smile spreads wider than it should.

Once again, you wake up panting and breathing heavily. Alys is still near you, calmly knitting. You had hoped if you left the North, the nightmares would end. ‘’Welcome back, my Princess.’’ Alys says as she finishes her knitwork. ‘’We are almost there. Just a bit longer.’’ And at that moment, you notice a familiar basket that is half covered with a blanket on the floor. You would recognize that basket everywhere. And to be in King’s Landing so fast….Something is wrong.

‘’You don’t work for the King do you?’’ You ask, your voice soft and trembling. ‘’You’re not taking me to King’s Landing.’’

Alys only smiles, putting her needles and knitting work away. ‘’Just sit tight. I need to bring you to him alive, he didn’t say in what state.’’ He? Who is he?

You have many more questions, but you are not stupid. That was a clear threat and an order to shut up and so you will.

The carriage finally approaches its final destination. And halts.

When you look outside, all you can see is darkness. And the ominous yet sparkling stars above the carriage. Just as in my dreams.

It feels much colder here. And that smell. The smell of iron and snow. Alys takes her time with putting her hood on, and as you had  expected by now the hood had the same pattern as that of the Lantern lady. She smiles as she opens  the door. You don’t know what she wants. But it can’t be good. And you are not coming with her.

You clings to the carriage instead, refusing to follow Alys. ‘’No! I’m not coming with you! Bring me back!’’ You demand. 

Alys only chuckles and pulls harder, pulling you easily from the carriage as a flower being plucked. She puts you outside the carriage.

In the cold snow you take a good look at your surroundings, looking for any help or signs. And there it is. You turn around, as if you can already feel its presence. The looming tall wall of the North.

And you are clearly beyond it.

’Are you mad?!’’ you lash out at Alys. ‘’You have endangered us both! Who knows what’s out there.’’ Alys ignores you, shining her lantern around the ground, searching for something.

You rub your cold arms, regretting you didn’t bring a coat with you. The snow storm only grows worse and worse, as a storm unleashing upon a town. 

You look back at the wall, before stumbling on something beneath your feet, buried in the cold snow. Just like in your dream. And just like in your dream it is the sword. For a moment, you think about picking it up and threatening Alys with it. You reach out to grab it. ‘’What did you find there?’’Alys’s voice rings out, closer to you than she was before. You try to pick the sword up, but Alys is faster. She has a strange smirk on her lips when you backed away from the now armed woman. ‘’Such a good girl, finding the sword. I’ll tell him that you found it.’’ There’s that ‘’him’’ again. 

You become even more uncomfortable at her clearly condescending compliment, and for some reason she is more angry with you than before. Is it because you found the sword? And not her?  ‘’Now come. He’s not known for his patience.’’  You look back at the Wall. Alys sighs, clearly annoyed. ‘’Or you can stay out here in the cold and freeze to death.’’ She adds, with a careless shrug. ‘’I don’t mind.’’ She is right. You know she is. And you hate her for it. You won’t survive out here on your own.

The two of you approach a lake that is somehow not frozen despite the cold.  It is not the lake with the skeleton. You can tell. Red and green and black and yellow flowers grow around it too, and everything about it seems to confirm that this is nothing but just a dream. But you can’t wake up.

Alys grabs your arm, walking to the lake. You resist bravely but end up in the water regardless, yelping expecting cold, freezing water. But it does not feel cold. It does not feel warm. It does not feel anything, truly. It feels…soulless. Dead, in a way. 

Alys and you approach the deeper part, where you can no longer stand. Before you can ask what is happening, she pushes you underwater. You gulp, as water fills your lungs, convinced you will die. You close your eyes and at the moment you have given up all hope, something beneath you seems to open, and you fall down.

—

Your body is drifting between both space and time for a while, until someone pulls you up by your hair, and out of the waters, back into the world of the living. You gasp for air, spitting out the water and cling to the ground, looking around you as you thank the gods you are alive.

You are still near a lake. Just not the one you nearly drowned in. You look at the skies, and it is day as well. How long have I been gone?

This lake has flowers in just green colors, and has ruined walls around it, likely belonging to a palace from a time long ago. You look around and notice your captor calmingly sitting next to you, making a crown out of flowers. She drops her crown the moment she sees you have awakened. You can only glare at her, too stunned for anything else.

You hiss at her, close to strangling her. She cackles. ‘’You’re finally awake. I was worried you didn’t survive our little magic trip.’’ You sit up, taking in more and more of your surroundings, the sun warming your wet clothing, as you look at the ruins of a castle and people passing you both. 

You jump to your feet, ignoring your soaked clothing as you rush to a soldier. ‘’Hey, Hey! I need help! She abducted me!’’ You yell. The soldier takes one good look at you, before he sees Alys. Alys cracks her head sideways, causing bones to crack. That is all it takes for him to take off running. 

You huff, in disbelief and anger. ‘’Craven!’’ You shout, as he rushes off. Next to you, Alys doubles over cackling once more. She finds this extremely funny, for some  reason. She lays a hand on your arm, smiling at you.

You instantly shrug it off, disgusted. She doesn’t seem to even care, still smiling. 

‘’Come. We are almost here.’’ She says. You can do two things. You can dive back into the lake, and likely drown, or you can come with this woman. Both aren’t smart things to do. Alys offers her hand again.

At that moment, you spot a nice, big rock, just a few steps away from you. Most people here don’t care for abuctuees. They won’t care for murder either, you think. No one would know. No one would judge. And no one would tell.

This woman is a threat to your safety. And so you grabbed the rock, and tried to get Alys on her back. The woman cackled again, much to your annoyance. You did manage to get her on her back, and raise the rock skyhigh, ready to deliver the deadly blow. Alys laughs, before spitting in your face. Disgusted and caught off guard, you drop the rock. ‘’It seems we need to watch ourselves around you.’’

‘’Come, we must not let him wait any longer.’’ There it is again. 

You know you are going to regret going with Alys but you don’t have a say. Not anymore. ‘’Who is this him you speak of?’’ Perhaps the mysterious prince, her lover, or an enemy of Joffrey. It has to be.

Or, a Targaryen. You snort, in your head. The Targaryens had been defeated, like their dragons and their ancestors alike. They would not bother you or anyone else on the Westeros continent again.

‘’Your prince, of course.’’ There is something strange in her voice. Almost a scoff or an inside joke that you had yet to understand. However you perked up at hearing those words.

‘’The match my father arranged?’’ you ask. ‘’Is he here?’’ It couldn’t be. Could it? It would not explain the lake, the change of time, the wall, anything of it. But the thought that you soon would see your handsome prince again, gives you some hope.

Alys ignored you and did not confirm nor deny anything as the two of you walked to the castle gates. As you approach, you notice countless freshly dug graves. You gulp. You try to remember what castle this could possibly be. 

And that’s when you see it. The ruins remind you of a more polished version of the castle of Harrenhall. The cursed castle and the castle where dragon fire still burns to this day. The walls look younger, time has not been as cruel as it has been now. The fire burns, as always. 

The thing that scares you most, were the gates. Someone had put heads on the spikes, heads of people who all had their eyes wide open and full of terror of whatever killed them. A killer. A monster.

The smell makes you sick. And judging by their smell, they had been here quite a while. Alys doesn’t even bat a eye at the dead. But she did grab your right hand, dragging you inside of the castle. 

The doors open the moment Alys approaches them, her head high as a true queen. You walk next to her, your thoughts spiraling. 

You have just a moment to glance up at the banners decorating the outer walls. And you wish you hadn’t. An unfamiliar yet known sigil hangs there, proudly paraded by the wind and kept in place with pins.  You would recognize the three headed dragon everywhere. The Targaryens. But how? 

Yet this one looks different. Alys drags you in, the moment you finally draw the conclusion that this is the sigil of no other than King Aegon II.  The gold and the green made that clear. But what are his banners doing here, nearly hundred years after his passing? Unless….

You already felt sick because of the dead outside the gate, and now you feel even worse as an irrational and terrible fear begins to form in your head. A fear so insane that it can’t be true, but how can you deny what is right in front of you? Have I truly….?

Alys drags you with her, into the castle halls and into the throne room. The door has no guards. You can hear someone playing with a blade, sharpening it. You feel shivers and cold, in your wet clothes.

Alys gives you a push in your back, sending you into the room on your own.

‘’I’ve brought you something.’’ She says, her smile barely containing her pride. 

Whoever is there, they didn’t bother to open the curtains or to light candles. A truly terrifying conclusion. 

You trip over your dress, and fall. You regained just enough balance to land on your knees, instead of flat on your face. You know whoever is waiting here, orchestrated this whole thing. And if your gut is right, you know who it is. 

You laugh, quietly. You must be crazy, expecting an actual Targaryen prince to await you here. Stir crazy. But what other explanation is there? Why else bother with old banners, why else does the castle look better than it ever did in your time? 

You glance up at the man sitting the throne, his legs calmly placed on the arms of the lavious throne he sits upon. He is indeed sharpening a catspaw dagger, and his lips have the faint impression of a smirk and a smile blended into one as he takes in your soaked clothing and angry glare. Alys opens some curtains.

And the moment you do see his face, it feels as a relief and a shock at once. Relief because you were right. But also a shock because how, how can you possibly be right? 

You were treated as a silly little girl. You can only think of one reason why the banners were here, why the castle looked so good and why the dead were rotting above the gates. And this man’s face confirms it all.

In front of you, is no one else but Aemond Targaryen ‘’one eye’’ the Kinslayer of House Targaryen. You know him from the history books you have read. But those books barely mention him. Aside from his death and his atrocities at Harrenhal. 

And yet, here he stands. In front of you, alive and well. He is a true Targaryen with sharp classic Valyrian features like piercing eyes, and very light, almost silver coloured hair. 

He finally stopped sharpening his dagger, curiosity written all over his face as he takes you in, sitting on the floor, at his feet and glaring at him. He can’t help but smirk.

You glare. Whatever it was that is going on, it is all his doing. You can tell. And that prince Alys promised you would meet, that is him. A cruel joke on her behalf. You glare at her too. She simply makes another curtsy cackling once again.

Slowly, a smile creeps on his lips, amused by the audacity. ‘’I take it she was a smart lass and obeyed?’’ The question is aimed at Alys and you physically feel your stomach turn even worse by his words. 

You had not been a ‘’smart lass’’. If anything, you had acted insanely dumb. You resisted, you tried to kill Alys. You tried to run. You tried to resist in every way possible and more. 

You cross your arms, tired. Alys beams as she tells Aemond what has happened between the two of you, happy to see you punished by her Prince. ‘’She tried to kill me with a rock.’’ 

His face tilts, and although he tries to appear uninterested and cold, even a simple man could read the anger and murderous emotions in his eye.  ‘’I will see to that she’s punished for that.’’ He promises his loyal servant. To that, Alys smiles.

Aemond smiles at you, in a condescending way. You glance between him and Alys, aware you are in trouble now. ‘’I am not yours to punish.’’ He is not your husband, nor your king or father. No one should decide what happens to you but you. Your voice doesn’t sound scared or angry. Just annoyed.

Aemond shifts his legs, angry at your carelessness and casual behaviour. He slams his hands on the arms of the throne, causing you to flince briefly. He stands up, and you finally see just how tall he truly is. And how fast he stands in front of you. He sinks to his knees, the green leather cracking. He clearly enjoys the way you flinch as he reaches out to touch your chin and your cheeks, feeling your soft delicate skin beneath his fingers. He finally bothers to address you. ‘’Of course you are, Little Wolfling. If you touch and damage something that is mine, you will be punished.’’ He reveals. 

You understand finally that Alys is more than just his servant. They have a relationship. He loves her. And you tried to kill her. You must try to talk your way out of this. ‘’Your lady did not explain why I was taken from my home and lied to.’’ You hope he becomes more understanding of how terrifying all of this is for you.

Alys snorts and Aemond laughs. You curse quietly in your head. That was a failed attempt. ‘’As I ordered her. Alys obeys well and listens. You can learn a thing or two from her.’’ He tells you, finally getting up from the ground. 

Somehow, that makes you angry. The idea that he now thinks you will help him as some spineless pet and roll over for him when he wishes so, it makes you so furious that you are close to pulling him back by his eyepatch to slam his head against the stone floor. You do not have the sword anymore. 

You only have your clothes.

And …

Oh.

You patiently wait until his back is turned to your front, before sliding your shoe off and aiming at his head. You throw the shoe as hard as possible and it ends up hitting him perfectly on his head.

Confused, he turns around, looking for who dared to have hit him. When he notices you, smirking very proudly and missing one shoe, something changes. And you regret even blinking in his direction.

Prince Aemond storms back to you, as you can barely back away to escape him. He is faster and steps on your dress, trapping you easily. You feel the walls closing in and are truly in danger now. The Prince grabs you by your waist, lifting you to your feet and drags you to the throne. You try to break free of his grip, protesting. ‘’Let go of me!” You turn your head to look at Alys. Surely she has a say in this. But she only smiles.

Aemond let out a low chuckle as he sits down the throne, your body still in his grasp. He places you on his lap, as some disobedient little girl. He whispers in your ear, and your cheeks burn with shame. ‘’You laughed. Now it is my turn to laugh, Little Wolfling.’’ You let out an offended cry, struggling to get away from him as fast as possible.

He chuckles. ‘’I am not sure what they teach you in the North, but here, we are respectful to our princes.’’ He says, lecturing you. His cold hands feel the back of your dress, feeling the warm skin that it covered.

Until that moment, you had never been touched before. Instead of doing what you feared he would do, he picked out a different punishment. He does lift your skirts, but barely enough to touch you. Just to reach your small clothes but mostly your behind. And at that moment you know what he is planning. And you don’t want that. You try to escape again, kicking and slapping him.

Aemond grabs your hands, grinning. ‘’Calm down, Little Wolfling. It’s just a spanking. I’m sure you had plenty before.’’ Never. 

Your parents did not believe that that was a healthy idea. ‘’No! Never!”’ You declare, angry. ‘’And you are not my father or my husband. You aren’t allowed to punish me.’’ You say, bravely.

He only scoffs, and his hand lands the first hard blow on your behind, causing you to cry out in pain. You squirm over his legs, fighting stronger and harder. He increases his grip, tightening it. ‘’Tis for the best you learn now, Little Wolfling. I don’t have time and the patience to do this every day.’’

The blows only increase, hurting your delicate skin. You did try to keep from crying and from complaining. You wouldn’t grand him that satisfaction. Not anymore.

It is true that you were disciplined in this way, yet your body betrayes you in the worst way imaginable. 

You do not notice your arousal until it is too late. Your nipples are hardened and there is a wetness between your legs, growing. 

You stop fighting. Perhaps in shock of your own betrayal, perhaps only to show the prince that he could stop what he was doing to you. Finally, he stops. But not before your behind is burning and a painful mess. 

He helps correct your dress and covers you apprioartly as if nothing has happened. You are still in shock, and don’t move away from him at first. ‘’I hope I made myself clear to you both. You both will play nice to one another.’’ He tells both you and his lover.

Alys bristles. ‘’I am not the one picking up rocks and killing people.’’ But this time, Aemond has enough of her complaints.

He did all he could. ‘’The Wolf has been disciplined. I am sure my Little Wolfling will behave much better in the future.’’ You are forced to sit on his lap, as a prize he had won.

‘’Won’t you, Little Wolfling?’’ He whispers. He does not kiss you, but his lips come closer to your cheeks, and unwillingly you feel your cheeks burn bright as stars. He chuckles, amused. ‘’You can go now, Little Wolfling.’’ You almost look offended when he sends you away.

This madness needs to stop. ‘’I,’’ You catched your breath. ‘’I don’t understand a few things.’’ You say. You want the truth. Now. Before you offend him again somehow.

Aemond rolls his good eye, smirking. ‘’You are a woman. I imagine that happens to you a lot.’’ Even Alys glares at that comment but his royal highness does not see it.

You only blink, ignoring him. ‘’You are alive.’’ You say, cutting straight to the case. ‘’You were killed in a battle.’’ You don’t remember who killed him or with what or where but you are certain Aemond Targaryen died.

Aemond’s head perks up, listening eagerly to what you tell him. You can tell he is not listening, but he is eager. ‘’What am I doing here? Am I here to save the dragons?’’ You ask. ‘’Or to stop the civil war?’’ Not that you would even know how in the seven hells to do that, but that's another thing entirely.

That causes the head of the prince to snap to Alys, worry written across his face for the first time that you met him. Alys only makes a gesture with her head, and Aemond seems to calm down. He smirks, carelessly. ‘’Oh, don’t worry about the Dragons.’’ You never heard any Targaryen say that.

The dragons are their wolves. Their dragons are their war winners. You laugh, offended and still hurt. ‘’But, without dragons, I am sorry to tell you, your entire family will become ash and dust.’’ You even chuckle.

Aemond stands back up from the throne, raising his sword and pointing it at you, lashing out. ‘’You are a bold little girl, are you not? Perhaps my hand was too gentle.’’

You don’t even back down anymore. ‘’It’s the truth. Where I’m from, house Targaryen is dust. All thanks to you, your sister and your brother. Together, you caused the civil war and killed the dragons-’’ That is pushing it too far. 

Aemond grabs you by your throat, choking you lightly to warm you of not accusing him of another thing. ‘’Silence.’’ He barks.

You obey, glaring. ‘’Good girl.’’ he smirks, mockingly. ‘’Now, I understand, you must be so excited to see a dragon, hmm? You can’t shut up about them.’’ He stops choking you, feeling your neck.‘’I suppose, there is truth in what you tell me. The dragons are long gone where you are from. But you are now here, with me.’’

‘’The story is written.’’ You say. 

Aemond snorts, and there is something dangerous about his body language. ‘’The story is just beginning.’’

You have a terrible feeling. ‘’You see,’’ Aemond grabs hold of your left hand. ‘’I have some inside knowledge. You know how this will end. You will tell me how the dragons died out, and I will simply be always one step ahead of my enemy. I will be their worst nightmare, their downfall and the dagger that slashes their throat.’’ He grins, as you become truly terrified and even tremble.

‘’How will you stop your sister?’’ You whisper. But you fear you already saw it in your dream. ‘’How will you stop Queen Rhaenyra’s marching troops?’’ Your voice is a soft weak whisper.

Aemond leans in, leaving a soft kiss on your forehead. ‘’I heard a prophecy. The song of ice and fire. That is where you come in. You can help me find something, something very precious.’’ He chuckles.

The sword.

He wants to find the sword.

But why.

Unless…

‘’No.’’ You instantly say. ‘’You can’t.’’ You turn your head to Alys, watching her blank expression. She is fine with this. You watch as Aemond smirks in silence, confirming to you that he is planning to do the impossible. ‘’Aemond, you can’t.’’ You repeat.

Aemond’s grip only tightens. ‘’Think about it, little Wolfling. An army that never rests, never eats, never betrays me. An army that will help me conquer Westeros; An army of White Walkers. It is perfect.’’ He is insane. 

‘’I won’t help you.’’ You remind him. ‘’You might as well send me back.’’ 

He ignores your protests. You can see his smirk and grin only grow, and you are reminded of Targaryens and their insanity. Their fire. Their blood. ‘’You will help me, little Wolfling. You will. Because if you do not, you will never see your family again. I have the means to send you back. And I will. After you have helped me.’’

You scoff, so you must help him do gods knows what so he can send you back to your own time?  ‘’It doesn’t sound like I have a choice, do I?’’ Alys shakes her head. ‘’What will I need to do?’’ You ask Aemond, your head hanging in shame. How many will die because of you?

He lifts your chin, grinning. ‘’Now, now, don’t be so sad. To begin things, we must find the sword. And I want more information on how to better keep the dragons too.’’

You cannot do that. ‘’Dragons died centuries before I was born!’’ You don’t know anything about dragons. ‘’I don’t even know what they eat.’’ You almost whine.

‘’Meat. They eat meat.’’ Aemond says. ‘’Vhagar is right here with me. I will teach you about dragons, you will teach me what you know of the Dance and how it ended.’’ This all sounds like a horrible idea to you. ‘’And when the time comes, we must complete the prophecy of Ice and Fire.’’ That sounds vague. 

But you want to see your family again. More than anything. So you hold out your hand, and wait for Aemond to shake it. He smiles, kissing it instead. He leans a little closer. ‘’I can’t wait until we are married. I always wanted a Valyrian wife, but you’ll do.’’ You laugh, thinking he is jesting. Until you see how Aemond is looking at you. Like you are some delicious cake he can’t wait to taste. He mirrors your smile, allowing you to be in denial as he makes his way to his lover, kissing her openly on her lips. You watch speechlessly as the two of them walk away, their chuckles and giggles mixing as they likely picture their new world together, with them for once atop of it, instead below. 

You throw your head into your neck and try to process it all. What in the seven hells did you even become part of?

a/n

Ooh, i wasnt sure i even wanted to share this one.

But here he is xDDDD

Ok bye

let me know what you think

[masterwords]

Gonna Take Your Hand

Summary: Hotch is sick and Derek takes him to the hospital where they spend hours.

Warnings: hospital, a little vomit...it's pretty tame, he's just sick

Pairings: Hotch/Morgan

Words: 3k

Notes: This isn't even a story. I woke up at 4am with the image in my head and now it's here, that's all.

Read on AO3: Gonna Take Your Hand

**

“This isn't how our first Christmas vacation in years was supposed to go,” Derek muttered, one arm slung around Aaron's hips, the other hand digging into the curve of his elbow. He wasn't supposed to be dragging Aaron, barely able to stand on his own two feet, to the car in the middle of a snowstorm two days before Christmas. He wasn't supposed to be dealing with this again, it had been under control, there hadn't been a spell in months. He was on medication, he was being good and Derek didn't know who to curse for the turn of events.

“You could just call an ambulance,” his mother called from the stoop and he groaned, folding Aaron's too long and too weak legs into the front seat. No, he couldn't, he'd made that mistake the last time this happened and caught hell for a week after. He grunted something unintelligible in response and she backed off, she knew her son well enough not to push. It was almost dinner time, he was hungry, and he was preparing for a long evening sitting in the emergency room lobby at county general.

In the lobby he ate a bag of too salty potato chips while Aaron leaned heavy against him, dragging in shallow breaths one after another without engaging in conversation. Derek didn't need him to talk, he did plenty of his own when he was nervous and trying to hide the fact that he was scared. “I'm not saying you did this on purpose...” he muttered, wiping the salt and crumbs onto the knees of his pants. “I'm not...but if you did...”

“Derek,” Aaron groaned, pressing his face into the other man's shoulder miserably. He was expending so much energy on sitting up, on holding things somewhat together after collapsing in Fran's kitchen right in front of her. Scaring her. That was the worst part, that he'd crumpled while he stood beside her visiting while he washed the dishes. He hadn't really gone fully out, he'd been awake the whole time...not alert, necessarily, but he was certain he hadn't lost consciousness this time. Pressing his palm flat against the wall of his sternum, he tried to pull the right amount of air into his lungs, the amount that would clear his head, give him the power of speech, but it was futile. If anything, it was getting worse, his breaths were coming slower, harder, but definitely not deeper. “...'m gonna be sick...” he muttered through lips that barely moved, not sure if it would elicit a response in time but he figured it was worth a shot before he got sick in his own lap. He trembled and Derek pulled the small pink bucket from the chair next to him, shoved it under Aaron's chin and turned away out of some last ditch effort at consideration for how much Aaron hated all of this. There wasn't anything in his stomach anyway.

“Aaron Hotchner,” they called, and without hesitation Derek asked them for a wheelchair, he wasn't going to risk another collapse, not when they were moving along now. It was still early enough that he had hope they'd be out of there sooner rather than later and he would rather put up a fight now to ensure it was with as close to a clean bill of health as he could control. He'd made it this far into the evening without another incident, a few bouts of sickness were nothing compared to the unexplained collapsing and they both knew it. It elicited an icy glare, but there wasn't anything Aaron could do to argue, the challenge issued was above his current ability to fight. His legs trembled beneath him when he stood long enough to transfer himself from the unforgiving lobby chair to the wheelchair and he refused to meet Derek's eyes, it was his last prideful stand. The nurse trotted along beside the chair asking Aaron questions while Derek pushed them down the hall, following her lead. It was all he could do to keep his eyes focused on her and the way she confidently strode down the hallway, she didn't seem to be pressed by any urgency, wasn't shocked by the way Aaron's head lolled to the side every so often as if even holding that up was too much for him. If she wasn't concerned, maybe it was fine, he kept telling himself that.

Pulling the curtain around them for privacy, she tossed a gown onto the bed and smiled. “You know the drill, honey. Down to the boxers...or...” she eyed him for a moment, cocking an eyebrow. “Briefs? No, you're a boxers guy, I can see it. Gown open in front. It gets a little chilly in here, you can cover up with a sheet but I need you up on the bed ready to go when I get back. Do you need any help?” She looked to Derek who shook his head, he'd wrangled Aaron in and out of clothes under worse circumstances, figuring out all of the intricacies of his expensive suits and the too many buttons while trying to field dress a stab wound...a sweater and jeans under no threat of duress wouldn't be a problem.

“I can do it,” Aaron argued when Derek began tugging at the sleeve of his sweater, pulling it down over his hand and he smirked, backed away.

“Fine.” He stood back and watched with some amusement at the way Aaron struggled himself out of his sweater, folded it neatly and tossed it to a chair beside the bed. The same happened with his undershirt, and then he was pulling himself upright, leaning heavily against the bed for support while his head swam and his knees buckled. Standing too quickly, his chest constricted, he blinked hard and felt his fingers dig into the paper on the exam bed, ripping it beneath his weight. Derek's hands were at his waist, steadying him, holding him upright when gravity became too much of a menace.

“I got you,” he said softly, and while Aaron held tight to the bed, Derek unzipped his jeans from behind and drug them to the floor, helped maneuver his feet out of them before tucking his arms through the too big holes in the gown and tucking it around him like a blanket. he didn't bother to tie it, they'd be doing an EKG shortly and just undoing the ties anyway, he was no stranger to this song and dance. Aaron shivered and Derek did feel for him, the room was too cold to be so exposed and after helping him up onto the exam bed he draped the thin white sheet over his legs in an attempt at making him more comfortable. The rest of the warmth came through contact, he put his arms around Aaron's shoulders and let him lean in, held him close to stave off the inevitable chill. There were times he thought his own knees might buckle while he stood, tired, hungry, worried but he braced himself against the bed and stayed as long as Aaron wanted him.

It was hours of imaging, blood tests and waiting. Derek called his mother, asked her to put Jack to bed, they had a ways to go and Aaron had been alert enough at least to speak to Jack for a few minutes before they hooked him up to an IV. Dehydration, low blood sugar, those were easy fixes and they created enough of a change in his status that Derek felt almost hopeful that everything else would be fine. It wouldn't be the first time a doctor leveled their steely glare at Aaron and told him he needed to drink water and eat actual meals, and while that did happen here, they didn't immediately cut them loose which meant there was more to it. So, it was more waiting, this time with Aaron lying on a real bed, one palm flat against his sternum, the other arm thrown over his eyes in an attempt to shield himself from the harsh lights above that were doing nothing for the headache he felt creeping in. Derek thumbed through an old copy of Cosmopolitan, tried to distract himself with oddly phrased, bad advice for women in their forties who were single and ready to mingle. He thought of Penelope and Emily. Smirking and without consideration for what he was doing, snapped a picture to send to them. As soon as he hit send, he felt a pit in his stomach...sure, they'd get a laugh, just like he did, but which one would call first and demand to know why he was reading Cosmo and where he had occasion to do it? Penelope, ever the optimist, would never assume he was reading it in the ER but Emily sure would, it would be her first guess.

“WHO IS IT?” she demanded, and he could hear her voice even through text. “WHO IS DYING?” All caps, she was yelling and the only reason she hadn't called was because she knew he wouldn't answer.

No one is dying.

WHY ARE YOU IN THE GODDAMN HOSPITAL?

Who says I'm in the hospital? Could be at the newsstand...

HOSPITAL. WHO?????!!

He smiled, thumbs flying over the keyboard with mind boggling rapidity, firing off coy responses one after another. It was the most pleasant part of his night thus far. She was getting more and more irate with each shifty reply and Aaron groaned miserably beside him. He couldn't see what was happening but Derek kept the sound on and he could hear the furious clicking sound of his keyboard.

“Stop,” he whined from beneath his arm as his own phone began buzzing relentlessly in his jeans on the counter. “Just tell her I died.” He smiled weakly, kept it hidden in the crook of his elbow and listened as Derek's typing slowed down until it stopped and he heard the phone being discarded.

“Sorry,” Derek muttered, reclining in the chair. He wasn't, though, not really. He loved getting Emily all riled up, it was Penelope that he worried about and he grabbed for his phone when it buzzed, tried to placate her with quiet admissions. Emily he would ignore now, let her stew, no one was dying and he'd get away with it but Penelope would be on the first plane to Chicago if he didn't give her something. Quickly he snapped a photo of Aaron lying breathless with his arm over his face and sent it to her...he grunted, complained that Derek needed to leave, he was just making things worse for all of them but Penelope was happy enough to see that there was no blood, nothing visibly scary, just a tired and sick man lying in a hospital bed. He wouldn't scare her with details.

“I've spoken with your primary physician,” the doctor said, pulling up a stool beside the bed. The rest of his speech was long, difficult for Aaron to focus on, he hoped Derek was listening better than he was. Or at all, really, because he was too foggy to pick out more than a word or two here and there. He shivered and Derek shrugged out of his coat, lay it over Aaron's exposed chest without taking his eyes off of the doctor while he spoke.

More scans, more blood drawn, he was getting antsy and they weren't getting any real answers. It could have been as simple as they'd originally thought, dehydration or low blood sugar, it could have been that he'd taken an Ambien too late the night prior and it was still trying to make him sleep while he wanted to be awake. Those were the easiest to digest, the easiest to fix. But they weren't convinced, and Derek was just along for the ride as the doctors chased a diagnosis that made sense. That explained why every time he sat up, even with the IVs pumping him full of all sorts of things his labs indicated were needed, all of the color drained from his face and his blood pressure plummeted. Why he couldn't seem to breathe easily, why he could feel errant heartbeats in his throat.

“I'm not going home,” Derek said for the hundredth time as he rubbed Aaron's cold bare feet, pressed his thumbs into the arches, circled gently. Something to do with his hands, to keep him awake because lounging in the chair was going to put him to sleep even in his discomfort. “I won't give you the satisfaction.”

“Derek, you're exhausted,” Aaron argued but he didn't have the energy to put into taking it further. He didn't really want Derek to leave, he just couldn't stand the idea that they'd been there six hours now and Derek had only eaten a bag of potato chips when they'd both been looking forward to the pot roast Fran had in the oven. “At least go to the cafeteria or a vending machine, get something to eat.”

“I'll eat when you can,” was all he said and it was final enough that Aaron didn't try again. Of all the people on the planet, he had to choose the only person that might be more stubborn and willful than he was. His eyes were closed and he let himself enjoy, briefly, the way Derek's hands felt against his cold feet, pulling him into a distraction from the way the rest of his body felt.

“Walking pneumonia,” they said, sliding his chest x-ray up on the board beside them and flipping on the light. Derek stared, enthralled by the glimpse at what it looked like inside of Aaron's chest. He rested his hand against the labored rise and fall, amazed by what was going on just beneath his touch. “You can see this spot of infection right here...”

“He hasn't been coughing,” Derek muttered, staring, and the doctor nodded.

“If not for the syncope bringing you in, it's likely that the coughing and fever would have started in the next couple of days. Sometimes we create a perfect storm and wind up able to catch things early, as in this case. You'll be sick for Christmas,” the doctor said, flipping the light off and pulling the x-ray back down. “But at least you won't be here and you won't get any worse.” A couple more hours, a bolus of antibiotics and a bag of prescriptions that sat in his lap on the quiet ride home through the barren, snow covered streets. Every sound echoed through the piles of fresh powder, ricocheted between eager buildings waiting for the morning buzz. Derek forced their car through berms that threatened to stop them in their tracks, the plows moved slowly criss-crossing the streets but wouldn't touch anything they needed for hours yet. It was up to them, and the way Derek floored the gas and let his car rock its way through nearly made Aaron sick again.

“Slow down,” Aaron whined, and Derek smiled, tapping the breaks wildly and letting the car slide, fishtail a little and come to a stop near their destination. Aaron groaned, he should have seen it coming, he knew how Derek got in the first snow...he'd do everything in his power to remind himself quickly how to drive in the stuff, test every mechanism in his car, his own reflexes, from the safety of an empty road. He shivered when they came to a stop, folded his arms miserably over the deep ache in his chest that was getting more pronounced the longer he was upright and let Derek help him out of the car. Not eager to slip, spend another eternity in the hospital, he was content to allow Derek to coddle him until they were inside.

Fran was up, baking cinnamon rolls by the smell of it. “You're home,” she hissed, her whisper joyful as she tried not to wake the rest of the house. Derek wrapped her in a hug after easing Aaron down into a chair in the kitchen, asked her if she had any pot roast left. 3AM or not, he was starving. He didn't bother to ask her what she was doing up so early, he knew...they were cut from the same cloth. Busying himself with plating and heating his food, he spoke with his mother in hushed whispers, explained to her what was going on and by the time he was ready to eat, Aaron was asleep with his face buried in his arms on the table. He looked content and neither of them worried, it was a different scene from earlier as he crashed to the floor, there was no urgency here. Only silence, the wheezing sound of his labored breathing against the table. They visited quietly while Derek mowed through two helpings, waited until her cinnamon rolls were finished in the oven before excusing himself and dragging Aaron down the hall to their makeshift bedroom. He'd considered scooping Aaron into his arms and carrying him but the look on his face said he may not have much energy left but he would put up a fight and did he really want to deal with that? Aaron was beyond his limit for indignities, he could walk the few feet it would take to get to bed. The futon was uncomfortable and hurt his back, but Aaron shuffled gladly toward it, knowing it was better than the bed he'd just spent hours lying on. This would feel like luxury, and when he was undressed and tucked neatly beneath a thick stack of blankets, Derek slid in and curled around him, calming the way his body shivered at the sudden change in temperature.

“I am contagious,” Aaron reminded him through short, raspy breaths. It was getting harder to fill his lungs, he could feel the first waves of coughing...able to stifle it for now, it wouldn't last. Not that he wanted Derek to let him go, but he felt it necessary to point it out, give him a reason for a little self-preservation. Derek chuckled, burying his nose in Aaron's hair and snuffling, wrapping himself tighter. He anchored himself there.

“I'm not going anywhere, so you'd better be ready to take care of me when I get sick.”

“We'll see,” was all Aaron managed to whisper as he drifted off, the first of many dry coughs interrupting whatever was left of his thought.

[thechangeling]

Out of our heads Out of our minds

So evil writer brain decided to cook up and incredibly toxic kitty fic because apparently I'm a terrible person lol. Blame @ilikebooks8 for letting this see the light of day.

The title is based on the song Out of this world by Bush.

Cw: slightly nsfw, violence, cheating, incredibly toxic behavior, beloved characters making bad choices, and implied sex.

Kit returns.

He returns to Ty with the same dazzling smile and charming witt, only now he seems to have grown even more impossibly beautiful as time has passed.

Now he's all hard lines and defined muscles and piercing sinful blue eyes that make Ty so angry he could scream.

Kit laughs and Ty wants to tear his insides out. Wants to rip Kit's heart right out if his chest just like he did to Ty. The painful gnawing rage of a betrayal that still stings after all this time. And yet still, Ty heard Kit was in danger and he came running like a man obsessed.

Ty knows deep down now matter how angry he is, he could never let anything happen to Kit. Nothing permanent anyways. Sometimes when the ache becomes to difficult to bare, Ty imagines punching that stupid smirk right off of his face. Or choking him hard enough to leave bruises. Of course Ty would never actually do such a thing. The sight of Kit in pain, any sort of pain is just too unbearable.

And that's the worst part. No matter how angry Ty gets he knows it can't last. And no matter how painful it is to be near Kit again, he still feels this unexplainable pull. This whispering in his ear to get closer and closer. To reach out and touch.

But it's stupid, and it's wrong anyways because Ty already has someone. Anush who was by his side the whole time at the scholomance and has never betrayed him. Anush who is sweet and thoughtful and gorgeous. Ty should be happy. After all, wasn't this what he always wanted? Someone to be there for him?

So he tried to distract himself from Kit by throwing himself into spending time with Anush and working the case. That's all Kit was now, just the latest problem to solve. A supernatural disaster. They would save him and stop the oncoming war and everything would be fine.

And then Kit would be gone. Blind panic teared at Ty's insides at the thought. There were these moments with Kit where they would make eye contact, or they would bump into each other in the kitchen and their fingers would brush and Ty would just desperately want to wrap Kit in his arms again.

He wanted to ask if Kit had really meant what he said that day on the beach. Sometimes when Kit stared at him with that soft sad smile on his face Ty wondered if they were going through similar things. Sometimes Ty wanted to tell him that he wished he had never met Kit either.

Kit Herondale was dangerous and unpredictable and loving him was like holding a live wire. But funnily enough the same could probably be said about Ty. Especially lately.

He felt like he was constantly in pain. Like his body ached with invisible wounds that made it impossible to breathe. The world was brutal and unforgiving, berating him with constant noise and blinding lights jabbing hot pokers into his brain. And the people with their sickly sweet smiles as they demanded he bare his soul.

But what if there was nothing left anymore? What if his soul had died with Livvy? Ty tried to cling onto the things that made him feel better. He hid away in his favorite spot, listening to his favorite music and pouring over Sherlock. Repeating the words to himself over and over again like they could pull him out of this tailspin. Ty distracted himself with Anush's sweet kisses and wandering hands as he tried to turn his brain off for once in his life.

But his soul was screaming out for another person to be the one touching him. He wanted Kit and that was infuriating. It made no logical sense. Not only was Kit responsible for breaking his heart but he also was notorious for playing fast and loose with his own life. Ty couldn't spend all his time constantly feeling like his heart was living outside of his body. Constantly in danger of being ripped open by some dark and evil thing.

Ty had everything he thought he wanted. But it still wasnt enough.

During another sleepless night, Ty found himself wandering the institutes halls. At this point he was simply just overtired. Too many nights spent worrying or studying or reading instead of sleeping. Now his body doesn't remember how to rest. Ty was far too exhausted to operate on logic or reason so he found himself standing outside of Kit's door, wondering absentmindedly how he got there.

Ty placed his hand against the door, fighting the urge to open it and walk through. He can remember the first time he waited outside of Kit's door, just like it was yesterday. He had no idea at the time why he was so drawn to the mysterious boy who had shown up at the institute after Ty had threatened him with a knife. The boy who turned out to be a lost Herondale. And honestly after all of this time Ty still couldn't explain it.

This is a bad idea, He thought to himself as he slowly turned the doorknob. This is a terrible idea. Ty, driven by pure need like fire under his skin, pushed the door open.

Kit was awake as Ty suspected he would be, sitting by the window and staring out into the night sky. Under the moonlight he was glowing. He turned around to stare at Ty, first with a look of shock, and then that same hallow desperation Ty had been seeing on Kit's face lately.

He also looked angry.

"What the hell are you doing in here Ty?" He sounded exhausted. Ty almost felt guilty in a sense. He stared at Kit for a moment, unsure of what to say.

"I don't know," he whispered, staring at the ground. "I suppose I was compelled." Ty let his gaze slowly rise up Kit's body, drinking it in.

Kit scoffed harshly. "Compelled? By what exactly, Tiberius?"

Ty looked up at Kit's face in surprise. He rarely called Ty by his full name. Ty really didn't like how it felt. Cold and distant. Ty sighed, pushing his fingertips against his collarbone and tracing it slightly.

"I don't know. I guess I just needed to know. I need to know why you left me." Ty tried not to let himself sound desperate or weak, but he had become worn down by this point. He couldn't keep up his defenses much longer.

"Why didn't you want me?" He muttered. "Why wasn't I good enough?"

And there it was. The painful truth that Ty had been avoiding. The fact that Kit had tossed him aside just like so many had before. Like Paige. Like his father. He had always tried so hard to make people happy. To live up to their expectations. But in the end it didn't matter how hard he tried, sometimes there was just no pleasing certain people.

Sometimes it seemed like there was no point in being good and following the rules if nothing ever changed. If Ty always ended up in the same place. If people always saw him as a problem or an inconvenience or worse, then he could just live up to their expectations. Be selfish and cold and cruel because no amount of begging and smiling was going to earn him respect.

Kit glared at him in shock. "Who the hell do you think you are? Coming in here to play mind games with me?" Before Ty could register what was happening, Kit was storming towards him and shoving him up against the wall with a loud thunk.

The feeling of Kit touching him again after all this time was dizzying. Kit was shorter then him so he needed to crane his neck a little to look up at Ty, which meant that his throat was completely exposed for Ty to stare at.

"I told you how I felt and you did nothing! You ignored me!" Kit cried. "I wanted you more then I've ever wanted anything Ty! I still do!" Tears were streaming down his face. Ty stared at Kit, completely frozen. His wrists were pinned to the wall by Kit's hands and their faces were inches apart.

Ty struggled to collect himself. "I didn't know what was going on," he gasped out shakily. "I was a mess Kit. I just had to get her back. But-." He cut himself off. It was all for nothing. Ty had lost Livvy in the end and he had lost Kit as well.

Ty shook his head. "Does this mean that you love me?" His voice sounded so far away. Like the words were being pulled from some unexpected place within him. Kit let out a soft gasp and squeezed his eyes shut before fixing his expression into a blank slate. He leaned forward slightly so that their lips were just barely touching, then gently trailed his mouth across Ty's cheek to his ear.

Ty felt him smirk slightly before Kit whispered in his ear. "Go to sleep Ty. Go back to your boyfriend."

And before Ty had time to think, he was lashing out. He shoved Kit backwards as hard as he could with a snarl. Kit went flying across the room and slammed into the opposite wall. If Kit had been human it probably would have knocked him out. Ty stared in horror at what he had done as Kit clutched his ribs and groaned.

"You seriously have some anger management issues!" Kit snapped at him, glaring pointedly. Ty knew that. When he was younger he used to have fits of uncontrollable rage all the time. Words didnt come easily to him so he would hit, scratch, bite or throw whatever was closest to make people realize he was in pain. When he wanted to say "don't touch me" or "you hurt my feelings" but he just could make the words form properly, he would get angry. And then he would lash out.

Ty thought he had been getting better at managing his emotions and communicating. But there was something about Kit Herondale that just evaporated every last bit of logic and reason he had until all that was left was the urge to scream.

Ty gaped in shock, searching for the right thing to say. "By the angel Kit, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to do that I swear!" He pleaded. His fingers were beginning to shake and flutter at his sides. He tapped desperately against his thigh, scratching at the material of his sweatpants to try and calm himself down.

Kit just shook his head and laughed humourlessly. "Honestly Ty, we should just tell the Seelie Queen not to worry. And Janus, and all the other people who want the first heir dead. You'll destroy me just fine on your own." He gaze was piercing and ruthless.

Ty's breathing was frantic and erratic as he shook in agony. He could feel he was on the urge of a meltdown.

Kit pulled himself to his feet. He stared at Ty longingly and then smiled slightly. A genuine smile. "But honestly what a way to go. Does that answer your question sweetheart?"

Ty gasped soundlessly, his hands shaking at his sides. He fought to get a hold of himself. Kit studied Ty for a moment, then slowly began to approach him.

"Why are you here Ty? Why did you come here exactly?" Kit was speaking in a soft lulling voice as if he was trying to hypnotize Ty.

"I'm here because I miss you," Ty admitted. "It's confusing. Because I'm still mad at you. But I can't stop thinking about you." Ty felt as though he was close to crying, which was concerning because he rarely ever cried.

Only for Kit.

Kit scowled at him slightly. "You're with someone else, remember?"

Guilt instantly pierced through Ty's chest. "Yeah I know, I'm a terrible person," he said bitterly. He didn't want to admit to himself that he had been trying this whole time to distract himself from Kit. That he was using Anush. But that was technically true. Ty saw the opportunity to lose himself in a pretty boy with an honest smile who loved him wholeheartedly.

Ty thought he could forget but then here he was. All roads led to Kit Herondale.

Kit sighed and reached for Ty, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close. "You arent terrible. You're spiraling. And you come to me like I can save you from yourself? Please," Kit chuckled. "I can barely save myself."

"I don't need you to save me."

Kit stared at him with an expression that was hard to place. Then he smiled, but it wasnt a kind smile. It was a satisfied, knowing smirk. Kit traced his thumb under Ty's chin then back up to his lips, forcing them to part slightly.

"You think I don't know why you're here love?" He cooed in a voice that was both soothing and alluring. You think I don't know what you're after?" Kit sighed, sounding a little worn down. "If I was a better person, a stronger person. I would tell you to leave." He dipped his hands down underneath Ty's shirt.

Ty shivered at the cold feeling against his skin. He dropped his forhead down to lean against Kit's, revealing in the contact. "Lucky for you," Kit whispered against his lips, "I'm not."

Ty felt the last string of his self control snap as he kissed Kit roughly, grabbing onto his torso and pulling him closer. Kit responded to the kiss eagerly, parting his lips for Ty and laughing deliriously as their lips met again and again.

Kit was tearing off Ty's shirt as he walked him backwards, closer to the bed. As soon as he had slid it off if Ty's body, Kit tossed the shirt aside and went back to kissing him. Ty felt his knees hit the bed frame and he fell backwards onto the soft welcoming mattress, pulling Kit down with him.

Kit kissed a line down Ty's neck to his pulse point and Ty groaned, burying his fingers in Kit's curls. He was lost in a sea of pure desperation.

"Tell me to stop," Kit whispered between kisses. Ty froze for a moment. Then he understood.

Kit was giving him an out.

Ty responded by pulling Kit even closer and letting his head fall back against the pillows.

He closed his eyes and let Kit Herondale ruin him.

The morning after was the hardest. Ty pulled himself from Kit's arms and forced himself not to look back.

And that was when he finally cried.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

WHAT THE HELL FAE! WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS OMG 😭

[whump-town]

The Unexplainable

This has been sitting in as a WIP for so long and I’m tired of looking at it so here’s something but it’s not much

Mortch-- and lots of hurt

The first time that Derek Morgan sees it happen is about the third time it’s happened overall. It’s an awful thing to watch happen to someone he loves so dearly but there’s absolutely no warning it’s happening. He’s forced to watch Aaron’s concerned furrowed eyebrows fall and his soft brown eyes roll back into his head. His nose still gushing like a slashed artery and his trembling left hand covered in dark crimson. Derek can’t even hear his own scream but he can feel it claw its way up his throat. He falls to his knees before Aaron, pulling the seizing man onto his side, watching him choke and sputter for three agonizing minutes.

Aaron doesn’t wake up until he’s settled in the hospital. The EKG above his head measuring out his steady heartbeat but his body is so weak it doesn’t even feel attached to him. Morgan’s grip on his hand is vice-like and before he can help it a groan leaves his dry lips and Morgan lets go. His brain can’t form words so all he can do is part his dry lips and whimper softly from the pain. He’s cold and he can’t move his legs and he doesn’t want to be here blanketed in wires and thin scratchy blankets.

“Shh.” Morgan brushes tears from Aaron’s eyes, his lower lip trembling as he forces himself to smile. They release him within the day with specific instructions for Morgan to watch him carefully. Despite the importance, they place on this, despite how scared Morgan is they go home. Aaron’s electroencephalogram comes back normal given the circumstances and with normal brain activity now and with him growing more distressed with being in the hospital each passing hour they decide it’s better he just goes home.

No matter how many blankets Derek pulls around his shoulders, his teeth chatter and there’s a vacancy to Aaron’s eyes he just can’t handle. Derek keeps Jack at a distance, telling the boy Hotch is just sleeping, that he’s just tired. It’s easy to buy, Hotch is always tired, and Jack spends an hour tucked up against his father’s side. Face buried in Aaron’s side until Derek calls him in for dinner and Derek can see the fear, how little Jack truly trusts him. But it’s not him, it’s-- It’s the number of times Jack has been told that particular lie. “Daddy’s fine, Jack. He’s just tired.”

He finds himself with a shadow, Jack not straying too much further than arms reach. He wedges himself between wherever Derek is and someplace else he can see Aaron. Derek reads him his bedtime story and promises that Aaron will be feeling better tomorrow and things will be back together. Even if he doesn’t know if that’s true or if Jack even believes him but he says it because he needs to hear and because he hopes Jack might forgive him for not knowing if that was true.

He comes out of Jack’s room, later than normal. Jack cries himself to sleep and Morgan can’t figure out what he’s supposed to say, how to stop it, and wants to ask Aaron how he does this. He wants to ask him intrusively deep questions in the dark of their bedroom where he won’t see Aaron’s reactions. Instead, he walks into their room and finds Aaron exactly where he left him.

So Morgan crawls into bed beside him, tucking himself against Aaron’s side. Pressing his face into Aaron’s cold collarbone and closing his eyes, his day clothes still on. “Why can’t anything be simple with you?” Derek asks. He falls asleep but it’s light, with no true rest. He wakes with each bump, each caught breath, and every jerk of his muscles.

The next day Aaron has no memory of what happened just that he was standing in the kitchen when his head started to hurt and then nothing, he’s waking up in their bed. The shock of it stings and Derek wishes he could forget.

The doctors can’t pinpoint anything specific. Aaron’s anemic but he’s always a little anemic, it’s never caused seizures before. So, they assume it’s a once and done sort of thing.

The second time saves him the exhaustion of the seizure but Derek will never forget the impact of the ice-cold hole that hits his stomach at the sound of Aaron’s body hitting the ground. He’s in the shower, having just walked away from Derek’s too curious hands trying to worm their way down his pants. They’d separated with a kiss and an aroused shiver down Aaron’s back as Derek got exactly what he wanted, to get him hot and bothered. But Aaron’s self-control is annoyingly strong and they have things to do and Aaron isn’t rearranging their carefully constructed schedule for some fooling around.

Derek rolls over to Aaron’s half of the bed, seeping heavily into the warmth left behind by Aaron’s body. His heated blanket still tangled with their comforter. Aaron can’t go anywhere without that thing and Derek has accepted that if there is a fire his safety comes second to the blanket. He doesn’t understand the damn appeal of his ragged old thing but Aaron’s weird and he accepted, long ago, that there is just no way to fully understand the man.

He’s floating, only half-conscious of the world around him when Aaron falls. It’s loud, he brings bottles of things down with him but more concerning than spilled shampoo is the crack-- the distinctly painful sound of a body hitting the tub’s unforgiving floor. Then silence.

Derek throws the bathroom door open, not giving Aaron’s sacred privacy any thought. Aaron is there, on the cold tub floor sputtering and coughing up blood and water as quickly as it pours from his nose and from the showerhead into his mouth. He’s shaking, eyes dopily blinking in his confusion.

Not minding the harsh spray coming down over them, fortunate to escape the entrapping feeling of soaked clothes against his back, Derek bend over the side. He’s in his boxers, the only clothing he bothers to sleep with. “Aaron.” He cups the back of the other man’s neck, moving him from the direct spray of the water. With a cough, Aaron turns his face into Morgan. Sitting up and turning towards where Morgan doesn’t hesitate to draw him close. “Dammit,” Morgan runs his hand under Aaron’s nose. Trying and failing to wipe his face of the thickly falling blood. “Your nose is bleeding again. Did you get lightheaded? What happened?”

Leaning his head into Morgan’s shoulder, Hotch shrugs. He’s naked and cold and sitting on the floor of the tub. His hip is throbbing and his fingers are tingling painfully from where he hit his elbow coming down. There is the memory of sticking his face into the spray, drawing back, and seeing only the light trails of blood coming off of him. He can’t even remember bringing his hand to the source.

“Ok,” Derek sighs in-defeat. If Aaron knows, Derek can wrangle it out of him later but for right now he just needs to get him out of the tub. Easier said than done but they power through. Derek stopping every time Aaron can’t bite back a grunt of pain, shaking in Derek’s arms as he manages to get his feet underneath him.

“Sit.”

Aaron shakes his head, arms wrapped around his chest as he shivers. He’s shaking so hard he’s jerking, nearly taking himself off his feet. “Can’t,” he rasps, “ ‘m wet.” Derek grabs him by a hip and a shoulder, not pushing more moving his body down anyways. Aaron groans as the sheets get wet, as they stick to his skin. “Gonna have to wash these again,” Aaron mumbles.

Too tired to argue much farther, Aaron leans back into the pillows, closes his eyes. Derek takes his hand after a moment, rubbing his thumb across Aaron’s cold skin.

Derek is blinking quickly to keep his tears from falling. It’s not a matter of shame he just doesn’t want to upset Aaron more than he already is. Aaron knows that he’s upset. “Please don’t cry,” he whispers, rubbing at Morgan’s hand. “I’m okay. I promise.” Aaron tries to be more attentive than he really feels. Sitting up even though it makes him nauseous and watching and talking with Derek as he gets dressed.

Derek still has to go and do what they were planning on doing, he’s just got to do it by himself.

“I’ll bring you ice cream,” Derek promises softly. He lingers just a moment longer, palm on Aaron’s cheek. He moves to speak several times but none of what he needs to say can force its way up. How do you express such tremendous fear in losing someone while communicating the outrage that boils at the base of your sternum at the very thought of the realization that you know they’re lying to protect you? Because he doesn’t have those words anymore. He can’t look at Aaron and feel the pain of fury. He only sees tired smile lines on Aaron’s face and the ache of where those stronger emotions should be is nothing. “Call if you feel anything. Anything, Aaron. I mean it.”

Aaron nods, eyes falling to the comforter. He hates feeling weak and he hates worrying Derek even more.

“Just rest,” Derek sighs, seeing the tension rolling off Aaron in thick waves. They can deal with that later. “Call me and if you don’t--” it takes him a moment to think of a proper threat to issue out. “Well, if you don’t I’m sending the team over to get you. I’m sure you don’t want them to see you in your full glory.”

Aaron narrows his eyes, “you wouldn’t.”

Derek raises an eyebrow, “test me. I dare you.”

“I’ll call.” he promises. 

Derek doesn’t believe him, not for a moment. “Okay.” He knows there has to be more that Aaron isn’t telling him. Though he isn’t sure what it is and if he’s wrong then he’s poking something far more serious. He’s just worried and it’s complicated with Aaron (good God everything with Aaron always is). He loves him though, and for some stupid reason he really loves Aaron’s stubborn ass. Even if right now he wants to kick him.

“Hey, get Jack some more cereal?” 

Morgan pulls a hoodie over his shirt, nodding. “Same thing as last time or is he over the frosted flakes?” 

Hotch shrugs, “I never know. Just get something that looks good.” Either way, Derek will end up eating it too and then they’ll both make fun of his oatmeal but beg him for a piece of the fruit off the top. 

“Okay,” Derek bends down and kisses the top of his head. “Be back in a few hours. Read one of your books, watch a movie, but stay out of paperwork.” Hotch tries to open his mouth but Derek just shakes his head. “I don’t even want to hear it. Please Aaron, just stay in bed. Relax.”

Relax isn’t even in Aaron’s vocabulary. 

“I will.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Derek rolls his eyes. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

[zenosungs]

laughable/lachrymose

Danganronpa V3 | Kokichi/Shuichi | Rated T

Toast is easy to make, right? Easy to make. You put the bread in the toaster and you wait and you spread honey on it when it’s done. Shuichi likes toast with honey. It’s easy. Kokichi needs easy. He can do this.

Ignoring the voices that have started screaming at him again he fumbles with the bag of bread, barely managing to fish a slice out, hands latching onto it in a seizing grasp so tight it almost crumbles in his hand. Flashes of hot and cold ravaging his body, he practically shoves it in the toaster, aching, hurting, shattering.

(OR: a fragmented road to recovery)

note:

drv3 spoilers!!

tw // suicidal thoughts tw // kokichi's death, miu's death, gonta's death (not directly stated but vague details) tw // unhealthy coping mechanisms

this entire thing is a bit heavy in general so please proceed with caution. it's not so shippy because my goal isn't to romanticize any of this, shuichi isn't a magical being who can heal kokichi with his words and touch, and he's also on the path of recovery as well

this was all written as a word vomit vent thing in one sitting so just lmk if you spot mistakes

i care about you, please reach out to someone when you need to

READ ON AO3! 

--

He should be asleep.

Kokichi should, but then again, there are a lot of things he should be doing—healing, resting, blocking all memories out—though night terrors and bubbling trepidation and the inability to close his eyes without feeling the cold metal beneath him has proved to be a hindrance. He stays awake more often than he doesn’t, which is something entirely beyond his control; no matter the soothing words Shuichi mumbles in the dead of night, or the way he always keeps Kokichi close by in a loose yet comforting hold, he can’t sleep.

He doesn’t anymore. He’s stopped trying, anyway.

(It goes deeper beyond the label he hides behind as just insomnia. If insomnia can be defined as “persistent problems falling and/or staying asleep,” can it really be just insomnia if he’s the one who’s forcing himself to stay awake? If he only faces more sickening memories when his eyes are closed, what’s the point? Or maybe, just maybe, he’s lying to himself again, something like youdon’twantanyofthoseoptionsyouwanttodisappear—but as he always does, he lets the lie bleed into him until it is him. Until there’s nothing left to call a lie.)

He could be a zombie now, he’s sure of it. With the way he’s roaming around the apartment at—a glance at the clock—4 in the morning, and the way he certainly feels undead, calling himself a zombie doesn’t seem too far off. Shuichi’s grip on him, however loose it may have been, was getting too suffocating anyway.

He sits on the couch. Stares at a TV that’s playing nothing.

Deep breath in—

(...shut up, you asshole! the whizzing of an arrow through heavy air—kaito, can you hear me, please drink this antidote sorry, but i can’t die here… since i’m the mastermind of this killing game—redwhitehotsearingmetalcold—)

He scrambles to turn the TV on.

It’s so funny. The way they never stop fucking talking like a mixtape of voices ringing in his head even though everything is over and done with, oh god, he shouldn’t be dragging this out like he is, because none of it even happened. If none of it happened, why does he always feel the phantom pain of arrows digging into his flesh, or the descension of metal onto someone so petite—it all certainly felt so real, still feels so real—

—It’s not, and he knows that. He woke up from the simulation. Fought until there was no fight in him left. Until his lungs turned to ashes and pretty amethyst hair was yanked out of his scalp (by his doing, everything bad is always by his doing, so it seems) and so many eyes came to check in on him each day he spent recovering slowly in the hospital.

Is he supposed to feel relieved?

Happy? Glad that he’s awake from all of that? It’s alarming, really, that he feels nothing of the sort. What is he supposed to feel? Even if Saihara-chan had told him that any of his feelings were valid—anger, bitterness, resentment and horror—why does he still feel like nothing? Not numbness, but akin to it, certainly, because numbness is where you feel nothing, but simultaneously he feels like nothing. Like everything. Like death. Like life he doesn’t want breathed into him.

The TV drones on, white noise in the back of his head. He could make this work. That’s right. He’s adapted before. He can make himself feel okay again, or lie himself into thinking so, because that’s how it always ends, doesn’t it?

On shaky legs, he blocks out the voices; abhorrent Maki’s, strained Kaito’s, harsh Shuichi’s, tearful Gonta’s, desperate Miu’s, all of them cherry-picked from every single corner of his mind that he can’t ever find a way to escape anymore.

He stumbles, wandering without a purpose over to the bathroom, a trembling hand pushing open the door and flicking on the light. Headache-inducing fluorescent light flickers overhead, until it floods the capacity of the room, bearing enough light for him to be able to survey himself in the mirror.

He looks dead. Or, more so, like he could die. Right now, and maybe put an end to everything. An end to nothing. How does he fucking escape? How can he live like this? Or with this, the knowledge of everything he did in the killing game, his sacrifice, the hatred in everyone’s voices that he doubtlessly deserved?

Kokichi giggles, low and empty, as he turns the faucet on with a squeak and splashes cold water on his face. He could totally die right now. The way that brings more relief to him than anything else ever since the simulation is so laughable.

I could die. Right now. It’s as simple as using the sink or smashing my head against the bathtub. How hilarious.

Giving one final splash of frigid water onto a pale face, he turns the sink off, and allows himself a small moment of breathing. He’s been so bad at that lately, both him and Saihara. Everyone, really. No one is near being the textbook definition of okay, but they all didn’t expect to be either, although the one stark difference between them and him is that they’ve accepted that they’re going to recover slowly and reach okayness once again.

So why does he feel so stuck? Whenever he runs away from the echoing whirr of the hydraulic press it clutches him in its grasp again, and whenever he embraces it it makes him relive the entire scene over and over and over again in ways so sickening he feels like he just gets worse with each damn passing night—gasping for air even when he doesn’t sleep, awakening in cold sweat if he does manage to doze—maybe there’s nothing for him left here, fuck, why didn’t they just let him stay dead—

5, 4, 3, 2, 1. He could do the anxiety coping technique, or he could listen to music as a distraction, or he could go back to bed and pretend none of this is happening, or he could do the breathing method (in for four, hold for seven, out for eight), anything.

He could eat something. He could do that.

Shuichi’s been reprimanding him for his neglect of food anyway (even though the bluenette isn’t all that better at it) so in a way, this could serve as an apology for his inability to be a good person, boyfriend, living human being, all of that. For causing him so much trouble. For interfering with Shuichi’s own recovery process, even though it’s the last thing Kokichi wants to do. Unfortunately, the universe has a lovely addiction to just screwing him over.

Swallowing past a gag, because all of this thinking is so overwhelmingly nauseating, Kokichi stumbles out of the bathroom, not bothering to turn the light off. Everything is always so loud at night, everything is doused in so much more clarity, to the point where he can see them clearly. Miu’s face, terrified and contorted, even though it was just her avatar he still recalls so clearly the look of utter anguish on her actual corpse. Gonta’s baffled and horrified look when Kokichi wouldn’t stop yelling and yelling and yelling (“I’m sick of hearing you say you don’t know! God, why are you so dumb?”). They haunt him in ways unexplainable, although both of them had already made clear they’re on the path of forgiving him, but why does he need to be given undeserved forgiveness—

He finds himself in the kitchen, hands so shaky and cold he’s barely able to even turn on the light, panic emanating for no fucking reason, because he’s all messed up and gross and mutilated in ways that can’t be seen with the naked eye. He can’t cope. Everything fails when he tries. He laughs again, choked and nervous, opening the pantry and letting his eyes mindlessly glance over the food on the shelves; he reaches with invisibly scarred arms and takes out the glass jar of honey.

Toast is easy to make, right? Easy to make. You put the bread in the toaster and you wait and you spread honey on it when it’s done. Shuichi likes toast with honey. It’s easy. Kokichi needs easy. He can do this.

Ignoring the voices that have started screaming at him again he fumbles with the bag of bread, barely managing to fish a slice out, hands latching onto it in a seizing grasp so tight it almost crumbles in his hand. Flashes of hot and cold ravaging his body, he practically shoves it in the toaster, aching, hurting, shattering.

why are you like this it’s so easy to live why are you having so much trouble with it? is it because you can’t stop hearing iruma’s pleas or maki’s harsh words or kaito’s yells or saihara-chan’s confusion whenever you hung out and played games? is it because it would’ve been easier to stay dead, easier to be crushed and leave it at that, all cracked bones under unforgiving metal? or maybe it’s because—

Stop, fuck, just—

He’s crying—why is he crying?—by the time the toast pops out, golden and hot but he picks it up anyway, he’s been burned worse before, by words and by poison, so he holds it and puts it on a plate on the counter that they must have forgotten to put away.

With a strangled sob he clumsily takes the jar of honey again, tremulous fingers barely letting him even keep his hands on it, glass smooth and cold against calloused skin, worn and too ruined and bitten to be attached to someone as youthful as he is. He can do this, he has to do this, because he doesn’t feel like he’s getting anywhere near better but if he sticks to routine and does everyday things he should be doing easily—he could trick his mind into thinking so. It works, it always works, please work this time…

(Why is something as simple as this so goddamn hard, why is it all so hard, why was dying easier than all of this, why is existing so easy but settling down so difficult, why is waking up so simple but finding reasons to let it stay that way so unbearable, why, why why why—)

He bites his tongue and curses brokenly when the glass jar slips from his hands, falling to the floor without an ounce of grace, fracturing into uncountable glass shards at his feet.

Immediately he steps back, before sinking to his knees with a pathetic sob, the same sinful hands reaching out, hovering and unsure of what to do. Broom—yeah, the broom, he can sweep this up, he can fix it, he can fix all of this, he can fix himself, he can live, he can make himself feel okay, he can exist, he can do this, he can breathe, he can—

In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. His lungs quiver and shrivel up and cease to work whenever he tries sucking in air, body failing him, mind overrun as his vision blurs. If he could just get up and get a broom or something, he could get this all over and done with, or he could stop thinking of the worst possible ways to end this, end him.

Arms wrap around him gently before he can even try to stand up. Kokichi trembles, clawing at the hands of the person as he blubbers and cries and bows his head, unraveling again just as he always does, sick to his stomach and wondering why he’s subjected to this form of torture that he’s incapable of enduring for any longer.

The person gently turns him around in their arms, cups his cheek. The hand is cold. Shaking, too.

He wants to laugh again, but all that leaves him is another mangled cry, idly pressing his forehead against Shuichi’s chest, ringing in his ears so loud he can’t hear whatever the other boy is trying to tell him. Kokichi’s fingers dig into his back, into his soft sleeping shirt, moments away from tearing the fabric. He could throw up. He could die.

A kiss is pressed to the top of his head, and Shuichi is too nice for someone who had found his very pathetic boyfriend sobbing on the kitchen floor with forgotten toast on the counter and a shattered glass jar with honey pooling at his feet. This time, Kokichi does laugh, the noise interrupted by hiccuping sobs but near-hysterical at the exact same time, the sound oddly resembling the way he had laughed in the killing game, though lacking the malice it had at the time. Tired this time around.

He laughs until it gives way to screaming sobs, Shuichi trying his best to stop his own disturbed trembling, merely speaking softly and low into the shell of Kokichi’s ear, no doubt trying to reassure him. Or get him to cope (and fail). Or help him breathe.

why is this happening why am i like this why are you doing this to me, shuichi, it just hurts more whenever you try and i’m trying so hard to feel okay again and make things easier but it just gets harder every single day and—

—Kokichi giggles softly.

Shuichi shushes him gently, but Kokichi basks in the ridiculousness of this all. He switches between laughing and crying, screaming and chuckling, breaking down. Perhaps he’ll never get back from this. Shuichi had told him that all his emotions are valid, but how can he describe how he’s feeling into words? Crying is supposed to help. How amusing.

(Is he supposed to feel better? Relieved? He stifles a noise halfway between a sob and a chortle. It’s uproarious, he decides, that he feels anything but.)

[mimwrites]

Shift // Prologue

pairing: Jung Hoseok x Reader (f)

word count: 1K

tags: dragon au, medieval au, fluff/angst, mystery, fantasy, just an idea that I had whilst trying to get so sleep so why the hell not

warnings: character death

[ a/n this is just the prologue so sorry if it’s a bit slow but next chapter will start introducing more of a storyline (and our boy). anyways, enjoy! ]

///

You had known the Reinsworth family for almost as long as you could remember. There were faint memories of you at your mother's side, as she wandered from doorway to doorway with you clutching at her skirt as not to lose her in the crowds of people. Begging for food, shelter, anything to help her and her little girl.

They were the first ones to show you both kindness, to let you into their home despite the disapproving glances of the other noble families. They had given you both a room to share. It was small but to you, it was the first room you had ever had and therefore the best. It was also warm, with no wind or rain or snow. And your mother no longer cried with you in her arms, when she thought you had fallen asleep. The biggest bonus.

They made your mother a kitchen hand first, helping out with the simple tasks of cutting vegetables and feeding the simple livestock like the chickens and pigs. You helped out when you could, small fists grabbing handfuls of grain to throw in delight at the awaiting hens. Giggling and running back behind your mother as they raced forward to peck at the ground.

When you were old enough to finally think for yourself, you joined your mother in helping in the kitchen as well. By this time, she had earned her way in the household and taken over the kitchen when the head cook had stepped down. 14 years in a household kitchen, helping to prepare meals and serve extravagant banquets, had given even your once-homeless mother the experience needed to be on par with any other household chef. Not to mention her jam tarts had tided over even the master of the house, Mrs Reinsworth herself. It had been a natural transition for your mother to take over, and you couldn’t be prouder.

Eventually, you made it out of the kitchen to become first a maid for the general household, then a nanny (and a friend) for the Reinsworth girls, before becoming their top maid in waiting. You still saw your mother every night as you shared the same room, chatting over jam tarts about the day's happenings. But your days themselves were filled with accompanying the girls to private lessons, assisting in arranging parties and banquets (Lisa absolutely hated doing it, and Ruby was still too young to quite organise anything well enough), as well as joining them on horseback rides at both theirs, and Mrs Reinsworth’s, insistence.

Truly, the noble family was unlike any you had ever met before. You, and your mother, owed them everything you had and not only did you feel indebted to them, their everyday kindness and generosity made it feel like an honour to serve them and be part of the Reinsworth household. But as always, good things can never last for too long.

It began with a small cough, your mother turning over her shoulder to cough discretely before going back to baking the evening pie. A cough, which within a few weeks, turned into wracking shakes and coughing fits that ended up with blood on her sleeve and a ringing in her head. At Mrs Reinsworth’s insistence, she finally took a step back from working in the kitchen for the sake of her depleting health. Physicians and doctors came and went from your little room after that, an endless stream of medicine after medicine passing through your doors with little to no effect. Your mother tried to wave them off, fussing over the expenses being spent on her behalf, but Mrs Reinsworth would have none of it. They had become dear friends after all the years, and seeing your mother in so much unexplainable pain hurt your Lady as much as it hurt you.

The doctors finally concluded that it must have been due to all the years on the cold and unforgiving streets, that had been lying dormant until recently. All they knew was that whatever it was, it wasn’t contagious. A poor conclusion to your ears, but you were just as stumped over your mother’s illness as they were so not much could be said in contradiction. The coughing fits grew worse and worse as the passing weeks went on, your mother growing frailer with them. The Reinsworth girls insisted you take time off to care for her as her health deteriorated, insisting that they would be able to handle themselves for as long as you needed. Everyone knew what was happening, as much as they tried to avoid saying it.

Your mother died in March. In her final days, her face held a peacefulness that sat at ends with her frail body. The coughs were fewer in between but just as powerful, and you helped her to feel comfortable as much as you could. And then you talked. You told her about your earliest memories, your happiness when you both were taken in, how you loved to see your mother happy and warm and safe whilst working in the kitchen. About throwing the seed to the chickens, and the soft way she stroked your hair as you hid in her skirts away from the pigs. About her smile, and her hugs, and warm jam tarts. About how much you loved her.

Your mother smiled along with you, her hand resting like a fragile bird in yours. She whispered of her life before you, of stories you had never heard before of far off lands where beasts still roamed beyond your wildest imagination. Of how she came to have you, her dearest daughter and the brightest star in her life. Of how proud she was of the strong woman you had become. Of how much she loved you.

Your mother died in March, and with her, a piece of your heart.

Her ashes were buried under her favourite oak tree in the yard, one that she watched from the kitchen window and sat beneath when her days off allowed. It had reminded her of her birthplace.

After that, you threw yourself into your work. As a distraction, a way to be so physically tired that you would instantly fall asleep when you went back to your now cold and lonely room that you wouldn’t miss the warmth of another person. At least, not as much.

You helped the girls with their literature and poetry, having joined in on enough lessons when growing up that you had become an adequate reader and writer yourself. You galloped for hours with them, across the paddocks and the glen, helping them to sit both side-saddle and like the men of the household did. And on your days off, you threw yourself into your own studies of anything you could grab your hands on. Medicinal books, herbal healing guides, astronomy descriptions, even the occasional novel. At your insistence, you even began to take up fencing and defence lessons with Master Phaedrus. The Reinsworths has been hesitant at first, unsure why a maid in waiting would wish to take up such sports. But once you had explained that it would make you feel better when accompanying the girls, that if you had some knowledge on how to both defend yourself and attack others, you felt that you would better be able to protect the girls, they agreed to your request.

And so you trained, and read, and rode, and distracted yourself as much as possible to avoid looking too directly at the hole that grew in your heart. And the empty bed that lay beside you every night.

[silvertaetae]

New Beginnings {M}

{Alternative Beginning}

Warning: Death, Cheesy cute stuff and like 3% suggestive content.

Pairing: Yuta x Reader

Word count: 4,361

A/N: This isn’t a must read for New Beginnings. This is what I originally started off with whe I first began writing New Beginnings. This is basically background knowledge and things like that. This has no meantion of Tae or anything vital that happens in the main story. Hope you enjoyed/enjoy.

People say that when you find the one that you’ll know it. The way you feel is indescribable. Your heart will soar to the heavens and you’ll be content in your life. Every moment with them will bring you unimaginable happiness. You would be able to look at them and see the love they had for you. They would be your everything for forever.

That's all a person wants. All they want is to be loved by the person they love the most. That sensation of joy from feeling that person hold you tight as you doze off side by side. Everyone wants to feel like they are wanted and needed. Everyone wants to be in love. People search for it their whole lifetime. Some die happy and content, from finally finding that special someone. Others die bitter and sour from never being able to find it.

You had found that. You had found the person who made your life feel like a dream come true. Yuta Nakamoto. He was everything you wanted in a guy. Kind, smart, an individual, open-minded and so much more. He was loved by many and hated by those who envied him. His personality attracted all. So bubbly and cheerful. Always there to give others a hand. That’s how you had met. You sat crying outside your apartment on a Thursday night, freezing due to the conditions of an unforgiving winter. Your tights and white t-shirt did nothing to protect you from the strong wind stinging your skin. Your head buried in your knees as you wailed. That’s when you heard a door open and you looked up to see a very beautiful man walking out of your neighbor's apartment waving goodbye. He laughed shutting the door before making eye contact with you.

“Good god! Are you okay?” He rushed over to your side.

“I-I. I got locked out of my apartment. Everything I have is inside including my phone and jacket so I’m stuck out here.” You began to cry harder.

“Here take this.” He shimmed his coat off and handed it to you. You put it on zipping it up and wipe the tears off your face. He pulled you off the floor smiling. “Let’s get you somewhere warm.”

“I don’t have shoes on.” You point to your sock-covered feet. Next thing you know you’re on this strangers back heading towards his car and then at the McDonalds down the street. He carried you in and sat you at a booth, running off to get you something to eat. For a while, you sit there in silence eating your chicken nuggets. “Thank you.” You mumble out.

“Anytime. Do you need my phone to call and see if your landlord can come and get your apartment open?”

“Yes, if you are okay with me using your phone.” He smiled and took out his phone out handing it to you.

“The password is 73025.” You called your landlord and he told he stop by tomorrow morning around eight-thirty to do it for you. Hanging up the phone you put your face in your hands and begin to weep again. “Hey. Hey. What’s wrong?”

“He’s not coming until eight-thirty. Tomorrow morning. I don’t know where I’m going to stay.”

“Damn it.” A moment of silence passes. He grabbed your arms moving them from your face. “Are you positive there’s no one you can stay with?” He spoke softly.

“My friend Jennie maybe.”

“Do you know her address?” You nod your head. “Put it in my phone and I’ll take you there.” You nod your head again, as the worry starts to roll off your shoulders. “Finish eating and then we can go.” You finish all your nuggets and hand the stranger the fries.

“You didn’t eat anything.” He nods and you both sit there in silence as he finishes the fries. He threw everything away and soon enough you were on this stranger back again on the way back to his car. Silence fills the air before you start crying again.

“Why are you crying?”

“Thank you. Thank you so much. I mean I don’t even know you and yet here you are taking care of me as if I’m like your best friend. Thank you.”

“It’s fine- um.” He paused and you realized that you still don’t know anything about him and vice versa. It’s funny really.

“Y/N.”

“Well then. No biggie Y/N. By the way, I’m Yuta. I wasn’t going to leave you out there in the cold. That’s evil. Now rest up we have a twenty-minute drive to your friend's house.” You bite back the urge to say thank you again and nod leaning back into the seat. Soon you’re asleep in the car with a stranger. You’re woken up to a soft voice and someone shaking you gently. The man is outside the car. The car door open and standing in the cold. “Hey Y/N were here.” You unbuckle the seatbelt and try to step out before Yuta puts on his back again. He kicks the car door shut and looks over his shoulder at you.

“You know you don’t have to carry me.” He starts walking anyways, ignoring your protest.

“One you’re barefoot and two you warm me up. I’m not gonna let you go.” Your heart thuds at his comment. You hardly knew him and yet here he is, probably tired as hell, carrying you on his back. You’re silent the whole way up until he reaches Jennie’s apartment.

“You can let me down now.”

“Not yet.” He gives you a small smile before knocking. You hear footsteps and Jennie opens the door.

“Who the hell is knocking on my door at three in the morning?!” Jennie has her eyes closed in exhaustion.

“Hi I’m Yuta and your friend Y/N got locked outside her apartment.” She opens her eyes most likely due to the unfamiliar voice. “Her landlord isn’t coming until tomorrow morning to unlock the apartment. So I got her out the cold and she told me that you could maybe let her stay here tonight.”

“Oh my god Y/N. Yeah, of course, she can.” He let you down and you walked into the apartment. “Thank you so much.” She turned and hugged you. “I’ll go get you some covers and tea.” She ran off somewhere in the apartment leaving you and Yuta alone.

“Well, I hope you can get that apartment unlocked. Have a good night.” He said lingering for a second before turning away.

“Wait.” He froze and turned around with a confused smile on his face. “What about your jacket?”

“Keep it.” You walked out not knowing what to do. “Y/N you should really go back-” he cut himself off when you hugged him.

“Thank you. Thank you so much, Yuta.” He returned your embrace and you both stayed there for a minute. He was so warm and he smelled so good. Like vanilla and cinnamon making you not want to let go. It made your heart fuzzy and your head dizzy. Eventually, you let go even though you didn’t want to. Not wanting to come off creepy or anything. You clear your throat trying to ignore the feeling in your stomach.

“I really do need to return that jacket.”

“Alright. I’ll be back over Saturday and you can give it to me then.” You nod.

“Thanks, Yuta.”

“You’re welcome Y/N. Goodnight.” He waves before walking down the steps.

“Goodnight Yuta.” You watch him disappear and walk back in shutting the door. When you turn around you see Jennie and a big smile plastered on her face.

“He’s cute.” You scowl at Jennie’s remark. “I think you think so too.” Her eyebrow arches up as she smirks.

“Jennie I’ve had a rough night.”

“I know. C’mon I have a whole bunch of movies in my room we can watch.” She hands you a cup of tea and walks off to her bedroom. You look down at the jacket and smile.

True to his word Yuta came by your apartment for the jacket. You wouldn’t admit it until later, but you put a little more effort into your outfit because of him. Even if you only would see him for only a few seconds. In the middle of putting your Mac and cheese in a bowl, you hear a knock on the door and immediately zip towards the door. You wait a few seconds so it doesn’t seem like you just ran to the door before opening it. Yuta is standing outside your apartment, smiling, of course. “Hey.” He says smile getting just a little wider. Of course, a smile reaches your face and you answer.

“Hey.” You both state at each other for a couple of seconds before you clear your throat. “Uh, come in. I’ll go grab your coat.” You step aside and walk away to grab his coat. When the door closes to the room you breathe in deeply fighting back a squeal of enjoyment. You grab his coat and walk out smile still plastered on your face. When your eyes made contact with his, your heart skipped a beat and you could feel your steps falter. He was vivid. His aura making the world seem so much more colorful for some reason. It was so new, but the feeling had you feeling like a giddy schoolgirl. Your heart, for some unexplained reason, was dancing. A joy from out of nowhere filling it. When you handed him the jacket you forgot to let go and you both just had small smiles on your face. That’s when your mouth got a mind of its own. “Do you want to stay for dinner?” You say it rather quickly and then you realize what you had said. Your face filled with shock and you let go of the jacket. “I mean if you aren’t busy. Actually just fo-”

“I’d love to.” Your shock disappears as your smile comes back replacing it. “Is it okay if I put the coat down on the couch?”

“Yeah. Of course.” You walk off pulling out another bowl. “Don’t expect an exquisite meal. It’s only Mac-and-Cheese.”

“Sounds perfect.” You come back to see Yuta at your counter face resting in his palm. You put the two bowls down and head back into the kitchen and pull out the wine. When Yuta sees you with two glasses and a wine bottle he arches an eyebrow. “Trying to get me drunk?”

“For starters.” You reply before unscrewing the cork. He laughs at your response and you smile. His laugh sounding like music to your ears. You put the glasses down and pour them halfway.

“So tell me Y/N how’d you lock yourself out your apartment?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I have all the time in the world.” That night you both laughed until you cried. Opened up about your past. Told each other about passions. Talked about politics and more. You both ended up exchanging numbers that night. One glass of wine turned into three and Yuta had to stop himself. Time whirled on and when you looked at your watch you laughed.

“What is it?”

“We’ve been talking for six hours.”

“Your kidding.” You shook your head lightly laughing. He looked down at his and laughed. “Oh god, it’s almost eleven-thirty.” You both stared at each other for a few more seconds before Yuta let out a sigh. “As much as I don’t want this to end, I have to go. Work tomorrow morning.”

“Don’t worry, I have to go to sleep soon. I’m helping a friend move tomorrow.”

“Well, then I better get on my way.”

“Here let me walk you out.” You both continued a conversation until you reached the door and ended up talking for another ten minutes before he laughed exclaiming how he really did have to go. You opened the door and Yuta walked out of your apartment.

“Thanks for dinner Y/N. That was the best damn Mac-and-Cheese I’ve ever had.” You both break out into laughter.

“Thank you I’ll make sure to stop by Walmart and grab some more.” It’s really sad seeing him leave. Even though you knew he had to go and you had to get to bed soon, you wanted him to stay a little longer.

“I’ll make sure to text you. Goodnight Y/N.” He said joy making its way through as he smiled at you again. You don’t know what compelled you to do what you did next (and you honestly still don’t know to this day.) but, you stood on your toes and kissed his cheek. You backed away looking down at first but bringing your gaze back up to Yuta, who was touching his cheek. Shock on his face before breaking out into a smile.

“Goodnight Yuta.”

“Mmhm.” He said still in some sort of daze. He snapped out of it and started walking away looking over his shoulder at you and waving. You waved back smile plastered across his face. When he was no longer in sight you closed the door falling against it squealing. After calming down you cleaned up the dishes and skipped into the bathroom for a shower. Your stomach was all fuzzy and your heart beating like crazy. You would’ve started dancing if slipping the shower wasn’t something that existed. Turning the shower off you wrap a towel around yourself and walked out to grab your phone, smiling as you see Yuta’s name appear on the screen.

Yuta: I still left my coat.

Y/N: Guess you’re gonna have to come by later and get it.

Yuta: I guess so.

Yuta: How does Tuesday sound?

Y/N: Sounds perfect (:

After awhile your feelings for Yuta grew stronger and you knew he felt the same. It took two months for you both to admit your feelings. His friend and your neighbor, Doyoung held a New Years Eve party. Everyone was drunk off their asses, except for you and Yuta who hadn’t finished your first drinks due to how much you two were talking. Getting interrupted by some of Yuta’s friends. They would end having a five to ten minutes conversation and you just sat there sipping whatever the hell was in your cup. Of course, Yuta would end the conversation returning to you. Everyone was talking about who they were gonna kiss when New Years finally hit. Of course, everyone was trying to get you and Yuta to kiss because the feelings you both had for each other were so oblivious. You and him blew them off ignoring their constant protest. Soon enough you had your cup on the table counting down until the new year began.

“Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven! Six! Five! Four! Three! Two! One! Happy-” You’re cut off with a turn and Yuta’s lips connecting with yours. You kiss back as soon as relax throwing your arms around his neck. His lips moving softly against yours. One hand resting on the small of your back the other one holding your jaw gently. Many people cheer in the background at you two and for New Years. Your heart flutters. Skin warming up at the feeling of his soft lips moving against yours. A feeling that you never wanted to go without having ever again. He reluctantly, pulled away once air became a necessity again, resting his forehead on yours. He let his hand fall to your waist pulling you and wrapping his arms around you. “I-wow.” You say breathlessly.

“I know.” You both stay there for a while before you both realize you’re in a room full of people. You both look up and turn your heads to see everyone staring at you two, smiles on everyone’s face.

“They finally did it,” Doyoung yelled and everyone broke out into cheers. You both laugh and fall to the couch.

“Want to go to your place?” You look at Yuta in shock and confusion. “Not like that! Just to talk. In private and in quiet.” You nod and Yuta grabs your hand and zips off through the apartment, you both choosing to ignore the comments people directed towards you. “Tell me you have your key.” You flick his arm and pull your key out of your pocket unlocking the door. Soon enough you two sat on your couch staring at each other. Both afraid to say anything.

“You’re a really good kisser.” Yuta laughs at your comment and you feel a little more relieved.

“You’re not to bad yourself.” You roll your eyes laughing. You stop when Yuta grabs your hands and you look at him a little nervous. “Seriously Y/N. I’ve liked you ever since I had to carry you around in McDonald’s. You’ve brought me so much happiness. In these two short months, I’ve been the happiest I’ve ever been. Everything about you brings me joy. I want nothing more than to bring you the happiness you deserve. I can’t promise that I won’t mess up, but I’ll sure as hell give you everything I have and more. Y/N would you be my girlfriend?”

“Yes. God yes!” You tackle Yuta and kiss him again. When you pull away from him you let a few tears fall. “You’re amazing you know that.”

“I try.” He giggled holding you close. You lay on his chest as he stroked your hair. You resting to the sound of his heart beating.

“Stay the night?” You mumble against his chest.

“As if I could stay away from you.”

Yuta was your first love. He was a lot of your first everything.

He was the first person you ever told I love you.

“Y/N?” You scream and drop the broom.

“Yuta you scared me.”

“Why’d you stop dancing?!” He whined.

“Because I suck at it.” You say laughing at his voice.

“Well, I love it. Almost as much as I love you.” A pause of silence went by. “Shit! Don’t feel like you-”

“I love you to Yuta.” You say closing your eyes smiling. You yell again at the feeling of being lifted off the ground. “Yuta!”

“We’re going to stay in bed all day and cuddle.”

“Yuta I still have to clean! Put me down!”

“You should know by now that I’d never put you down even if you ask.” You laugh as he walks to your bedroom.

He was the first person you moved in with.

“Y/N.” Yuta said sing-songy.

“Yuta.” You lift yourself off the couch matching his voice.

“I have something for you.” You scramble off your couch and run over to him.

“What is it?” You look over to see if you can spot it. He pulled out a box and you froze.

“Calm down it’s not a ring.”

“What if I wanted to be?” You tease, poking his shoulder.

“Trust me. You’ll get one. Eventually.” You smiled and blush at his response. Him thinking he could actually marry you made your heart flutter. Thoughts of a married life with Yuta passes through your head and they almost feel like dreams. Big family. Dogs. Acres of land that you could build the dream house on. A wrinkly you and Yuta, taking care of your future grandkids. Living a peaceful life until the end. It sounded too good to be true. “Earth to Y/N?” You snap out of it and avoid Yuta’s eyes as you caught his smirk. “Here.” You open the box and see a key.

“Yuta.”

“Will you please move in with me? There’s this apartment about twenty-five minutes away from here. It’s new and has a few things we can work on together. You know to make it feel like home, but that’s not even the best part. It’d be a place we could call our own. What do you say?”

“Of fucking course.” You cry out wrapping your arms around his neck. “I love you so much.”

“I love you more.”

He was even the first person you got a pet with.

“Yuta.” You hide the surprise behind your back.

“Yes, baby.” He said not looking up from his book.

“There’s something I want to show you.”

“Y/N what else could you-” He paused as you pulled out a small silver-haired puppy. “Is that a dog?”

“No, it’s a parrot.” You say sarcastically. “Isn’t he cute.”

“Y/N you got a dog.” He shut his laptop, running his hands through his. A slight smile tugging at his lips.

“Correction I got us a dog. Think about it. He’d be our little baby. We could take care of him a raise him ourselves.”

“Our little baby. I like the sound of that.” You blush at his words. Not missing the smug smirk on his face. “Let’s pick out some names.”

“We are not naming him Yuta Jr.” He laughs and the dog jumps out of your hands onto the couch and over to him licking his face. Not missing Yuta’s obnoxious noises. You smile at them.

“Look at my babies.”

You found love, hope and so much more with Yuta. You were only twenty-one when you met Yuta.

And you were twenty-two when you lost him.

“Yuta stay with me and Cooper.” Cooper's head pops up at the mention of his name.

“You know I want to, but I have to go, baby. My boss needs me to come by for a meeting. I promise I’ll bring you back some food.” You groan and hug him tighter. Head laying on his chest and his arms wrapped around your waist.

“You’re comfy and it’s raining hard out there. I wouldn’t feel safe with you going all the way downtown.”

“Y/N I have to go. It’s important.” He slips from your grasp and rummages for some nice pants.

“But Cooper and I are more important.”

“Though that is true, if we want to continue to eat and live here then I need to go.”

“Fine, but you owe me.” Cooper crawls on your lap and snuggles there.

“Keep her warm for me Coop.” You lift Cooper’s paw and sigh.

“You could just stay here and keep mom, warm dad. I think she’ll like that more.” You try to do your best impression of how Cooper would sound. Yuta let out a loud laugh buckling his belt.

“As much as I want to stay here with mommy I have to make sure my boss doesn’t go crazy without me. That’s why I’m depending on you to make sure she stays safe.” He buttons up shirt and tucks it into his black dress pants.

“You won’t even listen to Cooper. I’m shook.” He laughs before walking back over to the bed. He bends down petting Cooper and looks back you.

“How about this I’ll bring you food and candy. Then I'll make sure we won’t leave this bed for a long time.” His voice drops low and you began to feel flushed.

“Mmm. I like the sound of that.” You eyes flicker to his lips and back up. He bends down and gives you a short kiss, but you grab him and give him a more passionate one. Lips parting as the innocent action gets more heated by the second. Cooper moves from your lap and gets off the bed. You pull Yuta down to the bed and he’s on top of your hand caressing your body. Moaning you fall back to the bed. You buck against him and he pulls away, making a trail of open-mouthed kisses down your neck all the way down to the valley of your breast. He pulled your bra down just a little and kisses around the exposed space before pulling away.

“I can’t wait to continue.” Your eyebrows furrow in confusion at his childlike smile. “When I get home.”

“Yuta!” You whine. He cuts you off with another kiss.

“I love you Y/N. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“I love you to Yuta.” You get out of bed with him, hugging one more time. His arms wrap around your waist closing the space between you two. Being in his arms felt so secure. You find yourself casually swaying in his hold, not wanting to leave.

“Y/N I really have to go.” His arms wrap tighter around you before letting go.

“You promise you’ll be back?”

“As if anything could keep me away from you.” He kisses your cheek and slides his blazer on. He waves and you wave back Cooper runs after him.

Irony works in many ways. The next morning you wake up cold with no arms around you. Cooper lays at the foot of the bed and you don’t feel Yuta next to you. A frown immediately is on your face. That’s when you hear something in the kitchen. You hop out of bed and run towards the noise.

“I was wondering where you- Jennie. Doyoung. What are guys doing here?” They look at each other and you can tell something is off.

“Here let’s eat.” Jennie hands you a plate.

“Okay, but where’s Yuta?”

“I’ll tell you when you sit down and eat.” Doyoung’s voice is rough and your heart thuds. He sounded exhausted.

Doyoung is never exhausted.

“Okay.” You take the plate and walked to the table. “Sorry, I’m not wearing anything under the shirt. Yuta let me have it. It’s kinda like our thing. He has some of my socks and hair ties. And I balance it out by taking his sweater and shirts.” You ramble on feeling the tension in the air.

“Y/N eat.” Jennie said sternly and so you stop talking and eat. The atmosphere was tense and both Jennie and Doyoung look so beaten. When you’re done you look at them and raise an eyebrow.

“You guys tell me what’s going on? You’re scaring me.”

“It’s Yuta.” Doyoung said looking out the window. You drop the fork.

“He got in an accident last night.” Jennie said grabbing your hand. Your heart speeds up.

“Is he okay? What hospital is he in? I need to see him.”

(that’s where the actual story starts :))

[mild-lunacy]

What a Heist Should Be

I'm not particularly a fan of heist fantasy and/or YA, though it's certainly popular. I keep trying to-- or meaning to-- give fantasy thieves a chance, but most of the time they're boring, IMO. Perhaps it's my dislike for video game-styled narratives. You know, when you have a pointless/artificial goal that you have to hunt after for no particularly believable reason, and on top of that, endless annoying difficulties get thrown at you. You defeat one level only to face another, blah blah I'd rather stay home, blah. So not only are you the reader supposed to relate to a hunt after some random object, but tolerate increased rates of pointless danger-seeking behavior and frequent lack of basic planning or intelligence. Really unforgivable in a heist story, to be honest.

I suppose I'm unfairly conflating more military/thriller type infiltration stories with heist narratives, but they frequently overlap. Anyway, lack of planning and intelligence is the number one sin and/or reason I get bored. The second thing is the heist crew dynamic. It had damn better work. And not just work a little-- it better be super interesting and fun (and hot/romantic, if applicable) but also work enough as a *partnership*. That means the characters had better have complementary strengths. This is not optional. A duo of shoot first-type covert operatives who only seem to know how to fight hard or harder is a disaster in an infiltration scenario you expect readers to suspend disbelief enough to enjoy. Of course, the writers often don't even expect it, by any means, especially in romance genre books. The point is the video game setting in and of itself, which is just pointless and boring, as I said, like in Anna Hackett's Eon series.

Of course, the genre and length-- as well as the number of main characters-- make Hackett's heist romance novella pretty different from Leigh Bardugo's YA Six of Crows duology. I'm just seeing patterns in what works for me and what doesn't. As far as I've experienced, the video game approach is more common with fantasy heist stories. The other thing Leigh Bardugo does well that's not common is the snappy dialogue. To be clear, Anna Hackett tries for banter as well-- that's well known as a major draw for upbeat action narratives (just ask Marvel). It's just that it's strictly surfacey, whereas Bardugo's banter always works as character development, something that lets the reader see the characters as real people as opposed to Mary Sue props. This goes along with stuff like giving the main characters real flaws and having them suffer real setbacks, not fake video game ones.

I still don't care about the object of the heist in either narrative-- but Leigh Bardugo compensates for that. The narrative doesn't *expect* the reader to really care about the money. You just care about the characters experiencing success and surviving long enough to thrive. The heist object itself is beyond pointless, and that's what makes it work in a world with some degree of emotional realism. Although, I have to say having a *person* to extract is much, much better than an object, if you want readers to at least somewhat care.

Hackett makes the common Indiana Jones-type mistake of treating the object as a MacGuffin-- a thing of mostly unexplained power and importance for the plot, as opposed to just being a way to make money. This makes the endless risks taken with the object(s) during the action sequences nearly unbearable for me: part of the whole lack of planning thing. These characters don't even bother to protect the priceless object they're risking their lives for. Ludicrous. At least Inej and Kaz thought things through and only risked themselves and their friends or valuables when absolutely necessary. Jesper is impulsive, but he also follows orders. There's a sense that there's a *reason* these folks succeed, and it ain't just dumb luck. Pure derring-do doesn't translate well into fiction, especially when that's all the characters use to succeed against overwhelming odds. The fact is, they would fail with the skill set they're stuck with in Hackett's book and many others. Many times over, in fact. As a wise man once said, you do not simply *walk* into Mordor. Or a top secret alien space station, natch.

The sad thing is, contrary to what you might think from my blog, I don't go around overanalyzing everything I've ever read. I'm not a good planner, either. If I see a hole in a plot, it's because it's so big a truck could drive through it. That's just writing by numbers, and it's gross to me, even when I find the results somewhat enjoyable. And of course, I can't judge all the heist books that I mainly haven't read. I'm just saying that what made Six of Crows work was the way it took its characters much more seriously than the plot devices. And this certainly seems rare in a genre trope as gimmicky as a heist story, so far as I can tell.

[ostrich-on-a-rampage-blog]

Crutchie, Cursed: Chapter Eight

Well, here’s the next chapter. It’s a little shorter than normal, but not by too much, I hope. Besides, I feel like last chapter more than makes up for this, since last chapter was twice the length as this one. Anyway, all previous chapters can be found here: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, and Seven. 

And if you’re enjoying this, please let me know! I need some more motivation to finish the next chapter!! (Also, speaking of next chapter, I’m still trying to solidify an ending, so if you have suggestions, send me a message! I’ve got a couple different avenues to go, just because Ella Enchanted’s ending is a little too happy and I think King Edgar is much kinder than Snyder would ever be. Anyway, shoot me a message, if you want your voice heard!!)

TW: Blood and beatings. Basically, Snyder is a jerk and the Refuge sucks.

Crutchie bit back a groan as he was tossed into a small jail cell in the Refuge, his already battered ribs taking the brunt of the impact. He curled into himself, trying to protect from any more hits. However, the fetal position did nothing to protect his now-exposed back. The faint whistling of the crutch slicing through the air was the only warning that Crutchie received. Crutchie arched his back against the pain, squeezing his eyes shut. He didn’t know which would be worse: seeing the attacks come and being unable to stop them, or waiting in awful anticipation for the seemingly never-ending onslaught of pain.

The second hit split the skin right above his ear. Crutchie pressed his hand against the side of his head, dismayed at the warm liquid that trickled down between his fingers. He tried to staunch the bleeding, but the added pressure only increased the painful throbbing of his head. Crutchie groaned, no longer willing to open his eyes. Let the King beat him to oblivion. At least he had helped Jack. That was what mattered, right? Only, why did that victory feel so hollow in this pain-drenched, Prince-less hellhole?

“Stop hurting him!”

At the sudden shout, Crutchie allowed his eyes to open, dark slits against pallid skin. He hadn’t thought… Crutchie had assumed that Jack would leave him in the hands of the King. But, unless Crutchie’s pain-hazed mind was already playing awful tricks on him, he could clearly distinguish the Prince’s regal figure through tear-studded lashes.

“Jack,” Crutchie murmured around the harsh pounding ache in his jaw. He stretched his right arm forward, craving someone, anyone, to show even the slightest bit of kindness to him in the face of the brutal attacks. Stretching out his arm, however, only left it defenseless against a stone-faced guard’s attack. Crutchie bit back half of a hoarse scream as the guard stomped his boot onto Crutchie’s arm, twisting the leather shoe into tender muscles.

“I said stop!” Jack shouted, shoving the guard away.

“But, Your Majesty,” the guard said, “this man tried to kill you. He has committed treason. He deserves to be put to death.”

Crutchie whimpered at the words. He knew what would happen, knew the consequences as soon as the King had given the heartless command. At the time, Crutchie had tried to convince himself that it was better that he died than Jack. And, while, Crutchie still stood by that conviction, it didn’t lessen the fear of his impending death.

“I know,” Jack said softly, and Crutchie could only close his eyes in defeat at the words. “But,” he added, his voice gaining strength and resolve, “he deserves a fair trial, just as any other offender would receive.”

King Snyder laughed at this, the sound harsh and unforgiving. Crutchie winced, curling in on himself. He knew just how hopeless this all was, even if Jack didn’t recognize the cold impossibility of the situation. “But, Jack,” King Snyder said, caustic humor still present in each word, “that would just be a waste of our resources, of your time. We have all the proof we need. This man is guilty. Not only of attempted murder, but of playing with your heart.”

Crutchie glanced at Jack, to see how he would take those twisted words. Jack didn’t meet Crutchie’s eyes. Instead, the Prince’s face remained deceptively passive. If Crutchie hadn’t known him better, he would have believed that the Prince was entirely unaffected by the series of events. But, Crutchie had gotten to know Jack. And he could read the tightness of Jack’s lips, the taut posture, the fingers that curled and uncurled themselves. “It doesn’t matter, Uncle. He deserves a trial. We’ll equip him with one of the court lawyers; I don’t believe that Cru—that he would be able to afford his own personal lawyer.”

King Snyder rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine. He gets a trial. Satisfied? He’ll receive his trial, and then he’ll be executed. Publicly. Let the people know that you will not be a King who will stand for treason, of any kind,” the King advised, his eyes gleaming at the prospect.

Jack nodded, the motion only slightly hesitant. “Of course.” He turned to Crutchie, the barest hint of pain and grief darkening his eyes. “I will send you a court lawyer down here tomorrow, okay?”

Crutchie shook his head, wincing at the painful movement. “No,” he said, embarrassed at how raspy his voice was. “No,” he repeated, his voice firmer. “Send me Spot Conlon. I want him to represent me.”

“Spot?” Jack asked, his brow furrowing. “Spot’s a—Spot can’t practice in a court of law. You know that, Crutchie.” There was something almost desperate in Jack’s tone, but Crutchie couldn’t bear to analyze the Prince’s words. All that mattered was getting in contact with Spot. Especially now that Crutchie knew any feelings that may have existed between Jack and Crutchie were practically guaranteed to be irrevocably banished.

“Please, just let me write to him. He… After what happened at the—well, you know. You were there. I just need to tell him that I am sorry. I need to explain what was going on with my fairy. And, I’ll tell him what happened here, tonight. I—Spot just needs to know.”

“None of those things will help you in court,” Jack advised, his voice pitched a bit deeper to disguise the anxiety that Crutchie could still pick out.

Crutchie smiled weakly. “I know. But, I also don’t think… The trial won’t save me.” He could feel the King’s eyes burning on him, and he knew that he would need to word this carefully. Crutchie was no fool. He held no illusions of his safety. The King would ensure that he died, before the trial could even take place. King Snyder would never risk his misdeeds being known. “Just let me talk to Spot.” A horrible thought occurred to Crutchie. What if he were to die this very night? How much longer would he be alive? With the King hovering close behind, Crutchie assumed that he would not be much long for this world. “Or, please, let me send him a note. Let me write it tonight. I just want Spot to understand.”

“We will read the contents of that note before it is sent off,” the King advised, his eyes narrowing.

“I expect you will,” Crutchie muttered, the sarcasm bitter in the awful truth of his imprisonment. He shook his head, ignoring the blood pounding in time with his heart, ignoring the blood that continued to drip down the side of his face. It didn’t matter. Someone needed to know the truth. “But, please, Jack. I know that I cannot ask anything of you, not after… Please, just let me send this note to Spot.”

Jack nodded. “Very well. You, there,” Jack said, looking to the guard on his right. “Please bring Cru—” He cut himself off, clearing his throat awkwardly, before correcting himself. “Please bring the prisoner a quill and some parchment to write to his lawyer.” Once the guard had left, Jack fixed his emotionless gaze back on Crutchie. “I will make sure a courier is sent out tomorrow morning to Brooklyn with the note.”

“Thank you, Jack.” As the silence extended, awkwardly, in the cell, Crutchie decided to attempt an explanation. He couldn’t bear the silence, couldn’t bear the way that Jack refused to make eye contact with him. After everything, this was not how Crutchie wanted their relationship to end. “I promise you, I did not try to kill you. I was under—“

Crutchie was cut off when King Snyder slapped him, roughly, causing the young man to bite his tongue. “We will not speak of this night’s events until your lawyer is present, or you are in court,” King Snyder commanded. “So, you better watch your mouth, boy.”

Crutchie spat out a bit of blood. “Okay,” he whispered, not daring to look Jack in the eye. Not daring to see the loathing that he knew would darken Jack’s generally soft gaze. He hated that Jack would never know the truth of what happened. That, for the rest of Jack’s life, he would remember Crutchie, not as a man that he had loved, but as a man that had tried to kill the Prince. He was thankful that Jack was still alive; he just wished it were under better, more honest circumstances.

The guard returned, shoving the quill, ink, and parchment in Crutchie’s direction. “Make it quick,” he demanded.

“Of course,” Crutchie whispered. He was grateful that he no longer felt any urges forcing him to write as quickly as he could, that he was completely and totally free from the curse. He took the quill, trying to sort out what he should say to Spot. He knew that King Snyder would read this, but he couldn’t just leave the situation unexplained. Crutchie wrote:

Dear Spot,

Greetings from the Refuge. I got myself landed here after I was arrested for trying to kill Jack. I didn’t. I would never. I just want you to know that this isn’t my fault and that I can explain everything. Including why I needed to find my fairy. I was under this curse, and I can’t tell you about it in this note, but if you come visit me, I’ll explain everything. I’ve asked for you to be my lawyer for the trial. (I know you can’t legally practice law, but you’re the only one I trust.) Also, I am so sorry that I yelled at you. It wasn’t your fault. It was mine. I’m sorry, and I just ask that you forgive me. My final request is that you protect Jack. For me, okay? I’m worried that he is in danger. If you come see me, I’ll be able to explain more. Please come as quickly as you can. I don’t know how much longer I  Please come quickly.

Crutchie signed the note, before handing it off to Jack. “Thank you.” For a moment, Crutchie imagined that Jack would read the note and would ask about the curse, ask why his life was in danger. Then the King couldn’t prevent him from explaining it all to Jack. The truth would be out, Crutchie would be released, everything would go back to normal. 

Jack didn’t even spare the note a glance.

Crutchie wasn’t sure if Jack was trying to respect his privacy, or if Jack didn’t even care. All he knew that there was no hope of revealing what had truly happened only half an hour earlier to Jack. At least, not this night. And, Crutchie knew all too well, that if it weren’t to be this night, who was to say if the truth would ever come out?

Jack folded the note. “I’ll send this off in the morning,” he promised. He hesitated a moment, before telling Crutchie, “I… I hope you sleep well.”

“Good night, Jack,” Crutchie whispered, very aware that the odds of him ever seeing Jack again were slim. “Good bye.” The farewell was soft, halted. Not what Crutchie had wanted. He hated that his last interaction with the Prince would be so pitiful. Crutchie ducked his head, briefly, before raising his eyes to make eye contact one last time, to burn the image of the Prince’s always-kind face and gentle, brown eyes into his memory. It was an image that he would cling to for countless nights.

Jack nodded, before taking his leave. The Prince was clearly shaken by the events, and Crutchie just wanted to hug him and explain everything to him. Except, he couldn’t do that. Not with—

“So,” King Snyder began, his voice cold and calculated, “what happened to you obeying every command?”

“I’m stronger than the curse,” Crutchie explained, not looking into the King’s eyes. He itched at his wrist, before throwing caution to the wind. He didn’t care; Crutchie knew he would be dead shortly, anyway. It no longer mattered. His eyes flicked up to King Snyder’s and Crutchie pressed as much anger and hatred into the glare as he could muster. “You will never have control over me ever again.”

The King smiled, laughing a little bit. “I guess that that would be a problem, if I didn’t have any need of you anymore.” He leaned down, leering at the young man. “I’ll admit that it would have been nice—a poetic justice, of sorts—if you had killed young Jack. It would have been easier, too. But, I can just do it myself.”

“You’d kill your own nephew?” Crutchie asked, his stomach tightening. He hadn’t saved Jack. He was going to be killed for nothing, if Jack would soon follow.

“Why not?” the King asked, grinning. He straightened himself to his full height. “I killed my brother.” The words echoed in the heave silence of the jail cell as Crutchie struggled to comprehend the horrid implication, the outright admission of a crime so terrible, so vicious, so cruel--

“What?” Crutchie breathed, the initial shock completely overcoming the fear that had been steadily edging at the corners of his thoughts. Crutchie recalled when the King of New York, Jack’s father, had been announced as dead. It had been said that he had been killed by ogres on the way to a counsel, ripped apart. The funeral had been a regal affair and then the King’s brother, Snyder, took the throne. It had all been a lie. “How could you--?”

“He was in my way,” the King explained. He looked pleased, and the sight sickened Crutchie. Far more, than any pain or beatings could manage. Then, King Snyder’s eyes hardened, a terrifying resolve that darkened the cold irises. “And now, young Jack is in my way for the throne. It’s really all quite simple.”

Crutchie shook his head. “Please, don’t kill him. Do whatever you want to me, okay? But, let Jack live. I don’t care if you banish him, or usurp him, or anything, just, please, please, don’t kill him,” Crutchie begged. Jack had lost so much, had been hurt so many times. Crutchie just wished to shield him from the darkness that swept around his evil, evil uncle. Jack didn’t deserve to lose his life, not to this man.

“And risk having him return and take the throne from me? Not a chance,” he growled.

Mind whirring, Crutchie desperately tried to come up with some way of escape. He needed to warn Jack. This was more than just the danger of hired killers; Jack needed to know that his own uncle wanted to kill him. “I—I’ll tell Jack,” Crutchie tried, a slight tremble in his voice. The fear for his own life hadn’t faded, but it had been pushed to the background as terror for Jack’s life pressed hot and urgent against his chest.

“You really think he would believe you? After you tried to kill him?” King Snyder asked, confidence exuding each syllable. “And, besides, even if he did believe you, there is no way that you’d have the opportunity to even tell him before you, well, die.”

There. The confirmation that the King would not allow Crutchie to leave the Refuge alive. Jack would die, and Crutchie would be unable to save him because he, too, would be dead. “You can’t just kill me,” Crutchie pointed out, weakly. “Jack would…” he trailed off, unsure of how Jack would react to the news that he had been killed. Would he even care? Or would he harden his heart against Crutchie’s demise all because he believed that Crutchie had attempted his murder?

“Yes, I do imagine that Jack would be upset if you were just outright murdered. But, Andrew,” King Snyder began, leering down at the young man. Crutchie winced at the use of his true name, wishing that the King had never learned it. “If you succumb to your own injuries or refuse to eat? Well, frankly, there is nothing I could do to save you. And, even Jack would be forced to admit that.”

“Spot’s coming. He’ll… He’ll help me, I’m sure,” Crutchie bluffed.

“I’m sure he would, but he’s from Brooklyn, correct? An elf? Therein lies your problem.”

“I don’t see—“ Crutchie was cut off as the King viciously cuffed the side of his head. Crutchie’s head rang uncomfortably, and he pressed tender fingers against his pounding ear.

“It is my duty as King of New York,” King Snyder informed him, “to punish those that commit treason in whatever way I see fit. And, while you shall be granted a trial—or, rather, the illusion of a trial—you also deserve physical punishment. And, as much as I would love to take this matter into my own hands, I simply do not have the time. I have a grieving nephew to deal with. So, please be kind enough to welcome our jailer, who shall visit you often enough to ensure that you have learned your lesson.”

Crutchie watched, dismayed, as King Snyder left the cell, locking the door behind him. “Oh, and crip?” he called back, pausing in his motions to leave. “I truly don’t expect you to live until the Prince’s coronation next week. And, please, don’t disappoint me.” King Snyder’s eyes flashed threateningly. “I do not like to be disappointed.”

[demonkniife-blog]

Based after THIS post. Have a discussion between Vincent and Percival that me and my boyfriend did. If you wanna read it that is. Essentially this takes place in the ‘after life’ where Percival has found Vincent. Vincent doesn’t really want to face his friend or what he did, and well it’s an RP so it kinda goes on from there.

My Boyfriend is the one who created Percival BTW, and it was just a small idea we had to have Vincent have more backstory. However, with that ask, I couldn’t help but want to make him cry. Instead I was the one almost crying by the end of it all. Its technically in “script form” but TBH we never really intended on doing actions, but when Vincent broke I had nothing else to do. So you got script for like- 2 replies. 

Anyways I am literally only posting this for reference and so I can save it. So yeah. :) Have a read if you wish!

Percival: Don't get me wrong, I'm pissed you did that to me. But all can be forgiven. There's a difference between forgiveness and anger

Vincent: No, it can't. There isn't a difference. If there is anger, then there is no forgiveness. I've learned this. You cannot forgive me for what I have done, just as I cannot be forgiven for anything I have done. My punishment is harsh enough without my mind playing tricks on me. This is the cruelest one yet.

Percival: OH, so you'd rather believe me to be a malevolent spirit haunting you for all your misdeeds? Get over your self. Did you talk with the guards? Did they tell you what happened when they arrested me?

Vincent: I would rather believe you are an illusion made by my mind, Percival. Because-... No. I avoided it, and just requested for it to be painless. I was sure they didn't listen to me, but...

Percival: Oh, they didn't do anything to me. I went without a fight. I knew what had happened.

Vincent: ........... That doesn't make me feel better.

Percival: It's not supposed to. You did frame a guy for murder. Granted, I was pissed for a good solid while. But then I thought about it and I forgive you.

Vincent: How? How can you? I can't even forgive myself. Getting over myself is one thing, but- Of the countless I've killed, I never once felt like this. You know that, right? There's no way if this is what *I'm* feeling, that you can just forgive me like that. This is a trick, and I know this is. I refuse to believe that you could forgive me. I'm sorry Percival, but you saying that means nothing when it's my own demons telling me this.

Percival: That precise feeling is WHY I can forgive you. Had you never felt that I probably WOULD be a malevolent spirit out to do to you what you did to countless others

Vincent: I-.... You can't be..... If this is what remorse feels like, then rage like how you know must be unexplainable... How could it all just- go away? Because it hasn't for me. I block it off, and I ignore it, but... it never goes away.

Percival: You, everyone needs to learn to live with what they have done. They need to learn to live with that remorse. The greatest of rage can be extinguished by the smallest showings of humanity. I understand that the weight on your shoulders is tremendous, but look at the people you speak with, those that aren't shouting hatred at you. Look at the ones that talk to you like a normal human. They are willing to help carry that burden. I was and still am willing to help.

Vincent: .... I.... how could you even stand me. Heh.... I'm sorry, Perci... I don't know what took over me that day I-I don't know... I'm so sorry though. The ones who don't shout hatred for me, I worry about though not enough to really care. I know people see the things I did as bad, so I cannot see how someone can just- ignore it.

Percival: A person is more than the weight of their memories. What overtook you that fateful day was a fear of being caught. Fear is one of the oldest instincts in any mortal race, you were simply acting on instinct. How can I hold anger towards instinct? You don't ignore, you look over and past. It is still there, but a friend, a true friend, will learn to see it and then see the person beyond it. And that person is the one who feels remorse for their actions

Vincent: I don't understand any of this... I just- anger breeds hate, and hate isn't easily forgone. I've seen it time and again towards me and others. Hell, I enjoy to make people hate me but... Is what all I did my life instinct then? Could that not be an excuse for all? Instinct of the self over instinct of the mortal race? I just.... I can't see over it... That's the one time I have ever felt that feeling in my chest, or in my stomach. I can't describe it. Just thinking about it brings it back? This is.. this isn't right. I shouldn't feel like this, and yet I do. I don't feel remorse for my actions, I never have. A child could be screaming, crying seeing their parents bleed out in front of them and their hand next to my feet and I feel nothing. I don't get remorse. I can't. I don't know what this feeling is, but it's not right.

Percival: Yet the feeling of remorse EXISTS inside you, for you felt it before, and can feel it when thinking about when it occurred. And it is that sliver of remorse, that sliver of humanity, that allows forgiveness. Granted, there are many voices, all of which shouting venom. They shout about vengeance. And it's not my place to oppose them. But it IS my place to stand by your side and help you in the times when you feel remorse.And to stand by you at the times when it is needed the greatest.

Vincent: But I SHOULDN'T be forgiven for what I did! Don't you get that!! Even I can see it! There should be no forgiveness for someone like me, who did all of that. Who just- in an INSTANT betrayed my friend. That's not something that should be forgiven. I should be forced to stand alone for what I have done. I won't drag you through the dirt more than I have already, Perci. Please. I'm asking, and I mean it. Please do not forgive me. Allow me to see you as hating me as I have done for so long. I don't want to cause any more pain.

Percival: I can't do that, and you know that Vincy, even if you don't know WHY I can't. The reason is because you DON'T want to cause any more pain. In all the time I've known you, this is the first time you DON'T want to cause pain. Remorse is humanizing, and you don't like that. Some religions believe that to gain access to the afterlife, the deceased must climb a mountain with the chains of all the pain they have caused on their backs and limbs. And just knowing a portion of the pain you have caused, is more than any one man should have to shoulder. I have forgiven you, all that needs to happen is you learn to forgive yourself.

Vincent: You're acting as if I've become a changed man! I haven't! All that I did in life I still do in death. You are the ONLY thing that has caused this-this feeling in me and I hate it! I want to rip it out! I don't feel regret for anything else, so why do I deserve forgiveness if I haven't changed! I don't care what religions say. I don't care what you believe. It's just one person amongst the countless. Does that really constitute forgiveness? Or does that justify more of a punishment due to the fact that this is the only thing that makes me feel like this! You cannot say that I am humanizing whilst denying the 99% of the time I do not feel it. I think you've allowed yourself to create an illusion that you've forgiven me, or that you are simply going to do what I did to you. While I do not deserve the kindness of foolery, if you are going to get revenge I am fully welcoming it.

Percival:  Hatred begets hatred, anger begets anger. This cycle of violence must end. Everyone deserves forgiveness, from the greatest of men to the lowest of monsters. For what is left in a world without forgiveness? Darkness and evil, and no matter how far you have fallen my friend, I will be there to drag you out of it. It is because of that 1% that you deserve forgiveness. One voice in a crowd can ring out louder than others, if YOU are willing to listen. The countless voices, I will admit, have basis in their screams. There will be punishment for your sins, but there forgiveness is achievable due to the smallest bit of remorse. This hatred you feel is simply fear. Fear of all the pain you have caused, fear of all the people you have hurt. You have a right to bear this fear, but you also have the right to being forgiven for all you have done. For even the greatest of men have committed atrocities, and the lowest of monsters has felt remorse.

Vincent: No, Percival. There is a time when there is a point of no return. Where there is no place for forgiveness for a monster disguised as a man. I’ve done far too much. There was no hate that made me, no anger or sadness that became my driving force. I did it for fun, don’t you get it! That’s unforgivable to people. I am fully aware. No one forgives such actions. I have no excuse, and that is what most would consider an unforgivable crime Percival. We both arrested men who had done much less than I who got what I had. My punishment is never ending. I knew in life that what I was doing would damn me to a wretched afterlife if I was wrong on how Death was. I was right on one, and wrong on the other. Can you guess? Listen to me. I feel no fear, Percival. I feel no sorrow for my actions, fear for the repercussions or fear for forgiveness. I see things as they are. For most people, it is impossible to forgive me. You should never have forgiven me, for you are damning yourself to the same fate I hold. I’m trying to save you from it. You cannot drag me out of what I was born and made from. The most I can do is make sure you do not become one with the dark as I have. So please. Listen to me, and don’t forgive me. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t fall for the illusion of forgiveness to all men, when I am clearly not one that should be factored in on that scale.

Percival: All men are capable of being forgiven. I have spent every waking day since learning of your "itch" forgiving you. It was this itch pushing you down the path you follow. I understand you cannot make this itch go away. I was about to become like all the other countless voices and believe you to be the monster you see yourself as, but when I heard you apologize and feel your remorse, I knew you were more than a monster. You were a man, in that instance, you were human. You might not feel fear for your actions, but you ARE afraid of what will happen to me if I forgive you. And in that fear and your remorse you have become human. And humans can be forgiven, for it is the ones that don't want to be forgiven that need it the most. So, Vincent, I forgive you. I forgive you for all the pain you have cause others. I forgive you for all the pain you have caused me. And I forgive you for all the pain you have caused yourself.

Vincent: ..... If I accept your apology, that won’t fix the countless other lives I have ruined. I don’t see what one apology will do... I just-.... I can’t see why you’re fighting so hard for me. After all I have done I just.... I can’t see how one sliver of emotion grants you so much confidence in what you believe I am inside. I’ve shown clearly time and again that I am nothing more than what people see me as. I see no pain I’ve caused myself, and the pain of one man doesn’t fix the pain I have caused to the hundreds I have affected. Thousands possibly......

Percival: If you were nothing more than what people see you as, then there would have been no remorse in the first place. The smallest rock can cause the largest avalanche. You cannot see the pain you have caused yourself because you hide behind what people call you. You hide behind their anger because you don't want to confront all the pain you feel for yourself. You are right, one apology will do next to nothing, but it is the forgiveness of one man that will lead to the forgiveness of yourself. There will be a debt to pay, and it will be due soon, but the debt cannot be paid until you confront your demons and put them to rest, for the greatest demon is not the voices shouting out in suffering, it is the one that resides inside you, clawing it's way free with every kill you make. It is this demon that is making you a monster, I simply see the real man hidden by the monster.

Vincent: And what if all this time, Perci, I have been deceiving you? What if this entire time, has been all one act to hide what I truly am. The monster inside manipulating you to see what is not there. A human who needs the forgiveness just so the monster can stab you in the back again. I myself have lost track of who I am, and I can no longer recall. The monster is what I really am, and the monster is all I will be. Demons are meant to trick, Percival. I tricked entire towns. It’s possible to trick a man again with a simple show of emotions that are fabricated. A demon stuck in the poise of a person. A Reaper stuck in the shape of a man. What you see, or rather what you think you see is not there. The remorse you saw was only the demon inside getting far too into character, worried about the possibility of getting caught. There is nothing to forgive, for there is no man inside.

Percival: If this has all been one big trick, props to you for staying in character for so long. If you believe me to be a fool to forgive a man overcome by his demons, then a fool I shall remain. Why would a demon need to stab me in the back? For I have no back to stab now. I have nothing to lose from forgiveness, while on the contrary I have all to gain! I can save a man from the precipice of destruction, even if that man believes he has fallen long ago. There are many things that separate man from demon, but the one that stands out above all the others is that man can feel remorse where devils cannot. So if the remorse you felt was a deceit, that demon has become greater than itself and is realizing it could be a man. And all men can be forgiven.

Vincent: [Vincent just blinks, tears growing in his eyes as he stares at his friend. No matter what, he was defending him, even after all he's done. Taking a small sniff, he walked up to his friend, the tears finally over flowing, and trailing down his cheeks, and he just grabbed him in a hug, and squeezed tightly, burying himself in the crook of his friends neck, sniffling. ] I... I'm so sorry... please... please forgive me Perci... I... I missed you. I'm... so sorry.....

Percival: [Percival receives his friend with open arms, with a light smile on his face] You have my forgiveness my friend, you've had it for a while now.

Vincent: You always were to kind to me.... even when I did nothing to deserve it.

Percival: Without kindness there would be nothing left. The dark shows us where light can be.

Vincent: And to think I feared at one point that there was nothing but the dark within me. Though I disagree with you on that, Perci. Without kindness, I would dare say there would be more.. well me's in the world, and it is quite obvious it could barely handle one.