#but. the pain. does NOT lessen. no matter what i do

[queercatboyrights]

does it still count as chronic pain if it's from health issues or broken bones that just. hurt. for months on end. or is that just normal pain

[sailorsoons]

Vengeance (c.hs)

Pairing: Vernon x f. reader

Summary: You always knew you were different from a young age. The only person who has ever been able to understand you is Vernon. When things take a turn for the Choi Syndicate, your long-term relationship is put to the test.

Full Fic Word Count: 21,528

Genre: Mafiaverse, Cyberpunk, Childhood Friends/Exes to Lovers

Type: Smut, Heavy Angst

Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

Warnings: Because of the nature of this fic, I have placed them under the cut. Please read them carefully before engaging with this fic.

A/N: This fic is a part of my Syndicates Collection. This will the second installment under the Syndicate Universe, but you can always read this fic on its own. I hope everyone enjoys Vernon’s story as much as they enjoyed Hoshi’s!

A/2: Thank you @daechwitatamic for being an amazing beta reader. I love you to the moon.

Main Masterlist | The Syndicates Collection | Ask | Playlist

Warnings: Because I am trying to overwarn due to subject matter, please read these carefully! General violence associated with criminal empires and criminal underground, mentions of murder and depictions of murder, depictions of punishment from parent to child, depictions of attempted murder (reader’s mother to reader via drowning, vernon’s father to vernon via choking), themes of religious trauma, themes of dealing with a parent that experiences undisclosed/ambiguous religious psychosis, mentions of dealing with a parent who is fighting addiction, kids arguing and getting into a fight (it’s honestly kind of funny, not violent at all), depiction of patricide (cool motive, still murder), heavy internal angst for reader/repressed feelings, grieving the loss of a loved one, explicit language, references to drugs and recreational alcohol use, Vernon does drive a motorcycle after drinking - it is implied he’s using a stimulant to combat that, some puppy love scenes/vernon and reader making out and being teenagers, brief interrogation scene where reader/Soonyoung are harming someone (stepping on their fingers) for information, explicit sexual content including oral (f. receiving) mild ass play, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, implied breath play, reader experience something adjacent to subspace post-sex.

God doesn’t like strange girls. 

Well, you don’t know what makes you strange and you’re not entirely sure you believe in God. You’re only eight, and even though your mother prays to Him with a reverence reserved only for him, on her knees until they’re bleeding, her body shaking with exhaustion, you don’t think you want to believe in God. 

God is the only man your mother loves. For you, it’s your father. You can’t understand how your mother can pledge herself so wholly to someone she can’t see, someone who doesn’t seem to do much for her. 

Your father is tangible and real, and he does everything for you. He takes you to school in the mornings, he brushes your hair, he buys you the books you need for class, he protects you from her, when she is screaming that you need to purge your sin for Him, that you should prostrate for Him, that dirty nails offend Him. 

Uncooked grains of rice bite into your knees. You try to maintain your balance, not wanting to shift on them any more than you have to. Every time you wobble or try to adjust to lessen the pain, it only gets worse. 

Behind you, your mother’s voice comes out in staccato, her murmurs feverish: No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it. 

The sin this time were the honey cakes the neighbor brought over for your birthday. They were perfectly golden, flaky and brown on the edges and moist on the inside, filling your mouth with sweet, honey flavor. They’d left your fingers a little sticky, the corner of your mouth a little flaky. 

You’d only eaten two of them when your mother discovered you in the living room, shrieking when she saw you indulging. Coveting. Full of gluttony. 

Licking your lips, you shift on the grains of rice. It stings, making your eyes water. Your shoulders ache, neck tight where you hold your hands behind your back. Time moves inexorably as you kneel there, the prayers for your mother’s God washing over you as you pay penance for a sin you don’t understand. 

When the front door opens, you nearly weep with relief. Salvation is here, and it isn’t in the form of God shepparading his followers into heaven. Relief comes in the form of your father storming toward where you kneel, picking you up off the ground and asking your mother what she’s doing. 

Deliverance comes when he gently wipes the grains of rice from your knees while you sit on the bathroom counter. He rubs a rag softly over the dimpled skin, wiping away a little bit of blood where the grains cut through the flesh. He applies a salve and presses a kiss to your head, apologizing. 

“Do you want to open your gifts, Angel?” You nod eagerly, forgetting all about the honey cakes that your mother threw out or the pain in your knees. 

Your mother sleeps in the bedroom, muttering feverishly. You and your father creep out to the kitchen where he lets you open the boxes in the privacy of four walls. He leans against the counter as you tear open the crinkling wrapping paper, liking the way it feels beneath your fingers, the way it crackles, like it’s telling you a secret. 

Popping the lid to the box, you reveal a beautiful gold necklace. The chain is thin but feels strong. It’s long and on the end, there’s a flattened coin charm with a figure of an angel etched into the face. You rub your thumb on it, mouth opening and grinning. 

“Do you like it?” Your dad asks. You nod your head early and he laughs. “Here, let me put it on.” 

You hand it over to him and he loops the necklace around your neck, fastening the necklace. When he pulls away, his grin is bright as the sun. “An angel for my Angel. As long as you have it on, I’ll always be with you and it will protect you.” 

Your mother has her God, but you have yours. And you’re his messenger, his follower, his angel.

-

“You are a demon!” Your mother shrieks, her voice raw and cracking. You ignore her as she leaps at you, slamming the door shut and holding it hard. She twists the knob but you hold fast, pulling your weight against the door so she can’t open it. “Demon! Demon! Scourge of the earth! You are the darkness! God will prevail against you! He will rise up in his righteousness-”

“Is this bathroom taken?” 

Looking over your shoulder, you see a boy around your age looking at you. He’s standing a few feet away down the hall, fingers twisting together nervously as he looks at you and then the rattling door. He’s pretty, with soft brown hair that hangs in his dark eyes. His face is round and his cheeks are flushed pink from hiking up the stairs. 

“Um,” you look at the door as the pounding subsides, followed by wailing. “Yeah, you can’t come in here. I’m sorry.” 

“Do you know where there’s another bathroom?” 

You shake your head. “I don’t live here. It’s Daddy’s friend's house.” 

“Your dad is friends with the Tower too?” 

You nod and he smiles. “Me too. I’m Hansol, but everyone calls me Vernon. Only my mom calls me Hansol ‘cause I love her.” 

You give him your name and pause before adding, “My dad calls me Angel.” 

Vernon grins. “I like it.” 

“Thanks.”

He glances at the door. “Do you need help? I can keep you company.”

You blush. “No, I’m okay. Thank you, Vernon.” 

Vernon toes the ground for a second, the tip of his shoe creasing the carpet. He tucks his hands in his pocket and chews on his lip before he bows a little and says, “Well I’m going to find another bathroom. It was nice to meet you, Angel.”

“You too, Vernon.” 

When he walks back down the stairs, he pauses halfway to look at you. You’re watching him with a grin, butterflies in your stomach when he grins back and waves again before descending the stairs back down to the party - where you’re supposed to be, instead of containing your mother as she cries on the other side of the door.

The party had started off fine with her smiling and having a good time. Somewhere between the first drink and her last, she felt Him again, dragging you to the bathroom to make you choke up the shirley temple you’d had. 

Gluttonous. Greedy. Indulgent. 

Unfortunately, your father had been busy somewhere with the Tower and some of the other men. He has no idea she dragged you to the bathroom for one of her episodes. But even at nine, you know how to fight her off now. She gives up just as easily as she starts, so if you can trap her long enough, usually she’ll scream herself into exhaustion. 

It’s not a good look. Even as a kid you know this. Parties are an important social setting for members of the Choi Syndicate, especially when they’re held at the Tower’s home. The Tower is the most important member of the organization, the boss, the king - that’s how your dad describes it. The Tower is owed loyalty and reverence, and being invited into his family home is very important. 

As a Sword, your father owes his loyalty to the Choi family. You don’t know what a Sword really does, other than it’s supposed to be exactly what it sounds like - a weapon. Your dad doesn’t talk much about his work, but on nights like tonight, he’s on duty circulating the party while you and your mother attend as guests. 

Well, you were supposed to attend as guests until your mother felt the call of God again. It wears on you, having to constantly be responsible for her. You’ve missed so many parties holding her hostage in a room and away from eyes, trying to protect yourself but most of all, protect your dad. If people knew… you don’t know what would happen, but you feel the need to hide her anyway. 

That’s how your dad finds you, leaning against the door and half asleep. He sighs heavily, crouching down as you blink up at him. He touches your cheek lightly and asks, “Ready to go home, Angel?” 

You nod and he grins, scooping you up and tucking you against him. Your savior comes at last. 

-

Afternoon sun bakes on the back of your head. You reach up, pressing your palm to your scalp, feeling the warmth. Sweat slicks your back and behind your kneecaps, running down your legs and making you squirm as you look around the yard, uncertain. 

The yard is filled with tables, beautiful floral centerpieces in each of them. Flowing ribbons decorate the backs of the chairs with balloons tied to each, their center filled with dancing lights that look like butterflies. Servants move about the party dressed in all white to match the birthday theme, holding silver trays with various confectionaries and fizzy drinks. 

Adults filled the yard but there’s a good dozen kids around your age. You only know some of them - specifically the birthday girl, who is the daughter of the Tower. She’s in the far corner of the yard, crouching down near a pond to look at turtles with a round-cheeked boy you don’t know. 

Worst of all is the heat. It is sweltering outside and though there are powerful fans circulating cool air around the yard, nothing is enough to reach you through the layers of fabric your mother has stuffed you in, gushing about how you looked like God’s perfect angel, dressed in white and covered to the eyeballs in fabric. 

“Hi, Angel.” A soft voice makes you turn and you can’t help but smile when you see Vernon. It’s been a few weeks since you last saw him, but you’re delighted and a little shy when you wave. He looks at your dress and frowns. “You’re very frilly. And… covered.”

That you are. The dress is beyond itchy, the white material reading all the way to the middle of your hands and the collar up to the jaw. You are covered from head to toe in the white, restricting material, the skirts of the dress falling in layers of chiffon to the floor. 

You huff and cross your arms, feeling the sweat drip down your neck and back. “My mom made me wear it. I hate it.”

“Do you want different clothes? I have a room here. I bet I have pants and stuff that could fit.” 

That makes you brighten. “Really?” He nods. “Yeah, that would be cool. I hate this dress.” 

Vernon beckons you toward the main house. There are multiple houses on the Choi property, which has more land than you’ve ever seen. Even the concept of a yard blows you away. The Choi family are the kind of rich that is confusing to you, but you like going over to their house, especially when it’s not busy. 

“Why do you have a room here?” You ask Vernon, who opens a door. The security team lets him, ignoring him as he enters the house proper. “I thought it was just the Choi family.”

“It is but sometimes…” He trails off as he leads you through a massive living area toward a foyer with stairs. “Um, it’s hard to explain.” 

“That’s okay. That’s cool, though.” 

He nods. “Sometimes.” 

“Only sometimes?” 

On the second floor, Vernon leads you down two different carpeted hallways until he stops at a door, opening it up. It’s a nice room, if not a little simple. It smells like clean linen and there’s an AetherLink in the corner with a paused game. 

Vernon walks over to the closet, opening the door. The lights turn on automatically, showing how deep the rows and rows of clothing goes. You raise your brows, trailing behind him. Your house is a decent size - and it’s impressive you live in a house, not an apartment - but this is something else. 

Grabbing stuff off the hanger, Vernon hands it over to you. He’s given you white pants and a white flowy shirt to match the rest of the party. You take it tentatively, feeling how soft the fabric is between your fingers. 

“Sometimes I fight with Seungcheol,” Vernon admits. “He’s older and thinks he’s the boss. His mom doesn’t like me much.” 

“Tell them to shut up.” 

Vernon’s mouth twitches, an almost smirk. “Yeah, maybe. The bathroom is there if you want to change.” 

The bathroom is just as grand as the rest of the house. You change quickly, folding your dress and tucking it into your arm, coming out to stand hesitantly. He’s leaning against the dresser, hands in his pocket as he stares at the ground. When you come out, he gives you a small smile and holds out his hand for the dress. You give it to him and he puts it on his dresser before turning to you, appraising your outfit.

“Hopefully you won’t sweat to death now.” 

Your smile is small. “Thanks.” 

“Do you want to see the turtles?” You nod early, pressing your sweaty palms against your pants - Vernon’s pants - to dry them. “Come on.” 

Afternoon sun beats down on the back of your neck as you lean over the turtle pond. There are so many of them, their shells have different shapes and sizes with bellies that are different colors and patterns. Your knees press into the dirt, uncaring if you stain them as Vernon does the same. 

Vernon knows all about the turtles. He picks up each one delicately, letting it grow accustomed to him before placing them in your palm. He tells you their names, their scientific species name, how old they are, when they came to the Choi Estate, and their likes and dislikes. 

It’s like a bubble has formed around you. The party continues onward, but you only have eyes for Vernon, who picks up a small turtle, cradling it in his palm. The turtle is dark green, with thin yellow striating its body and coral red spots blooming on its head. It cranes up to look at Vernon, blinking twice. 

“This is Blush,” Vernon says gently. He brings his other finger up and runs it along the back of its shell delicately. It flinches for a second before it extends its neck upward, as though it wants more. He smiles and continues, eyes fixated. “She’s the newest turtle added to the pond. She’s a red-eared slider, which is why she has this red here. Baby named her Blush.”

“I love her blush.”

Vernon smiles. “We’ve had her for a month. She’s part of the emydidae family which has about fifty species. Her scientific name is trachemys scripta elegans and she’s a type of pond turtle like the others. She’s my favorite.” 

“I can see why.” 

“Do you want to hold her?” 

Before you can answer, a shadow falls over you. Both of you look up to see the Tower’s eldest son standing over you, his arms crossed and a frown on his face. Vernon’s reaction is instantaneous as he quickly puts Blush back on her rock and wipes his hands on his pants, making them damp. 

“You missed singing happy birthday,” Choi Seungcheol snaps. His voice wavers right between adolescence and that first crack of puberty. “And of course you’re with the fucking turtles.” 

“I was showing her… sorry.”

Seungcheol’s eyes go to you. He drinks in your outfit and his frown only increases, making you feel on edge. You don’t like that look on his face, like he’s annoyed with you. He doesn’t even know you. 

Turning his attention back to Vernon he says, “Get up. You’re going to have to explain to my mother who kindly bought you those clothes why you let some girl stain them.” 

“Alright.” 

You look at Vernon, remembering what he had said early about Seungcheol sometimes talking to him like he was the boss. Irritation comes alive in you, thinking of all the times your mother has done exactly that despite her not being the boss of you either.

Turning to Seungcheol you say, “You don’t have to be mean about it.” 

“What?”

“Do your ears not work? You don’t have to be mean to him. He was being nice to me and you’re just being rude.” 

Seungcheol’s ears go red and he clenches his fists. “I don’t have to be nice to him. I’m the son of the Tower-”

“You’re not the Tower though, and even the Tower is nice. My dad says he’s nice. You’re not.”

“Angel,” Vernon mutters, a warning tone to his voice. 

“No,” you tell Vernon. “He’s not being nice to you and you didn’t do anything wrong.” Your mother’s face swims in your vision, the way your knees bleed when she makes you kneel on grains of rice, the sting of a switch against your back when she punishes you. “You’re not supposed to be mean to people who didn’t do anything wrong.” 

Something you say makes Seungcheol’s face thunderous. You watch the darkness cloud over him, his eyes darting to Vernon. The older boy sees something there that you do not, because he goes from angry to full of rage in moments as he crouches down to eye level, looking at Vernon who has ducked his head. 

“This little bastard knows what he fucking did wrong. He was born.” 

Vernon doesn’t move. His breathing is heavy and you see the way his fingers grip his pants, bone white with ferocity. He doesn’t dare look at Seungcheol, who is looking at Vernon like he wants to hit him - like he might hit him. It’s exactly how your mother looks at you for drinking a soda that your dad got you, or how she looks at you when you read a book on the couch. 

But Vernon doesn’t deserve it. Vernon who was nice to you in the hallway when other people ignored you. Vernon who gave you a change of clothes because you hated yours. Vernon who knows all of the names of the turtles in the pond because he sees them as friends.

Looking at them, all you see is you kneeled in supplication while your mother’s shadow looms over you, dominating. Final. Hateful. 

You barely remember leaping forward to tackle Choi Seungcheol. One minute you’re a shaking, angry mess and the other you’re on top of him screaming at him, hitting him with little closed fists that can’t deliver any real damage. 

Seungcheol thrashes under you, several times your size and strength as he manages to knock you off of him. He rolls over on the ground, nose crimson where you landed a single good punch on him. He yells at you but you can barely hear him through the high-pitched ringing in your ears as the rage turns into something all consuming, something you can’t stop, something that makes you want to hit and hit and hit -

Someone knocks you over. There is a high-pitched screaming before you realize that the birthday girl is on top of you, pulling your hair in a rage for attacking her brother. You push back at her, all your rage exploding as the two of you scream like feral cats. You pull anything on her that you can - hair, her dress, earrings - it doesn't matter. You yank and yank until someone is pulling the two of you apart.  

The dark-haired boy that was with Seungcheol’s sister earlier is pinning you to the ground. You thrash in his hold but he’s strong, keeping you down until suddenly he topples over as Vernon crashes into him, sending him to the side. Now Vernon is the one yelling, he and the boy rolling over as they fight for dominance like you and the girl moments before. 

A booming adult voice startles you as they shout, “Enough!” 

Vernon and the other boy scramble to their feet, covered in dirt and grass and blood. Both of them bow deeply at the waist, unmoving as a man approaches. Around him, the adults part like the river at the prow of a boat. He’s dressed in an all white suite with a single, obsidian brooch on his lapel in the shape of a mountain. 

The Tower. 

Behind him is your father, and another man you don’t recognize but looks identical to the boy Vernon had tackled, all high and round cheekbones with intense eyes glaring down at the miniature version of himself. You assume he’s the boy's dad, and by the way he’s dressed, you know he’s important to the Choi family. 

“All of you,” the Tower instructs. “In my office. Now.” 

“Yes Tower,” you all echo in unison.

Seungcheol is the first to march after his father, spine stiff. His sister is right on his heels with the other boy right behind her. He looks over his shoulder once to scowl at you, a warning that you don’t understand before he quickens his steps after her. 

Vernon sighs heavily, looking after them before he turns to you. “Come on.” 

The party goes on without you all and the birthday girl. The strings start again and the adults go back to talking, some of them giggling as they watch your group of stained and bloody kids trekking behind the Tower of the Choi Syndicate into the estate. 

Some of the ground floor is familiar to you. You pass through living spaces and darkened hallways with old fashion sconces before you reach a parlor room with two guards standing on the outside. Both of them look at the Choi siblings fondly, one of them leaning over to check Seungcheol’s nose before smiling and patting him on the cheek. 

Inside the Tower’s office smells like leather and sweet tobacco. It’s not unpleasant but it’s unfamiliar to the heavy incense and myrrh constantly choking the air of your home. Books line the walls behind a sitting area with big, leather armchairs and an old coffee table made of rich wood. 

You kind of like the room, looking around at all the strange gadgets and things unfamiliar to as the Tower clears his throat. He leans on his desk casually, crossing his arms over his chest as the five of you line up, looking at the floor underneath the heavy gaze of the Syndicate leader.

All you know about the Tower is that your dad loves him. He says he’s like family, and that out of all the men in the world who could lead the business to greatness, it’s Choi Moojin. He comes from a long line of powerful men, firm and powerful as the mountain that their name draws its meaning from. Married into the fire and wrath of the Hino family, the Choi’s have been unstoppable since he stepped into his father’s position as Tower.

And now you punched the boy who is supposed to grow into a man and replace him. 

It’s a bad look. You know it is, and you don’t know how much trouble you’re in, but you would do it again. Vernon had been so soft-spoken and gentle when showing you the turtles, pointing out every detail he liked about them, listening when you asked questions.

No one listened to you when you asked questions. He did. And Seungcheol had wanted to punish him for no reason, to make Vernon feel small, to make him-

“Explain,” the Tower commands, voice rough. He points to Seungcheol. “You first.” 

“That crazy little girl hit me!” he exclaims, pointing at you. “She tackled me like a savage-”

“You were mean to Vernon!” you explode, unable to keep silent. “He was showing me turtles and you were being a jerk and you hurt his feelings!”

Both Seungcheol and his sister start screaming at you, though the third boy and Vernon both stay silent as the grave. The Tower interrupts his children again, raising a hand to silence him. They fall into line immediately, bowing their heads as an apology. 

The Tower looks at you and you cower, dropping your eyes. “You’re like your father,” he notes, though he doesn’t sound too angry. “Which is probably a good thing. What did Seungcheol say to Hansol that made you tackle him, hmm?” 

“He called him a bastard. And something about not liking that he was born.” 

There’s a heavy pause in the air. No one breathes, all of you waiting as the Tower deliberates. Finally, it’s his daughter who murmurs, “What’s a rastard?” 

Suddenly, the Tower is laughing. You’re not sure at what but you glance at him from the corner of your eye to see he doesn’t look as imposing as he had earlier. Next to you, you feel Vernon relax. His shoulders drop, less tight and his mouth twitches a little. 

“You kids,” the Tower sighs. “All carbon copies of your parents, I’m afraid. Seungcheol, I want you to apologize to Hansol. You know that wasn’t kind, and you’re the son of the Tower. You know better than that.” 

Seungcheol nods and turns to Vernon, giving him a full ninety degree bow. “I’m sorry for insulting you and being impolite. I was… angry. It’s no excuse.” 

Vernon bows a little. “I accept.” 

“Now how,” the Tower says to his daughter and the boy next to her, “did the two of you get involved? Soonyoung?” 

The boy next to the Tower’s daughter shifts. “Baby got mad that she,” he spits the word out toward you, “punched Seungcheol. So she started fighting with her and I tried to pull them apart. Then Vernon hit me.” 

The Tower looks at Vernon, surprised. 

“I was scared he was going to hurt Angel.” 

“I see. Angel, is it?” 

“That’s what my dad likes to call me.”

The Tower smiles and nods. “Were you just protecting Hansol?”

“Yes. He’s nice and… doesn’t deserve to be punished for being nice.” 

“You have good character, Angel. Hansol needs someone to watch over him. I’m glad he has you.” 

A flush goes through you, white hot. You don’t really know what he means, but you’re pleased nonetheless. You glance at Vernon to see him fighting a smile, his fingers nervously pulling at the threads of his ripped shirt. 

“You all might not know it,” the Tower announces, “but you’re family. Your parents are my closest confidants, my secret-keepers, my best friends. You all will be like us, one day. Sometimes we fight - fighting is good for the spirit. But at the end of the day, we apologize, we make amends, and we move on. It is important to do those things, yes?” 

“Yes, Tower.” 

“Everyone make amends. You’re bound to one another for life. Start acting like it.” 

-

Vernon cradles a tablet in his lap, the diagrams and charts to his math homework hovering above the screen. He sighs, shaking his head as he uses his fingers to spin the hologram around, watching it intensely. The light turns his face blue, reflecting in his dark brown eyes. It makes his freckles stand out more, the light smattering of them dusting the tops of his cheeks and his nose. 

There’s a bruise on his jaw again. It makes you shift uncomfortably. Vernon’s dad doesn’t hit him, but his mad rampages influenced by the number of substances he’s prone to get into every now and again make him difficult to contain. As the only other man of the house, it’s Vernon’s job to do so. 

At least, that’s what Vernon says. You’re not so sure, hating each time you find a random bruise on him, another badge of honor at containing his father’s tirades now that he’s too young to hide at the Choi Estate. 

You’re supposed to be doing homework alongside Vernon, but you can’t take your eyes off of him. The windows are open to the rain, an occasional blast of wind coming in and misting the room with the smell of lotus blossom and petrichor. It’s nice, the steady drip drip drip of the rain on the roof a pleasant backtrack to your studying session, which feels like it has stretched on forever. 

In time with your thoughts, Vernon stretches. You watch the way he reaches his arms upward, sleeves constricting around his biceps which have become corded and strong under Soonyoung and Seungcheol’s careful tutelage at the gym. His shirt pulls up a little with the stretch, revealing a stretch of smooth, pale stomach. 

Flustered, you snap your eyes back to your homework. You should be thinking about history, not Vernon’s stupid stomach or his stupid arms. Both of which, at twelve years old, have become insanely distracting for you. 

Gone is the little boy who taught you about turtles, replaced by a very cute boy that you cannot stop staring at every time you do homework together. 

Thunder rolls in the distance. You look up at the ceiling as though you could see the darkening sky through it. Outside, the wind swells, growing stronger as the full strength of the storm nears. Still, you don’t close the windows. It keeps the room cool in the summer months and you like the scent and feel of the rain. 

A bang startles you at the front of the house. You whirl around in your seat, Vernon’s head snapping toward the entryway where your door is open, blasts of rain coming in. Paper goes flying around the house as your mother stands in the door, soaked and shaking. She’s staring right at you and Vernon, her eyes wide, mouth open.

A chill comes over you. It has nothing to do with the rain. You murmur for Vernon to stay exactly where he is as you peel yourself off of the couch and approach her slowly. She’s dressed in her temple clothes, the fabric sticking to her wire-thin frame. Her hair is pasted to her face and she’s panting, nearly frothing at the mouth.

She looks like a wraith coming to take your soul. 

“Mom?” you ask, tentative. Her eyes dart to Vernon. Back to you. Your stomach sinks. “It’s just Vernon - you know, the Chwe’s son? He’s just here for homework.” 

“Whore,” she hisses, her voice demonic. “Filthy rotten whore, sinning in my house?” 

“No, we’re doing-”

Her hand reaches for you. You’re fast, but she’s like an adder, striking your wrist and latching on. You yank your hand back as she storms into the house, ripping you after her. You stumble and Vernon shoots to his feet, throwing his homework to the side.

“Call my dad!” You yell at him as your mother hauls you to the hallway, her hand like an iron claw on your wrist, threatening to break it. Her anger feels like the wrath of god, but you know her god isn’t real. Only yours is, and you need him now. “Please, call him!”

“Whore!” your mother screeches, launching you through the bathroom door. She lets you go as you fall forward, slamming into the bathroom tile. It jars you, pain blooming in your shoulder particularly. You cry out, unable to stop it as she climbs over you. “Whoring in my house! In the presence of God! O forgive me Lord, for she is wretched and foul!”

“Stop it!”

“I will cleanse the sin from this house, I will rid thee of this loathsome woman, who dares to perform filth under your reverent eyes!” 

Her fingers tangle in your hair and she pulls. You scream, shoving at her. She is soaking wet with rain, dripping on you and turning the tile slippery as you thrash under her like a fish. Your scalp screams as she yanks you toward the bathtub, strands of your hair coming out with the ferocity. 

Your head smacks the side of the tub, making your world spin. For a moment, the ceiling spins on its axis, lights blurry. The pain leaves your scalp for a moment, your mother vanishing from your vision as you get the urge to vomit, trying to roll over and push yourself off the side of the bathtub and get away. 

Thunder rolls above you, shaking the foundation of the house. Your hands slide on the tile as you push yourself up, only to be knocked back down again as she shoulders you into the bathtub. A pitiful noise leaves your mouth as you go down hard on your shoulder. You feel the crack, the pain worse than anything you’ve ever experienced before. 

Crying, you clutch your shoulder, trying to roll off of it, to do anything. Touching the arm hurts, but trying to move is worse. It is a radiating pain, jarring, searing-

Water floods your mouth. You gasp, choking as you lift your head to see that the faucet is running. With renewed panic, you thrash, nearly blacking out with the pain that explodes from the injured arm. Your mother, who doesn’t seem to notice the break, grabs you by the back of your head and shoves you forward. 

The pain incapacitates you. Blots out everything else, your inability to fight back vanishing and replaced with only the knowledge that the pain exists. It increases tenfold. Fifty fold. A hundred fold. 

Thunder pounds against the walls of the bathroom. It shakes the door in the frame, it splinters. You can barely register the thunder over the rush of the water filling your ears, but it’s there, accompanied by the rush of water in your mouth. 

Panic slams back into you. You can’t breathe, can’t see. You flail, sitting upward for a moment to suck in a sharp, painful breath. 

“Have mercy on me, O God,” your mother gasps, her hands on your face, nails biting into your skin. “According to your steadfast love; according to your abundant mercy blot out my transgressions. I will remove evil from thy house, and embrace your grace and love.” 

Water fills the tub. She pushes you back under and you scream in terror, forgetting to take a breath before your world is a dull roar. You thrash, kicking at her, slapping at her, tearing your nails into her wrists. It’s like she can’t feel pain, can’t be convinced to let go.

Your lungs ache, your nose filled with water. Her grip loosens for a second and you wretch yourself upward, choking and coughing, mucus and bile burning the back of your throat as you hack. The water is near the edge of the tub, sloshing as you try to crawl away from her. 

“Stop!” You scream as she grabs you by the hair again. “Stop! Mommy, stop! Please!” 

Water fills your mouth again. You gag on it, feeling your throat constrict as it fights between needing to wretch and swallow down water. Before your body can figure out which, you’re being hauled out of the water, the world spinning. 

You fall over the side of the bathtub onto the floor, a pile of soaking, trembling limbs. Water spills over the sides of the tub like a waterfall as you choke up the water you’ve already swallowed, vomiting it out on the tile. 

Someone grabs you and you scream in terror, not wanting to go back into the tub. 

“It’s me!” Vernon’s voice wavers, higher-pitched than you’re used to. You get your bearings, lifting your head to see him. He’s next to you, soaked and panicked as he holds his hands out, not touching you. “It’s me.” 

Turning away from him, you look where your mother is lying on the tiles. She’s still breathing, but she’s got a knot forming on her forehead. Behind her, the door to the bathroom is in splinters, entirely kicked through and torn apart - Vernon, you realize. It wasn’t thunder, it had been Vernon kicking through the door. 

A knot forms in your throat as you swivel back to him. He’s on his knees, water pooling around him as the bathroom floods. His hair is soaked, long strands hanging in his eyes, which are wide with terror. He’s panting and there’s a little bit of blood on his hands, splinters visible. 

Vernon, who taught you about turtles and all of their names. Vernon, who always quietly sits next to you at parties so you don’t feel alone. Vernon, who had tackled Soonyoung because he thought you were in danger that time at Baby’s birthday party. Vernon, who liked to sit on your couch with the windows open when it rained because he enjoyed the smell. 

Vernon, who pulled you from your mother’s wrath. Who saved you. Not your dad, but Vernon, this time. A new god. A fierce one. 

When you start to cry, Vernon doesn’t hesitate. He reaches for you, pulling you into him. You yelp when he touches your shoulder and his touch turns careful. He slides himself against the wall, pulling you between his legs to press your good shoulder against him. His chest is warm, the steady beat of his heart underneath your cheek as you press yourself into him, heaving. 

Vernon’s arms come around you, careful not to touch your shoulder. You don’t care if he does. No pain can blot this out, no pain can erase what he’s done for you. He cradles you to him like you mean everything to him, hands pressed to you and mouth against your forehead, murmuring it’s okay. I’ve got you. 

Your fingers twist in his shirt as you try to catch your breath, shaking violently. He doesn’t mind, just letting you use him however you need. A constant force, a guardian who requires no penance, no devotion, no alms in return for his protection. 

“I’ve got you,” Vernon promises, kissing your temple. He squeezes you tighter. “I’m not letting you go. I’ll never let you go.”

It’s how your father finds you when he skids into the doorway, wrapped in Vernon’s arms and trembling as the bathroom floods around you, mother muttering under her breath about the demon in her home. 

His eyes look from your mother to you, and you see it. The realization of what’s happened. Your god turns his vengeful eye on your mother, and you know you will never know her terror again. 

-

Blossom petals fall from the ceiling as your father dips Yoon Minji by the waist to kiss her. Everyone in the pews shoots to their feet, clapping happily as he smiles into the kiss. They don’t overdo it, stepping away to bow a bit to their guests, laughing and happy. You clap from where you stand on the side, one of the few bridesmaids she’s picked for the wedding. 

You think you like Yoon Minji. You don’t know much about her beyond knowing that she is from one of the wealthiest families in the Choi Syndicate, and she’s the current Wisdom to Choi Moojin, which makes her the second most powerful person in the room directly after the Tower. 

Across from you, her son Jeonghan claps politely, placed among the groomsmen. He’s a little bit older than you in his late teens, a spitting image of his mother with her coquettish smirk and knowing eyes. Jeonghan you do like, though you’re not sure you trust. 

Trust is a fickle thing that only two people in the room you’re standing in have earned. One of them is now walking with his new wife back down the aisle from the altar where they said their vows, and the other is sitting stiffly between his mother and father, his dark eyes only on you. 

Butterflies erupt in your stomach. You feel warmth spread up your neck to your cheeks as you begin the processional back up the aisle, walking to meet Jeonghan who gives you a raised brow. 

“You’re blushing,” he teases, looping your arm with his as he escorts you. “Is it because a certain Chwe is looking this way?”

You roll your eyes at the rhyme. “You just wanted to make a rhyme.”

“I’m also right.”

“If that’s what helps you sleep at night.”

He grins, turning to you, pleased at your rhyming. “I like having you for a sister. I’ll see you later, go see your mister.” 

“Ugh, goodbye, Jeonghan.”

Your new step-brother lets go. He grins at you, always looking like the cat that ate the canary. You shake him off, knowing that lying to him about Vernon is pointless. The two of you are usually glued to one another’s side, near inseparable to the point that you asked if you could be a guest instead of a member of the wedding party. 

That had earned a hard no from your father, despite how much he likes Vernon. 

Now, though, you’re free to do what you want for cocktail hour. Naturally, this means stealing a bottle of wine from behind the bar when the bartenders aren’t looking and slipping out one of the side entrances outside. 

Balmy air kisses your skin. The sun has long since faded and crickets chirp as you descend the steps toward the massive gardens on the property. The reception will be held in the east garden, so naturally you head to the west garden, slipping your phone out to message Vernon and tell him where to find you. 

A waxing moon hangs in the sky. The entire world looks blue under its light, dark enough to slip away unnoticed but bright enough not to get lost on the cobblestone path, following the tinkling sound of a fountain.

The small courtyard has a massive fountain at its center. The statue centerpiece shows a series of mermaids resting upon rocks, water sprouting around them and showering them with mist. You walk up to the fountain's edge, looking at the glittering coins at the bottom that make the water smell coppery. 

Mist cools your skin from the fountain. You study the mermaids while you wait for Vernon, eyeing the details of each scale, each strand of hair. The artist had a good hand, the careful lines and curves of the stone life-like. 

Footsteps make you turn around. Vernon enters the yard, his hands tucked in the pocket of his suit pants. He looks at ease, walking in that same loping gait he always does. Now that he’s fourteen, he’s a lot taller than he used to be. Still wire thin, but not gangly like he was as a youth.

Tonight, his hair is gelled back. You feel your heart start to race again as he grins when he sees you, a smile only reserved for you. He looks painfully handsome, his suit fitting him just right and a cluster of white flowers that you’ve never seen before pinned to his jacket. 

“Where’d you get that?” He gestures to the bottle of wine as he stands next to you, kicking a foot up on the fountain's edge to lean his elbow on his knee.

“Stole it from behind the bar.”

He shakes his head, laughing and holding his hand out. You give it to him and he turns the label upward, reading it in the moonlight. “This is good shit. They should keep better track of their wine.”

“I’m good at not being seen.”

“Oh, I’m aware.” Vernon peels the foil off the wine bottle, pausing to look you up and down. “I always see you, though.”

As soon as he says it, he drops his eyes. You stare at him, your heartbeat racing as he pulls out a knife to get the cork out the bottle. You don’t ask why he has a knife - you have one too. A beautiful little butterfly knife with a mother of pearl handle and an edge sharp enough to cut a single strand of hair. It had been a gift from Jeonghan, a little welcome to the family. 

Vernon is always like this. He says things that make you stare at him, trying to unravel their meaning. You’re both fourteen and you know what flirting is, but you can’t figure out if that’s what he’s doing or not. Sometimes Vernon just says things and doesn’t mean anything secondary. He’s simple like that, very to the point and forward. Other times, you swear there is an inflection there, but you can’t tell if it’s because there is or you want there to be. 

This is one of those times. Of course Vernon always sees you - he knows you better than anyone else in the world. From the moment he pulled you out of that tub and cradled you to his chest, you knew that you were his. It doesn’t matter if he knows or not. You’re entirely devoted to him - all because he doesn’t ask for it. Doesn’t expect it. 

He doesn’t expect anything from anyone. It’s part of why you like him so much. He believes in keeping to himself and keeping quiet, carefully observing the world around him. Jeonghan thinks it makes Vernon dangerous - the good kind, he had emphasized. The useful kind. 

You think it makes him perfect. 

Vernon manages to get the cork out the wine bottle, his smile electric as he turns to you, presenting the bottle. You clap happily, taking it from him and bringing it up to your lips to take a hearty swig. 

Immediately you cough, making a face as the wine hits your mouth. It’s fruity but it’s dry and tangy, something about it making you shake your head. After a difficult swallow, you take a big breath of air and give it back to him, still coughing. 

“Wine is terrible.” 

He takes it and tilts it towards you, his own cheers. When he takes a sip, he makes a face but his reaction is far less vile than yours. Smacking his lips together he says, “Yeah, not great.” 

Together, you sit on the fountain, sticking your feet in the water. Vernon has rolled up his pants, to the knee, swishing his feet back and forth as you take another sip from the bottle. Your dress is pooled around your thighs, lifting lightly in the breeze. 

Even though the wine is disgusting, you drink it anyway. Let it make you dizzy, turning the world softer. It feels good, this little buzz you have. You’ve never been drunk before but it makes you giggle, leaning your head back and closing your eyes as Vernon takes another swig. 

When you open your eyes and look at him, you giggle. 

“What?” he asks, shy. He puts the bottle down. 

“Your mouth and teeth are sooo red.” 

“Yours too.” He laughs, leaning toward you a little. You can’t tell if it’s the drink or his proximity that makes you dizzy. His breath fans your face - you hadn’t realized how close he was. “Your lips are red like berries.” 

“Really?” 

“Mhmm.” His eyes are dark, something flickering in them as they drop to your mouth. “Wonder if they taste like berries too.”

Your breath catches, heart hammering. “Why don’t you find out?” 

Vernon doesn’t even hesitate. He presses his lips to yours, a little forceful and awkward. You don’t care, shocked that he’s kissing you. You don’t know what to do, but you close your eyes, letting Vernon slot his mouth against yours.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you and the press of your mouths, the fountain spraying you with water as the wind changes direction. Then, Vernon tentatively parts your lips, his tongue darting out to swipe across your bottom lip and you soar.

He starts to pull back but you make a sound, shifting forward to really kiss him. You know nothing about kissing, but you remember Lin telling you and the other girls about it. Baby had told you a little bit about what it was like to kiss Soonyoung, so you try to replicate her feedback, gently licking Vernon’s mouth open.

Vernon makes a pitiful sound, leaning into you. Your noses bump and you grow eager, bringing a hand up to his neck, holding him there. His hands cradle your face, his mouth eager and hungry. It’s messy and clumsy and you’re not sure either one of you really knows what you’re doing, but it’s Vernon and it’s everything.

When you break away, panting, Vernon presses his forehead against yours, nose nudging you. “Tastes better than berries.”

“What’s it taste like?” 

His grin is goofy and he can barely get the joke out when he says, “My girlfriend?” 

It’s more like a question but you already have an answer, nodding and whispering, “Your girlfriend.” 

-

“Ah fuck,” Vernon mutters as you walk toward him, his head thudding against the back of the couch. You don’t hear his voice but you can see the look on his face and the shape of the words on his mouth as you storm over, fingers flexing. “I warned you,” you hear Vernon mutter to the girl he’s been pushing off of him the last ten minutes. 

Vernon watches, eyes flashing when you grab the girl by the back of the neck and yank backward. The girl’s head snaps up, her eyes wide when she realizes who is grabbing her. Immediately she drops her hands from Vernon’s arms and tries to lean away from you, but you’ve got her in a death grip, nails digging into her skin. 

She lets out a sound as you stare down on her, feeling your anger throb in the side of your neck alongside your pulse. The buzz of the alcohol burning through you doesn’t help either, turning your wrath sharp like a knife. Somewhere, you hear Jeonghan collecting bets behind you. 

“He told you no,” you growl. You’d watched Vernon several times physically try to get up from the couch and push the girl off but she’d clung to him, ignoring his protests. “And no is a full sentence.” 

“I didn’t know he was yours.” 

Your nails dig in further and her hands fly up to your wrists, trying to break free as she cries. “The point is he told you no. Now apologize.” 

Vernon watches with dull amusement, brows raised as they flicker between you and your victim. He always seems interested in what your nexk move is going to be, happy to go along with whatever your mood brings out, even if it’s violence. 

“I’m sorry,” the girl says to you and you shove her forward. Her head snaps down, teeth clacking painfully. “Not to me, idiot. To him. Apologize to him for violating his personal space and not knowing what consent is.”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.”

Hauling her off the couch is a task. She’s much taller than you, but you’re strong. Seungcheol has started letting you work out with them, and though he still holds a grudge from that time you punched him in the face as kids, he’d rather you be good at fighting than bad at it. 

Instead of fighting, you let the girl go. She hits the floor like a ragdoll, scrambling away from you. Your fingers are sticky with her blood, the underneath of your nails black with it. She stumbles to her feet, hand going to the back of her neck where she must feel the broken skin. 

“Crazy bitch,” she gasps, looking at you. 

You take a single step and she shrieks in fear, running. You want to chase her, but Vernon’s hand is around your wrist and he’s laughing, tugging you toward him on the couch. Collapsing into his lap, you pout at him, stomach fluttering at the way he looks at you - like you’re everything, the only thing. 

It doesn’t matter that you’re only fifteen. You know that you’re in love with Vernon and that he’s in love with you. No amount of threats by your father has swayed Vernon and no amount of never trust a man from your stepmother has convinced you that you cannot trust Vernon implicitly. 

“Very hot of you,” Vernon assures, his hands sliding from your waist to your ass. He grips you through your jeans, uncaring that you’re in the middle of some gritty ass party in the Lower District. If Baby knew you were here, she’d be so mad you didn’t bring her along. “Kiss me.” 

You do. He tastes like gin and lemons, but he smells like fresh rain, all petrichor and vetiver. His mouth is warm and wet against yours, a little clumsy because he’s been drinking, but far more skilled than that awkward kiss you shared the night your father married Minji. 

Vernon groans under you and you laugh, cradling his face with your hands as you separate from him, nipping his lower lip a little. “Take me home,” you whisper, thighs squeezing around his. “Please?” 

He taps your ass. “Let’s fucking go.”

Outside the world is awash in rain. It’s always raining in the city, turning the streets slick. It smells awful in the Lower District, the water flooding the streets and clogging the drain until it smells like wet decay and piss. A group of men shuffle too close for comfort, making Vernon tug you toward him. His eyes are dark beacons as he watches them pass by, either uninterested in the two of you or deciding you’re not easy targets. 

Standing on your tiptoes, you press a messy kiss to Vernon’s jaw. He smirks but his eyes never leave the men until they’re around the corner. Vernon might be quiet and unassuming most of the time, but he’s the son of a Sword, one of the heavies for the Choi Syndicate. Vernon is far more lethal than he looks, and he’s learned how to use it. 

Turning to catch your mouth, Vernon presses a messy kiss to your lips. “Come on,” he mumbles, tugging you toward the motorcycle parked near the front of the apartment complex. “Let’s go.” 

Vernon slides onto the bike, unhooking a helmet and passes it to you. You swing a leg over, getting on the back and pulling the helmet on. Immediately, the face shield swims with color as it turns on, a mini heads up display projected across the glass. 

Underneath you, the bike roars to life. Red lights glow around the rim of the wheels, casting murky light on the sidewalk as Vernon walks the bike backward. You scoot closer to his back, wrapping your arms around the middle to give him a squeeze. One of his hands drops from the handlebars and pats your leg. 

“Good?” His voice comes through the comms in the helmet perfectly clear. 

“Good. You good?”

“Mhmm.” You hear something click against his teeth. “I’ve got a stim pop.” 

The boys love stim pops. Most of them use them when they’re trying to fight a high or being drunk, the mix of sweet candy and methylphenidate serving as a kickstart to the nervous system. All of the workers under the Choi banner use them, especially when pulling late night shifts or just trying to stay awake. Your father even chews them sometimes, popping one in his mouth when he comes home.

You hate the taste, personally. The candies aren’t sweet enough and you can taste the bitter edge of the stimulant as it melts in your mouth. Vernon, however, loves them. He’s always careful not to overuse them, afraid of becoming too reliant on them. With his father’s history, you don’t blame him. 

Resting the side of your helmet on Vernon’s back, you watch as the world turns into a blur of color. You love the feeling of being on a motorcycle, the world around you becoming nothing but wind and blurring shapes. This late at night, Vernon has to maneuver around people as he drives through the entertainment districts, but once he hits the highway you’re gone. 

Wind rips at your clothes. You can see the speed in the corner of your heads up display as Vernon tops out the bike, shooting across the bridge like a bullet. He’s going way above the speed limit but you don’t care, hugging him closer as he navigates through the night.

Even if city police did want to go after him for speeding, they’d never catch him. Seungkwan had refitted the bike with tons of illegal parts and machinery, making it travel at speeds far above regulations. And even if Vernon did get pulled over, he just needed to tell them who he was - the Choi’s were deep in the infrastructure of law enforcement, near impossible to weed out. 

Nights like this with Vernon feel invincible. As children to members of status in the Choi Syndicate, you’re untouchable. Gods. 

Well, perhaps Vernon is. You don’t feel so much as a god as you do a shadowy angel at his side, ready to deliver vengeance tenfold to whoever stands in his way. It’s been like that since the day he pulled you out of the bathtub - before, even, when you’d punched Seungcheol for him. 

Despite being high-ranking in the Choi Syndicate, Vernon’s family doesn’t live in the luxurious accommodations as some of the other upper echelon. He had lived in an actual home like you when you were kids, but last year had moved to a smaller apartment in the Upper District - still better than most of the population of the city, but strange for someone so close to Choi Moojin. 

Sleep is a stranger to the city. Lights burn in the windows of the skyscraper as Vernon pulls into the garage lift. He plants his feet on the ground, a hand dropping to your thigh to squeeze and hold you close as the lift shoots upward. It jolts you a bit and you hug him closer.

“Gonna break my ribs,” he teases. 

“Good. I’m the only one allowed.”

“Anything you want.” 

It makes you smile. You’d never actually hurt him - you’d rather die than inflict any sort of damage on him. Jeonghan has tried to tell you over and over again that you should have a contingency with Vernon, that if he ever breaks your heart-

You shake your head at the thought. Jeonghan trusts no one and neither do you - but Vernon isn’t no one. 

The lights are off in Vernon’s apartment. His mother is nowhere to be found, which isn’t uncommon, and his father blessedly isn’t home. You don’t think Vernon would bring you back if Chwe Jiyeong was home. You don’t have to ask why and Vernon doesn’t have to explain. Like most things between the two of you, you just know. 

Vernon pulls you toward him as he walks backward toward his room. You giggle, your feet tangling and tripping as you go. You chase his lips with yours, pleased when he lets you drown him in an all consuming kiss, your hands pulling him closer by the jacket. 

Tumbling into his room, you knock something over and he laughs. Pressing your hands against his chest, you send him backward onto his bed. His room is dark, save for the light peeking through the tinted windows. This high up in the sky, the clouds blot out the moon. 

Crawling into his lap, you grin down at Vernon. His hands go to your hips, greedy fingers exploring. His eyes shine in the darkness of the room, hungry for you - only you. You are the only thing in the world Vernon ever looks at with a sliver of desire. 

Leaning down, you plant your hands on either side of his head, dropping your mouth to kiss him again when something crashing in the living room startles you both. Vernon is fast - faster than you even knew he could move. He has you up and off of him in a second, planting you on the bed as he heads for his bedroom door. 

You begin to stand but Vernon holds out a hand, stopping you. “Don’t move,” he whispers. “Stay in here, and do not come out of this room. It’s probably my dad.” 

Nodding, you sit back on the bed. You swallow thickly, watching as Vernon places his hand on the knob and stills, turning his head to listen. At first, there’s just eerie silence. Your heart pounds hard enough that you swear he can hear it thundering in your ribcage. 

Someone cusses out in the living room. Vernon dips his head, sighing heavily as he white-knuckles the door handle. You watch the change come over him, a stone dropped in a still pond rippling a calm surface. He’s tense now, the desire for you moments ago stomped out by the sound of his father knocking over something else in the house, followed by the yell of his mother’s name.

Vernon turns back to you, eyes hard. “Stay here. I’ll get him back to his room and I’ll take you home.”

You nod. You know better than to be disappointed. His dad has ruined your night, but getting to ravage Vernon isn’t as important as this. 

Carefully, Vernon opens the door. A shaft of light falls across his face, showing a moment of fear. Then he’s through the door and it’s closed, leaving you alone as your fingers twist nervously in his sheets. 

Straining your hearing, you listen as Vernon’s steps fade down the hall. His soft voice is barely audible through the closed bedroom door. Silence follows for a moment, then you hear his dad, voice raised. The urge to stand up and go to the door is overwhelming but you stay put, knowing it’ll only make things worse.

Jiyeong hates your stepmother, and by extension, you. 

Again, Jihyeong’s voice raises in the living room. You cannot make out what he’s saying, but it's obvious he’s angry. He’s always angry, though. Angry he can’t kick his addiction to frostbyte and resin, angry the Tower didn’t save his home from being taken by the bank, angry he’s in this apartment, angry that Vernon is here and his mother isn’t, angry at the world. 

Growing up, you’d only seen the angry episodes from Vernon’s father once or twice. Seungcheol’s sister had told you about them, though. How when she was little, she’d be woken up to Vernon being brought upstairs to stay the night while Jiyeong was raving mad downstairs, how the Tower and his Sentinel - Soonyoung’s father - would placate him until morning.

No one placates him anymore. Soonyoung’s father is dead and Vernon is fifteen, old enough to deal with his old man by Syndicate standards. 

A crash of sound makes you shoot to your feet. You wring your hands together, staring at the door intensely, wishing you could manifest Vernon to walk back through. Another loud crash followed by a loud shout makes you flinch, your hand flying to the angel charm on your necklace. 

For a few beats, there’s only silence. 

The silence scares you more than the shouting. Before you know what you’re doing, you’re opening the door and rushing down the hall. 

Light spills into the living room from the kitchen. You smell something burning and catch snatches of foils near the stove top where there’s still an open flame. For a second, you think the apartment is empty, but you hear a grunt and something smack against the cabinets. 

Rounding the counter top, you scream, reaching for Jiyeong where he sits on top of Vernon, whose feet are sliding against the title as he kicks, hands wrapped around his father’s wrists. Jiyeong’s hands are wrapped around Vernon’s throat, thumbs pressing dangerously into his windpipe.

You don’t even think. You lunge forward, grabbing at Jiyeong to pull him off of his son. He thrashes to the side, throwing you into the counter. Pain explodes in your hip but you don’t care, diving back at Jiyeong to pull him off of Vernon. You succeed in loosening his grip and Vernon gasps for air, his face red and strained as he coughs, spittle flying.

The moment of respite is costly - his dad shoves you back hard, sending you stumbling and falling on your ass. It hurts when you land, a pile of limbs and panic and disorientation. It doesn’t matter. You scramble to your feet again, the world tilting as your panic consumes you. 

Jumping on Vernon’s father, you try to pull him off. He’s insanely strong, arms corded and honed to killing perfection, the perfect Sword of a powerful Syndicate. Vernon doesn’t try to fight back - he just pries at his father’s hands, the death grip so strong that he knows it’s his best chance at survival. 

Your nails rend down Jiyeong’s face, you pull at his hair, at his head. It doesn’t matter. He is feral and intent on a single thing, and that’s choking the life out of the person you love most in the world - even more than you love your father, your god, your savior. 

A set of knives catches your attention on the counter. Without second guessing, you grab one, knocking the block over with your haste. Your hand shakes on the handle and you scream when you bring it down on the juncture between Jiyeong’s neck and shoulder. 

He doesn’t stop choking Vernon. Filled with rage and terror, you shriek, gripping the handle as blood spills onto your hand. You rip the blade out and drive it down again and again, ignoring the way blood spurts, covering your face and arm. 

Jiyeong finally lets go of Vernon, who starts coughing as he sucks down air. He twists under his father, kicking away to roll over on his stomach and crawl away. He gets a few feet away, where he stops to vomit. 

You stop screaming. Vernon chokes, spit flying from his mouth as he hacks, trying to get his windpipe to work again. Jiyeong remains on his knees for a second and you realize he’s also choking. His hands are covering the stab wound in his neck, red spelling between his fingers and running down his arms. 

Then, he falls forward. 

Shaking, you remain standing where you are, hand trembling violently, knife in your hand. It is covered in red now, nearly indistinguishable. Heaving, Vernon manages to sit on the floor, sliding further away from his father to press himself against the fridge. His throat is already red and bruising. 

Vernon’s eyes go from his father, motionless on the floor and in a pool of blood to you. Then back to his father. Then you again, where his gaze stays. You don’t know what to do. All you know is that you’d thought he was going to die and that you had to do something about it. You didn’t- 

“I didn’t mean-”

Vernon shakes his head and holds out his hand to you. He says nothing - can’t say anything with his throat - but his hand is outstretched toward you and violently shaking. He’s asking - begging - you to come to him. 

You drop the knife and it clatters, loud in the eerily silent apartment. You rush to him, stepping over the body, foot sliding in blood. You careen forward, collapsing to your knees. Pain shoots up your legs but you don’t care, crawling to Vernon, hands slippery against the tile until you’re there and you’re holding his hand and he’s pulling you to his chest. 

Vernon is quivering, his entire body vibrating as you press against him. His arms squeeze you tight and he turns both of you away from the mess at the mouth of the kitchen, shielding you from it. 

Your hands are on his face, smearing blood and red finger prints across his perfect skin as you inspect him. He shakes his head, as though to say he’s fine. But he’s not fine. His throat is bruised and you don’t know how much damage his dad did and he just watched you plunge a knife into his father over and over again. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean-”

Vernon kisses you. It’s brief and quick, but it stops you from spiralling. He shakes his head again, squeezing you harder. Instead of fighting him, you melt into him. Bury your face in his neck. Cry. Cry like you haven’t since your mother tried to purge this world of your existence. Cry because for a moment, you thought he was gone. 

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. When Vernon stops shaking, you finally pull yourself from his neck turning to look at the body. The blood has stopped pooling around it. It’s dark - darker than you remember. Perhaps because it’s drying. Going cold. 

Wiping your nose, you look at Vernon. He’s expressionless, eyes wide. “I have to call Minji,” you rasp. “She’ll know what to do.” You nod to yourself, pressing the back of your bloodied hand to your mouth. “Yeah, she’ll know what to do.” 

-

Turns out that Yoon Minji does always know what to do. You sit at her boudoir, back facing the mirror. You don’t feel like facing the mirror right now. You know that your dark under eyes and hollowed out expression will just stare back at you. 

Minji comes in with a steaming cup of tea, closing the door gently behind her. She is more poised and regal than you’ll ever be, but you like that about her. She reminds you of the knife that Jeonghan gave you when you became step-siblings: a beautiful, mother of pearl handle with a blade so sharp you could cut paper. 

You see that in your stepmother as she hands you the mug of tea. You cup it carefully in your hands, palms leeching the warmth from the cup. It smells like honey and chamomile, perhaps with a hint of yarrow. She’d recently started teaching you the names of herbs and how to smell them out, as well as their properties. 

Vernon would like her lessons, you think. 

Vernon. 

As always, he consumes your thoughts. He is, afterall, the reason why you’re barely able to sleep. Though you’re able to spend all day with him while he recovers from a crushed windpipe and a broken collarbone, you have to let him rest at night, which means him being alone.

You hate it. You know he’s in the careful care of the Choi family’s personal doctor, and Dr. Ymir is wonderful. But you hate being separated from him, and despite screaming and yowling like a feral cat, the Tower had been adamant that you were separated for his recovery.

Vernon hated it too. Nearly set himself back by damaging his throat to scream that he wanted you with him. The Tower had finally compromised and agreed that you could spend all day there if you left for a minimum of eight hours at night to sleep. 

Minji sits on the edge of her bed. She smoothes her silk shirt down and crosses one knee over the other. She’s dressed professionally in a beautiful, pearl colored shirt tucked into black cigarette pants, with pearls in her ears and on her fingers, hair tucked neatly in a bun behind her head. 

She is worlds more beautiful than your own mother, but perhaps your opinion of your birth mother is a little skewed. 

“Drink,” Minji urges, gesturing to the cup. “I’ll help you sleep. If you still can’t sleep, send for me. I’ll get you something stronger.”

Nodding, you sip the tea. Warmth unfolds in your mouth and you do feel yourself relax a little. Your hackles have been raised since leaving Vernon an hour ago, and already you’re looking at the clock to see how long until you can go back.

She notices and laughs. Not meanly, but tiredly, followed by a sigh. “What are we going to do with the two of you?” 

“Nothing,” you mutter into a cup. “We were defending ourselves.”

She waves a hand. “Not about that. Chwe Jiyeong is a motherfucker. The fact that he would dare hurt that child is-” She cuts herself off with an angry sound. “No one will miss him.”

“The Tower will.”

Her mouth thins. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” 

Silence stretches between the two of you. You sip your tea, watching her while she watches you. Her eyes don’t miss a thing. As the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate, it’s her job to be the second-in-command. The know-it-all. The intelligence. 

Minji must be grand indeed. Most women in the Syndicate didn’t have roles like that. The Kim and Yong Syndicates only had men in executive roles. It was mostly the same under the Choi banner, but Minji was different. The Fox, some called her. 

“Do you know why Chwe Jiyeong tried to murder his son, Angel?” Her question catches you off guard. You hesitate, sipping your tea as you think about how to answer her. She notices, her mouth twitching. “Ah. You do.” 

Of course she can see the deliberation in your eyes. Instead of arguing, you ask, “Does it matter that I know?” 

“Not really. I’m more interested in how you know. Did the boy tell you?” 

“No.”

“Pray tell, then.”

“When we were kids, we all got into a fight.” 

She smiles. “I recall. You were very disruptive.”

“It started because Seungcheol was being mean to Vernon. I told him that he shouldn’t be mean because Vernon did nothing wrong, but he called Vernon a bastard and said Vernon had done wrong by being born.”

“I see.”

“Wouldn’t have meant much to me as a kid, but Vernon had mentioned that Seungcheol and Seungcheol’s mom specifically didn’t like him much. As we got older, I wondered why out of all the kids that have family members who work for the Tower, why Vernon was given a space at the Choi Estate.”

Her eyes are glittering now, smile spreading. “And?” 

“Soonyoung was given a room because his parents are dead.” You sip your tea. “His dad was the Tower’s closest friend. Vernon’s dad wasn’t though. He had a drug problem and was constantly disappointing the Tower.”

“So why give Vernon a place to stay, then?”

“Because he’s not Jiyeong’s son. He’s the Tower’s.”

When Minji smiles, you see Jeonghan in her. Jeonghan looks so much like his mother that sometimes it makes you do a double take. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree in the Yoon family, and it doesn’t just stop at looks. Jeonghan is the perfect clone of his mother in face, but particularly in mind. 

Which is why you wonder what her motive is when she says, “You’re very bright, you know.” 

It wasn’t a question but you answer anyway. “Yes.”

“Most fifteen year olds would have been very afraid to kill someone.”

“I was afraid. Just not more afraid of him than I was Vernon was going to die.”

“Good.” She stands, unfolding like a lotus flower blooming. “I’d like to put that mind of yours to use, Angel. Clever girls like you are important. Valuable. Mean something.” She pauses and smiles. “I think Vernon might be good for the job, too.” 

-

Nerves twist your stomach into knots. You wind your fingers in your shirt, following Vernon out of the main house and onto the grounds of the Choi Estate. The bruising on his throat is long gone, but Vernon’s voice has only just started returning. 

Not that you’ve heard it, at all. His vocal recovery is reserved strictly for the hours spent with his medical team, going through exercises as he slowly makes progress toward speaking fully again. Thankfully he’s expected to make a full recovery. You remind yourself to ask Minji to give Dr. Ymir a hefty bonus for helping Vernon, especially with how fast his return to health has been. 

You are dying to hear his voice. Weeks spent writing notes and curating ways to communicate has lost its novelty, and now you just want to hear him again. You miss his voice more than you’ve missed anything else, and you’re starting to worry that you might forget the sound of it. The pitch. The raspiness. 

No.

His voice haunts you in your dreams, brushing along your skin like velvet, coaxing you into a restful sleep. Other times, it twists your nightmares, his scream cut off by the sound of his choking as his father chokes him, face turning blue.

The nightmares only happen when you sleep without him. Now that he’s back to functioning health, you’re allowed to spend however long you want with him - in theory, anyway. Though the adults keep muttering about how improper it is for two teenagers to be having sleepovers, it’s easier to let you have your way than to try and pull you apart. 

Everyone remembers Vernon screaming the last time they’d done that. 

Plus, there’s no way that the Tower hasn’t noticed Soonyoung occasionally slipping into Baby’s room after waking up from nightmares. Vernon shares a wall with him now, and sometimes Soonyoung’s sharp shouting stirs you from sleep before you hear the soft click of his door and his footsteps fade toward the youngest Choi’s room. 

No one says anything, though. It’s like the Tower had told the group of you years ago: you’re bound together for life. 

That is certainly true enough for Soonyoung and Seungcheol’s sister, who covet one another like greedy little magpies hoarding treasure. Seungcheol covets no one and nothing, but he’s grown out of the sulky, mean teenager phase and remains a bulwark for the rest of you - especially between you and the adults. 

The first hint of autumn air kisses the back of your neck. Vernon’s fingers are linked with yours, leading you toward the gazebo near the retention pond at the south end of the estate. You both pause as you near the small turtle pond, both of you crouching down to say hello.

They swarm to the edge of the pool, stretching their necks up to greet Vernon who smiles brightly, gently petting each and every one of their heads. You recognize Blush when you see her, much larger in size but just as beautiful with her rouge ears and beady eyes. 

Giggling, you hold your hand out to her, letting her come up to gently nip at your finger. When she decides you have no snacks for her, she ducks under the water, little legs kicking as she vanishes into the murky bottom. 

Satisfied, Vernon stands up and offers you his hand again. You take it, smiling. It occurs to you how genuinely happy you are. It’s one of the few days you have off between school, meetings with Minji, and combat classes led by Old Man Vero and Seungcheol. 

The memory of Seungcheol putting you on your ass the first day sours your mood a little. He’d told you it was for that punch all those years ago, and you didn’t blame him. Now, there’s no bad blood between the two of you. As the future Tower, he takes your self defense seriously. 

You’re also the only one of your group of five who has murdered a fully grown man. 

It’s not something to brag about. There are other teenagers your age in the organization who have killed. Most of them are less fortunate - their parents aren’t high up the rung in the Syndicate or they’ve fallen from grace. Some of the others don’t have parents and are in the Syndicate to survive. 

Death isn’t something you want to think about while with Vernon though, so you shove it away as he walks up the steps of the gazebo. Wisteria trees surround the building, the purple leaves draping the railings and stretching through some of the windows. A few yards away, the pond ripples as a family of ducks swims across. 

Vernon sits on the bench, tilting his face upward into a ray of sun. You sit close next to him, pivoting so you can face him directly, eyes scanning his face as he closes his eyes to enjoy the warmth. 

A smile tugs at your lips. Your entwined hands rest in his lap, his tumb absently rubbing back and forth across the top of your hand. He is so beautiful. He’s regained some of this tan back now that he’s somewhere he can go outside and enjoy the sun. His freckles are a little darker for it, skin a little more flushed and glowing.

Glinting gold catches your eyes. You smile when you see the gold chain peeking from the collar of his shirt. You know the angel that you used to wear is tucked under his shirt, a new talisman for protection. You’d given it to him the night you’d saved him from his father, clasping the chain around his neck with bloody, shaky hands and promising that it would bring him protection. 

You reach out toward Vernon with the hand not holding his, fingers brushing the top of his cheek bones. He doesn’t open his eyes but he grins and turns toward you, letting your fingers trace his nose, the shape of his brows, his lips. Your fingers stop at his mouth, pinching his lips together in a pout lightly. 

He chuckles but doesn’t laugh - not really. You wish he was able to, aching to hear his voice again. 

Vernon’s eyes flutter open. The sun hits him just right, turning his brown irises into molten gold. Your heart beats a little faster as you lean on your palm, watching him. He has the most incredibly eyes, turning from brown to burnished gold in the right light, and-

He interrupts your thoughts and says your name. You blink once. Twice. Not Angel. Not any other nickname. Your name. In his raspy, but deep voice, that is soft as velvet and oh oh oh. 

“You-” Your voice catches. “You shouldn’t talk unless you’re able.” 

He says your voice again and your hands squeeze his, turning into a vice grip. “I’ve been practicing,” he whispers, and you lean forward, not wanting to miss a word. “I can start talking again. Just wanted you to hear me before anyone else.” 

“Are you sure?” 

He nods. “I promise.” He pauses. “Are you going to cry?”

“No.” 

He laughs - actually laughs - when you turn your face away from him to look at the pond, eyes flowing with tears. He pulls you close to him, leaning into your space. He smells like rain and earth, petrichor and vetiver. Vernon says your name again and you look at him, heart hammering. 

“Vernon,” you whisper back, like an answer to the way he says your name. 

He shakes his head and you frown, questioning. “Hansol.” 

Only my mom gets to call me Hansol and it’s ‘cause I love her. 

Now you are definitely crying. It makes him laugh because he knows you hate crying, but he is the only person in the world who can move you to tears. He’s the only person allowed. 

“Hansol,” you murmur. 

His smile lights up the entire world. 

-

“Hansol!” You screech, tripping over the shoes he left by the door. You kick the boots, sending them flying into the entryway. “You motherfucker, stop leaving your shoes in front of the fucking door!” 

No one answers your complaints. Huffing, you toe off your boots, slick with rain. They’re heavy and caked in mud, messing up the rug at the front of the door. Instead of leaving your shoes where anyone walking in can trip over them, you pick them up and put them on the shoe rack like a decent human being. 

Simmering, you walk into the house proper. The lights are off but there’s a vetiver candle on the counter in the kitchen, filling the house with a scent that smells exactly like Hansol. It lessens your stormy mood a bit as you get to the stairs, climbing them two at a time to get to the second floor faster.

One of the smaller guest houses on the Choi Estate has been taken over by you and Hansol entirely. There are only two bedrooms on the second floor, but that’s all you need. A single room for the two of you to share, and one room for the egregious amount of weapons and paraphernalia to do your jobs. 

The paraphernalia room - or the Pew Pew Place, as Mingyu calls it - is heavily locked with a bioscanner and a digital padlock. You pass it as you walk toward the tiny, spiral staircase in the corner of the hall. You climb it, careful not to tip over the hand railing that is far too low, ducking into an attic turned greenhouse of sorts. 

It’s really Hansol’s rain room. There are some plants hanging from the ceiling, their waxy green leaves spilling over the sides and thriving in the sunlight when it pours through the glass ceiling. Now, the ceiling is misty and awash with rain as it taps on the glass. 

A record player stands against one of the walls, a massive shelf of nothing but records expanding to the side of it. There’s also a small coffee cart and sitting area for when Seungkwan or Mingyu want to come over. 

The object of your ire - and now affection - is lounging on the green chaise by the window, hands behind his head as he stares up at the water sluicing down the roof, his headphones on and making him unaware of you standing in the entryway. 

Sighing, your anger immediately melts. Instead of yelling at him for the shoes, you walk toward him, feeling the exhaustion wear you down. Anger and exhaustion are the only two things you seem to feel lately. Even your love for Hansol sometimes seems blotted out by the size of your anger, which has turned into an ancient creature that you’re unsure how to control. 

For now, you will it away - beg it to leave. It’s easier to do when you’re sinking into Hansol’s lap, startling him from his reverie. You smile as you lean down, laying on his chest. He wraps one arm around you while the other pulls off his headphones, the music pausing as he does. 

Hansol is warm and smells like the rain he’s watching - soothing, making you forget about everything for just a second. Underneath your cheek, you feel the steady rhythm of his heart, one of your favorite sounds. 

Instead of saying anything, you both just lie there, you on top of him while he holds you, content to run his hands absently up and down your back. It’s nice. Moments like this lately are few and far between, the world spinning so fast that it’s hard to stop and take a second to just hold him. 

As if it can sense your moment of peace, Hansol’s phone starts to ring. You hiss and he groans. You want him to ignore it. He wants to ignore it. But you know that ringtone anywhere, and despite wanting to keep this moment for longer than five minutes, Hansol reaches into his pocket to answer Seungcheol’s phone call.

“Yes, Tower?” 

You bury your face in Hansol’s chest, which vibrates when he speaks. “Got it. Yeah.” He sighs, running a hand down his face. “Alright.”

He hangs up the phone. “Tell him no.” 

“You tell him no. He’s actually afraid of you.”

“Seungcheol isn’t afraid of anyone.”

Well. That isn’t explicitly true. You wouldn’t say that Seungcheol is afraid of you, but he’s certainly wary. Wary in the way someone might be a bomb that is under their roof. Wary in the way someone’s exotic pet has started to corrode under animal instinct. Wary in the way one might be when one of their prime killers recently lost the only person she ever really considered a mother, setting her on a warpath. 

Your jaw works. Yoon Minji had been the last connection you’d had to your father. Somehow, losing her has felt worse.

It wasn’t like your father, who had finally withered away from cancer. Minji had been picture-perfect health, if not a little old and weary from running the Syndicate while Choi Moojin withered away to sickness after his wife’s passing. Minji was built of different stuff. Strong in the face of death. A force to be reckoned with as her friends aged out of life without her, leaving her to be the steadfast Wisdom manning the helm.

Then the Kim and Yong Syndicates had struck like snakes in the night, a move only cowards were capable of. The only reason the Choi Syndicate hadn’t fallen to the treachery of the Kim’s entirely was because of the Tower’s daughter. Her forced marriage to Kim Yujin had ultimately been the Choice Syndicate's saving grace, her call coming only two hours prior to the coordinated attack, a warning that an overthrow was in process. 

It had been enough time for most people. 

It hadn’t been enough time for you or Jeonghan to get to Minji. Not enough time to figure out why they knew where she was or how to get her. Now, you were both trying to stay adrift in the aftermath of losing your shared anchor - Jeonghan worse than you but you… worse than you expected. 

“You okay?” Hansol’s voice brings you back to the present. Only Hansol is able to drag you out of those churning waters where your eldritch anger lurks, waiting. Watching. Hungry. “I gotta go soon but if you’re not good-”

“I’m good.” Lie. “I’m just sleepy.”

“Cheol is working us to death.”

Except it isn’t the Tower working you to death. The Tower isn’t putting you to work at all. He is actually staunchly avoiding you, letting the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate wield you like a weapon of vengeance instead. 

Yoon Jeonghan takes aim at his enemies often these days. 

Vengeance. That is what your stepbrother had called it when he started gathering his list of soon-to-be-dead in his office. Vengeance for his mother’s murder, vengeance for trying to take out the Choi Syndicate, vengeance for anyone who had anything to do with any of it. 

It isn’t traditionally the Wisdom’s job to dole out punishment and retribution, but Jeonghan is still actively looking for how the Kim family discovered the Yoon family safehouse, something that could have only come from inside. 

Which means the Kim family have a Watcher inside the Choi Syndicate, someone with access to the inner circle. Someone you trust someone you know, someone who- 

Anger begins to twist your insides again. Hansol sees the change in you, his eyebrows creasing as he looks down at where you lay on his chest. Instead of looking at him directly, you press your cheek to his chest and close your eyes, listening to his heartbeat, trying to let it ground you. 

“You know you can talk to me, right?”

No. “Yes.” 

You don’t dare look at him because you think Hansol sees right through you. You’ve never hidden anything from him, and you don’t quite know why you do now. Why you pretend that you’re not eroding inside, why you hide the ancient anger that becomes so raw that you can’t stand it. 

Shame. 

Shame that you cannot get rid of this feeling inside of you. Shame that you’ve never felt like this. Shame that you don’t know how to tell him what you’re feeling how to articulate that you feel wrath so intense that it makes you suffocate, makes you see red, makes you-

“I gotta go,” Hansol says softly. You cling to him a little tighter reflexively. His laugh vibrates through you, followed by a heavy sigh. “We’ll be okay, right?” That makes you look up at him sharply. His face is serious, eyes dark. “We’ve been through shit before. This stuff with the Syndicate war - we’ll be fine?” 

“Of course we will.” 

It feels like a lie.

Carefully, he extracts you from him. You don’t want to let him go - you never do. But you peel yourself from him anyway, trailing after him as he goes down to the second flood of the house into your padlocked room. You can’t bring yourself to part from him yet, silently handing him a gun over the counter and running your hands along the inseams of his jacket to make sure he has what he needs.

It’s a bit of a ritual. Usually, you’d be doing it together. As Rooks of the Choi Syndicate, you and Hansol have unique jobs. Collecting debts, reminding people of their debts, and applying pressure are the main responsibilities of your positions. 

Applying pressure is a gentle way to put it. You find what makes people weak, and then you hurt it until they’re begging you to stop. You salt their wounds, you kick them when they’re down, you make good on their promises. It’s work that requires an inability to feel guilt and a willingness to go however far the Tower needs you to go. 

You and Hansol are good at that. Minji had trained you to be good at that, becoming two of the best assets for the Syndicate - especially now that it was a time of Syndicate war where the Chois were facing down the Kim and Yong families simultaneously. Now was the time to apply pressure and to ensure that everyone who had promised to be loyal to the Choi Syndicate was keeping their promises - especially now that Seungcheol had stepped into his father’s role. 

Syndicate war makes people unsettled. It’s a time of uncertainty, especially among the city officials and law enforcement trying to assert control over the Syndicate families. While the Syndicates hold no political power in the city, they have wealth, assets and connections, making them very competent and powerful puppeteers. 

Ensuring that those who threw in their bets with the Choi family still intended to do so is paramount. As is eliminating anyone who so much as thinks about switching sides, undermining the Tower, or trying to leverage the conflict for their gain. 

Hansol stops at the doorway to kiss you goodbye before he leaves. It’s soft and lingering, like he would rather be raked over hot coals than go do whatever errand Seungcheol is sending him on. You don’t blame him. There aren’t that many people in the family that do what the two of you do, and Hansol is the Rook that Seungcheol trusts the most, his brother by bond - and by blood, though most didn’t know that. 

“Will you be home tonight?” Hansol mutters the question against your lips, unwilling to part from you just yet. He tastes like vanilla chapstick, lips soft and supple. You shake your head and he sighs. “Alright. Let me know when you leave here.”

“Yeah.” 

He kisses you again and steps away. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

When the door shuts behind Hansol and you’re left to your own devices, the wrath begins to stir again. 

-

Sickly sweet incense hangs in the air as you near the lounge. A beaded curtain separates the main hall from the lounge beyond, parting with a soft, clicking hiss as you slide through the strands. The cloying scent of incense is far more intense in the room, accompanied by the smell of something sweet burning. 

Pink, velvet couches crowd around a small table. On the table is a smattering of bottles, a pipe with half burn resin in it, a spilled bag of frosbyte, and a handful of cash. Your boots stain the carpet with mud as you tread to one of the couches, throwing yourself across one as you wait. 

“Be with you in a minute,” a soft, feminine voice comes from beyond another beaded curtain. 

While you wait, you look around the room. There’s a small personal bar shoved in the corner with miscellaneous brands of liquor. In a room as cheap as this one, there are no holograms or high-tech lights to entrance patrons - just a shitty disco ball that barely refracts the light with some music skipping as the internet goes in and out over the speakers. 

At the soft clack of the beaded curtains opening, you drop your gaze to the back of the room where the room’s renter comes through. At first, she enters the room with a coy smile, the silk robe falling off of her shoulder to show milky white skin. 

The second she sees you, she tries to turn on her heel and go back to the room. 

“Leaving so soon, Rosalind?” 

Rosalind stops her retreat immediately. Like the perfectly practiced entertainer she is, she spins and fixes you with a plastic smile. You’re no whore, but you know a whore’s smile when you see one. She approaches you with a lazy gait, appearing at ease, but when she sits, it's a hairsbreadth too far away and there is a slight pinch in her shoulders.

“Nonsense,” she assures you, dropping the soft affectation in her voice to her heavily accented, naturally voice. “I just didn’t wanna wear this fuckin’ wig if its just you.”

Lie. 

“You know I love the black hair,” you agree. She has on a silvery wig now, giving her the illusion she’s some sort of moon deity. There’s a shimmer to her skin that makes her ethereal in the right light, but with the shitty disco ball, it looks tawdry. “How’ve you been?”

“Business is slow. You Syndicate-types have everyone up in arms.” Leaning forward, she gestures to the abandoned pipe on the table. “You mind?”

“By all means.” 

You watch her as she picks up the pipe. Her hands shake a little, either from the shitty resin she keeps smoking or from the anxiety of seeing you sitting in her lounge. It could be either, it could be both. She lights the end of the pipe and inhales, coughing brutally for a second, the wet sound of her lungs a result of smoking low grade shit. 

After a few more tugs and another coughing fit where her eyes water, she puts the resin down, leaning back to spread her arms along the back of the couch. “What can I do for you, Angel girl?”

“Nothing. Just checking in on you.” 

“Oh?” 

“You’re not officially under the banner of the Choi Syndicate and I’m fine with that. But you’ve helped me in the past - I like to ensure that those who help me stay protected.” 

Her mouth twitches upward. “Are you getting sweet on me?”

“I’m always sweet on you.” Your gaze sweeps the room. “If you did want to be under the Choi banner, I could give you better accommodations, you know.”

“I don’t like to be controlled by the Syndicates.”

“So you’ve always said.”

Leaning your head against the back of the couch, you sigh. Looking up at the ceiling, your eyes trace the water and smoke stains. This room really is a piece of shit, but it’s belonged to Rosalind since before you were an official Rook under Choi Moojin, and then Choi Seungcheol. 

There used to be a sort of charm to the room. You always thought it looked like one of those cheap collages that Baby put together in her mood boards with white lace, red velvet, plasticky hearts and quotes from all of the romance movies that she liked. It had always felt nostalgic. 

Now you see it for what it really is - desperate to be something it's not. 

Your fingers drum on the couch. “You’ve always admired your independence,” you eventually say. Rosalind watches you, finally at ease. “I admire that about you. I didn’t have much independence growing up.”

“I don’t think most Choi’s do.”

“I’m not a Choi.” 

“You’re practically married to one.” You cut your eyes over to Rosalind and she grins. “Yeah, I know about the boy.” 

“Of course you do. You know a lot of shit.”

“That's why you’re so sweet on me.”

“Yeah.” You laugh airly. “It is.” 

Silence stretches between the two of you. From down the hall, you can hear the heavy grunt of a man fucking into something. In a proper brothel, you’d never have to hear the sounds of anyone else fucking - unless that thing was specifically requested. 

“When did you tell the Kims where Minji’s safehouse was?” You ask, turning to fix your gaze on Rosalind. Her smile drops. “Since I’m so sweet on you I thought you’d be willing to tell me” 

“I don’t know where Yoon Minji’s safe house is. I didn’t like the bitch but I’ve never sold her out.” 

“Hm.”

You look back up at the ceiling, feeling eerily like you’re at a therapist appointment. You’d started going as a bit of a joke with Jeonghan, wondering what would happen if you told her snatches of your life. You leave out the murder, of course, but you’re pretty sure she knows. 

The thing your therapist is most interested in is your relationship with Hansol, asserting that you’re codependent. You’re not entirely interested in what it means or that it’s bad. Of course you’re codependent on Hansol - there is no one else in the world you want or would rather trust. 

And yet you’re here, on a rampage that he is unaware of. 

 “You know, Rosalind,” You say airly. “I would believe you except… I have a really good instinct for this shit. It’s what makes me good at my job, and it’s why you always respected me.” 

For a second, she doesn’t answer. Then, she changes her tone of voice, earnest. “I would never sell out Yoon Minji, Angel. I don’t want the Chois as an enemy.” 

“There it is again.” You sit up and point at her. “Do you know that when you lie, you take a tiny little breath right before? Like someone might do right before they jump from a cliff.”

“I’m not lyin-”

“Lie again and I will cut off a fucking finger like that bitch Yoon Minji taught me.” 

“Angel,” she begs, sliding off the couch to her knees. Her hands are rubbing on her thighs, shaking her head when she looks at you. “I’m telling you, I swear on my life.”

You stare at one another. Sweat gathers on Rosalind’s brow. The synthetic strands of her wig stick to her forehead. Her eyeshadow is smudged, her lipstick not done right, a little bit overlined. You see the glue holding the fake lashes to her waterline, the separation of the body glitter on her skin as she starts to sweat. 

Clapping your hands on your thighs and standing, you announce, “I believe you.” 

She nearly collapses with relief. “Really?”

“No, but it was funny to see how relieved you are. Soonyoung!” 

A series of crashes echoes from the hall. The wall vibrates as someone gets knocked into it, followed by heavy footsteps. Soonyoung comes crashing through the beaded curtain, dragging a young woman by the hair after him. The tape over her mouth keeps most of the screams to muffled grunts as she twists in his hands, her nails wrapped around his wrist where she tries to get him to let go. 

Rosalind lets out a sound like a wounded animal but she doesn’t dare move. Soonyoung throws the girl to your feet, sending her tumbling into the coffee table. Things fly off the surface, crashing into the already stained carpet. 

Whimpering, the girl crawls away from you toward where Rosalind is kneeling, staring at her with an open mouth and tear-lined eyes. Before the woman can make it far, Soonyoung steps on her fingers, making her wail and thrash.

“Stop!” Rosalind screams, spittal flying. “Stop!”

“This is who the Kims offered to protect, right?” You ask Rosalind as Soonyoung applies more pressure to the woman’s fingers. She goes rigid with tension as the pain wracks her. “This is your daughter? Got into a nice ass school two weeks ago - a boarding school, even. All the way across the world.”

“Please,” Rosalind begs. “Please.”

“I thought to myself, Rosalind has had all this time to ask me to protect her kid. Never once asked the Chois to do it. And then suddenly she’s accepted into something you can’t afford so very far away… and I wondered. Who is this woman’s dad?” 

“Angel, please.” 

“No daddy on the birth certificate but… she looks so much like Kim Minchan’s niece. They have such pretty eyes in that family.” 

Rosalind is openly weeping now, the sobs wracking her body. You stare at her and feel the ancient anger inside of you curl in pleasure, teeth clicking as you get ready to strike. The violent ocean that has manifested as your wrath is ready now, waters churning, waiting, hungry. 

Slowly, you crouch down to Rosalind’s level, staring at her across the coffee table. “Who fucking told you where Yoon Minji’s safehouse was, Rosalind?” 

She shakes her head. You look up at Soonyoung, who looks like the devil with his white-blonde hair and beady, black eyes. He leans on his foot, crushing the girl’s fingers under the toe of his boot. She screams, thrashing again. Surely they’re broken by now. 

“Stop!” 

“Tell me,” you coo, nodding sympathetically. “Tell me, Rosalind. Or I’m going to kill her in front of you. Alright? Tell me.” 

Rosalind nods. Her makeup streams in black, inky tendrils down her face. She struggles to suck in a breath, coughing through her resin-ruined lungs. You watch with predatory stillness as she manages to suck in a breath, nodding to herself again. 

“Jung Lan.”

You frown. “Jung Lan is dead. He was murdered protecting Choi Moojin.”

She shakes her head. “The son. Junior.” 

Sucking in a breath, you look up at Soonyoung. His eyes are storming, the churning waters of his violence the same as the thrashing anger inside of you. It is, perhaps, the only time you’ve ever related to Kwon Soonyoung. He glances back to Rosalind, eyes narrowed. 

“Tell me what he told you.” 

“He didn’t tell me with the purpose of giving it to the Kims. Just ran his mouth while he was here. Said his old man deserved the house she was given, not Minji. Said it was in Cascade. That’s it. I swear that’s it. Please.”

You nod at Soonyoung and he lifts his foot from the young woman’s hand. Her fingers are crushed and bent at odd angles, bruised under the heavy weight of his foot. He looks at you and you give him a curt nod. Expressionless, he pivots and marches from the room, vanishing with a snap of beaded curtains.

Rosalind sags in relief, collapsing inward on herself as she sobs. Her daughter starts to crawl to her and you let her, watching the way she folds herself into her mother’s lap. The way you might fold into Minji’s lap, in another life. 

In that life, where you were born to her, maybe, instead of the woman who gave birth to you. In another life where you and Jeonghan still had a fierce figure to lead you through the trenches of this fucked up mess. In another life where she wasn’t dead and you could lay your head in her lap to let her comb your hair. 

It doesn’t exist - never existed. Even alive, you don’t think that was in your future for you and your stepmother. But she had made you tea and comforted you, had taught you how to weaponize what little skills you had, turned you into something that could protect Hansol no matter the cost. 

“Thank you,” Rosalind whispers, crushing her daughter to her. 

“For what?”

“For sparing her.”

When the first electric pulse of a gun being fired and screams come from down the hall, Rosalind looks at you, wide eyed. You grin, the rage taking shape on your face. “I didn’t.” 

-

It’s dark when you get home. The clock floating above the holoscreen stand says it’s just past four in the morning, which is earlier than you thought you would get home. Every part of you is tired and dragging, each step weighed down more than the last.

Dissatisfaction follows you, haunting your every step. You feel the weight of its presence as you try to run away from it to the second floor, shoving it away. You feel no better after ridding the world from the woman who’d traded secrets, along with the entire establishment. 

You don’t feel guilty. You’d done it eagerly and with Soonyoung’s help. They had deserved it, not only for betraying the Choi Syndicate, but for having the nerve to pretend to be neutral for all of these years, benefiting from servicing all three of the city’s main syndicates. 

The problem with neutrality, though, is there’s no one to save you when death is on your doorstep. 

None of it makes you feel better, though. You don’t feel justified. You don’t feel like you did a good job. It doesn’t feel like a box that has been checkmarked. Your anger asks for more, wants more, needs more. 

Hansol is asleep in bed when you come in. He doesn’t stir, too heavily knocked out to sense you. Here in your home in the heart of the Choi Estate, there’s no reason to sleep light for fear of intruders. Here, in his home with you, he can be completely at ease.

You stare at him as you change into a sleep shirt, leaving nothing else on. He looks at peace, face completely relieved of the stress of his evening or the constant frown he’s started to wear around you. Hansol looks like his younger self when he sleeps, face swollen where it’s smushed against the pillow, mouth parted as he snores a bit. 

When you crawl into bed, he stirs. He blinks those round, gentle eyes at you, immediately recognizing your home. His hands seek you, stretching across silky sheets to grab you by the hips and pull you close, needing your warmth. He smells like vetiver and petrichor, immediately soothing the unsettled feeling nipping at your heels. 

It isn’t enough.

As Hansol’s eyes drift shut, planning to go back to sleep now that you’re here, you lean forward and press your mouth to his. You feel the question in the curve of his mouth for only a second before he relents and kisses you back, lips tired and slow, a little lazy. 

You tangle your legs with his, hooking your knee behind his to pull him flush to you. He grunts, but goes with the flow, his hand sliding up your thigh to rest on your hip, fingers tentative. You want more of him, need more of him. You want to drown in him until this - this whatever it is eats you alive and leaves nothing less. 

Hansol senses your need because of course he does. He knows you better than anyone else in the world, and when your mouth turns desperate, he understands. Instead of asking questions, Hansol comes alive, rising up from sleep to lean over you and push you down into the mattress. 

A soft sound leaves your mouth and he drinks it down, gentle mouth turning into bruising hunger. 

Yes. It vibrates though you as his teeth scrape your bottom lip as he sucks on it gently. Yes. When he drags his nails up your thighs, scratching. Yes when he leans his weight into your hips, pinning you to the bed underneath. 

This is part of why you love Hansol. He’s able to flip the switch he needs to meet you halfway, to offer whatever salve you need to the burn, whatever fire you need to rouse you. It’s an instinct of his, a calling that he answers every time. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, keeping him close. His kisses are needy and messy, turning to more tongue and teeth than anything. You thread your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling slightly. It earns a groan from him, his warm breath ghosting across your slick-bitten lips as he mouths across your jaw. 

Hansol grabs your thigh and wraps it around his waist. You squeeze, pinning him to you while he lets go of your leg, hand drifting to your bare ass to squeeze generously. You tug his hair in response and his laughter comes out in a huff of air. 

Attaching his mouth to your neck, Hansol slides his hands under your shirt. His palms are warm but you shiver at the feeling of his rough calluses scraping against your soft skin. He drags the tips of his fingers along the curve of your breast, teasing and light. 

“Don’t,” you growl, fingers going tight in his hair. “Not tonight.”

He bites you sharply, making you moan and arch into him. His tongue soothes the sting of his teeth and you feel his grin against your skin as his mouth drifts toward your shoulders. 

Hansol listens, though. Instead of teasing you with his feather-light touch, he flicks his thumb back and forth over a nipple, making you shiver. Being in his hold feels so good, the violence of the night fading to the background as Hansol’s hands and mouth numb the anger. 

After over a decade together, there is nothing he doesn’t know about you. He knows the way you like to be kissed, the way you have a sensitive spot under your ear, attaching his mouth to it and sucking greedily. He knows you like to be scratched and bitten, that you need to feel nothing but him for a moment of peace.

Hansol peels the shirt off of you. You don’t even feel the chill of the room, just the heat of his hands turning you over to press your face down into the mattress, his teeth and lips on the back of your shoulder, his other hand hooking behind your knee to pull it upward and spread you open. 

Your fingers dig into the mattress as Hansol sinks down, pressing kisses to your spine. It feels like you can’t stop shaking, only focused on the way his tongue darts out occasionally to taste your burning skin. His hands don’t stop either, squeezing the back of your thighs, skimming upward to gently squeeze your ass.

The ache for him is nearly unbearable by the time you feel the first, soft lick of his tongue on your cunt. You sigh, melting into the mattress as he prods lazily at your entrance before dragging back down to your clit. He knows exactly how to work you, mouth attaching to you and sucking leisurely, like he has all the time in the world to do this.

And he does, doesn't he? You and Hansol have whatever time is fated on this earth to spend together, so why should he rush? Why should he not enjoy the way you shake under the buzz of his mouth as he licks and sucks at you fervently, his hands running up and down the back of your thighs as he drags his nails along your skin. 

Reaching back with one of your hands, you sink your fingers into his hair. Hansol hums appreciatively, the buzz of his mouth against your pussy making you moan his name. He’s messy with it, devouring you in a way that makes nothing else in the world matter. You writhe under him, face hidden in pillows, short of breath.

The muscles in your lower stomach start to squeeze and you feel the force of your orgasm coming. Hansol can tell by the sounds you make, his hands turning firm as he keeps you pried open at the thighs, pressing his face further into you.

Your fingers tighten in his hair and you come with gritted teeth, screaming into pillows that smell like him. He continues to mouth at you, eager to work you through the full length of your orgasm. It sends you into overdrive, muscles twitching, legs shaking, lungs barely able to take in a breath. 

With a final, messy kiss to your pussy, he peels away, taking under a minute to shed himself of his clothes. Heaving, you lift your face from the pillows, feeling sticky drool on your chin to turn over your shoulder and look at him. 

You can barely see him in the darkness of the room, but you can just make out his shape as he shuffles to you on his knees, hands pumping his cock slowly. You make a desperate sound and he huffs - laughter, you know. He slides a hand underneath your thigh again, hitching one knee up high on the bed while the other is pressed flat. 

Hansol keeps your leg pinned there, stretching you open, muscles expanding as he presses the head of his cock into your entrance. His name escapes your mouth in a whine, feeling the way your walls spasm around him as he sinks in. The position has him hitting deep. You feel him everywhere, feel the way he invades your senses. 

“S’good,” you whisper when you feel his hips press against your ass. Your cunt flutters around him, trying to accommodate for the stretch. “Fuck.”

He hums in response, keeping one hand on your thigh to pry you open and the other on your hip to hold you in place as he retracts, the slide of his cock sending your eyelids fluttering. 

Hansol sets a hard pace from the jump, each one of his thrusts targeted and on point. He punches the air from your lungs and you become a panting mess under him, barely able to breathe. He puts his weight into it, leaning over you to stretch your leg higher up on the bed and crush you to the mattress the way you like, the way you need.

It feels safe here, jolting under the weight of him as he fucks into you hard, his grip tightening on you as you whine and clench around him. You dig your fingers into the sheet, twisting and tearing as if it can release the tension coiling inside you, begging to be let out.

For a brief moment, he slows his pace, pulling away from you. Your eyes snap open, ready to fire off a question when you feel him pry you open to spit onto the tight rim of your ass. You suck in a tight breath of air and hear him laugh before he presses the pad of his thumb to the ring of muscles there.

“Oh,” you breathe, melting. He doesn’t press his finger in, just keeps it firm on the seam of your ass, adding pressure and stimulation that sends you into a thoughtless daze. 

“Yeah,” he grunts, picking up his pace again, cock hitting deep. “Oh.” 

You don’t have a response - know that he’s teasing you, having sensed your brief moment of annoyance in the split second it took him to add another element of pleasure. You know Hansol will never disappoint you here wrapped in sheets that stick to your sweaty skin, sheets that smell like him, but you’ve always been quick to protest, quick to strike first. 

It doesn’t bother him. Nothing about you bothers him after this long together. Not you coming home and waking him up, needing to be fucked into the mattress to forget the hate coiling inside you. Not you being utterly useless tonight, letting him do all the work as he brings you to the brink of coming again. Not you reaching back to grab the wrist of the hand he has on your thigh, your nails digging in so hard you make him bleed. 

Hansol takes it all. Takes your shaking orgasm, takes the way you moan his name, takes his time as he fucks you through your high before he drops the hold he has on your leg to hold your hips to the bed instead. Takes the breath from your lungs when his thrusts turn from hard to brutal, hips crashing into you, forcing each breath from your lungs. 

The world goes blank. There’s just you laying in a bed that smells like petrichor and vetiver, breath coming to a screeching halt as your face presses into the mattress. He keeps you pressed there, a hand sliding to the middle of your back to keep you pinned, the other working the clenching rim of your ass.

If you could make a sound, you might scream. Instead, you shudder under him, coming violently and without air, ears ringing and blood rushing. It’s exactly what you were looking for, a specific high that only Hansol can give you. 

Eventually, he rolls you over and you gulp in air. You’re barely aware of anything, floating in the dizzy space between. A hand laces with yours, squeezing your fingers. You squeeze back, letting Hansol’s grip keep you tether as you gain your bearings. 

Slowly, you come back to the present. You blink your eyes open, despite how heavy they feel. You could fall asleep any moment, spent and toeing the edge of the nothing sleep always brings. Hansol is looking at you though, a look in his eye that sparks a little life in you.

“What?” you ask, voice barely above a raspy whisper. “What’s wrong?” 

Hansol’s hair is damp with sweat, pressed flat to his forehead. His eyes are dark and simmering with something unreadable but intense. 

“I should ask you that,” he answers after a pregnant pause. “What’s going on?” 

The question sours your efforts to forget immediately. His concern shatters the illusion that you’d let him fuck into you, removes the numbing you’d practically crawled into his lap for. With his worry comes the sharp stab of reality, all the anger and wrath and ugliness that you keep trying to shove down rearing its monstrous head.

“Nothing, Hansol.” Your words crack like a whip and you let go of his hand to roll over, turning your back to him. “I was just stressed.”

“So tell me what you’re stressed about.”

“Maybe you haven’t noticed, but we have stressful jobs.”

“You are not stressed over your job. Don’t sell me that. You have to be honest with me. You said we’d get through this shit together. You gotta talk to me, Angel.” 

Your heart starts to pound in your chest. You are suddenly painfully awake, body riddled with the tension Hansol had just gotten rid of minutes ago. Sweat slicks your skin anew, but this time from the anxiety of how close you feel to tipping over. 

“Can we just go to sleep?”

He scoffs. “I was asleep until you crawled in here looking at me like you were going to die. Why are you shutting me out?”

“I’m not shutting you out. You were quite literally just inside me.”

“Stop twisting what I’m fucking saying. I’m asking you to be open with me and no amount of you being a bitch is going to make me shut up. I know that’s what you want.” 

As always, Hansol is absolutely correct. He doesn’t miss. It’s what makes him such a good Rook, but makes him a good life partner. And he is your life partner. You’ve never said any vows at an alter and there’s no ring on your finger, but Hansol has been your soulmate and your partner since long before he pulled you out of that bathtub. 

And here you are hiding from him, crawling to him to beg him to numb you without any reason why, taking but not giving, demanding but not paying him back. Here you are trying to piss him off into silence, being as frustrating as possible to get him to give up and decide he doesn’t feel like fighting this battle.

He knows it. You know it.

A fissure appears on your resolve. Hansol says nothing, his words doing all the work for him as you mull them over. He doesn’t have to press you further - he knows the blow he’s dealt has worked, waiting in heavy silence as the facade you’ve built over the last few weeks starts to crumble to show him the ugly thing you’ve been keeping to yourself. 

“I’m angry,” you whisper. It comes out shaky. Scared. He doesn’t dare breath or move, letting you pour through the cracks he’s made. “I’m angry and I don’t know why and it’s like I can’t stop being angry. I feel it like it’s a thing that is alive, like I can’t get rid of it.”

You suck in a shuddering breath, feeling the way you’ve started shaking. You zone out as you speak, vision narrowing to a specific point of darkness in the bedroom. “I feel hate like I’ve never felt before and I swear it’s going to eat me alive. It’s like - it feels corrosive and like I can’t satiate it but the only thing that offers any relief is killing anyone who had to do with Minji’s death.” 

Hansol shifts behind you. He doesn’t move closer but you feel his hand move across the bed. He presses his palm flat to the base of your spine. It grounds you, makes it easier for you to continue, “I don’t get it. It’s not like she was my mom. She didn’t - she didn’t give birth to me but she didn’t try to drown me. She didn’t see me as something to be disposed of. She… saw me and embraced me, and thought I was useful. Liked me.” 

Clever girls like you are important. Valuable. Mean something.

Minji’s words left an impression on you. You think about them often, letting them replace the bible vowels your mother used to hiss as you. So many of your memories of a motherly figure are Minji teaching you how to read body language, Minij showing you how to look for the subtleties of deception in financial documents, communications, miscellaneous tidbits. 

“My dad was my god,” you whisper, voice quaking. “But Minji - she was an entity. She taught me how to fight back and keep what I wanted most protected. And they just… killed her in her bed, Hansol.” You realize you’er crying but now you can’t stop. “They broke into her house and killed her in her bed like she was a fucking dog and not Yoon Minji, the Wisdom of the fucking Choi Syndicate.” 

Hansol’s hand drags up and down your spine, slow and hypnotizing. You close your eyes, violently shivering as everything that’s been growing inside of you rushes out in a tide you can’t dam. “All because some stupid fucking kid ran his mouth to the wrong whore. Do you know how angry that makes me? She should have been safe, and a fucking nobody is why she died!” 

Instead of comforting you with words, Hansol deems it’s safe enough to grab you. He pulls your back to his chest, hooking his chin on your shoulder to bury his face in your neck. He’s warm and he feels safe, arms wrapping around you as you seethe. 

“I hate that I’m angry,” you hiss. “It feels so fucking stupid. People die all the time and I don’t care but this one bothers me and it makes me feel ridiculous. Makes me feel stupid - she was Jeonghan’s mom not mine. But I want anyone who had anything to do with it to die, Hansol. I need them to.” 

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Then we’ll kill them.”

Hansol says it so simply. Because of course to him it is simple: you need to feed this desire for revenge or it will kill you, thus it needs to be done. Of course he doesn’t think it’s stupid, doesn’t think you’re being irrational. To Hansol, it doesn’t matter what you want - he wants it too. 

To be loved by Hansol is to be loved entirely, without ifs, without buts, without any stipulations. He takes you exactly as you are, and it makes you break in his hold. He’s the only other person in this world who wants you exactly as you’ve been created.

And maybe that’s why you were so afraid of letting him in to see this. You’ll never get rid of that tiny, irrational fear that he’ll decide he’s seen enough. Nothing you’ve both been through has been easy, and loving you comes with so many obstacles that you don’t know how he doesn’t get tired of overcoming them. 

“You’ll have whatever vengeance you need,” Hansol promises. He nuzzles to you closer. “I’d do anything for you.” 

Once upon a time, your mother thought her god superseded everything. She swore her god was omnipotent, that he would save her and punish the evil around her. He’d never done anything for her, though. Never answered her prayers, never struck down anyone who raised a hand against her, never opened up the skies to cleanse the earth from evil. 

Your god answered your prayers. He struck down those who wished you harm, he erased those who stood in your way. He loved you and rewarded you for your love in turn. He cleansed you. Protected you. Allowed no weapon formed against you to prosper. 

Hansol was your god, and you were his vengeful angel. 

SYNDICATE ROLES

Tower - title for a Syndicate boss Wisdom - title for the second-in-command to a Sydicate boss Sentinel - title for the main military leader of a Syndicate Riots - title for a member of the Syndicate responsible for sowing discord Swords - title for a member of the Syndicate who is a fighter/military role Chariots - members of the Syndicate who make deals/act as business brokers Rooks - members of the Syndicate who collect debts/lead the extortion practices Justices - members of the Syndicate on the legal counsel Hanged Men - members of the Syndicate who betrayed their Syndicate Watchers - members of a Syndicate who are spies/informants Patrons - citizens who pay homage/have an alliance/are under the protection of a Syndicate Vanguard - official members of the Syndicate who don't have specific roles but do work for the Syndicate

TAG LIST

@ddaddunugu @ourkivee @tie-nn @cookiearmy @thesunsfullmoon @stray-bi-kids @ldysmfrst @thepoopdokyeomtouched @eoieopda @onlywon4u @hopeless-foolery @iamawkwardandshy @gyuguys @codeinebelle @Burnt-horizons @ateez-atiny380 @abibliolife @idubiluranghae @bultaereume @yoongznme @kaitieskidmore97 @coffee-addict-kitten @coralpenguinbeard @gyubakeries @archivistworld @hipsdofangirl @asyre @aksweet7 @bunnybeaer @valenhui @fxckinbreathe @agustamygdala7 @kaepjjangiya @fancypeacepersona @beckyloveshannie @SecretFoxBear @babycaratdeul @aiforyuu @imujings

[snail-migraine]

Yandere Tartaglia

This man is like a dog when it comes to his darling.

Sweet and caring to you but to everyone else he is a dangerous maniac who will attack anyone who dares to take a step too close.

I imagine that he probably found his darling when they were just wondering the streets.

No food, no water, no mora to their name. Nothing.

Not even a home or a family to go back to. Absolutely nothing.

Looking at your malnourished body, he felt both pity and anger.

How could someone, anyone for that matter, just walk by and let you slowly decay like this?

Certainly not him.

He decided in that moment he was going to take care of you.

"Shh, it's okay. Don't be scared. You're going be okay, everything is going to get better I promise."

He basically just picked you up, put up on his shoulder, and said "This is mine now."

In the beginning he tries his best to keep his distance, especially since he doesn't fully know what you went through on the streets.

And also you don't know that he's just trying to make sure you're okay.

It pains him to see you flinch away from all of his touches, when you refuse to eat for fear of being poisoned.

He doesn't know who made you so paranoid but all he knows is that he'll try to make your life as comfortable as possible.

And if that means he has to keep at an arms length, then so be it.

But everytime he sees you cuddle up close with the mountain of pillows and blankets on your bed, he can't help the burning jealousy he feels.

Why can't you cuddle him like that?

Once you start showing signs of getting better, your temper tantrums lessen in numbers, and you no longer flinch quite as hard when he pats your head. That's when he decides that now is the time to let loose.

"Sweetheart! Where's my sweetie? Where are you baby? Come here and give me some smooches."

The man is so smitten for you.

You have one of the most powerful men in teyvat wrapped around your delicate little pinky and you didn't even realize it.

He showers you with all of his love, from gift-giving, to quality time, to snuggling up together at all hours of the day.

You and him are practically attached at the hip.

However once you start getting better he has to go back to being a Harbinger.

Most of his job just includes him moving around a lot and not being able to come back home to Snezhnaya all too often.

Which means he either has to take you with him or leave you back at home.

As much as it pains him to do so he chooses to let you stay back home in Snezhnaya.

You've only just got use to being home in Snezhnaya, it would be cruel to make you start hopping place to place just to be with him.

It tears his soul apart that he has to leave you, but as a member of the Fatui, he does what he has to do.

He decides it's best not to introduce you to his family just yet, and instead allow you to be guarded by Fatui members when he's not around.

What he doesn't know however is that you plan on escaping when both he and the guards are not looking.

You're not much of a hassle to begin with so the guards have a tendency to slack off whenever they feel like it.

Which usually means taking short naps during their long working hours.

All you had to do was figure out when they usually fall asleep and prepare.

When the hour comes your more than ready, every fiber in your body is practically jumping with joy at being away from Tartaglia.

You wade through the thick snow of your Homeland, with a giant fur coat engulfing your body as you figure out which way to go.

In your excitement you don't think to cover your tracks. Which is how, when Tartaglia came home to an empty house with nothing but sleeping a guard to comfort him, he knew exactly where you went.

"Stop fighting it.", Ajax's tone drips with his barely contained rage. If his iron-grip on you wasn't a sign of his anger, then his voice for sure was.

Words couldn't describe how enraged you made him. He'd thought you been getting better, that you'd grown past wanting to run away. Turns out the moment he let his guard down is the moment you decided to sprint.

How dare you?

How dare you play with the strings of his heart like this. He trusted you with his heart and you just rip it all to shreds like it never even mattered.

His footsteps crunch in the crisp snow. His face no longer looks like that sweet, smitten, puppy dog that you knew. No this Ajax is cold, dangerous. The Ajax you knew was gone the moment he figured out you decided to run away from the sweet domestic home life you were so graciously blessed with. The Ajax you knew was replaced with Tartaglia the cold eleventh Harbinger of the Fatui.

The one who served the Tsaritsa with nothing but blind loyalty and bloodied blades.

You should've known that this plan would've failed. You should've known that Ajax would've done anything to get you back into his arms. Oh but how hope can blind the weak.

Hope prays on our dreams and tells us that no matter what we will prevail. No matter how many times we stumble and fall. Hope will guide the way. What a load of shit.

Hope is what got into this mess, carried like a princess, your arms held together tight behind you, your 'Lover' stalks his way back to the mansion hidden deep within the dense Snezhnayan forest. The very same mansion that has held you prisoner.

Hope has done nothing but lead you blindly into situations that progressively get worse and worse. You know that so far Ajax has been gentle with for fear that you'd get scared and try to run away. Now that you have, you tremble at what he might do to you now.

With every passing moment your mind fills with worse and worse images of torture you'd havr to endure at Ajax's hands. All because you allowed yourself to believe in some shitty hopefulness. With every new image, your lungs tighten even more. Your heart pounds in your chest, and your legs twitch. Every bone in your body screams at you to run.

But again, that's what got you here in the first place. Didn't it?

Ajax darts his eyes down at you, taking in your shakey form. Your uneven breathe and beating heart all tell-tale signs of how scared you are. How scared you are of him. Your terror must've taken over all of logical thinking.

No matter how angry you make him he'd never lay a so much as a finger on you.

Never.

He sighs before kissing your forehead, the kiss is soft and loving. Reminding you of the Ajax you knew. His face falls from the once tight expression to one more somber and melancholy.

Stress and disappointment etched onto his features. He loves you so much, and he hates that he'll have to punish you. But he can't just let you get away with this.

He brings you up higher, digging his face deep into the crook of your neck. Taking in a whiff of the sweet citrus perfume he gave you. You don't move, your body turned frigid the moment he kissed your head. You don't understand what's going on.

He lifts his head up, looking you in the eye. His eyes mimic a raging sea, waves of blue and teal swirl together to make a his powerful gaze. The look in his eyes is enough to bring tears to your eyes.

You've never seen him look at you like that. With such sorrow and sizzling frustration.

He brings a hand up to your face, wiping away all the tears falling from your watery eyes as he coos in your ears.

"Oh baby, don't cry, there's no need to be scared. I'd never hurt you. I only want what's best for you. But I can't just let stunts like this go unpunished. I promise you, it'll be over before you know it. Okay baby?"

[kaeyas-beloved]

It’s The Way He… || #2

Characters: Alhaitham, Cyno, Dainsleif, Heizou, Itto, Kaveh, Xiao, Wanderer

Summary: Just cute/heartwarming/breath-taking things he does <3

Genre: Fluff + Snippets

CWs: gn!reader (you/your), injuries (Cyno), petnames (my love; Kaveh),

a/n: did a pt. 2 because the last one got lots of love and I though they were really cute so I wanted to do some others <3

|| Pt. 1 ||

Alhaitham

It’s the way Alhaitham props his chin on you - your head, shoulder, just whatever is easiest at that moment - as you read. His eyes, a beautiful mix of green and orange, will skim the page you're on. It's no quantum physics or retelling of historic events, but if you like it then he'll give it a chance. Just, don't be too upset when he asks you to read faster, he wants to know what happens next is all.

"Are you almost done? I've finished the page. What? What's that look for?"

Cyno

It’s the way Cyno is so serious as he dresses your wounds, a stark contrast to the genlteness of his touch. It doesn’t matter if it’s a paper cut, a rash, burn or a gash from battle, it’ll receive the same level of attention and care from the general. If he had it his way he’d get Tighnari to fix you right up, because at least Cyno knows you’re in good hands, but that can’t always happen, so he’s your next best. In a way that’s alright, at least this way he can personally see to it that you’re looked after.

“This will sting a little, sorry, but it has to be cleaned. I’ll try to lessen the pain as much as I can and finish quickly. If you’d like, I can tell you some jokes to take your mind off of it?”

Dainsleif

It’s the way Dainsleif never forgets the little details about yourself. You could mention it once and he’s already committed it to memory, he's committed you to his memory. For 500 years he's walked alone, maybe not always physically, but it still felt like there hasn't been anyone with him. You are the first connection he's had in so long, and even if he's doomed to live long past you, the image of everything that creates you, he’ll will himself to remember for as long as he can, because just the thought of you makes him feel like he's alive once more.

“You told me once that the stars brought you peace. I thought it’d be nice to look out at them tonight, for they too do the same for me. However, if I was to be truthful, you, without a shadow of a doubt, bring me the most peace.”

Heizou

It’s the way Heizou leaves a riddle on the kitchen counter for you every so often before he leaves for work or errands. There’ll be clues scattered around the house for you to find as well, each one becoming more cryptic than the last. Of course, he knows you well enough to not make them so tough you can’t figure it out. He wants you to receive your prize after all~

“Did you figure out today’s riddle?” … “Heh, that’s correct, I knew you’d get it! Now, come and claim your reward. I think you’ll really enjoy it this time~”

Itto

It’s the way Itto runs up to you the instant he sees you in the streets of Inazuma, arms ready to grab hold and lift you as high as he can or as high as you allow. He'll even do a little spin with you he's that happy to see you. It doesn't matter if you’re alone or with someone, he is a loud and proud oni who shows off the person that owns his heart!!

"There you are my partner-in-crime, my beetle battle buddy, my number one! Say, if you're not busy how about you tag along with me? I just found this awesome raman place that's pretty cool if I do say so myself. How about we check it out?"

Kaveh

It’s the way Kaveh readily helps you with your outfit and any bells and whistles that go with it. As a renowned architect there are times where he’s invited to formal events, and you are his first go to for a plus one. And where there’s formal events there’s formal attire, and the hassle of making sure everything is perfect. Be it a tie or some piece of jewelry, Kaveh and his keen eye for detail are there to help attain that perfection.

“Ah, here, let me help. Sometimes, it takes another pair of eyes to catch if something’s off. Of course, you look stunning regardless my love. There, shall we head off?”

Wanderer

It’s the way Wanderer stumbles to match your pace. For as long as he's lived he's moved at his own pace, never once slowing or playing catch-up for others. For you though, he'll stop to admire the things he's overlooked due to his immortality, he'll race to make sure you don't run too far from him that he can't raech you. No longer does he run away from those he loves, now he runs alongside them.

"What? You stopped for a flower? It's pretty? Please, I can think of many more things that are prettier than some flower, but I suppose we have some time. Who am I to stop you from doing what your little heart desires."

Xiao

It’s the way Xiao carries with him the little gifts you give. May it be a flower, a picture, a letter or another object of some kind, the yaksha will have it tucked into the safest pocket he has. To you it may have just been something you picked up or made while thinking of him, but for Xiao, it’s his good fortune charm. Something that has a tangible weight to it, his constant reminder that someone is waiting for him back home. However, he can never bring himself to tell you this, covering up the why he brings it everywhere with some barely strung together excuses or redirections.

“Of course I’d take it with me, why would I not? Huh? You think I’d have no real use for it? Tsk, you still don’t know the ways of the adepti, do you?”

Tag list: @spoopy-fish-writes // @that-enby-alien // @xenuuu // @mariposa666haruka // @quackquackmfs // @kaerui-kaisen // @ajaxstar // @genshin-impact-writings // @stage-lucida // @ventisweetheart // @lordbugs // @leena-shi // @lemontum // @akiria12167 // @ari-the-wr1ter // @dontmindmebeing // @xiaos-wife // @irethepotato

. . .

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[trustmypoison]

SVT with a partner who struggles with migraines

Requested? Yes!

Request: ‘Hi! Can I ask some bf!svt× reader how them help her to soothe migraines. As I am a really sensitive to lights and sounds related to this topic, it is hard for me to tell someone to just simply let me be in a dark place to recoger fast, and explaining auras also seems like a lie to them’

Just lets you be - Seungcheol, Jun, DK, Vernon

He’ll do whatever you ask when you don’t feel good, and even though it might pain him if you just ask to be left alone until it passes, he’ll do it. He puts you to bed, shutting off all the lights, closing the curtains, and silencing your phone. Then he goes to the other room and does his best to be quiet as a mouse. But he won’t leave, because how could he peek in to check on you otherwise? Would love to help more actively, so he’ll wait until you need him. 

Tries medicine and other means of relieving the migraine - Joshua, Woozi, Seungkwan

The moment you say you feel one coming on, he’s grabbing your preferred medicine and a big glass of water. If ice and heat help, he’s getting compresses for you and holding them in place wherever you need them, be it your eyes, forehead, or the back of the neck. He’ll even break out some home remedies to try. He hates that sometimes there isn’t much else that he can do for you beyond laying in the dark with you, rubbing your back to help relax you. 

Tries to help you prevent them before they come on - Wonwoo, Mingyu, Chan

He’s so good at recognizing what triggers your migraines. Stress, changes in sleep, bright lights, strong smells, dehydration - doesn’t matter. He tries to stop it before it gets too bad. Oh, he’ll do whatever he can to help if you end up with one anyway, but if he notices that you’re stressed about something lately, he’s encouraging you to take a break and rest with him. Or if you haven’t been sleeping well lately, he’s just dragging you to bed early that night to make sure you get some quality sleep. 

Seems to understand your auras better than you do - Jeonghan, Hoshi, Minghao

He was sort of perplexed the first time you said you were going to have a migraine. Like, you mean you have one now?? You have to explain auras and how you get a little hint that one is coming. Say you get visual auras, like spots or sparks in your vision, the moment you seem to react to something that he doesn’t see, he’s asking if you’re okay and if you need anything. He’ll grab your medicine and get you somewhere dark to relax for a while to hopefully lessen the impact it has on you. 

[heartfullofleeches]

Fletchers reaction to foxboy willingly kissing him for the first time

Yan Farmer Rabbit + Fox Hybrid Reader

[Reader has no mentioned gender but they are referred to as wife]

-

"Damn it!"

The knife clatters to the kitchen floor with a dull thud. Chest heaving with each pain breath, you fall to your knees - shirt clutched painfully tight in your claws as wetness drips down your cheeks.

Three weeks... Three weeks you've lived with the farmer and he hasn't asked you to lift a finger. This is it.... isn't it? It's finally happening. You were a such an idiot to think it wouldn't. He's testing you... A trial to see how useful you'll be to him in the long run.

"Hey, Sweetness. Something came up down at the general store. Shouldn't be gone long, but- think you can cut up the potatoes for dinner while I'm out? It's not hard. I'll show you how to do it."

He made it look so easy. Each slice against the cutting board so neat, precise - perfect. Just like him. What does he want from you? Does he actually think you'll make for a good partner? You can't even cut up vegetables to save your own tail- Just what the hell does he want from you?!

"Hun? That you?"

Shit. "Fuck, fuck, fuck-"

You wipe at your eyes with the backs of your palms, scrambling to pick yourself off the floor before he sees you. He can't see you like this- The thunder of his footsteps fills you with a kind of terror you haven't felt since you got locked in that kitchen coop.

"Y/n?"

Your back hits the cupboard wall. Fletcher's large, imposing figure hovers at the door frame. Two steps into the kitchen is all it takes for him to march up to the table. To see your mistakes. Too thick. Too thin. Sliced indiead of cubed like he asked. The farmer takes a breath. He kneels down in front of you, hand perched on the tile a hairline away from your shivering legs.

"Hon-"

"Don't-" You bite. "Just don't..... I missed up. I always do. Why do you even want me here? I can't do anything right... I'm a terrible wife."

"Hey!-" Fletcher grips your shoulder, tugging you against his chest. "Don't you ever, ever talk about yourself like that. You're fine. It's okay. All you need is a little practice. Just calm down."

Liar- He's a fucking liar. "What if I don't get better with practice?! What if all I ever am to you is dead weight?"

Fletcher kisses the top of your head, voice small - crushed by the sounds of your sobs against his chest. "That's fine with me too, Sweetheart.... That's fine with me too. I didn't bring you here because I wanted a maid. I just wanted you. That's all I have ever wanted since I laid eyes on you. I love you- Always have, always will."

His hold on you lessens as your whines and sniffles crawl to a still. Your puffy eyes cross his as you lift your head from his chest. He tries to smile - delicately raising his enormous paw to the fuzzy flesh of your cheek. He rests his nose against yours - just like he always did when he was trying to comfort you or feel a connection, lips inches from yours.

"Whether you can dice up a thousand potatoes or not at all. Even if you make a mess of everything you touch. I'll always be here for you no matter what. I'll always love you - no matter what."

Your arms creep up to his neck, the space between you null as your lips ghost over his. Fletcher stiffens, unsure - fearful of scaring you off now if he takes the dive for you. And so you take it-

The kiss is hesitant. Gentle as the hand stroking at your back, washing away any doubts left of his conviction towards you. Tear drops fall at your skin, but you have none more to cry. Is he?... You pull away as the droplets drip from Fletcher's chin into his already stained tee.

"My bad." The farmer barks out a dry chuckle, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stop the flow. "Now's not the time to get emotional, but I just- I'm so glad to have you here. With me."

"I know... I'm glad to be here too now, but um... Fetch?"

"Yeah?"

Your ears lay flat against your skull as your stomach whines in hunger. "Can we... finish up with dinner now?"

The laugh Fletcher bellows is far less restrained. "Sure. What kind of man would I be if I let my wife starve? I'll tell you some more tricks will we're at it. You'll be a head chef in no time, sweetheart.... And even if you aren't - I'll cherish you all the same."

[thomas-jefferson-miku-binder]

I hate Mel Medarda discourse because she’s an insanely well-written character with a lot of depth, but people almost always have only two things to say about her: 1) evil girlboss or 2) never did anything wrong. both make me want to krill myself 🦐

In front of you, there’s a female character born of war who rejects the physical brutality of her family’s name and the regime she was born under. except said violence never really goes away because if it ever does leave, nothing else would remain

This character can and will reproduce the hatred she has always known, just in more palpable ways, ways where she’s allowed to look away — or even better, ways where she’s so distanced from the action itself that where she “looks” doesn’t even matter

It’s also so interesting to think that maybe Mel doesn’t dislike physical violence because it’s “bad” but simply because she does not excel at it The thought that if Mel was maybe stronger or a more skilled fighter, she would be just like her mother tickles my brain. yaaaas Although, to me, that's a more "what-if" scenario than the actual characterization Arcane deceipts

By the way, I do not think Mel is a monster. She clearly does try to be what she considers a "good" person, but the violence she’s always known sometimes escapes (just like in the Viktor scene above — she does not like to be disagreed with).

Sooo insane that she’s a diplomat/politician because yes. what other job in the world would allow her to exercise that repressed violence while also giving her the sense of duty—of goodness.

Mel is stuck at the scene of the execution form her childhood. All she does is repeat the same scenario in her head with different outcomes: sometimes one where she saves the prisoner, another where she doesn’t hesitate (that being the keyword here) to kill her

This reverberation of the violence she suffered is just her manner of coping with that traumatic scene. a way of lessening the pain without actually confronting its cause.

I feel like I need to clarify that no, I do not think Mel is “evil”. I don’t even think she is intentionally manipulative (most of the time), I think she handles people the only way she knows how to, which is probably one of the only reasons she survived Noxus at all (as, to how I see it, there's only a certain extent your House will guarantee your protection in Noxus).

I know the fandom talks a lot about Viktor and Jayce being idealistic, but I rarely see people mention how Mel is just as romantic. Jesus- that’s literally a huge source of conflict with her mother: Ambessa thinks Mel is naive, which to her means weakness, which to her is unacceptable.

I hate that Mel Medarda is forced to be subjected to fandom spaces, because, no, she is not a small bean. no, she’s not an evil girlboss.

Do I believe she is a good person? I think she tries to be (even if her notion of goodness is so heavily aligned with honor, too), and that tells me a lot more about her character than how successful she is at it

[yet-another-heathen]

I saw ur really informative post on conditioning and said with whumpers uts about using pain again and again

Any advice about caretakers deconditioning?

[ Referring to this post. ]

The first and most important thing is that the caretaker cannot decondition the whumpee. It's not possible. That progress is entirely internal, and requires a massive amount of introspection, self-motivation, and practice from the whumpee themself. No one else can do it for them.

But what the caretaker can do is be there for them while the whumpee fights toward their own recovery. They can be the stability that whumpee needs in order to work through these massive problems on their own.

Deconditioning is awful. It involves repeated failure, over and over and over, working toward lessening the response. And it is incredibly frustrating, painful, heartbreaking, and at times it feels completely hopeless.

Progress is so non-linear that they can spend months improving and then backslide nearly back to the beginning if they get caught off guard. At times it'll feel like they're stuck at the same point and can't get any further. Like a future where they will be free of it may simply not exist.

At many points, your whumpee is going to feel heartbroken. They're going to spiral into, "Why can't I do this? Why can't I make it stop?" and, "I thought I was past this." and, "Will I ever be able to undo what whumper made me?"

A good caretaker can be there to comfort them when things go wrong. They can hold them while they cry. They can listen to them when they go into a sobbing, breathless rant about how much this hurts. They can make sure that whumpee knows they have someone who doesn't think of them as broken or lesser because of what they've gone through.

Depending on if whumpee feels it would help, they might help them brainstorm a reward system. If there's a situation where they're around other people and the caretaker spots the trigger coming, they can try to redirect conversation away from it before it hits. Preferably without anyone realizing they're doing it for whumpee's sake. When whumpee has just been triggered and wants nothing more than to be alone, the caretaker can make sure their boundaries are respected. To make sure they have somewhere safe to go.

Even more importantly, they can also help by highlighting the moments of whumpee's progress. Pointing out their successes, no matter how small. Pointing out how far they've come. Reminding them that the ups and downs are supposed to happen. That trauma recovery is a rollercoaster, not a straight line.

As a whumpee in that state, it's very easy to feel like they're making no progress. That even when they succeed, the tiny bits of success are hollow, because 'they shouldn't be like this in the first place'. Have your caretaker help them see their own victories. Help them actually see the healing as it grows.

A realistically conditioned whumpee does not need someone to fix them. They need someone to be there for them while they save themselves.

---

This was such a good ask, thank you for sending it my way!

[loganhowlettshousewife]

logan howlett x disabled!reader with chronic pain (not specified)

series masterlist - my masterlist

you should have known better than to go on the mission yesterday, but there’s nothing you hate more than feeling weak and patronised. charles had told you to sit it out if you were in pain, and you’d snapped back that you could handle missions just as well as any other x-man which, while true, doesn’t mean you should push yourself past your limits.

you can’t even get out of bed, every small movement making you whimper and groan as pain shoots through you, unforgiving. after so long dealing with chronic pain, you sometimes think you should be used to it, but no matter how many years go by and how many flares you experience, it never gets any easier.

logan’s upset with you, huffy and fussing, repeating over and over how you should have listened to charles, how the professor only wants what’s best for you, and telling you that it’s idiotic to let your pride take over. he’s being hypocritical, but you know it’s only because he hates to see you this way, hates to see you vulnerable, worries that one day something will happen and the x-mansion will be attacked and you’ll be in too much pain to effectively defend yourself.

so you let him take care of you, because you know it makes him feel better. it allows him a modicum of control over an uncontrollable situation. he, unlike you, has not yet given up on the idea of finding methods to lessen your chronic pain.

he helps you take your medication, brings you food and water, goes so far as to feed you so that you don’t even have to shift your body in case it’s too much. he waits by your side until the drugs kick in, refusing to leave until you tell him to go.

he asks jean to check in on you, asks if there’s anything she can do with all of her medical knowledge - the answer is no, there is no cure to a condition like yours, only techniques to lessen the pain temporarily. he searches for the few mutants in the mansion with healing abilities and practically begs them for help; it’s the only time he lets anyone see him vulnerable, because he hates to see you in pain and would do anything to bring your usual smile back to your face.

you groan in annoyance when he returns to your room with a slightly scared-looking teenager that you vaguely remember teaching last year, but she takes some of your pain away and so you thank the kid. she blushes and whispers “you’re welcome” before skittering out the room, and you’re now able to move enough to turn towards logan with your arms crossed over your chest, an unimpressed stare leveled at his face.

“she asked to help!” he protests, “he overheard me talking to jean about your pain and she offered. i didn’t force her to do anything.”

you sigh. chronic pain can’t be healed even with mutant abilities, you’ve tried it all before. it can take away the worst of it in the same way that some medication can, help with the inflammation that comes with a flare up, bring it down to manageable levels. but you’ll never be free of this burden.

“come here,” you say, and he does, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to give you anything and everything you desire. it’s ridiculous and you laugh, the first real smile you’ve shown all day, now that every breath no longer feels like a battle not to cry out in pain.

you stay in bed the rest of the day. it’s better to take it easy for a while than to risk anything. and logan stays with you, massaging at your muscles until they relax under his strong grip, leaving only to bring you more meals and your medication. he kisses you every time you complain that he surely has better things to be doing, covering your mouth with his large palm as he reminds you that you’re the most important thing to him now.

main taglist: @raeinyourdreams @meetmypointlessaddiction @chubbyhedgehog @yxtkiwiyxt @isepod @dis-plus-fanfic-reblog-writes @deaky-with-a-c

[azsazz]

Sanctum

Azriel x Cassian x Rhysand x Reader

Summary: Anon Req: Okay so for the a/b/o. What if a bad guy (Illyrian camp lord, Beron, Hybern, etc) takes the reader/omega of one of the bat boys while the reader is in heat to bring the bat boys to them or something and they have to get them back but also fuck their brains out 😂

Warnings: SMUT, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, anal, fingering, breeding kink.

Word Count: 4,376

Notes: I think my mind just went "why have one when you can have three" cuz lately i've been down bad for all of them

_________________________________________

“Az,” you whimper, writhing in his hold. You’re sweating and shaking in his arms, and the cooler autumn breeze tells him that winter is coming. Your nails dig sharply into the muscles of his back because you’re so uncomfortable, even though he’s holding you so closely. “It hurts too much.”

His heart pounds in his chest as he angles his wings to keep you in the current. He hates that you’re feeling so poorly right now, but they have to get you away from Autumn, and fast. Azriel winces, tightening his grip around you as you squirm. Your nose buried into his neck does nothing to ease your heat, the close proximity only makes your cunt throb and you wish he were holding you differently so you can rut up against him.

“I know, my mate,” he murmurs, but it's strained. His own body wants to react to you, your mating bond calling to his, and he’s never held his body so taut while flying before. His pupils keep dilating as your scent swarms around you both, your slick intoxicating. He knows how needy you are, how painful this must be for you, but he’s incredibly thankful that he and his brothers had found you in time before Eris or one of the other alphas in Beron’s court came to your aid. 

His jaw tightens as he thinks about what could’ve happened to you, his precious little omega stolen away from her home to use against them.

He’ll kill them all.

The brassy tone of Azriel’s voice soaks through your skin to settle in your bones. It only makes you cry harder, utterly helpless and knowing that there’s nothing that you can do to make the unbearable heat dim. Even though you’re desperate to be home, where you can be safe and really sink into your omegaspace while your big, bad alphas protect you, your body is craving a knot, now.

Azriel casts a hopeless look to his brothers, flanking the both of you as he carries you. The smell of your heat and the desperate gnashing of your bond is affecting them too. Cassian’s face is red, thick brows pulled tight in a furrow as he watches Azriel struggle to keep you still. Rhys frowns deeply, hardly able to take his eyes off of you to scout the areas ahead.

“We won’t make it.” Rhys swoops as close as he can while avoiding Azriel’s shifting wings. His voice carries over the wind. You’re still hours from the house and he and Azriel are both too drained to winnow, but Cauldron be damned they’ll get you to safety, no matter how much their wings ache. “We need to stop.”

Azriel cuts him a look, jaw set. “There’s nowhere to stop.”

“She’s clearly in pain, Az,” Cassin nearly growls at the sound of another mewl of agony. He tries to flush soothing feelings down the bond to you but it does nothing to lessen the spasms of your heat. 

“I know,” he bites back, “Fuck—I know.” 

But he’s not wrong. Night has settled, and while you’re still hours away from the House of Wind, there’s no lodging in the mountains nearby. The Hewn City hadn’t ever been an option. 

“Az,” you cry out. Their bickering isn’t helping. If anything, it’s making everything ache even more, the throbbing between your legs incessant no matter how tightly you clench your thighs together. 

Knock her out, Cassian sends to Rhys through their mind connection, and the High Lord opens the path for Azriel to communicate through as well. It’s better this way, for your safety.

Azriel’s grip around you tightens, his lips finding your forehead, a comforting motion for the shadowsinger. You’re burning hot, sweat beading your hairline, even though you’re vibrating in his arms. Your tight grip has slackened already as the pain of your heat consumes you, and the rattling of your breathing worries him more than he’d ever admit.

We can’t do that, he sends back, but the look Rhysand wears is the same one he does when he has to make a tough call involving his court. It’s the last thing he wants to do, and his own power drain is palpable, but to get you to safety, he’ll tap himself out. They all will.

We can’t leave her like this, Cassian bites back in his alpha voice. It makes the hair on his brother’s necks rise. He’s more frustrated than them, being the first one to bond with you will do that to a male. And with his own rut nearing, he’s been on edge as of late.

Azriel ignores the both of them, taking a deep breath before he flaps his wings harder, picking up more speed. He’s losing steam quickly, days without sleep while searching for you and fighting off anyone who dared get in their way was not easy. They could feel your fear and distress through the bond, the way that you hardly touched the food they’d given you and kept yourself awake, fighting your captors even as your heat began to sink in. 

“I need you to touch yourself for me, love.” He sounds so gentle, like you’re some fragile thing in his arms that’ll break at the next bank of wind. “Can you do that for me?”

You shake your head no, afraid to even speak, knowing that your voice will break. 

“Please, love,” he begs, “It’ll help.”

“It’ll hurt worse,” you croak, blinking tears from your eyes as your desperation rises, “I need it, Az. I need your knot.”

He groans, smothering his face in your scent glands to get a whiff of your drug-like aroma. He teeths over the bond mark on your neck, a brand of his own, set between by both of his brothers' indentions, proof that they are your alphas and you, their omega.

And the last thing your alphas want is for you to hurt.

He lets his instincts take over, drawing his wings into his back as he nosedives. He lets his spymaster mind take over, eyes scanning for the best area to stop and rest. The wind whips at his face and the fabric of your skirts slaps against his body as you freefall.

With a stroke of luck he spots a cave. It’s not nearly as hidden as he’d like, but there are no other options right now. It will have to do.

Azriel sends his plans to your other pack members, who immediately follow the spymaster’s silent instructions. Cassian stalks ahead when you land on the ground with a jolt, scoping out the area while Rhys moves closer to help settle the raging bond in your chest.

“Just a few more moments, darling, I promise you,” he speaks softly, brushing the hair from your wet cheeks before running a soothing hand across your soft skin. His power thrums through you but does nothing to stave away the gnawing, uncomfortable feeling gnashing in your gut.

“All clear,” Cassian calls, voice echoing loudly throughout the darkening night. It makes the other two wince, Azriel tucking you closer to his chest as he goes on high alert. Ater a brief pause where he scans the area, straining to hear for potential threats over the rushed sound of your heart in your chest, he makes their way deeper into the cave while Rhys sets off in search of firewood.

Cassian’s already stripped himself of his thick coat and shirt, laying it out on the cold, stony ground as a bed of sorts for you. His muscular, tanned chest on display has more slick dripping from your cunt, undergarments soaked through. The light dusting of hair across his large pectorals makes you flare up, and you so desperately want to reach out for him, to touch the soft hairs beckoning to you like a beacon, but you’re too weak to unclench your fist from Azriel’s shirt.

You whimper and the warlord scrambles, reaching out to relieve Azriel of his duties. He looks bone tired, dark circles around his eyes and mouth set in a permanent frown. He’d been hard as a rock the entire time he’d been carrying you, his body reacting to your heat, ready to give you everything that you could ever need, but your protection will always come first.

He presses in close, his bare body touching yours and you huff out a sigh as the thrumming in your chest becomes more bearable from his warm skin pressed up against you. Cassian is gentle with you, setting you down onto his jacket to help you with your own clothes.

You rake your nails across any skin you can find as he works, body writhing on top of the warm threads beneath you. The throbbing between your legs is driving you insane, and you need him, you need him like the sun needs the sky, like the moon needs darkness.

“Almost there, sweetheart,” he reassures, but there’s still too much clothing between the two of you. Azriel’s made himself scarce, off to help Rhysand prepare for the long night in the cave with their omega in heat. They’ll need all of the protection they can get. He only hopes they’ll be able to sate you enough before you’re needing to go for another round so they can finally transport you the rest of the way home in the morning.

You shiver as he drags the lace covering your needy cunt down, tossing them over his shoulder without care. His nostrils flare as the scent of your slick hits his nose and his cock strains against the leathers he’d only gotten so far as to untying. He bends to kiss and lick at your wet thighs but there’s no time for foreplay, you need his knot and you need it now.

But you don’t need to speak a word, the bond you share with Cassian lets him know exactly how much you’re in need of relief. He lets your hands slide up the hills and valleys of his back as he shifts away to rid himself of the confining leathers, but your fingers slip up into his hair and tug him to a stop.

The alpha growls and you keen in response, nipples tightening and thighs spreading as you submit to the noise. He huffs, shoving his pants down and kicking them away into the pile with his boots before he’s leaning over you and molding his body to yours, pressing a kiss of apology over the red indentations of the bite mark of his you wear proudly.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling his body even tighter to yours. His cock slides against your soaking cunt and you need to scream but his mouth is on yours, swallowing the noises trying to escape your throat as he shoves into you with a predatory groan.

Stars burst behind your closed eyelids, body vibrating at the sensation of finally being claimed by your alpha. You’d never staved off your heat like this before. Either your alphas were there to take care of you or you had your plethora of toys to help relieve some of the pain, but as you’d sat in one of the suites in the burrows of the Woodland House, the thought of getting off to help the pain subside was met with the fear that one of the men there would try something with you.

“Cassian,” you moan as he licks across your bond mark again. You swear that you can feel his soul tangling with yours at every thrust, feverish and rushed, your alpha wanting to help you through your prolonged heat. He doesn’t like seeing you in pain like this, and he’s proving it by fucking into you the way you crave, not loving and teasing like he normally is. No, this is hungry and raw, the need to take care of what’s his outweighing his own need to be gentle.

You’re already getting near. A single touch from them could get you off in the throes of your heat, but after having forced yourself back for so long, it’s taken him longer than he’d like to admit to get you to this point. Cassian licks his way down your neck and to your nipple, swirling his tongue before nipping at it with sharp teeth, and your body arches into his as you whine while your orgasm rips through you.

Some of the haze clears from your mind when you come back to, but you’re just as desperate for him to follow you. You can feel Cassian’s knot swelling already and you wait with a baited breath until he releases with possessive snarl, locking him into you as hot spurts of his seed fills your needy cunt.

You feel as though you can finally breathe again, even with the warm weight of your biggest alpha pinning you to the ground. You feel safe in his arms but the itch comes back quickly, consuming you as you catch the scent of your other alphas on the autumn breeze.

“More,” you cry desperately, swirling your hips but it does nothing to move the cock that’s locked deeply into you. “I need more.”

Hurry up, Cassian snaps through their mental shields as he drags his hands down your sides and across your hind. He scoops some of the slickness from between your legs, grunting as his cock throbs again, releasing even more cum into your tight cunt. It’ll go on like this for a long moment, but that doesn’t mean he can’t get you prepared.

You shudder through a moan as he circles a finger around your pucker, a gentle tease before he presses it inside. You sigh against his lips, giving him a thankful kiss as he helps fill your needs.

Azriel strides into the cave by the time Cassian’s worked you up to three fingers, his face set and mouth downturned as always. You know him better than that, understand that the hard look in his gold-flecked eyes isn’t because of you or even the alpha knotting you, it’s because he feels as if this isn’t a safe enough place to mount you and claim you as his. 

Overprotective alpha.

Cassian is careful to shuffle you around, tucking you close to his body as he maneuvers himself under you so that your ass is on display for the scowling alpha. You mewl as his knot is jostled, but he stays tucked tightly into your cunt. They’re good about giving each other space at home, but with how long you’ve been needing them, your bond calls out to all of them like a siren song.

There’s a pile of wood in Azriel’s arms but Rhys hasn’t made his way back to the cave yet, scouting the surroundings and preparing himself for the night ahead. He’s still collecting firewood, and Azriel drops his own carelessly at his feet, his hands already dragging his shirt up the toned planes of his chest, responding to his omegas call. 

He settles onto his knees behind you, letting his shadows drape themselves in lone lines down your back. You shiver, their cool claws brushing your heated skin in a way the makes your cunt flutter and you beg.

Azriel hushes you softly, admiring the sight of you stretched out on Cassian’s fingers, his cock. His lips part to taste the scent of your arousal in the air and he so desperately wants a taste of his delectable omega, but your wild cries for him to fuck you have him ripping Cassian’s fingers from you to replace with his rock hard length.

Your broken moan echoes throughout the cabin and into the autumn winds outside, calling Rhysand home to you with every sound. There’s nothing he can do except glamor the mouth of the cave. He has to concentrate harder than he’s had to since he was young and learning the skill, but the pleasurable sounds you’re making are very distracting. Sweat lines his brow as he forces his powers out, shoving away the weariness he feels from exuding too much of it in the search for you.

He drags himself inside and all but collapses into a heap next to you and the other alphas. He’d love nothing more but to shut his eyes and rest for a moment, but he can’t look away from you, mouth hanging open and eyes rolled into the back of your skull as Azriel fucks you frevorently from behind.

“Fuck, Az,” Cassian hisses, fingers digging into your hips. His chest is heaving under you, pressing you up and down, rubbing you between your alphas chests. Your hardened nipples brush over his tanned skin and they’re so sensitive that it makes you cum again. The feeling of Az’s cock through your walls is astounding, and everytime he shares you this way he’s just as surprised by the feeling, especially when he feels his own sensitive cock preen as the shadowsinger’s knot expands. “I’m going to cum again.”

“Do it,” you beg, clutching onto his arms. Azriel’s hands snake around your shoulders to tug you up, and the change of the angle he's pressing into you has you seeing stars. With a hand gripping your chin, he tilts your head so that he can finally kiss you.

Cassian cums again with a roar that shakes the mountain and makes the other two alphas growl in alert. He doesn’t care, baring his teeth at them as he tries to pry you out of Azriel’s arms, to no avail.

You meet the eyes of your third alpha, the High Lord who’s lounging like the playboy he is, beside you with a glare that melts into a tired smirk when he catches you staring. 

You reach out to him, pleading him to join in because you need him, it still hurts even though two of your alphas are fulfilling your needs right now. 

But you need them all.

“Please, please, please, please, please!” Your plea for him twists into chants for Azriel, his knot growing deeply inside of you as he cums, lapping at his mark on your neck. He wishes it were the one on the meat of your thigh, his other favorite place to pleasure you. For now, this will do.

Rhys scoots closer when you collapse on Cassian’s chest, soft noises of approval drifting from your mouth. Your eyes flutter from how incredible you feel, but you’re still hot all over and you know that you won’t be feeling like yourself until you’ve had all three of your alphas multiple times.

“You know I can’t help you right now, darling,” he drawls, tucking a strand of hair back behind your ear. Your fingers dart up to catch his wrist before he’s able to pull away, so he settles on brushing the smooth skin of your cheek instead.

“You can,” you whimper back, but he’s already shaking his head.

“I don’t like to do that, my sweet,” but there’s no High Lord demands in the tone of his voice, so you know that you can push him.

“Rhys,” you swallow harshly, trying to focus on him for a second instead of on the hot seed filling you to the brim from your other alphas. “I wouldn’t ask you if I wasn’t sure. I need you too.”

He sighs, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment and you bite back a whimper because you think you’ve gone too far, that Rhys won’t help you at all.

“Alright,” he says softly and you breathe a sigh of relief.

His eyes glow brighter as he enters your mind.

Rhys doesn’t like meddling in your mind, but sometimes when your heat is too much, it’s all he can do. Your body thrives on having all three of your alphas inside of you, and he’d be willing to fuck your throat, but knowing just how bad this heat is for you, he doesn’t want to risk it.

Instead, he caresses your inner being. You can feel him in your head, the images he’s showing you, you bent over the counter in the kitchen, taking his cock like the good little omega you are for him. There’s one of him slurping the slick from between your thighs like a starved male, until your legs could no longer hold you up and his tongue was buzzing from the amount of times he’d gotten you off.

And there’s one of the future flooding your vision as you whine for more. One of his favorite thoughts, you chasing around after a little boy who howls with laughter and looks just like him.

That’s the one that makes you cum harder than you ever have before, your vision whiting out as your body slackens on top of Cassian, sliding into your omegaspace.

They hold you like that for a long time. Azriel draped over your back and Cassian under you, keeping you warm as the chill of the night sets in and even after their knots go down. Rhys runs his hand in a soothing pattern against any skin he can find, even as he shuts his eyes to rest. 

You’re sated and happy, surrounded by your alphas, until you’re not.

You wake with a start, writhing in the space between Cassian and Rhys. Your hairline is damp with sweat and the ache between your legs is back. You whimper into the darkness of the cave, hoping to rouse one of your sleeping alphas, preferably the one you haven’t been filled with yet.

Azriel is nowhere to be seen, on patrol no doubt.

Rhys wakes to a stiff cock and you rutting against him, begging him for relief. He blinks away the sleep in his eyes only for his pupils to dilate as he zeroes in on the scent of your slick.

He’s quick to roll on top of you, caging you in with his forearms pressed to the pile of coats and clothes they’d set you upon to sleep. The undergarments that he’d been reluctant to put back on for this reason are gone with a snap, his hips tilting down to dip into your wetness. You both groan at the feeling and you cling to him like a bat.

You’ve been waiting for him, your alpha and High Lord alike. His touch is demanding, wanting all of your attention on him as he sheaths himself inside of you in one fell swoop. He doesn’t want to share, and right now, with Cassian snoring softly beside you and Azriel taking rounds in the woods, he doesn't have to.

Rhys doesn’t waste any time. He can feel how badly you’re craving him, squirming on his cock like the good girl you are. Your fingers leave crescent shaped marks on his shoulders and he leaves behind bruises where his fingertips hold your hips still to pound into you.

Even in the darkness, you can see that there’s no violet in his eyes. They’re a reflection of the night sky, looking at you like you’re the moon, heavenly in the way that you move, sound in response to him. He loves you, through and through.

The bond thrums in your chest as he ruts into you, swirling his hips as he lowers himself flush to you. He slips into your mind, letting you feel everything that you’re doing to him, and it’s nearly too much, to be able to feel his heart pounding in your chest against yours, the blistering arousal coursing through his veins.

“I’m going to put an heir in you to rule the court, darling, will you give me that?” Rhys’ voice is dark, more alpha than Illyrian right now but it’s exactly what you need. You need his roughened hands manhandling you into positions best for breeding, you need those dark eyes pinned to yours, knowing that his words are nothing but truth, you need his knot to fill you with his seed to give him exactly what he wants. 

Your body arches into his on instinct and you bare your throat to him. He lets out a predatory growl and noses along your scent gland, devouring the familiar sweetness he’s been craving. The urge to mark you again is strong, his body vibrating as he tries to hold himself back. But then you answer.

“I’ll give you a whole litter, alpha,” you moan, and he bites.

The sensation explodes throughout your body. You cry out in pleasure as you cum on his cock, walls flexing around him in a motion that only makes his hips move faster and his teeth clamp tighter.

You’re pulling at his hair, clawing down his sides trying to drag him closer, as if somehow you’ll be able to manage to absorb your alpha into your very being. Your mating bond vibrates and you can feel the warm, golden tendrils as they meet his, twisting and twining around each other in tight knots that will never be able to become undone.

“I can’t wait to see it,” his voice sounds like he’s swallowed sand, rough like it hasn’t been used in ages. “Your belly swollen with my pups. I bet it will drive your other alphas wild.”

His voice holds a breathy falter, and the visions of you heavily pregnant flit through his mind. It makes him release a desperate sound and his ships stutter, knot swelling as he shares the images with you.

He cums with a sound that brings courts to their knees and sends shivers up your spine, knot locking into place deep in your cunt. He swears that this will be the time that his seed takes, Cauldron willing. 

“Let’s find out,” you pant, brushing some of the hair from his face. Rhys stares down at you, noting how the cloudy look from your heat has subsided now that you’re being knotted, and he can see nothing but the truth glimmering in your soft gaze.

Rhys swallows roughly, leaning down to breathe in your scent deeply. It’s always calmed him, even in the worst scenarios. You are his rock, his home. “You’re ready for pups?” he asks like he’s afraid of your answer.

You can’t bite back the grin splitting your lips. 

“Yes, Rhys, it’s time to grow the pack.”

[cozymoko]

Tw EATING DISORDER

what would the sakamakis+tsukanamis do when they realize their s/o is developing an eating disorder?

:3

S/O WITH EATING DISORDER — SAKAMAKI

Note: I can only put a certain amount of pictures in per request so if you still want the Tsukinamis' please feel free to request again once my ask box is open!

Pairing: Sakamaki Brothers x gn! reader

Format: Headcanons

WARNING(S): eating disorder, force feeding, insensitive comments

Want more Diabolik lovers? → Masterlist! ★

SHU SAKAMAKI

Though not the most well-informed, he's far from being an idiot. He was already suspicious when you either faked eating during dinner or attempted to force the food down your throat. It was painfully evident. And when he found you bent over a toilet, retching out the remains, that was all the proof he needed.

Shu can't force you to do anything and he's aware of that, but he will still encourage you to do so. Frankly, he'd rather not have you starve to death due to your own stubbornness. Shu will follow you to hell and then bring you right back. He'll even try to play therapist and listen to what kick-started your god-awful eating habits.

“Haah, what a piece of work. You must really want to give me a heart attack, hm? Learn to rely on me, don't make me worry so much next time.”

REIJI SAKAMAKI

Out of all his brothers, Reiji will be the most understanding. Most of the Sakamaki has very limited knowledge involving the human body but he does not. After plunging his head in many books on the matter, that much should be clear. Thus it's likely you won't have too much trouble confining in him because of that.

There's no need for you to go hungry in any way while living in the manor. Despite how annoyed he may come off, Reiji is willing to go through all the potential solutions to lessen this burden on you. However, he does still remain the same in some aspects, threatening to punish you if you don't put forth some effort to eat.

“I've noticed your eating habits have become rather strange. Very well, I will create a new diet for you to regain your strength. It would be best that you follow it.”

AYATO SAKAMAKI

Unfortunately, he's pretty insensitive to things like this. He has no knowledge of mental health (though having plenty of his own) so Ayato won't try to act as he does. He'll probably say something terribly ignorant or even try to shove food down your throat, then turn around and wonder why you're so pissed at him.

It will take someone to smack some sense into him so he understands the severity of it. Even then he lacks the sentiments to truly comprehend what you're going through. But realistically, he'll probably push it off onto Reiji in the end. Of course, he cares, but such a "detailed" condition isn't his forte.

“Geez, just how long were you planning on keeping this from me? You belong to 'yours truly', and it'd be such a pain if you get any weaker. So rely on me, got it!”

KANATO SAKAMAKI

This is the last person I'd want to be stuck with in a situation like this. He's an absolute idiot on things like this, hands down. (I hate Kanato) In his mind, dolls don't have to eat so you must be perfectly fine, right? Expect you aren't a doll, nor a vampire at that so, of course, you need to eat.

As the days go by you grow noticbly weaker with no desire to do anything but wallow in your despair. Only then did he begin to take things seriously. The triplet has the most insufficient approach ever, it's not even comforting. Kanato will attempt to feed you and then get mad when you reject it. Despite his apparent concern, I highly doubt it'd make up for his thoughtlessness.

“You've grown so weak...Uu...why won't you talk to me? Uu...Don't you care for my feelings? I won't allow you to die on me; you can't leave me! I'll make sure of it!”

LAITO SAKAMAKI

He knows what an eating disorder is as Laito's been with his fair share of women. But that doesn't mean he's educated on the matter. Laito notices your standoffish demeanor right away, carefully eyeing you as he immediately puts two and two together. Yet, he won't act on it until he can find the root of your eating disorder. After all, we must start from the source~!

It'd be a shame if his favorite toy grew terribly ill so he offers to help you. Spending several hours arranging a new diet for you, feeding you small portions, and certainly boosting your confidence in the late hours of the night. Though he doesn't show it, Laito truly cares for your well-being and will do just about anything to ensure your recovery.

“You've been looking at your reflection for quite some time, little bitch. Have I not been tending to you enough~? Fufu, that won't do! Shall I fix that for you~?”

SUBARU SAKAMAKI

Once he found out about your eating disorder, Subaru loses it. His anger is in some way directed at you for not telling him; but also at himself for being so clueless about it. As you'd expect, his first course of action is intimidating you into eating, but a quiet whimper will stop him dead in his tracks. This calls for a different approach.

Subaru looks to Reiji for guidance, which comes as no shock. The vampire is in no place to be taking care of a human in any mental aspect, regardless of them being his lover. Even with this newfound information, it will do very little to decrease his snappiness towards you. But he's just worried and sure as hell doesn't wanna lose you!

“Don't push yourself too much, alright? Tch, 'worried?', it's not like that so shut up, damnit! I just...don't want you to leave me in the dark anymore...”

[traumatizing-unnamed-ocs]

The end of fighting

Summary: Hero is exhausted, just trying to keep Villain distracted while the rest of the team does their job. And Villain? Villain just might discover something Themes: Power dynamics (some nice kneeling ;)) Possible triggers: Fighting, Murder mentioned, slight suicidal tendencies I guess

With every breath there was a taste of blood in Heros mouth, but they couldn’t take a break. Not yet.

“Come on, is that all you can do?” Villain asked lightly, as if Hero wasn’t even a threat to them. They weren’t. If Hero had been well rested, well equipped by J.U.S.T.I.C.E, things would have been different. But they had been pulling double shifts since Superhero had left, and this had never been supposed to be a fight they would win. They just needed to be a distraction, while the important heroes disabled the bombs. 

“I’m barely getting started”, Hero forced out, attempting another attack but barely managing to reach Villain.

“Ups, too late. Hey, maybe I should buy you a coffee, because this is getting boring.”

“Can you please just shut up?” Hero heard their own desperation and wanted to slam their head into a wall. Never let them see your weak points, you just show them where to attack. But Villain already knew that far too well where to attack Hero, and like J.U.S.T.I.C.E had said, it didn’t matter if Hero died in this fight, as long as it was after the bombs were disabled. The sound of an explosion shook the ground.

“Oh fuck me”, Villain explained, turning their back to Hero as if they weren’t even a threat, and looking at the cloud of smoke that was now rising from the bank. “Guess inflation isn’t going to go up for a while”, they said, sounding oddly unbothered by the whole situation.

Hero thought about running away. They were allowed to, their only mission was to distract Villain until the bombs weren’t a threat any more, which was now, even though things hadn’t played out the way they had wanted. But running away seemed like so much work, and honestly, Hero didn’t see the point. So they just stood there, panting from exhaustion, until Villain turned around.

“Still here?” Villain asked, as if they had read Heros' mind. “Don’t tell me you still want to fight.”

“I don’t care”, Hero got out, still hardly getting any breath. They were sore all over. They were so fucking tired.

“Not to tell you what to do, but you probably should start caring now”, Villain said, taking a menacing step towards Hero. “I mean, my plan just got destroyed. I am angry. I want revenge. And you are right here, in front of me, and it’s your fault. Hero, I am seriously contemplating killing you.”

There was a part of Heros' brain screaming at them to run. They needed to keep fighting, keep going, there was so much they still needed to do. But they also felt so incredibly tired.

“Fine”, Hero heard themself say. Then they fell to their knees. Then they waited for the blow to come.

After a while, the pain in their lungs lessened. Their heartbeat went down to an almost normal rhythm, the sound of blood rushing in their ears subsided. And, curiously, they were still alive.

As Hero dared to look up, they found Villain looking down at them. The expression in their face was something Hero couldn’t place, at least not in this situation. Pity was the thing that came to mind, but Hero knew what pity looked like, and this wasn’t it.

“You could still run away”, Villain offered. “I wouldn’t try to stop you.”

“What’s the point?” Hero asked. Something new seemed to have spread its wings over the two of them, something that seemed strangely comfortable for the situation they were in.

“I don’t know. What would be the point in killing you?”

“I don’t know”, Hero echoed.

“I don’t either. It’s not like you, as a person, have done anything that bad. You just work for a shit corporation.” Hero thought that maybe they should say something about this, probably in defence of J.U.S.T.I.C.E, but it didn’t seem like Villain was expecting them to answer, and honestly, Hero didn’t really care that much about J.U.S.T.I.C.E. It was just the only job they knew how to do. “And it would be a shame to kill somebody that looks so pretty on their knees.”

Forgotten were all thoughts about J.U.S.T.I.C.E. Hero stared up at Villain in absolute shock.

“Oh come on, I can’t be the first person to think that you are cute. I mean, it’s a pathetic-wet-cat kinda charm, but believe me, there’s a substantial audience for that.”

Now Hero really wanted to say something, because they did not want to have a pathetic-wet-cat kinda charm, but there wasn’t exactly a dignified way to defend themself while kneeling in front of Villain. 

The far sound of hurried steps broke the strange tension between them. Villains gaze snapped away from Hero, and they were hurrying to get away. But then, with another look at Hero, they stopped.

“Oh fuck it”, they said out loud, scrambling to get something from their pocked. “Don’t make me regret this. If you ever have a day off, call me, and I’ll buy you that coffee you need.” 

Hero stared dumbly, as a folded piece of paper was pressed into their hand.

“But if you set me up, I will kill you, no matter how cute you look.”

And with that, Villain was gone.

This story featured Hero as Hero and Vigilante as Villain. Will they return?

Yes, in Part Two

[apparitionism]

Real

Can’t believe tomorrow is a particular Wednesday already; this season has rushed in like the most foolish of fools, and as a result I’m rushing to push out this new holiday story... because I too am a fool. This is set post-series (including the nonexistent season), though not by much, as the first little bit will make clear. It’s kind of all about fallout. And who wants what, and why, and whether they’re willing to work, wait, and do other things that probably start with “w” to get it. Anyway, season’s greetings to all—and to all (including, eventually, Myka and Helena, I promise) a good night.

Real

“She’s back,” Artie announces one autumn night, and before anyone (Myka) can fully register what that might mean...

...she is.

Is, is, is... a distillation of so much of what Myka instantaneously knows again as possibility, as hopes and wishes jolting back to life, as again (still) the only presence that instantly makes Myka aware of herself as a body, one that responds with barely controllable fervor to that presence—that other body.

Artie goes on saying words, “reinstated” and “agent” among them, but the roaring of Myka’s blood drowns them out.

She fears she will spontaneously combust. She would rather spontaneously combust. That would be better than having to consciously keep from spontaneously combusting, in response to Helena existing, to her moving and speaking, in a proximity that Myka should prize but that her body, fervently responding, informs her is completely insufficient.

Myka escapes as soon as she can, to sit in the dark of her room, to sit and process, but her usual, reliable processing processes fail her.

They always have, where Helena is concerned.

All she does is sit, empty but for the replaying of Helena’s entry into the dining room, her stride so sure, her aspect so unlike the dismissive, shrinking shrugs of Boone... that had sent Myka’s soul soaring.

Helena had greeted them all with good humor, her manner and words to everyone so convivial. So convivial, but also: to everyone, and that is what finds clawed purchase in Myka’s heart, here in the dark.

Here in the dark, Myka viciously tells herself that she deserves no special acknowledgment. Why would you?

She also tells herself, This will get easier.

****

In some ways it does. For example, Myka’s shock at, and subsequent need to recover from, each new sight of Helena lessens somewhat. Or maybe it’s that her body becomes accustomed to absorbing the impact.

In others, it profoundly doesn’t.

Case in painful point: one evening when they’re all cleaning up after dinner, Claudia says to Helena, “So can I ask you something?”

“Clearly you can. You just did,” Helena bats back, in play, and envy stabs Myka.

“You’re as bad as Artie,” Claudia groans. “But here goes: are you still seeing that lady?”

Terror appropriates envy’s knife, gashing anew. Myka has not let herself begin to imagine how to get such a question answered, and here Claudia just says it while lowering a stack of dirty plates into the sink.

Helena’s airy reply: “Still the case. Obviously we’re long-distance at the moment.”

Something previously un-knifed in Myka collapses at that “obviously.” Obviously. Obviously. Obviously, the Warehouse return had not entailed a renouncing of Helena’s non-Warehouse connections. As Myka had obviously, she now sees, believed—hoped!—it would.

The depth and breadth of her error sends her to her room again, lightless, wounded, empty, waiting for time to pass until she once again has something to do.

Such as a retrieval with Pete.

The next one of which proceeds well—it’s not a big, dangerous deal, but rather a matter of a sad, not villainous, loner seeking connection via an artifact-compromised comic-book message board. Pete’s his enthusiastic self about the comics of it all, and Myka lets it lull her into a near-trance of this is how it used to be, before everything.

Until they’re on the plane home, when Pete says, “So H.G.’s back.”

“Thanks for the update,” she says, bracing herself, because of course that won’t be all, because that would be too easy.

“And what about that girlfriend?”

“What about her?” Well, that was stupid: asking some reflex question she doesn’t want answered. She braces herself again.

“You think she’s her one?”

That’s worse than she’d imagined. Myka doesn’t want to go anywhere near that Schrödinger-box, for fear that peeking inside would reveal a very dead cat. Would in fact be the deciding factor in that cat’s demise.

After a stretch of silence, Pete says, “Bet she’s not. So what are you gonna do about it?”

What does he mean? Do about the girlfriend not being, or being, Helena’s one? Do about Helena being back in the first place? She would rather avoid nailing that down—another let’s-not-look Schrödinger box.

“I’m going to ignore it,” she says.

“That’s not healthy. I mean, I get it, but it’s not healthy.”

He coughs ostentatiously. Meaningfully? Myka doesn’t know. Can’t tell. Won’t ask. She hates how she feels compelled to leave this cat in limbo too, just so she can shift away from any potential situational consequences.

If only she had resisted the pressure to shift her definition of love.

She tries for resistance now, even though it’s too late: “I’m not going to try to keep her from doing what she wants to do.”

He cocks his head in that exaggerated what-are-you-saying way. “I thought you might though. Try.”

Myka is tempted to demand, “Why would you think that,” but she knows why he would think it, and revisiting that fight is an impossibility. Especially now.

“But you’re not trying,” he says. His tone, though, ratchets down the danger. It’s a relief. “So why not?”

Now Myka’s tempted to give some indignant “I don’t have to justify my behavior to you” answer... and yet. She does owe him more than that. Especially now, having misled him so severely before, she owes him some decent measure of honesty. So she says it as plain as she can: “Because people should do what they want to do.”

“Huh.” He puts on his “thinking” face—the real one, not the cartoon. “But you’re not doing what you want to do.”

“What?” Myka says, playing dismissively dumb. Hoping he’ll give some dumb response.

“You want to stop her doing what she’s doing.” Myka shakes her head at that, trying to pretend it’s dumb, but Pete rolls his eyes. He sees the weakness. How can he be getting her so right in this when he got her so so so wrong before? But then again she’d got herself wrong... “So why wouldn’t you do what you want to do?” he finishes.

Want, want, want. Myka wishes he would quit using the word.

Yes it’s her fault for using it first. Yes she should have shut him down forcefully to begin with. Yes that applies to situations preceding this one.

In any case, wanting is pointless. It literally does not matter: its only product is empty space, a horrific gaping sink, a vacuum as vast as space itself.

So she says, as pedantically as she can, “Because if one person’s wants affect another person’s wants, that’s a different category of... you know what? Never mind.”

“You only ever say ‘never mind’ when you know I’m right.”

“What? I say ‘never mind’ a lot.”

“Which means...” He taps his temple.

“No. No it does not.” But she does smile.

Pete bobs his head as if she’s actually agreed with him, and so they end on a familiar, jokey note. It’s far better than they could have managed some months ago, in the immediate aftermath of their... mistake? Misunderstanding? Mismanagement? Misadventure? Misapprehension?

Stop dictionarying, she tells herself. Despite its being one of her default ways of trying to process confusion, it rarely delivers the clarity she seeks. At any rate, their short-lived whatever-it-was was a mis-everything.

She takes out the book she’s brought with her, H Is for Hawk, so as to fill her head with Heather MacDonald’s solitude rather than her own. She has lately found that overlaying her own thoughts with someone else’s ruminations is quieting, so she’s reading even more than usual... it beats sitting in darkness, waiting. Which she supposes means she should thank Helena (thank her) for her extensive new knowledge: of, here, grief and falconry, but also, the Wright brothers, Joan of Arc, India’s partition, séances in the 1920s, Salem’s witch hunts, various aspects of the Supreme Court...

Erudition must surely outweigh emotionalism Extremity. Enthrallment? Embitterment.

Stop dictionarying.

****

Relentlessly, the holidays approach. Myka tries to ignore them too, particularly their invitation to soften. Unhealthy, Pete’s accusation echoes.

But in speaking to Pete, Myka had lied: she isn’t really ignoring anything Helena-related. In a folder of significant size in her mind, she stores a cascade of spreadsheets in which she tallies and tracks as many of Helena’s movements, statements, interactions as she can, in as much detail as possible: e.g., it wasn’t enough for Myka to get Steve to tell her about his retrievals with Helena—those accounts, while captivating, were incomplete, secondhand—so she has made perverse use of her hard-earned Warehouse database access to read Helena’s actual mission reports, like some pathetic online stalker. They’re literarily significant, she tries to use as additional justification, ignoring the fact that no one other than Warehousers will ever know how or why.

It’s not that she’s hoping to gain insight from any of this; the activity is simply itself. A flat gather of data. For those spreadsheets.

Which she uses, of course, to torture herself, not least for her damning inability to gain insight. Thus proving Pete wrong: it isn’t ignoring things that’s unhealthy. No, it’s paying them attention—stupid, pointless attention—that causes disease.

That’s true, but Myka genuinely does not know how much longer she can suffer making herself sick.

Lovesick, she sometimes thinks... but that makes “love” too prominent in the mix. No, the “sick” is what matters, and it is chronic, not acute. Which means it must be managed rather than cured, and she will manage it, because she has to: because she is an agent and Helena is an agent and they live in the same house and say the same mutually polite “good morning” to each other each day.

Sometimes Myka wisps a wish, in the wake of one of those morningtides whose undertow she cannot reveal, that she could begin to shift her thinking, to try floating above rather than falling under, the better to work her way to commencing the actual ignoring.

But then Helena will talk to Steve about the particulars of his Buddhist practice, or to Claudia about a joint invention project’s feasibility, or to Artie about a disputed wrinkle of history, or even to Pete about, bizarrely yet bizarrely frequently, which menu items should be avoided at fast-food chains... and Myka enters each new datum into the spreadsheets out of avid habit, all while ferally wishing everything different—even, some days, heretically, Helena gone. And while castigating herself for having wished, before, so stupidly inchoately, pleading with the universe to let Helena come back. More: to send Helena back.

How very monkey’s-paw of you, she jeers, to leave out specifics. In particular, to leave out “to me.” Send Helena back to me.

Before Helena came back, Myka was lost; now she’s still lost, but differently. And if there is one thing Myka has never liked—in fact, has always feared—it’s change.

So in truth she can probably suffer making herself sick for quite some time. As long as nothing about the making—or the sickness—changes.

****

The days leading up to Christmas itself are blessedly busy. On the 22nd, Myka and Steve head to West Virginia to bag a problematic coal-miner’s lamp; the work keeps them away until Christmas Eve, and if Myka happens to linger a bit longer at the Warehouse after Steve goes back to the B&B once they’ve deposited the artifact... well, that’s because she’s very conscientious about filing reports in a timely fashion.

In fact, she lingers a lot longer, and she’s happy to arrive home to a mostly silent B&B... however, she is instantly deposited into precisely the sort of situation she’d hoped to avoid: she must walk past Helena, who is in the living room, alone, with the television on. Impossible to slink past undetected, and thus rude to try—particularly once Helena says, “Welcome home.”

How disorienting, for Helena to be here and to say that. Worse, the articulation seems to ring of... before. When Myka was special.

But she is imagining that. She must be.

“What are you watching?” she asks, though she doesn’t need to. Helena is watching the Yule Log.

“A strangely mesmerizing facsimile of a fire,” Helena says, without looking up. “Do I strike you as hypnotized?”

You strike me. Myka’s thought stops there, true as can be. Aloud, she says, “You know what it is, right?”

Now Helena looks up. She blinks at Myka and nods, oddly soft, childlike. “I consulted Google.”

Helena is absurdly fond of Google. Myka struggles to keep from finding this absurdly charming. She struggles similarly with the way in which Helena articulates the word itself—every witnessed occurrence of which is represented in the spreadsheets. so Myka is painfully aware of the way Helena puts a slight formal emphasis on both syllables, such that it sounds, in a capping absurdity, as if she’s saying she consulted Gogol.

Not that acquiring input from a dead Russian writer would necessarily be all that different, absurdity-wise, from having instant access to a towering percentage of the world’s collective knowledge. And Helena probably understands that congruence, if that’s what it is, better than Myka ever could.

Myka knows she’s thinking herself down treacherous paths; she should say goodnight and walk away. But it’s Christmas Eve, and she gives herself a present she shouldn’t want but feels she has earned, earned by ignoring—or, to the contrary, recording—so strenuously. She has done such hard work. So she lets herself ask, “Why are you so focused?”

“Pete gave me a choice: watch the Yule Log or talk to Myka. I believe he thought I would reject the former as unworthy of my attention. Yet here I watch, mesmerized.”

“Since when do you do what Pete tells you?” But thanks, I guess, for letting me know where I stand. She can’t then hold back a jab: “Anyway, shouldn’t you be spending the holiday with the famous Giselle?”

Helena blinks again. This time it’s not at all childlike. “That’s why he wanted me to talk to you. But to answer your previous question: since he told me he’s in love with you.”

He... what? “What?”

“You asked me since when do I do what Pete tells me. I’m answering.”

Keep up, Myka; keep up. “When did he tell you that?”

“This evening. As part of what I fear—or hope?—was intended as a Christmas gift.”

“For you?” That’s not keeping up.

“No.”

“Then for who?” That’s not either.

“Whom.”

“Well, excuse my grammar, but I’m a little weirded out.” This is the most extended conversation she and Helena have had since... before. That’s destabilizing enough to her ability to concentrate on words. but what, exactly, is she supposed to do with these words?

“Weirded out,” Helena says, an unexpected affirmation. “As was I. I wasn’t aware.” She makes a small “huh” noise, as if she has to bridge her way to what’s next. “That the two of you had been involved.”

Oh. Hence the bridge—but this is a shifting surprise. “I thought someone—Claudia—would have told you. Must have told you.” Must have, and that in turn must have contributed, Myka had been sure, to Helena’s lack of engagement. She’s always known your judgment was abysmal, she’d lashed herself, based on those must haves, and this is certainly fuel for that fire.

“Our discussions have been more focused on her future. And my past. And technology, of course.”

“Of course,” Myka says. And then, quick, before she loses her nerve: “It didn’t take.”

“Technology?”

“The involvement.”

“I gathered that from its current status.”

“Right.” The conversation, such as it is, should probably end here... but something is off. “Wait. You said he said he is in love with me.”

“Yes.”

Myka had believed it was over. All over. The idea of having to deal with it, with any aspect of it, in perpetuity, or at least with no clear sundown, preemptively exhausts her. And it rekindles her anger at the entire situation, at its utter pointlessness. “I don’t know what to do with that,” she says. She immediately regrets the admission.

“He said he’ll get over it.”

“Well, that’s something. I guess.” It comes out grudging, and that’s another admission Helena shouldn’t be privy to.

“He said you won’t.”

“What? Get over it? No, the problem was that I wasn’t ever in love. With him.” She’s saying far too much. She supposes it’s fortunate that she’s looking at this repetitively flickery video loop, rather than into Helena’s eyes. She supposes also that said loop is a reasonable metaphor for how her life has been proceeding. Lately. Before, and lately.

“He said that too.”

“I’m sorry, but you’re losing me.”

“Interestingly, he said a version of that as well.”

“That you were losing him?” Not hard to believe; sometimes Pete can barely follow a laser pointer.

Helena focuses her gaze on Myka again, adamantine. “That I was losing you.”

And just like that, Myka is through the looking glass. Trapped like Alice, trying to get out. “Why would you care?” she chokes.

Helena lowers her brow, a stern schoolmarm confronting an intransigent pupil. “Because as I mentioned, he said—and seemed quite certain—that you won’t get over being in love.”

Myka knows now what’s next. Helena is about to say, “With me.” Because once again: that fight.

Oh yes I will. That’s what the ignoring is for. When I work my way around to it, that’s what it’s for.

“I didn’t know,” is what Helena actually says, clearly taking Myka’s silence as affirmation of those unuttered words.

“Oh please. Like I could have been any more obvious.” Obviously. She says it with contempt at herself, past and present: what a pathetic moonstruck puppy.

“At which point?” Helena asks.

That’s a surprisingly troubling question. Timelines. Decisions. What did you know and when did you know it? What did you show and when did you show it?

“All I knew was how you responded. Not how you felt.”

Of course the former was all Myka herself had known, certainly at first, and their consonance surprises her. If only she could share that consonance, and her surprise in it, with Helena... but that seems too much like a reward, one that neither she nor Helena deserves. Again exhaustion: at their lack of merit. “I don’t want to play these games,” she says.

“Then don’t.” Was that a shrug? Did Helena really shrug?

“Fine. I won’t.” It’s childish, yet it feels like the best end she can manage tonight. You didn’t seek this out, she assures herself as she takes a first step away.

Before she can seal the escape with her second step, Helena says, “You might at least release me from this view.”

“You talked to me,” Myka says, doing her best to make it all go away. “You’re free.”

Helena turns from the flames too quickly for Myka to dodge being caught by the look. “I am in no way free.”

That is not my problem, Myka would like to maintain, but Helena’s gaze and tone are implicating, which is entirely unfair but still needs to be dealt with. She sits down next to Helena on the sofa. At a judicious distance.

Now they are both watching the Yule Log, which, indifferent to them both, continues its facsimile flicker. “I guess it is kind of mesmerizing,” Myka says after some time.

“We haven’t spoken much,” Helena rejoins.

“There hasn’t been much to speak about.” Without peril, Myka adds, internally, and by that she means, peril to me.

“On the contrary. But I’ve tried to ignore it.”

“So have I. I hear it’s unhealthy.”

“Perhaps. It’s Pete’s strategy as well, according to him,” Helena says. Then, following a throat-clear, “With regard to his feelings for you.”

Myka doesn’t need to clear her throat. “He’s the one who told me it was unhealthy.” Which puts her in mind of his ostentatious cough: it’s meaningful now. Ridiculous, but meaningful.

“Then I suppose we’re ailing, all of us.”

“I suppose we are. An epidemic of ignorance.”

Helena smiles a little at that. Myka can’t help but smile back, and she maintains it as Helena asks, light, “What is the prognosis?”

“Depends on the ignoring’s end result,” Myka temporizes.

“Pete maintains that ignoring something long enough makes it go away.”

Or it kills you, Myka might say, like cancer. But instead she stays light. As light as she can. “Maybe he’s right. No, probably he’s right.” She owes him that.

Now a pause. A wait. What’s next? “So is that where we leave it?” Helena asks.

Maybe it goes away. Maybe that’s what’s next.

Myka can see it, now: see the spreadsheets dissolving into unnecessarity, see herself not responding physically to Helena, see Helena becoming, in essence, like Pete: someone with a past version of whom a past version of herself made a mistake.

She hadn’t imagined, not before this minute, that it was possible. But now a road leads there.

Can she take that road? She looks again into the fire. The not-fire. It mocks her: Everything you really want turns out to be unreal. On the other side of some facsimilating screen. A mirage. She turns away from it, ashamed. She looks at Helena... for the moment, Helena is still real. Still able to render Myka’s resistance from her body, here in this moment by sitting quietly and watching fake flames, in the next by doing nothing more than breathing out, breathing in.

Myka has not yet taken that awful road. Not yet. One more try, she tells herself. But no, that’s not right. She’s never really tried. Never really. She’s waited—longer than she thought she should—and she’s hoped—harder than she thought she could—but that wasn’t trying.

So: one try.

It can’t be the try she might have made in the past, a desperate just-please-touch-me push. Under the circumstances, that’s impossible. So, what?

An olive branch? No, peace isn’t the right aim, even now.

Better, perhaps: something she wouldn’t have said before tonight’s... encounter. Something related to tonight’s encounter, something more real than she’s offered so far: “We fought. Pete and I.”

TBC

[calaisreno]

Sixth Sense

885 Words / Prompt: Intuition

Molly notices. 

She’s not really a friend of John’s. They're friendly, but she never has much to say to him. He’s kind to her, and probably aware of how she felt about Sherlock. 

As one of the few who knows Sherlock is alive, she has a terrible advantage over John Watson. Not the one she used to wish for. 

They met in her lab, when Mike Stamford came looking for Sherlock, to introduce him to John. Well, nobody introduced her. Sherlock was fixated on her lipstick for some reason. She remembers John’s eyes on her, then turning to focus on Sherlock. That was the day she finally figured out that Sherlock wasn’t interested in her. In time, her crushing disappointment was lessened by the realisation that he was gay. It wouldn’t have mattered what shade of lipstick she wore or however many coffees she brought him; he would never look at her the way he looked at John.

At first she thought John was straight. After her blunder with Jim from IT (who turned out to be not only gay, but also a criminal) she consulted her friend Jasper, another gay man. “How can you tell?”

Asking this, she wasn’t thinking about Sherlock, or even Jim. What she was wondering about was John, who sometimes looked at Sherlock as if he’d hung the moon, but still dated ridiculous women. 

Of course men have different taste in women, just as women prefer certain types of men. She was attracted to men like Sherlock— tall, pale, Byronic hair, blindingly intelligent. Men who entered rooms with a swirl, who spoke with voices that made her shiver. They were hard to find, and to expect such a man also to be kind, romantic, and not gay was apparently too much. 

John dated women who were a bit out of reach. Taller women, confident women, the kind who didn’t need the right lipstick to be noticed. The kind who didn’t own three cats and spend the holidays with their ageing mother. These unobtainable women never lasted more than two dates. And he never seemed to mind.

John is not Molly’s type. She appreciates his abilities as a doctor. He has the right manner with Sherlock, a bit snarky, but not mean. He’s not tall, not gracefully slender. He has a temper. He’s blond and a bit sweary, good-looking in an average way, an ordinary bloke who goes out for pints with people like Greg Lestrade and Mike Stamford. 

She’d barely noticed him that day in the lab. He’s a man who doesn’t stand out, who completely disappears in the shadow of a man like Sherlock.

John and she are that awkward thing: friends of friends. He would never introduce her as, my friend, Molly. It would be Sherlock’s friend, Molly. If he asked a favour of her, she would do it because Sherlock would appreciate it, not because she feels any obligation to John.

She doesn’t hate him, or wish anything bad on him. She might have felt jealous for a few days, simply because Sherlock never forgets John the way he forgets about her the minute she’s out of his sight. 

She noticed him watching John, usually when he wasn’t looking. He looked sad. And she thought, I know what that feels like.

The memory of that look weighs on her, weeks after Sherlock’s funeral. A hard day, that was, sitting in a pew trying to fake sadness as she watched others grieve.

As she watched John grieve. 

What does it mean that John Watson looks like he’s lost everything? She sees him at the hospital sometimes, his hooded gaze avoiding the eyes of others, his psychosomatic limp making him wince with pain. 

She can’t say what it is that tells her. Maybe she’s just practiced for so long on other men that she’s developed a sixth sense about it. 

John loved Sherlock— not just as a friend. And he’s probably just now realising that. She supposes that quite a few men dismiss those feelings of attraction. Jasper says, all men are gay, potentially. It’s just easier to stay in the closet.

There are various reasons for that, and she doesn’t want to speculate what John’s are, but she observes his grief, and knows regret is a large part of that. 

Sherlock will be back, someday. He wasn’t very clear about when. Six months, maybe a year. But she thinks he’s being optimistic; he wants to come home to John, not leave him to grieve for years. 

And by the time he does make it back, John will have found another woman. Blonde and pretty. Nothing like the dark beauties he used to date. But still, clever like Sherlock, a bit imperious and demanding. He will look at her the way Sherlock always looked at him, when he didn’t notice. 

She could tell him. There’s only her promise to stop her from doing that. Could John keep the secret? Sherlock told her not knowing will keep him alive, that knowing would put him in danger.

She’s not in danger. Nobody thinks she mattered that much to Sherlock. Her feigned grief is taken as real, but everybody knows she’ll get over it. Just a crush.

As for John Watson, this might just kill him. 

That’s a problem she could solve. 

[angxlofvenus]

A Shoulder To Cry On

Requested By: @saturnsapothecary Genre: Hurt/comfort Ship: The brothers x reader TW: Mentions of crying, distressed reader, physical contact, Undisclosed stressful situation, soft characters, angst tbh Word count: 1,107 An: Hi! What you are about to read is probably the most angsty thing I have written thus far. I joke a lot in my other writings but in this one I went with a more somber approach, mostly bc I listened to Mitski while writing this entire thing, Anyway, Heed the TW, and Happy reading ♥️

Pt. 2 can be found here (Dateables+Luke edition!)

It had been a rough week, 'Thankfully it's Friday' You thought, Climbing up The HoL staircase as you felt yourself start to break, By the time you had reached your room- all you could do was walk in, close the door, and start crying, collapsing onto the floor, Not hearing the door reopen and a certain demon pop his head inside...

Lucifer

Immediate concern, What has happened? 

He makes a bee-line toward you, kneeling infront of you.

Will rub soft and slow circles into your back as you start to calm down

Once he knows nothing is currently threatening you in any way, He would lead you to his bedroom (Not like that, get your head out of the gutter)

Will offer you a beverage as you sit on his bed, You don’t have to talk to him but…He is here for you and he needs you to know that.

If you want physical comfort, He will sit on his bed, gather you up into his arms and start to rock the two of you, His body crashed against yours like gentle waves, Pulling you in and then pushing you back out.

If you don’t wish to be touched, He absolutely understands either way. He hopes his soft-spoken words of comfort will help you.

He gets it, He feels nonstop worry and exhaustion from his many duties, He strives to make the Devildom a happy place for you but he knows he can not always insure that, But let him try to fix what has plagued you.

Mammon

When he finds you crying he feels horrendous and angry, Not at you of course! Just-

He’s supposed to be your first man, The guy you can find solace in no matter what! But looking at your tear-stained face he can’t help but feel like he’s failed you in a way 

He will do everything in his power to help you though, He may have not been there to stop this all from happening but that doesn’t mean you have to go through this alone!

Ask and you shall receive, No complaints! Anything you want that will make your grief lessen, He’d do it for you.

He isn’t the best speaker but he’ll start shooting off at the mouth about how much he cares about you and how he hates seeing you like this- Please let him help, In any way he can. 

Levi

Panic, He can barely handle himself- Let alone another person!

With shaky hands he will put a hand on your shoulder before looking at your reaction, 

If you want Physical comfort, he will slot himself beside you, not outwardly touching you, just kind of leaning onto you

If not, His hand retracts rapidly as he instead sits across from you

Either way, He’ll quietly ask if you want to talk about it, After your done talking/You tell him no- He will invite you to his room where you all spend the rest of the night watching your favorite animes/series

He knows he can’t take away all of your pain, But he hopes he can atleast put some nicer things in your mind

Satan

Brows furrowed, He takes quick but cautious steps toward you, almost like he would a cat.

The first thing that comes to his mind is anger, “Are you okay? Who did this?” He will ask you as softly as he could.

When he finds out what has happened, He will feel the surge of anger come back to him, Not at you- never at you, But at the world. He hates how powerless he feels in these moments, knowing there is nothing for him to solve.

So instead he does what he knows how to do, He takes you through breathing exercises and ways to help you calm down, He has spent centuries managing his anger so he has learned a thing or two-

Will talk you through your worries if you wanted before walking off, Only to then bring back your favorite book with him. He reads to you in the same soft voice you have grown to love, He knows he is only one demon but that doesn’t mean he won’t try to take the weight off your shoulders.

Asmo

His first thought is to swarm you, Asking questions, giving hugs, wiping away your tears- the whole nine yards

But he won’t. He knows how to respect boundaries no matter what, So he pushes down the feeling, instead dropping to his knees infront of you and asking what’s wrong.

If you want a hug or a shoulder to cry on he is their the second it comes out of your mouth, You don’t have to pretend with him, not ever- He won’t think badly of you for anything you vent to him about- He is there for you no matter what, Through thick and thin.

Only if your feeling up to it ofcourse, He’ll lead you to his room and bring out his ‘self care box’ The ice mask he lays across your face washes away the remnants of your tears as his hand cards through your hair

Beel

Drops all of his snacks in a flurry to get to you.

Unlike the others, He is looking for injuries- So your personal bubble is feeling a little violated

Once you tell him you are physically fine, His shoulders relax some and he takes a step away from you and says that he’s sorry for running up on you like that.

Gentle giant mode activated, Is gonna talk to you like he does Belphie, Asking what’s wrong and how he can help.

He feels so much responsibility for you, As he does all of his family, And is so crushed that he can’t go back in time and help you

He starts to think about what makes him cheer up and asks if you’d want to go to Madame Screams with him, If yes then he would put in all of his effort to making you forget all of your troubles

If no, He get’s it! Sometimes he doesn’t wanna go out either, He’ll just offer to go and pick up whatever you like from anywhere, No matter what! 

He wishes he could do more but sharing a dessert with you sounds like a good start.

Belphie

Blinks twice, Trying to see if he was seeing things right

Will make his way over to you in confusion, “Hey what’s wrong?” 

You decide whether you actually tell him or not, he’s chill either way- He understands why you would and wouldn’t want to talk to him about it

He isn’t the best at comforting but he does what he can, He’ll move y’all to your bed and will even give you his special cow pillow

Will start talking about random things, anything and everything- Letting his voice will you to sleep, Making sure that all of your dreams are nothing but happy days, Days he’d hope to make a reality soon.

Hey! Fancy seeing you here, I get that this post was a little heavy on the feelings, I just wanted everyone out there to know that You are not alone- No matter what you are going through and that my Dms and inbox are always open if you need to vent or just to talk in general, My blog is a safe space to anybody who needs it 🖤

[maybe-im-dark]

You know what? Fuck it! I am going to fix X-Men Origins! I love this movie and i'm not ashamed of it! I am gonna write scenes to fill out what was missing in the movie and new scenes to fix the bad ones! Starting with this one! All script style! Maybe some directors will take notice!

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EXT. WOODS — NIGHT

Logan, much younger, his bone claws freshly discovered, runs through a dense forest alongside Victor. The air is thick with the smell of pine and soil, the sounds of night creatures filling the air. It's after he's learned the truth —that Thomas Logan is his biological father —and the rage from that discovery burns deep in his chest. They are both on the run, outcasts in the wilderness, with only each other to rely on.

But tonight it's not just survival. It's something more —something that makes Logan grit his teeth in pain.

Victor:

(gruff, demanding)

"Again, Jimmy, do it again!"

Logan grits his teeth, his breath ragged. His fists clench at his sides as he braces for the pain. With a snarl, he forces his bone claws to extend from between his knuckles. The jagged bones tear through his skin, breaking through muscle and tendons that have never been used this way before. The pain is excruciating, every movement of the claws sending waves of agony up his arms.

Blood drips from the wounds as the claws fully extend, the pain still fresh in his mind. Logan hunches over, panting, sweat pouring down his face. He tries to push the pain away, but it lingers, throbbing in his every fiber.

Logan:

(growling)

"It hurts, Victor! Every damn time!"

Victor steps closer, towering over his younger brother, his sharp eyes gleaming with something almost predatory.

Victor:

"It's supposed to hurt. It's part of who we are. But you have to get used to it. You need to pop these claws fast —no hesitation."

Logan stares down at his blood-covered hands, the claws still jutting out awkwardly from between his knuckles. The pain hasn't lessened, but there's something else there too —a strange sense of power, of strength. He can feel his instincts, those feral instincts that Victor has talked about, scratching at the surface.

But he isn't ready to let them out. Not yet.

Victor circles him, pushing him harder.

Victor:

"You're holding back, Jimmy. You have to keep practicing until it doesn't matter how much it hurts. Because if you don't, when the time comes, you'll be too slow —and dead!"

Logan clenches his jaw, his muscles tensing. He retracts the claws with a sharp grunt, the sensation of bone pulling back into his flesh equally painful. His skin heals over the wounds quickly, but the memory of the pain lingers. Before he can catch his breath, Victor is at it again, pushing him, forcing him to pop the claws once more.

Victor:

"Again! Faster this time!"

Logan growls, but he obeys, the claws tearing through his skin once more. The pain is unbearable, but each time he does it, the sensation dulls slightly, his body slowly adapting to the unnatural act.

As the night stretches on, they continue. Logan's instincts begin to shift. Each time the claws emerge, it becomes less about pain and more about the hunt. The animal inside him begins to stir, clawing its way to the surface. And as they get older they begin to hunt together —tracking down prey through the forest, moving with a feral grace that neither of them had before.

EXT. FOREST — DAY (YEARS LATER)

Logan, now a young man, taller and broader than before, moves through the woods with Victor. His chest hair has grown in, his mutton chops and weathered skin starting to form the features he's known for. He's no longer the boy who ran from his past. He's a man now, hardened by years of survival, hunting and the painful growth spurts that have reshaped his body.

But it's not just physical. Something inside him has changed. The animal Victor always talked about —the beast in their bloodline —has become more present. Victor, tall and muscular beside him, watches Logan with an almost proud look in his eyes.

Victor:

(approving)

"You're growing into it, Jimmy. That's the animal in you, just like me. Passed down from our father's blood. You've always had it in you."

They've been working hard labor jobs between hunting and fighting for survival. Their bodies have become stronger, more muscular and Logan moves through the world, he feels the weight of his instincts pulling him closer to the beast inside.

But even as Victor encourages it, Logan still holds back. He knows there's a line —a line between the man and the animal and he's not ready to cross it.

Logan:

"I'm not like you, Victor. I'm not gonna give in to it."

Victor laughs, a deep rumbling sound that echoes through the trees.

Victor:

"You're already halfway there, brother. You feel it every time you fight, every time those claws come out. You just don't want to admit it. But one day you'll see it like i do. You'll stop fighting the animal inside you and you'll become who you're meant to be."

Logan turns to face Victor, his expression hard, resolute.

Logan:

"I'm not giving into it! I'm not you!"

Victor's grin fades slightly and something more dangerous flickers in his eyes. He steps closer, his posture aggressive, his voice dropping lower.

Victor:

"You think you're better than me, huh? You think you can keep that part of you locked away? You can't, Jimmy. Sooner or later the animal's gonna come out and when it does...you won't be able to control it."

Logan squares his shoulders, his muscles tense. For the first time, he feels a true challenge from his brother, not just in words, but in the air between them. The tension crackles and before either of them can back down, it explodes into their first fight.

Victor lunges, his nails sharp like claws and Logan recacts instinctively. The bone claws snap out from his hands and he meets Victor's attack with the same ferocity. The forest around them becomes a blur, as the brothers collide, their bodies fueled by the feral strength they both share.