#girls face the consequences of mortality and humanity at such a young age and are forced to mature so much quicker

[passingnights]

Our ragged, bloodstained girl in red. Flesh stained teeth, earth crusted nails. An animal-girl.

Girlhood knows red. She knows of blood and the hollowing hunger that resides in the pit of stomachs. She knows her way around organs and the fresh scent of danger. Girlhood knows of red eyes, red hands, red tongue licking a full, satisfied smile.

Red waits with the Creature resting on her grandmother’s bed. It lies with one paw over the other. It yawns and sleeps and bares its neck. It waits for inevitability. Fear wears the clothes of love.

“If you cannot eat, you will die. This is the Law.”

Tears swell at the corners of the girl’s eyes. Who are these tears for, my child? Humanity lays at the corners of her eyes. She wipes them with the back of her hand.

Hunger and hunger and hunger grips the girls stomach. Starvation. Instincts. Animal.

She lays the iron weapon into the Creature’s skull.

Red Riding Hood devours her shadow. She rips apart fur, finds the critical spot where the meat comes apart the easiest, where the heart pounds and fades the quickest.

She splits the skull apart, pulling the strings that have tormented her Story many times told. She strays the path and follows her instincts. Animal.

She eats. She eats and drinks and swallows. Bright red. Raw meat. She picks the fur and guts out of her teeth. She wipes her mouth on the collar of her white dress and her hands at her thighs. “My teeth were made to eat you”.

Unrecognisable child. People fear you the way they feared the Big Bad Wolf. What have you done? Predator claws and ears grow from her body. Alien, familiar. Maturity, mortality, humanity, innocence— the blood at the end of girlhood.

“I met death, and Death wants me to live.”

[blueiight]

I see some people compared revolutionary girl utena and iwtv I don't get it I watch both series and don't get the comparison (I'm very slow)

ik it sounds hypocritical cuz i call myself slow but i promise u ur not! ur curiosity alone suggests u care & u have something up there. the comparison lies in how both adaptations tackle similar themes. the vampire and the prince are both parasites by definition, sold to u as the pinnacle of species but really leeches on life who so desperately want to cling onto a facismile of humanity bc theyve been locked out of it forever someway somehow. the sterile opulence of akio ohtori’s tower reminds me a bit of the dubai penthouse dont u think?

the 1973 first interview tapes with louis are all but said to be very similar in tone to a jilted ex complaining about his lover. “i was his superior in every way”. it wasnt even a tale of triumph over an abuser, it was mania, a bender, a second hand high off sampling the lives of drug addicts in a gay bar. ep3 louis all but saying he encountered an older jonah in europe who saw the devil in his eyes the way his mother did, encountering multiple vampire cults & the open question as of the writing of this post on amc claudia’s life in the 1970s. is it any wonder he saw europe as a failure & wanted to try again in america, in the epicenter of black empowernment going on in the state of california.. u can imagine how this creature pushing 100, when asked to recall his maker, can be so resentful in his recollection of him at the moment?

speaking of blurred boundaries.

what was the full quote : the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb? yea..its all a lie. we got daughters thats makeshift brides thats also makeshift brothers and siblings who despise the broken mirror showing them the child they once was.

modern day louis attempts to sell this tale of triumph in the face of a fucked up gothic romance & the consequences of death made eternal to mortals. louis says this is a warning, but it serves more as his eulogy. louis wants u to believe claudia & him triumphed over lestat: first lover, his progenitor, all in one, but this story collapses when revisiting the monstrosity of recollection. at a time where death consumes the world, where death is brought from the push of a button in boardrooms thousands of miles from the scene, we are bought to the question of memory, intimacy in the eternity of death, and just what it even means to remember something. just as a vampire is born from trauma, a prince is born as the witness to eternal suffering.

utena posits very similar questions w regard to what it even means to recall, what happens to u in the midst of memory formation. we are introduced to utena, a girl who wants to be a prince, who was saved by the prince when she was young& wants to be him, whos said to wear a boy’s uniform and the whole universe shes in sees it as such. the audience sees it for what it is, a poor man’s imitation, unusual attire, something marking her as the odd man out. we are initially introduced to some of what made utena want to be a prince thru saionji. saionji realizes in this moment, that he would have to age out of his companionship with touga to become a “Man”. eternity to saionji, represents the accursed day before he found the girl. but it is through mikage’s utter distortion of mamiya’s entire existence, through anthy, that we find out utena was the suicidal little girl seeking eternity, neither touga nor saionji brought it to her, and the eternity showed to her was the ghost of a prince showing the eternal suffering of his little sister who sacrificed everything for him. a girl who cannot be a princess is doomed to become a witch. all vampires are creatures born of trauma.

what does it mean to be eternal?

is the question both of these shows ask u. what is eternity, if not living the same miserable life over and over again? repeating the cycles of duels to get the hand of the bride, whos revealed to be a witch all along, and the endless pursuit of a prince whos never existed in the first place.

there was never an escape from the constraints of mortality, u could never escape the sorrow that surrounded u in death. u r permanently the traumatized, broken creature u were on the verge of death/suicide/some other intimate tangle with a mortal death. now what do u make of it? unlike utena tho, there is no true way at liberation. u r the beast of the outside world.

[mythvoiced]

@astremourante​ |  ❝ i'm sorry, what ? your name is HERPES ? ❞ Amelia had most definitely heard the m. He didn't have to know that.

---

The laughter that erupts out of the god of travellers is meant to be pleasant to the ears. He's a young god, in appearance at least, he's meant to charm and enamour all those who have the (mis)fortune of being in his path when he comes rushing through.

With sparkling eyes and that pleasant, good-humoured smile always tugging and tugging at the corner of his lips, pulling his chin up along with the pull of all the commentary bursting like stars in his mind, one working nearly as fast and hard as his feathered shoes.

He's meant to have fathers worry for their daughters travelling the roads he's patron of.

Usually.

Other times, his laughter reminds of the wrath gods like to enact upon mortals, as if obsessed with the notion to have their blood stream between their feet, comparing their darkness to the golden ichor they shall never see spill.

He's not as vengeful as Apollo, as strict as Artemis or as compulsive as Athena.

But he's a god nonetheless.

As amusing as Amelia Sinclair is to swirl around - enough that he's come to race across continents whenever the whim to visit her befalls him, always with a grin, always ready to see what carnage she's leaving behind in her wake - she's still little more than a girl.

In his eyes, for her age, for the weight her sins weigh her down, the guilt she masks under the danger of her maniacal fists when she chooses to deploy them, under the readiness of her trigger-finger, under her boisterous commentary, her obnoxious flirting, her shit-eating grin.

She feels, he sees, she feels quite a lot.

Remorse, hatred for the scars on her knuckles and the memory of the faces she's broken to gain them. Willingness to go again and again and again.

He assumes most she fights read her differently, the monster they see is all they care about, Hermes might even agree. But he has millennia on his back, he's the one amongst the gods most likely to interact with a mortal, he's the one who carries their souls to Charon, the one who gifted Perseus his aid, the one who was lover to Circe a while (daughter of a titan yet very much human in spirit).

He knows humans.

And he likes playing with them.

He doesn't like when they try to play with him in turn.

He does, he does, he does.

Though, her sin is not as punishable as the sin of being dull. At least she's still sharp, still witty, still interesting.

The air in his lungs fades out and the anger vanishes off his features. A few seconds it had sat there at most. His smile softens again.

“My, I knew you liked playing with fire, but to this extent? Might want to invest in a call to a hotline next.” A little threat, joyfully delivered, with a tilt of his head, almost amicably, almost as if a lover standing with a bouquet full of knives at her doorstep.

As one of the gods to preside over hospitality, he'd take a gift like that quite seriously.

He leans closer, leans down, slowly because he doesn't intend to keep the promise of consequence quite yet, with his hands folded behind his back. “It's Hermes. Though, we both know you know that.”

He steps away, drops the attitude of deity to look around himself, put his hands on his hips, stepping from side to side, restless legs, restless feet, always restless, as if readying to bolt any moment.

“If it helps, you can call me Mercury as well. I'd like to see what you can come up with, with that one. Honestly! Let me hear it.”

[calico-kiwi]

@izzybellepenguin OK SO-

it all started with this one art idea I had maybe a year ago (it's a wip lost to the ages that may never be finished)

it was basically knight Kagami kneeling down to look at mermaid Marinette who was half in and out of the water smiling up at her

and because i have no self control I accidentally brainstormed an entire mini-story for it

we find ourselves watching as Knight Kagami (who comes from a long line of honorable, greatly capable, and respectable knights and warriors) serving some kingdom I haven't come up with a name for

adrien's a marquess and his father's a duke, chloe's the princess with her parents as the rulers, and, to be honest, the kingdom's falling to ruin because of them BUT THAT'S A WHOLE NOTHER STORY AND CONSEQUENTLY IRRELEVANT TO THIS

anyways back to Kagami

so she's a well-known young knight, right?

and one day while she's out patrolling and she goes a bit farther than her route strictly pertains to but she's bored and feeling adventurous, sue her.

she ends up at a very small and rocky secluded beach where she catches a glimpse of something so unbelievable that kagami's half convinced she imagined it and gaslit herself into believing it was real

shocker, it's mermaid marinette who was having fun sitting on a rock in an almost comically cliche mermaid pose. girl was just vibin taking in the beauty of the mortal world like 'wow look at these colors and these shapes and the fluidity of movement up here is so different and it's dry and warm and-' anyways you get the picture

she sees kagami and books it back into the water. kagmi's left standing there like 'did I just see a mermaid? a very beautiful, breathtaking, ethereal-looking mermaid? with a cute smile? preposterous.'

not so preposterous, though, because kagami's intrigued enough to always deviate from her patrol route now. miss goes out of her way to go to this beach in hopes of catching this mermaid. yep. definitely catching. definitely not to stare at them. nope.

mari's just sorta watching from a distance like 'wow a human, haven't interacted with much of those. she's pretty. she has shiny scales.'

eventually she gets bold and one day she just. pulls herself out of the water in front of kagami and stares up at her. as if it were a normal occurrence

kagami is trying (and failing) very hard to not look like a floundering idiot in front of this gorgeous mermaid and marinette just starts garbling

bc mermaids don't exactly speak french, y'know? or any human language for that matter.

and mari's all exasperated and slightly fed up bc even tho she can't understand this other creature she knows she's being talked to like a baby so she just gestures for kagami to come closer

and the other girl does

then mari grabs her hand, yanks her down, and holds kagami's face inches from her own.

and kagami's trying (and once again failing) to hold it together and not disturb what is clearly some sort of magic process

suddenly, like, directly into her ear, she hears this absolutely adorable voice speak to her in fluent french 'hi! I'm marinette, what's your name?'

kagami is like, 'oh the mermaid can talk to me now' and now the two are making pleasant conversation and kagami regularly visits her dear friend *cough cough* yes friend *violent coughing attack* mhm. friiiiieeeend *keels over from violent coughing*

i'm sure i could fit interesting plot in here somewhere. i really could. but. the foundation for the first bit has been set. marigami mermaid au

set in a universe where i could so easily create another story to intertwine with this one, but the other story would feature the rest of the cast.

oh! i didn't include it bc this is already way longer than I thought it would be (kinda lost myself there a bit, whoops) but I definitely have a way to reverse so it's human mari and mermaid kagami btw, and the story and universe would be different too. so. yep.

thank you for reading my brain dump, I'm here forever and always have more

marigami mermaid au marigami mermaid au marigami mermaid au marigami mermaid au it can work either way marigami mermaid au marigami merma-

[fanficshiddles]

Don’t Disobey, Chapter 1 (READ THE WARNINGS!!!)

Summary: Loki’s attack on Midgard was a success. He’s become ruler of Earth, over all the mortals. The Avengers were defeated. Over time he’s taken over every country and city. Now he’s going for the smaller towns and villages to conquer, recruiting strong men for his army and beautiful young women to be his sex slaves.

Ivy is captured amongst some other girls. She is smart and knows from the tales of Loki’s palace that it is best to behave to survive. But being a good girl quickly makes her Loki’s favourite. And being his favourite is not going to be easy for Ivy.

WARNINGS: RAPE/NON-CON, VIOLENCE, MURDER, KIDNAPPING, SEX SLAVES, IRON BRANDING, CUTTING OFF TONGUES, CHOKING, OVER STIMULATION, FORCED TATTOOS, BREAKING BONES. (I’ll add more on future chapters as I go) 

Loki is not nice in this fic! There is no happy ending where he turns soft and falls in love for the OC. In-case that’s what anyone is looking for. I dunno why, I was just craving some really nasty Loki… See how far I could go with it… It’s a long chapter, in my standards anyway. But this fic won’t be updated as often as the others, but I think this fic will only have maybe five or so chapters, if that… But who knows. Gotta be in the right headspace for this! Lol.

-

Ivy was shaking badly as she was marched into the castle. Taken from her village along with some other young women, they were flown over to where Loki had taken up residence in Prague castle. It being to his liking the most out of all of Earths castles… A few adjustments here and there to make it even more extravagant and he now called it home.

Loki’s rule of Earth had devastated everyone. For reasons unknown to the humans, he wasn’t very sparing of lives. Thousands and thousands of people had been murdered within the first year for things as small as being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Everyone in prison had been culled off, along with elders in care homes and sick people in hospitals of all ages.

The internet was monitored constantly, anyone saying anything slightly bad about Loki was hunted down and slaughtered. He had eyes everywhere.

One of the first laws brought in was couples weren’t allowed to have more than one child. It was clear that Loki was trying to lessen the human population. But what the humans didn’t know, was it was the only condition from Thanos for Loki’s rule. To thin out the herd.

The group of women were taken straight to Loki, who was in the throne room. He was sat on his throne, legs splayed like he owned the place… Well, the whole damn world for that matter.

His horned helmet caused a huge and terrifying shadow behind him from the lights, some of the girls started panicking and tried to back up, but the guards surrounded them and wouldn’t allow them to leave.

Ivy remained near the front, arms wrapped around herself as she shook on the spot. She kept her eyes down, especially when she heard Loki get up from his throne and make his way down the steps towards them all.

The guards pushed at the girls, getting them to line up just as Loki reached them.

‘Well, what have we here? New toys for me to play with, how delightful.’ Loki grinned and started at one end, looking the girl up and down.

‘Too old.’ The woman was grabbed roughly and dragged away as Loki took a step down the line to the second girl.

‘Too skinny, she would break far too easily for what I have in store.’ He flicked his hand to dismiss her. She was also dragged away. To god knows where, Ivy dreaded to think.

The third girl looked defiantly up at him, nose scrunched up. ‘You will NEVER be my King!’ She spat at him, shocking everyone but Loki. The guards went to move in, but Loki swiftly grabbed her face as he leaned down towards her, sneering.

‘You dare talk at your King like that.’ He squeezed her cheeks hard, making her open her mouth as she cried out in pain. Loki quickly grabbed her tongue and hauled it out as far as it would go, then as quick as lightning he cut it off with his dagger.

The girl fell to the ground in agony, clutching at her mouth. Tears streamed down her face but she couldn’t make much noise at the loss of her tongue.

The other girls, including Ivy, cried out in fear upon seeing the girls tongue land on the floor on front of them. But Ivy quickly closed her eyes and kept herself in check, while the others kept crying and trying to get away.

Loki looked along the line, smirking at their reactions. ‘Let this be a lesson to you girls. Under my rule there are consequences for your actions.’ He started walking down the line as he spoke. ‘There are also rewards for good behaviour, so you best choose wisely how you proceed.’

Ivy couldn’t take it anymore. She was so scared for her life. Hearing all the rumours before about being under Loki’s command, she knew she just had to try and survive. That was the only goal here.

So she sank to her knees on front of him, head down in respect.

Loki had just passed her, but he stopped when he saw the girl falling to her knees before him. He took slow, menacing steps back towards her until he towered over her. Ivy could see his boots appear in her line of vision.

He reached down and smoothed his hand through her hair, his touch making her jump at first, though it seemed gentle… But then he gripped hold of it tightly and yanked her head right back so she was to look up at his face.

His rather beautiful features caught her off guard for a second. But being a God, it wasn’t surprising he was handsome. It was just such a shame his personality was so cruel.

‘What’s your name?’ He asked, eyeing her up carefully.

‘I… Ivy… My King.’ She whimpered, her lower lip trembling.

‘Ivy.’ Her name rolled off his tongue. He released her hair and took a step backwards. ‘Everyone could take a leaf out of Ivy’s book… Smart girl, knows her place in this world.’ He said as he glanced back down at her. Then he looked to his guards. ‘Take her to my chambers.’

A guard grabbed her arm and led her away. She didn’t look over her shoulder when she heard one of the other girls starting to cry hysterically, but was quickly silenced. How, she dreaded to think.

Being captured by Loki was not the time nor the place to make friends, or to even look out for established friends. It was every woman for herself now.

And Ivy knew she had to be selfish and look out for number one.

-

Loki waltzed into his quarters and to his harem of girls.

All of them cowered and tried to avoid eye contact when he entered. Some of them scurried off into other rooms, while others continued with the chores of keeping the place tidy.

‘Where is my new girl?’ Loki asked the girl nearest him.

‘Awaiting you in your chambers, Sir.’ The girl said with her head down.

Loki nodded, then looked her up and down. ‘Turn.’ He swivelled his finger around.

The girl looked absolutely petrified, but she turned around for him. His hand shot out and he gripped her shoulder tightly, stopping her as he looked down at her backside.

‘Where’s your plug?’ He asked, his tone rising.

‘I… I’m sorry, Sir… I… I had to take it out when I went to the toilet… I couldn’t get it back in… I’m so sorry.’ She started sobbing.

Loki grabbed her hair tightly and pulled her across the room, she struggled to keep up with him and fell to the ground, but was dragged along by her hair as Loki was on a mission. The other girls around looked on, but didn’t do anything to help. Knowing better.

She was dragged over to the fire place, Loki hauled her on front of it and pushed her down onto her stomach. He put his foot on her lower back to keep her in place when she tried to crawl away. ‘Stay there!’ He snarled.

The girl begged and cried for his forgiveness, continuously struggled underneath him. He pushed down firmer on her back, making her yelp in pain.

He grabbed the branding iron from beside the fireplace and placed it right into the fire, heating it up nicely until it was scalding hot. The girl could hear the sizzling as he drew it closer towards her. She struggled anew, screaming so loudly that it could be heard throughout his quarters.

And that was before it had even touched her.

Loki clicked his fingers and a ball gag was placed into her mouth to shut her up a bit. But as he pressed the iron brand against her backside, it didn’t do much to drown out her screams of pain.

Ivy started shaking all over again when she heard the painful screams of another girl in the main room. She tried to block it out, closing her eyes and head down. She had been told by a guard how to be ready for Loki’s arrival in his room. To be naked and kneeling on the floor, hands behind her back.

But even though she knew she was doing what she was told, it still hadn’t prepared her for when she heard the heavy foot-steps of Loki coming into the room. And the click from the door as it was closed made her blood run cold. She knew that meant it was just her and him in the room… All alone.

Loki hummed in approval as he looked over his new play thing. She seemed obedient, which was good. Better behaved than any other girls so far, none had ever knelt for him without him telling them to upon first meeting.

His helmet vanished and so did his heavy armour, leaving just the underlay. He strolled over to Ivy and circled her, taking in every part of her. He could see her trembling in his presence, that made him smirk.

He reached out and cupped her chin, making her look up at him, her eyes were skittish as she looked up at him. A small whimper of fear escaped from her lips, she had been unable to contain it.

‘Shhh, shhh.’ He soothed, brushing his thumb up and down her cheek. ‘We both know that you’re a clever girl. If you do exactly as you are told, you will have no reason to fear me.’ Loki spoke calmly, almost putting her at ease. But she knew better.

‘There are rules here, you should know.’ He let go of her chin and stood up straight, she put her head down again, looking to the floor.

‘You are to address me as Sir, unless I state otherwise. I do not accept no as an answer, ever. I don’t want to hear that word from your lips, under any circumstance. You are not to wear clothes again, aside from on me they are banished in these quarters.’ He walked over to a dresser and opened it, pulling out some rope. ‘You can converse with the other girls, aside from when I am in the same room, then I demand utter silence from you unless answering a question from me.’ He crossed the room towards Ivy and moved behind her, he tied her wrists together at her back as he continued. ‘I don’t mind if you girls want to play around with one another, providing there is not a single mark on any of you that wasn’t put there by me.’ He leaned down so she could feel his breath against her ear. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

She swallowed hard before answering. ‘Yes, Sir.’ She said quietly.

‘Good girl.’ Loki purred, kissing her shoulder. ‘Now, I am going to mark you, as all my girls get when they arrive. Usually there is a trial period, but I have a good feeling about you.’ He gave her head a pat and then took hold of her bound hands to lift her up to her feet.

He walked her over to his bed and lay her down on her front.

‘I am not a beginner when it comes to restraining girls, so don’t think for a second I won’t do it if I have to. But I prefer submission, so you will remain still until told otherwise.’ He said as he got on the bed too, straddling over her lower legs.

Ivy had no idea what to expect, but she was bloody terrified. Not wanting to make him angry, she was going to do her best to remain still…

But then the pain started.

Using his Seidr, Loki was giving her a permanent tattoo on her lower back. Simply using his finger, though it felt exactly like a tattoo gun. But more painful.

She bit down on the quilt underneath her, hoping she wouldn’t get into trouble for it. But it helped her to focus on something other than screaming in pain.

Loki noticed her hands clench into fists. She jerked a little, but remained rather still. The most still he’d seen a girl stay when applying his tattoo. Yes, this one was going to be good. He was excited to start playing with her, see how responsive she was and what she could do.

But he had a feeling she was going to be exquisite. Her submission already, clearly from a place of fear, was highly arousing. He had been sporting a hard on ever since she knelt for him in the throne room.

After carving his name into her, to be there forever, he was pleased with how she’d taken it. She was in tears, but the noises from her had been minimal. He had noticed her biting the quilt, letting small whimpers of pain escape but nothing more.

That pleased him greatly.

He ran his hand over her lower back, growling deep in approval. But he wanted her to see it. He wanted her to see that she was now his property.

Getting off the bed, he snapped his fingers to get her attention. ‘Come on, up.’

She hurriedly got up, albeit awkwardly because of her hands still being restrained behind her, and slipped off the bed to stand on front of him.

He turned her around and walked her over to a full-length mirror. He then had another appear behind her, at the right angle so she could see her back. He stood to the side, watching for her reaction as she looked at her new tattoo.

First, surprise crossed her features, then fear, and then she looked kind of intrigued. No doubt at how he managed to do that without a tattoo gun.

‘You belong to me now, pet.’ He said darkly, having the second mirror vanish he moved in behind her and ran his hand down her spine, stroking his name again. Then he moved in close, she saw him looming over her in the mirror, so much bigger than she was. He practically enveloped her entirely.

‘What do you think of your tattoo? Hmm?’ He reached around and started stroking her body, over her stomach and upwards, fondling at her breasts in turn while he waited an answer.

‘If… If you are happy with it, Sir… Then I am too.’ She whispered, trying not to cry as he started stroking her nipples that were hardening under his touch, much to her embarrassment.

Loki smirked, clever indeed. Picking her responses carefully, hoping to please him. He liked that.

‘Have you been shown around my quarters? Where you’re allowed to roam?’ He asked, his hands falling from her body.  

‘No, Sir.’ She said quietly, shaking her head.

‘Come then, let me show you around before we play.’ He turned on his heels and headed for the door. Ivy scurried after him, having to take quicker steps to keep up with his long legs.

She felt very self-conscious being naked, not only around Loki but around the other girls too. Though they were all naked as well, so at least that levelled out the playing field.

Loki made sure she was following him and he showed her throughout his quarters. There was one room she wasn’t allowed in unless she was with him. But he showed her into it just now anyway. But her eyes widened when the door swung open and it was filled with various machines and contraptions, they all looked like torture devices in some way.

But in the middle of the room, on a Sybian machine, restrained and going nowhere, was a young woman. She was completely limp as the machine buzzed like mad underneath her, a vibe was nestled inside of her cunt and a part of it was covering her clit. It was relentless and she was completely overstimulated, it was agony.

‘Oh, so sorry dear. I forgot I’d tied you here last night.’ Loki said with a slight chuckle as he walked over to the girl and turned the machine off.

There was drool coming from her leather gag, it was soaked through. And there was a mess of excreta and arousal all down the Sybian and on the floor.

‘What a mess you’ve made.’ Loki chastised. As soon as he untied her wrists that had been tied behind her and to the wall, to keep her upright on the machine, she fell forward to the floor. Loki tsked in annoyance and nudged her with his foot. But she was completely out of it, being stuck on the machine for near twenty-four hours had broken her. She couldn’t even feel her clit anymore, likely so much nerve damage after having many orgasms forced from her and enjoying it at first.

Ivy swallowed hard and tried her best to get rid of the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

‘GIRLS!’ Loki yelled and soon two girls came running to see what he wanted.

‘Get her out of here and cleaned up. Then get this mess cleaned up too, if it’s not sorted within ten minutes, I will tie each of you to this machine for longer than she had.’ He said in warning.

The two girls squeaked in fear and quickly got to work.

Loki saw the colour had drained from Ivy’s face, making him grin. He walked back over to her with a predatory look and put his arm around her, leading her out and back towards his bedroom.

‘Come, pet. I want to see what fun I can have with you.’

[threeletterslife]

The Exam

→ [1/7] of the Society Series

→ summary: Three societies. Two dead lovers. One test. In a world that prioritizes intelligence and the ability to regurgitate textbook information, will you choose love and poverty or splendor and solitude? 

→ pairing/rating: taehyung x reader | PG-15

→ genre: 99.9% angst, 0.1% fluff (if you squint) | dystopian!au & utopian!au

→ warnings: profanity, death, mentions of tuberculosis and leptospirosis, blood, extreme poverty, extremely brief mention of cannibalism and overdosing, undiagnosed depression and mild anxiety, brief mentions of the afterlife and physical violence, this shit ain’t happy pple

→ wordcount: 21.4k

There's a strange stench that permeates the air in the city of Dystopia.

It is the odor of death. The dark, muddy soil reeks of decaying bodies, of rotting rats and excretions. Deteriorating child flesh even has its own distinct smell, but you've become so used to it, you don't really mind it as much anymore.

Every day is a festival for the unusually large rats that inhabit the city. With their matted-fur and worm-tails, the rodents feast on decomposing human bodies, ripping apart the dark, putrid meat and leaving dried blood splattered on the barely-paved streets.

Bodies are everywhere.

Sometimes it's hard to tell if a fallen child is dead or asleep in the towering masses of waste. There are too many orphans wandering lost on the streets with no bed or home to conceal them in warmth. There are too many people who never know when their next meal will be, or if there will be clean water to drink for the day. Hell, most of the huts in the dystopian city are on the very verge of crumbling down.

You're lucky.

Your home has semi-working electricity and plumbing. But every now and then, the lights will refuse to turn on and the pipes will leak—or even burst if it was a bad day.

Most citizens of Dystopia, however, roam the streets, homeless, until death finally whisks them away. Nobody knows what happens after death. But everybody knows it is better than Dystopia.

This place, this Dystopia, was home for your childhood memories. Shamefully enough, it was also your birthplace. But you don't live there anymore, thank goodness. You live in Purgatory now, a smaller city with slightly more opportunities and fewer rats.

But Purgatory isn't that much different from Dystopia either. Death still hangs over the heads of the weak, ready to take their hands and lead them away when the time comes. Purgatory is a wild place full of children and teenagers from ages ten to eighteen. They're there for one sole purpose: education. Rigorous education that may come with the price of death.

It's how the whole damn system works.

Every Dystopian-born must suffer ten years of life in that hellhole; if they are still alive by then, they are relocated to Purgatory where "equal opportunities" are given to all with mercy. At least, that's what the authority claims. Really, you see it more as a ruthless competition. It's not "equal opportunities" or whatever bullcrap the government was trying to sell to the people. You see it as a game of sharks and minnows—a game of exceptionally robust predators and abnormally frail prey.

Annually, every student who is eighteen in Purgatory is required to take an exam. An exam that determines their entire future.

Every year, the highest-scoring students—or student—are whisked away by the government with silk draped around their hunched shoulders, layers of soft mink coats keeping their frayed bodies warm and their dirty tresses bathed with the richest, fragrance oils. Then they are granted access to Utopia.

Utopia, the city of the rich. They breathe expensive air there, bathe in priceless tea and wear extortionate silks and furs. They deserve it. Because they're the most intelligent people in all three cities of Atna. At least, that's what the government says.

It is merciless when they throw every other eighteen-year-old who 'failed' the Exam in the city of Dystopia. You'd think they'd spare their precious Utopian-borns—the children of the men and women who proved their intelligence by reigning over every other student in Purgatory. But they don't. The Utopian-borns are dumped into Dystopia as well. Into a foreign place where the air is dead, baths are infrequent and clothing is for the greatly fortunate.

Yet that's rare. Most often, Utopian students always tie for the highest-score and are taken back to their luxurious birthplace. It's too advantageous for them. It's unfair. Unreasonable. They train from their birth until the last second before they leave the warmth of their Utopian homes for the Exam. Of course, they would score the highest.

One year, out of the hundreds of eighteen-year-olds who took the Exam, twenty-three of them made it back to Utopia. All Utopian-borns.

Still, a handful of Utopians are tossed into the slums—they are a disgrace to all of Atna for they had the advantage and didn't take it.

You've seen those sad individuals your whole childhood. They were the ones who weren't used to horrifying conditions. Consequently, they were always the last to eat and first to die.

When you were the adventurous age of nine, you and your best friend Jimin would sit outside the shabby, repulsive place that you called home and would watch the Utopian-borns straggling across the streets.

They wailed and begged as their eyes reflected one sole emotion: fear.

"I bet she's Utopian-born," Jimin huffs as he points at a girl frantically cramming her mouth full of scraggly weeds that had somehow sprouted from the fetid grounds. Both of you silently watch as her bloody fingernails pierce madly through the mud, uprooting the plants with surprising success. "Doesn't she know those are poisonous?"

You shrug, staring blankly at the girl. "No, she's not Utopian-born. Doesn't look over eighteen. Maybe she doesn't want to take the Exam." Taking Jimin's hand into yours, you sigh, "I bet he's Utopian-born, though." Your small finger points at a young man huddled up against a pile of rubbish, completely naked and rocking back and forth, as if that action would save him from the wraths of Dystopia. He had stripped off his tattered clothes and had unskillfully attempted to wrap them around himself to combat the harsh weather. A simple but deadly mistake.

A Dystopian-born would know better.

"He's going to die," Jimin says, cocking his head. "Let's go help him." He starts to tug you towards the unclothed man but you forcefully pull your friend back, eyebrows twisting downwards into a deep frown.

"Leave him." Your cold eyes stare right past the Utopian-born, gazing at the bright neon poster behind him. It reads Utopia, a wondrous place for deserving people.

And below is an image of a gorgeous, healthily plump woman in a spotless, white bikini, skin sparkling and well-tanned and her hands immaculately manicured. Her hair is loose, glossy and looks like it smells of flowering spring roses. She's holding a gleaming bottle of fizzing golden liquid in one hand and a handsome man's hand in the other. The man smiles brightly, revealing a row of pearlescent teeth as he boasts shiny, black sunglasses and wears a watch made of dazzling rubies and diamonds.

Behind the couple is a house—actually, a mansion made of polished glass with luscious trees decorating the purlieu and the pool filled with glimmering water tinted a light shade of azure. The sky is cerulean blue, and the clouds resemble cotton candy.

Everything speaks perfection.

These identical posters are littered everywhere across Dystopia. It is a painful reminder for the Atnatians who have failed the Exam—even more so agonizing for the Utopians who had been banished from their previous home.

The propaganda posters are the only clean, resplendent objects in the slums. But personally, you think they're revolting.

Your unsympathetic eyes trail back to the naked man. You take another glance at the stupid government propaganda poster behind him before you squeeze Jimin's hand. "Yeah, let's leave him," you repeat.

The pick-the-Utopian-born-from-the-crowd game abruptly halts soon after when Jimin comes over to your small hut one day, crying profusely, his tears leaving clean streaks on his dirt-covered face.

"He's dead!" he cries, fat droplets of tears dribbling down to his chin.

You frown in confusion, eyebrows knitting into a small frown. With the mortality rate of Dystopia, your best friend could either be talking about your neighbor from the next hut over or the other fifty bodies left dead and abandoned on the streets. "Who's dead, Jiminie?"

"T-That Utopian-born," Jimin whimpers, dirty hand reaching up to wipe away the tears obscuring his vision. Although there were many Utopian-borns roaming around Dystopia, you had a clear idea of who he was talking about. "The rats... they—"

You grab his filthy hand before it reaches his eyes. "Don't rub your eyes, remember?"

Jimin nods dejectedly, his head dropping low as his tears dripped to the floor, leaving wet puddles of brown dirt. "Sorry, Y/N, I forgot..." He sniffles, which didn't help the snot that was leaking out of his soot-covered nose. "But the rats..." he trails off, hand reaching up again to wipe away his tears. But he pauses, thinks better of it and tries to blink them away instead.

You nod, knowingly. "And it's not the first time you've seen that happen, Jiminie. Don't cry..."

Your friend whimpers, kicking the wet dirt beneath his feet. "But if we had helped him... The rats wouldn't have eaten right through his guts! They wouldn't have bitten him to pieces or drunk his blood!" he wails. You are silent, never great at solacing. "If we had helped him..."

Time is running out for both of you. You'd soon be relocated to Purgatory and you know Jimin is starting to get anxious for the both of you. He would cry in fear and grief for every dead corpse on the street, bite his nails hard enough to draw blood even though you would tell him not to, and try to help all the suffering Utopian-borns, despite your avid protests.

Jimin had always been too soft-minded, too kind. Death frightened him.

But you weren't afraid of death. Never have been. Never will be.

You are fucking terrified of death. It is the only occurrence that will keep you from scoring the highest, and as a seventeen-year-old, the Exam was looming closer than ever. You couldn't die now. Not after all the years of rigorous studying. You'd skipped nights of sleep, countless meals to get to this position.

To you, Purgatory would always be a second Utopia; for one, the conditions are immensely better than that of Dystopia, maggots no longer crawling in your food and clothes not as battered and ravaged by irritable rats or insects. This city is your one chance where you can prove yourself deserving to live in Utopia—to confirm that you can outlast, out-study and outsmart everyone in your year.

You eat, sleep and breathe your studies, something only a few students can manage to do. One of the only things that keep you motivated to wake up at the crack of dawn and open up a dusty book is the fact that no one's ever secured a perfect score on the Exam.

But you know you'll be the first.

You'll be the first and only person to obtain a perfect score. And thus you will be the only eighteen-year-old going to Utopia in your year.

It is a fantasy. A dream. A goal. But you thirst to achieve it.

In fact, you haven't left the library in weeks. You've practically been glued onto the same hard, wooden chair for what seemed like days now. You have also never ceased to flip the pages of your colossal textbooks. You're quite happy to say that the other students aren't studying as hard as you—most of them have given up by now.

Logically, it makes sense to surrender to the Exam.

Although you're given eight whole years to study in Purgatory, most students use that time to stuff themselves full of savory victuals, sleep in cots instead of in fetid mud and live without the shadow of death appended to their feet. Obviously, the conditions aren't as astounding as Utopia, but anything's better than the slums of Atna. It isn't worth it, they say. It isn't worth the eight years of miserable studying, only to be beaten by someone better (there's always someone better) and thrown into Dystopia without ever being able to live. But 'surrender' isn't in your vast vocabulary.

As much as you hate cheesy platitudes, you're in it (ahem, forcibly) to win it. Besides, your competition is dropping like flies on a scorching hot day. You suspect it's from that nasty tuberculosis that's been going around for a while.

There's only a year left before the Exam now. It's such little time for you to finish reading everything in that library, and such little time alike for the other students to live their last year to the very fullest in Purgatory, the downgrade of Utopia but the upgrade of Dystopia.

But especially for you, a year definitely isn't enough. You're just a tad bit off schedule—you were supposed to finish reading and memorizing everything in the library last year so you'd have two good years to review. Now you only have one.

It adds on to the multitudes of problems that no one truly knows what's on the Exam. They say anything in the grand library is fair game, but besides that, you don't know much. And because of that, you and what's left of your competitors have been reading everything in the library from novels to textbooks to published theses.

As a matter of fact, you're just one book and a page shy from reading everything in the damned library. Your eyes bore into the paper overlaid with equations and one too many graphs, forcing your brain to memorize every detail, every print and word. You know you shouldn't frown when you study. Someone you'd once loved had told you an unpretty, permanent crease would be etched on your forehead—but now you can't help it—frowning helps you concentrate.

Especially now. The library is usually dead silent except for the soft crinkles of paper as students flip the pages of their reading materials, yet you swear at least half of the students in the room have tuberculosis. There's heavy coughing every ten seconds, the infected splattering crimson blood on the thin, worn-out pages of the textbooks. And that's how the disease has been spreading.

They're going to die before the Exam. You swear they are—how pathetic of them to spend the last days of their lives cramming study material in their heads.

You don't care much for the infected, as long as they keep their distance from you. You don't know what you'll do if you catch the disease as well. But in your mind, nothing is worse than the mortality rates of Dystopia. At least no one in Purgatory dies from famine.

Still, there are never adequate treatments or vaccines and you can recall at least ten people who you haven't seen since tuberculosis first broke out. Not that you care, though. In the end, you're just glad you're not one of the diseased. You've always had a strong immune system, anyway.

You let out a soft sigh, feeling the urge to rub your dry, tiresome eyes but thinking better of it. Shutting the heavy textbook with a gentle thud, you place both hands on the wooden table, steadying yourself. You slowly close your eyes, relishing in the comfort of the darkness—you haven't slept in nearly three days, haven't left your seat to eat either. Your empty water canteen stares back at you, begging for it to be refilled. You swallow, your throat feeling unbearably scratchy, but you don't succumb to its desperate demand.

Now you only have one more book to read. Just one more and you'll be done. You'll treat yourself to an actual meal and a few hours of sleep (not too much because you still need time for review). With the Exam inching closer every minute, every second, you really don't have time to waste.

Water will have to wait for later.

Besides, you know for a fact that the last book you have to read isn't too long—just a hundred pages or so. You slowly open your eyes, vision slightly blurry as you force yourself to stand. Immediately, your legs threaten to give out and you have to stagger forward to use the dated bookshelves to steady yourself.

Step by step, you carry your barely responsive body to the special corner in the library that you haven't touched in the seven years you've lived in Purgatory. The unfamiliar, gray, tattered book catches your eye and you continue to wobble closer and closer to it. Family Studies, it should say.

Quite the ironic book to read about in a world where families are ripped apart by the government and their indecent tactics. But it's not like you have a choice. You need to get to Utopia—you've made promises...

You may be broken on the inside and out, but you won't let yourself break a promise.

Wearily, you force yourself to lift up your shaking arm to touch the book's spine. But you gasp, nearly jumping back with the little energy you have as your cold hand comes in contact with something warm.

Flesh, you finally register in your head. I've touched flesh.

Your head jerks up rather painfully, leaving your eyes struggling to adjust to the sight in front of you. A boy. A tall boy. His figure towers over you, and he frowns deeply, eyes bloodshot as he looks you up and down. In one hand he clutches a frayed brown blanket draped comfortably over his shoulders and the other stubbornly grasps the book—your book.

But you don't acquiesce, glaring at him as you tug the book closer to you. The boy glances your way tiredly, no emotion displayed on his malnourished, sculpted face. "Excuse me," he croaks, tugging the book closer to himself.

"Excuse you." Your voice comes out much raspier than you had expected, making you instantly regret opening your mouth to speak. But the desire to have the last book in your hands is far greater: "I need that." You pull the book back.

The boy scoffs—even that comes out as a dry cough that makes you flinch back just a bit. "I need it too."

You hate the parched feeling tickling the back of your throat, and you let out a little scream of frustration before instinct gets the better of you. You quickly slap the boy's hand, taking advantage of his surprise as an opportunity to snatch the book from the shelf. Once the book is safely cradled in your arms, you turn to the boy and give him the side-eye. "Well, I need it more."

With that, you attempt to hobble away with the best of your ability, but you fail when the boy grabs the back of your threadbare shirt, stopping you from moving any further. "Please."

He sounds so desperate, voice dripping with misery—something you were once so familiar with. His hands shake, grasping the fabric... You hate yourself for turning around to see his forlorn face. His eyes are full of suffering, of so much pain—that too is so familiar to you."Please..." he whispers again as his grip loosens on your shirt.

You're silent. It hurts. It physically pains you that the only human interaction you've had in months, maybe years, reminds you so much of him.

"Pleaseeee!!" Jimin drags out, a burst of giggles leaving his throat as he tugs excitedly at your arm. "Please! Let's go, let's go!"

You grumble, begrudgingly dragging your feet as Jimin pulls you towards unfamiliar territory. "I'm not hungry," you whine. "Can we just stay in the dorms?"

"We've got eight years to stay in the dorms, Y/N. Eight! Please? Just a few minutes in the cafeteria? I heard they serve actual food! Maybe if we're lucky, we'll get to snag some snacks!" Jimin exclaims, his cheeks tinged pink with elation.

"Where did you hear that from?" you mumble in protest before giving in to Jimin's persistence.

"The ones who failed," he answers lightheartedly. "I've been asking around."

"Oh."

You can't really say much more. There's nothing more to say.

The cafeteria is larger than at least ten Dystopian huts combined; there are rows and rows of rusty lunch tables and a long, metal countertop with a few baskets of bread on top. You and Jimin manage to salvage some before the rats get to it. You force yourself to ignore the angry squeaking and chattering around your bare feet.

The slices of white bread are only slightly moldy, which already makes it better than anything one can forage from your birthplace. You take each bite slowly, chewing steadily to keep the flavor on your tongue just a little while longer. But all too soon, it's gone. Though you'd denied it earlier, you are definitely hungry. Maybe even starving.

You look up to see Jimin swinging his feet back and forth, his hands grasping the side of the old bench, keeping his body balanced. He notices your eyes on him and looks at you, giving you a small smile. You smile back.

"This is already better than Dystopia, isn't it?" he says, small hand tentatively moving towards yours to encompass it. You nod your head in agreement. "We have eight years..." You nod again. "Then we'll be able to go back home."

You don't hesitate, a faint smile appearing on your lips. "Of course."

"Not dead, yet, huh?" you sigh, facing the boy next to you, scrutinizing his every movement. When he doesn't answer right away, you slam the textbook down in the middle of the table to get his attention—and to spite him, of course.

The boy scoffs as he glares at you through the tired slits of his eyes. Any sense of the weakness he had shown from practically begging you to share the book with him yesterday is gone. The feebleness might've been just an act—a sly trick to get you to help him. "Sorry but I plan on going to Utopia as well. That, we have in common," the boy bites right back. "Our only difference is that I'll actually make it there."

You blow air through your nose, prying open the previous book titled Family Studies and muttering death threats under your breath. You clear your throat before you speak again. "Yeah, right. Please shut up before I regret sharing my textbook with you."

"For your information, that's not exactly yours," the boy snorts. "It's the government's. And you've seen the shit that happens when you mess with them."

There's a sadder undertone to his voice that you pick up immediately. He sounds cocky but ruined at the same time—you would know because that's the façade that you had put up for yourself for years now. You can't stop yourself from asking the question that falls from your lips quite easily: "Why? Someone you know messed with them?"

The boy averts his eyes from you, looking down at his feet covered up in tattered shoes. "More like someone I knew." He shrugs, turning his head up so that his dark eyes pierce through yours. "But it doesn't really matter anymore."

Something stings inside. You wish you could say the same.

"It's only been a week," you giggle, watching Jimin stuff his face full of soup made of mystery miscellaneous ingredients. "Shouldn't you have gotten used to having enough food by now?"

Jimin pauses his vehement eating to give you a 'duh' look. "Silly, I'm going to store all the food now when I can. You know, before we have to go back. When's the last time Dystopia had meal times, anyway?"

"Never, of course," you laugh. The rats or some other pesky rodents chatter right along with you. But they only sound as if they are wryly laughing with you and Jimin. A bit embittered, you kick your feet in an attempt to shoo the rats away—or at least shut them up. "Too bad this place still has rats."

Jimin nods. "I've seen some of them around our food too." He makes a disgusted face. "Think about it. What if this mystery soup is made of rat droppings and piss?"

"Oh shut up. Don't be like that," you sniffle, turning up your nose in complete distaste. "That's disgusting."

"I'm only joking," Jimin chuckles, taking another spoonful of his soup, exaggerating the action and making you mock-gag in repugnance.

As annoying as he sometimes is, having Jimin around is something you always have been thankful for. It was everything to have a friend be by your side. You've seen what happens when people are left alone for too long. They go bat-shit crazy. Completely bonkers.

Being tossed back to Dystopia is inevitable; neither of you was going to stop it. Yet even just your best friend's presence is your very own incentive to wake up the next day with a hopeful smile on your lips. He matters so much to you.

"Let's have the time of our lives in Purgatory," he'd told you over and over again. So much so that you can still hear his voice today, tainted with hope and faith. "Then we can go back to Dystopia together."

You grit your teeth, catching your lip between them and biting so hard you taste blood. The strong taste of iron drives you to focus. You furrow your brows, staring at the pages of the textbook and reading thoroughly, mulling over every word in your head with careful precision. When your eyes reach the end of the page, you're just about to look up and ask the boy if he's done reading, but he's one step ahead of you.

The boy flips the page over and smiles at you smugly. You frown at him disdainfully, but without another word, you concentrate on the content once more. Until—

"Taehyung."

You sigh, reluctantly looking up at the boy. "What?"

"Taehyung. My name's Taehyung," he says. "Just thought you ought to know. There are 98 pages left in this book, so I just thought it'd be better to introduce ourselves. We'll be sitting together for a while."

You squint your eyes at him, pondering over his words. But he does make quite a good point. You suppose you and the boy—Taehyung—had gotten off on the wrong foot. Although he was kind of a cocky asshole, you guess it wouldn't hurt to at least tell him your name.

"Fine," you say, upturning your nose. "I'm Y/N."

"Cool." Taehyung grins. For a guy who's been living in unkempt conditions for several years, his teeth look pretty near to goddamn perfection. It's a little irritating if you do say so for yourself.

You're about to pick up where you last left off in the textbook when Taehyung scoots closer to you. You lean away, frowning at him as you shoot him a 'what the fuck are you doing' look.

He seems oblivious to your stone-cold glare. "Sooo, Y/N," he says. "What's making you study this hard?" he asks. "I thought I was the only crazy one here." He laughs wryly. When he sees that you're ignoring him and still reading from the damned book, he huffs and slams it shut.

"What the fuck, Taehyung," you spit out, jerking your head towards him. "Can't I study in peace?"

"Didn't anyone tell you it's rude to ignore?" he counters.

"Give me the book back."

"No." He grins, pushing the book away from you as he crosses his legs confidently, leaning back in his chair. "Answer the question. Please," he adds hastily. "C'mon. If we stay cooped up reading all day, we'll die before even getting to live in Utopia."

You let out a frustrated groan, but he's right in a way. You should take study breaks now and then—possibly to keep your sanity. "What's making me study so hard? Fine," you huff. "We all have our mad-person reasons. Happy?" But upon Taehyung's disappointed look at your vague answer, you let out a deep sigh. "And I made promises I don't want to break," you elaborate reluctantly.

"Promises?" Taehyung says. "Interesting... You look like you've been through some rough shit."

You scoff. "Me? Says you. You're Dystopian-born too, right?"

"I'm that obvious, am I?" He grins. "It's true though. I've seen bad shit in Dystopia."

"Yeah, well, I've seen the worst shit right here in Purgatory," you mutter. "So I think I win."

"Oh?"

You ignore him. "Give me back my book," you demand.

"First of all, it's not your book," Taehyung laughs. "And secondly, worst shit in Purgatory? Must be an interesting story behind that. Do tell."

"No."

Taehyung huffs as he leans back even further in his chair. "So you've lost someone you love, then."

You freeze. How did he—

Biting your lip again, you contemplate whether to answer. Finally, you let out a small, "Yeah. Two, actually."

"Damn, two?" Taehyung gawks. "Wow. Um, I'm sorry. You weren't kidding about the bad shit you've seen here."

"I really wasn't." Now you're definitely not in the mood to study. Not when Taehyung, single-handedly, in just a few minutes, reminded you of them. "It's dumb, but I use them and the promises we made together as an incentive to study. That's my mad-person reason," you confess.

Why does it feel better to tell someone else about yourself?

"That's not dumb," Taehyung offers, his eyes mirroring your own sadness in them. "It's good to have someone you love to be your incentive." He pushes the textbook back towards you. "Sorry for pestering you. You can study now if you want."

You nod curtly as you quickly open the book to the page you had left off. It seems that Taehyung does have the smallest bit of sympathy in him. You suppose he's not a completely horrible person (as you had thought before).

Sighing, you try to read through the sentences on the page, but you find yourself reading the same phrase over and over again. Damn. Your stomach flips and you begin to feel a little queasy as melancholy washes over your head. Shit. Now you really can't concentrate.

"You're, okay, right, Jiminie?" you beg, frown lines appearing on your forehead as you take both of the sick boy's hands in yours, watching his tense face relax ever-so-slightly from your soft touch.

"It's probably just something I ate. I'll be fine!" he manages to answer enthusiastically. "I'll throw it all up by tomorrow and you'll see me stronger than ever!"

He was wrong.

As the long days rolled by, he got sicker and sicker. Most of your week was spent in Jimin's room. It became a daily routine to watch him throw up whatever you suggested he eat. It became a reoccurring attempt for you to try to calm his sweltering fever. Every day you were more exhausted than the last. And so was he.

You were losing hope, but you tried not to show it. You knew he was dying, but neither of you mentioned it. You were losing your best friend and you couldn't do anything about it.

No one cared either. Everybody turned a blind eye to the ten-year-old boy suffering in overwhelming pain. They either had been preoccupied with studying or didn't want to catch whatever Jimin had. To them, Jimin, your light and life source was nothing but another body to be tossed in the graveyard at the end of the day.

And just like that, he passed away.

You can still recall the misery reflecting in his eyes, his quiet whimpers, his delusional words. You can still remember him. Quite clearly, too. He didn't know who you were the last few minutes before he blinked half-way and never woke up again. The moment you knew he was dead, you'd cried, clinging to his body and letting out the sorrow, the weakness, that you had hidden from him when he was alive.

To the ten-year-old you, his death was a mystery.

But it was leptospirosis. You know that now, after years of flipping the pages of those medical textbooks. It was a rare disease from animals, but mostly rats. Those damn rats. You wish you can kill them all.

"Those fucking rats!" Taehyung slams his fist hard on the wooden table, immediately stopping the persistent chattering of the damned rodents. "I swear to god, they're one of the worst things about Purgatory, other than the goddamn Exam itself!"

You nod in silent agreement, sighing as you play with the leftover crumbs of your breakfast. "I'd even argue that they're the worst things to ever exist. Besides the Exam."

No matter how annoyingly vocal Taehyung is about his pure hatred for rats, it feels good to have someone to talk to while eating your breakfast. You haven't had company in years.

Taehyung lets a smile loose, a boxy grin that has some sort of weird way of making you feel calm. It's impossible to believe that he's supposed to be your competition when both of you have developed a friendship over the past several days. It wasn't easy for Taehyung to befriend you—especially since you've shut out every other person in your life since... since Yoongi. But he was persistent, and you admired that about him. So slowly, very slowly, you began to open up to the boy.

You told him about Jimin, and you have to admit, it felt fucking fantastic to have someone else mourn for Jimin—to have someone else besides you who didn't ignore his death. And now you're just beginning to tell him about Yoongi upon his stubborn urging.

"You should continue," Taehyung says. "You were telling me about your preteen boyfriend?" he asks with his mouth full of bread—his words are just barely discernible and you crinkle your nose in disgust.

"Gross. Haven't you read those etiquette books? Thought they would've taught you a thing or two about not talking with your mouth full," you huff. "And don't call him my preteen boyfriend. That sounds wrong. Not to mention... it takes away so much of the meaning of my relationship with him."

"Okay, okay, sorry," Taehyung says, but chewed up bread crumbs escape his mouth and land on the metal lunch table. You make a face. "But," Taehyung continues, paying no mind to your disgust, "at the end of the day, I just wanna know if all Utopian-borns are bastards or not."

You roll your eyes. "Oh, c'mon. Do you really think I'd love a bastard?"

"Well, you're quite unpredictable, dear," Taehyung swallows his food (thankfully) before he laughs. "You thought you were going to study alone for the rest of your time here. But look at you, with me, sharing a textbook."

"You better not tell me shit like 'you didn't know love when you were ten,' Taehyung," you say as menacingly as you can. "I'm not gonna tolerate shit talk. And besides, Yoongi was definitely not a bastard. He—" you pause abruptly. "Ah, shit," you say, trying to blink away the tears that had suddenly sprung upon your eyes. Your fingers grip the hem of your shirt and you clear your throat before you continue. "He died so he didn't have to deal with bastards."

"Oh, shit," Taehyung breathes when he realizes you're close to crying. "I'm sorry... You don't have to tell me about him if it's gonna make you feel bad. I was joking about the whole Utopian-born-bastard thing anyway."

"No, I want to tell you," you say. "I need to tell someone. I can't just pent these things up inside of me, Taehyung. Don't you know? I'm using you as my personal rant-listener." You grin at him, though your tears roll down your cheeks.

Taehyung looks confused at your juxtaposition of tears and happy grin. "Okay then," he says. "If you're really sure." He frowns, tilting his head. "I just don't get the part when you said he died so he didn't have to deal with bastards. He can't choose when he dies or not—"

"Oh, yes he can," you cut him off. "Think about it," you say as more tears trip down your face. Taehyung gives you a perplexed look, his confused eyes meeting your sad ones. You sigh. "You can choose when you want to die sometimes," you whisper in a shaky voice. "Intentional death."

You've lost your appetite ever since Jimin passed away. But you come to the cafeteria every day to pay tribute to your best friend, who had announced one too many times when he was alive that the cafeteria was his favorite place in the whole world. So you sit down by yourself on the lunch tables, staring at the bread but never reaching out to take it.

Without Jimin, your world is drained of color. Life loses its meaning. There is no point. You were supposed to go back to Dystopia as adults—together. That had been your one wish. Your only wish. And now it couldn't happen. Not when Jimin's not with you anymore.

Large men in spotless white suits had dragged his limp body off of the small cot as you were begging, wailing on the side. You asked them to bury him, to give him a proper memorial. But they ignored you, pushed you away to the side. They didn't even have the decency to respect him, to cover him up with a blanket or sheet. You had to watch his clothes collect dirt and his face drag in the mud as they pulled him by the legs.

Even after they'd yelled at you, you'd watched, followed them as they flung his body into a deep pit reeking of death.

They burn the bodies in the pit every Sunday; then the week starts fresh with an empty abyss for the dead.

You want to jump in the pit after Jimin. Maybe you can conveniently dump your body in the hole a few minutes before they set fire to it—maybe you can be with Jimin that way.

It feels like a knife in your heart when you think about his last few delusional words. He'd told you fitfully, in a full sweat, that he was in so much pain, but he'd rather be in pain than die. He was afraid of death.

You aren't. You are in so much pain, you want to die, unlike him. Ten years of life is enough, you decide. Whatever is waiting for you after death has to be better than what you are living in right now.

So you plan it out. You wait until Sunday, until five minutes before they're supposed to come to burn the pit of bodies. You're going to jump in. Find Jimin. Burn to death with him. Simple.

Not so simple.

You stand exactly three feet from the pit (you measured it yourself, with your own feet), thinking it would be better to have a running start of some sort. But your feet are frozen as well as your mind is. You just can't seem to get yourself to move. You've pictured yourself jumping into the pit at least a hundred times before, so you can't help to wonder why you can't seem to do it now.

It frustrates you. Your mind tells you to run, to jump, but your legs are glued to the ground.

"Gonna jump?"

You nearly lose your balance at the sudden voice that comes from behind you. You quickly whirl around to see a lanky boy with tousled black hair. He's leaning against the exterior of the common building, staring at you with cold, judgmental eyes. He's taller, bigger than you, so you discern that he must be one of those older kids. You scowl at him. "And what if I did jump?" you retort.

"Wouldn't recommend it, kid," the boy says. He laughs coldly. "First of all, they're not going to burn that shit for several hours. Do you really want to lay around rotting bodies before you die?"

"What if I don't care?" you answer defiantly, crossing your arms.

"What are you? Dumb?" The boy scoffs, leaving his place against the wall and starting to walk towards you as he casually stuffs his hands into his pants pockets. "Get out of here," he says menacingly, eyes narrowing and mouth set stern. "And don't come back."

You admit you're slightly scared, but you don't back down. "No." You glare. "I don't want to."

The boy laughs, shrugging. "It's always the dumb Dystopian-borns. You can't be more than ten-years-old. What's got you so suicidal, huh?"

You narrow your eyes. "I'm not dumb!"

"Hm... Prove it... idiot."

You fume, face turning bright red as you stomp your feet. "Shut up! Leave me alone!"

The boy laughs. "I will if you get out of my sight."

Angry tears slip from your eyes as you grip your fists tight. "I don't want to! I-I want to die! My best friend's down there. And I'm going to be with him!" you yell as snot runs down your nose and your cheeks are wet with hot tears. You feel pathetic. But you need to get your point across to this mean, older boy who isn't leaving you alone. "You can't make me leave!"

There's an uncomfortable silence that follows, yet you stand your ground and glare at him. But to your surprise, the boy lets out a small sigh and begins to walk up to you. He crouches down to your level and he wipes your tears (and embarrassingly a bit of your snot) with the sleeve of his frayed (but obviously high-end) sweater. "It's okay kid," he says. Before you know it, he's pulling you into a tight hug. "Stop crying, hm? It'll be all right, kid."

Nobody's ever hugged you like that before. Not even Jimin—because he knows how much you don't like physical affection. But you needed his hug; it was long overdue.

You hiccup, crying out the rest of your tears as the boy holds you into his arms. It takes you a few minutes to calm down, and when you finally pull away from the boy, you notice that your shirt is slightly wet as well. And not from your tears, but from his. You look up to see the boy's back turned on you, hiding his face from your view.

"Let's go get something to eat, kid," he says, and you can hear just the hint of tears behind his voice. And when he sniffles, it confirms everything.

Cocking your head in curiosity, you begin to follow him—

"Wait, wait!" Taehyung interrupts. "Before you go on any further, you need to address the elephant in the room, Y/N. Why the fuck is he crying?"

"Yeah, well, I didn't know then either," you say. "It's complicated. I mean, I only found out the reason way later. If you'd just let me continue—"

"Oh, sorry. Continue, then."

"Yes, thank you—"

"Wait, lemme interrupt just one more time," Taehyung interjects again. "Just one last question." You groan, but you nod, telling him you're all ears. "Exactly how much older is he than you?"

You sigh. "He was three years older."

Taehyung sucks in a deep breath. "Right... He's, uh, dead. But damn. You were into a Utopian-born that was older? You really broke all the boundaries."

You shrug. "I guess I always didn't really give a fuck about societal norms or whatever the shit people call it."

"And yet you're conforming to the largest societal norm in Atna by studying for the Exam," Taehyung points out. "Times have changed."

You smile sadly, shaking your head. "I'm only doing this for Yoongi. He made me promise... So, here I am, trying to fulfill his wishes. Will you let me continue now?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"Anyways..."

Yoongi watches you devour the bread, but you're too hungry to care about his incessant staring.

"You should slow down," he says. "We don't want you to choke to death or anything—" he pauses, eyes turning wide before he mutters a "Shit, I gave her a fucking idea."

"I heard that," you say.

Yoongi visibly pales.

"It's okay," you assure him, setting down a loaf of bread to stare right back at the boy. "I feel better now. I don't think I've eaten for days."

"Damn," Yoongi mutters under his breath. "What kind of best friend was he for you to be this distraught over his death?"

"Distraught?" you say, blinking blankly at him.

He sighs, "Right, right, you're only ten. Distraught means sad. Upset. Depressed. All those fun words."

"Oh," you murmur. "Jimin was everything to me," you say shyly. "He promised me that we were going to go back to Dystopia! Then we could share a house and live together as adults..." you trail off, losing yourself in the figments of your wildest imaginations. "We were supposed to have so much fun in Purgatory..."

Yoongi cocks his head. "Kid, I think you liked him."

You frown at this strange comment, crinkling your nose. "Of course I liked him, he was my best friend."

"No, kid. You like liked him. Maybe you loved him. I don't know," Yoongi says, shrugging. "Think about it. Wait no, don't. Forget about him. Don't make yourself sad. Talk to me. What do you wanna do? Wanna go to my room? I have some stuff back from home there. You can play with them if you want."

You squint your eyes at the boy, staring at him suspiciously. "Why are you trying to be nice...?"

"Nice?" Yoongi scoffs. "I'm just, uh, I'm just trying to get rid of stuff that I don't need anymore. I'm definitely not being nice. So you better follow me 'cause I don't want a lot of things."

You don't buy his lie, but maybe that's a good thing. In your eyes, this boy is, indeed, nice and he's trying to help you take your mind off of Jimin. He even prevented you from leaping off the ledge and falling to your own death. You hope he sticks around.

And stick around he did.

Yoongi is bossy, straight-forward and frankly rude sometimes, things that Jimin totally wasn't. But he is also generous, thoughtful and emotional (on a good day), and that's all you needed to stick by his side.

He is so generous that in the first week that you met him, he gave you nearly a closet-worth's supply of thick sweaters and jackets for the upcoming winter. In that same way, he is thoughtful. You took the clothes gratefully, never once having held such expensive material before in your life.

On late nights when you slept over in his room, he always asked if you could tell him stories of your childhood. And you'd gladly oblige. That's when he got emotional. Though you never see him cry, you always hear it when you tell your stories. Yoongi tries to hide his emotions to the best of his ability, but frankly, he's a loud crier, so you hear him every time. But you let him think he's good at hiding his tears for the sake that he's your friend.

One day, though, you come down with some sort of throat sickness, and Yoongi practically orders you not to speak for the next 24 hours. He had his own medicine cabinet in which his rich parents gifted him before their only son was shipped off to Purgatory from their grand mansion. So you were getting the best treatment anyone in Purgatory could get.

Yoongi even offered to tell you stories that night. To repay you for being an amazing storyteller.

"I've always wanted to hear about Utopia," you croak despite having a painful burn in your throat. "I hate that place. But I want to know more about it."

"Stop talking so much," Yoongi sighs. "Do you want to get better or not?" When you're silent, (having passed his rhetorical question test in which the correct answer was to stay quiet) he smiles to himself and continues. "I hate Utopia too. It's not as great as it seems. You know that every Utopian-born is a slave to education? I think the moment I was born, I got tossed in tutoring. From six in the morning to eleven at night I was tutored. Seven days a week, no breaks. It's probably illegal, but my parents had a lot of copies of the books in the library in Purgatory. They made me get a head start on everything. After a while, you start to think about what the whole point of education is...

"My parents always told me that I was only suffering in my younger years—that I'd only have to suffer until I'm eighteen and if I scored well on the Exam, I'd be able to come back home safely and have the time of my life in Utopia. But I just didn't want to become a slave to education," Yoongi says. "I was sick of it. Sure, I'm privileged. Sure, I had everything I wanted growing up, but I didn't have one thing you Dystopians have—freedom.

"When you're studying all day every day, you don't get a lot of chances to make friends," Yoongi says. "I grew up with adults breathing down my neck and telling me to memorize useless facts. That was the closest thing to friends I ever got. I'm not sure if every Utopian-born is forced to live like this, but I can damn well infer it. Anyways, my parents aren't here now, so I can do whatever the fuck I want."

You laugh. "You don't want to go back home?" you say in your sick, gravelly voice

"I'm just tired, Y/N. I'm tired of everything," Yoongi exhales. "You'll understand when you're older."

"You're only three years older than me, though," you pout. "Do three years change that much?"

"Yes," Yoongi replies as a matter-of-fact-way. "I don't even want to take this stupid fucking test. But I also don't want to rot in Dystopia—no offense. I know I won't last there."

"Yeah, you won't last," you tell him with a giggle.

He huffs. "That's real comforting, Y/N."

"I know," you rasp. "Please tell me about Utopia, now. Are the skies really that blue? And does everyone have a pool? What do you eat there? Do you get your own room??" The last question throws you in a coughing fit, and Yoongi looks at you worriedly. He waits until you stop before he continues.

"It was always blue outside, yeah," he says, slowly, carefully as if he was taking his time to form his words to match his visualizations. "Sometimes we had scheduled rainy days for the private gardens and stuff," he says nostalgically. "I think I had about three pools in my home in Utopia, but I’m not sure if other families had them too. You know, I didn't get around much. Always stuck inside and studying." He sighs. "At least the food there was good. Way better than the crap we're forced to eat here. Barbecue ribs with generous amounts of sauce, slow-cooked potatoes in a bonfire, roasted lamb chops, fresh fruits and vegetables picked up from the nearby food-growing facilities... Caviar, licorice, cotton candy, chocolate, cakes, pudding... And if I ever ate bread, it was with fresh strawberry jam and smooth almond butter."

You don't understand half of the stuff he's saying, but whatever it is, it sounds delicious.

"I could talk about the great food there forever," Yoongi says. "The only thing I miss about Utopia is the food... It's really lonely there. I had my sleeping chamber, my pool room and my study room, but I was always in there alone. Whatever. Do you want to hear more?"

You nod. "Yoongi?"

"Yeah?"

"You cried when I first met you. Why?"

Yoongi visibly stiffens. Knowing him you expect Yoongi to wave off your question or ignore you altogether, but to your surprise, he doesn't.

"You made me feel bad," he confesses bluntly.

"Me??"

"It was just so strange for me to see someone else get upset over a friend..." he trails off. "You were going to die for him. You were going to leap into a pit because you loved your friend that much. You couldn't bear to think of a life without him. So you were going to die with him. And that just..."

"It was stupid, I know," you pout. "You don't have to say it again."

"It was stupid, yeah," Yoongi agrees. "And I'm saying it again because I can. But at the same time, it hurt me. You know, I made up my mind to jump that day too."

"You did??"

"Yeah and imagine my surprise and annoyance when I see some ten-year-old Dystopian-born in my way," Yoongi sniffles. "Pissed me off."

You huff. "Well—"

"And I was still pissed off at you until you told me you were going to do it to be with your friend," Yoongi says. "Do you know why I was going to do it?" You shake your head no. "Because I'm selfish and I didn't like my life and I didn't want to continue living in this hellhole by myself. Because I wanted to give up. And also because I didn't have a purpose to wake up to another day, but that's just one part of a plethora of other reasons. They were all selfish. It made me just... feel something when I saw you. And you were just willing to die for someone who wasn't yourself. Even though that's fucking stupid, it made me realize how I've never really lived before. And maybe you were the key to my first friendship? I don't know."

"Wow," you mutter.

"Is that all you have to say?"

"Yes, well, no? My throat's hurting again, Yoongi," you whine. "You told me to stop talking minutes ago."

"Oh, well, in that case, just go to sleep," he says. "You'll feel better in the morning."

"Thanks," you whisper against your cotton pillow. You snuggle in your cot below Yoongi's bed and let out a small sigh. "You're not that selfish, Yoongi," you say.

And you mean it. Yoongi's shown you nothing but generosity. He's shown you that he's caring when he tries to be. Even though he's unbelievably bossy sometimes, he does it for your own good. His quiet demeanor is a façade to the overwhelming emotions inside, and you can see right through it.

Yoongi doesn't answer for the longest time, so you wrap your arms arm yourself to preserve warmth and fall asleep. You wake up the next morning with an extra layer of blanket on top of you.

Taehyung begins to tap his feet on the ground restlessly, consequently making your chair shake underneath you. You try to ignore it for minutes, but the constant shaking is making it hard for you to concentrate on the textbook sitting between the two of you.

"Taehyung," you say.

"Hm?" he asks, his eyes boring into the pages of the book. "What?"

"Can you stop?"

"Stop what?"

"You're shaking my chair."

"Oh," Taehyung says. He finally looks up from his reading and makes eye contact with you. "Sorry," he apologizes hastily. "I didn't mean to do it... I just got nervous. This book is just... It's weird. I mean, when was the last time we put emphasis on family?"

"Never, of course," you say. "I barely even remember what my parents look like."

"Really?" Taehyung's eyes are large as he stares you down with curiosity mixed with just the slightest bit of pity. "Do you miss them?"

"No."

"What? Really?" Taehyung gasps. "You really don't care at all?"

"They're not prominent figures in my life," you say. "It was always Jimin. And then when Jimin died, it was Yoongi..." you trail off. "I do regret not being close to my family. I don't think I said goodbye when I had to leave to Purgatory."

"God, well, that's harsh."

"I know. What about you? Were you close with your family?"

"Oh, very," Taehyung replies. "I had three older brothers and one younger sister. My sister and two brothers didn't make it out in the world. So in theory I only had one older sibling."

"I'm sorry," you say.

"It's fine. It was in Dystopia. Too many people die so the deaths start to become irrelevant," Taehyung shrugs. "I miss them, though. My brother's dead now, but I miss my parents."

"Dead?"

"He tried to start a revolt in Purgatory eleven years ago," Taehyung says. He frowns, shaking his head in disbelief. "I didn't think he was that dumb to actually go through with the rebellion. It was a man-slaughter, by the way. Everyone in his year was killed."

"Everyone?" you say. "Even to me, that sounds severe."

"Yeah, well, it was easier for them. Assumed that everyone in that year was a rebel. And rebels deserve to die, apparently," Taehyung says. He grits his teeth, fisting his hands in slow-coming anger. "You do know why they have the fucking Exam, right?"

"To choose which people are worthy of being in Utopia?"

"That's part of the reason," Taehyung says. He leans into you so suddenly that you gasp quietly. "The government does it to weed out the feeble-minded ones. Haven't you heard rumors? In a few years, they might just exterminate Dystopia and Purgatory altogether. There aren't enough resources to keep everyone alive," he whispers with urgency, and you can feel his hot breath on your cheeks. "So they're trying to grow a stable society with highly intelligent individuals. They want to get rid of the excess. The unworthy. They do it by hosting the Exam."

He looks satisfied at your rather shocked face and decides to give you some space, leaning away and taking away the warmth on your face.

"They're going to get rid of Dystopia?" you whisper. "And Purgatory? That's not fair to the people living there. They're gonna close off Utopia forever? That's bullshit."

"It's rumored." Taehyung shrugs.

"Is that why you're studying so hard to go?" you say, cocking a curious brow at him. "To avenge your brother?"

"Maybe," Taehyung grins. "I mean, I'll see what I can do."

"You shouldn't," you tell him with a frown. "They're gonna kill our whole year because of you."

Taehyung raises an eyebrow at you. "You know what they're doing is wrong," he says. "Don't you want to right the wrong?"

"No," you say. "I don't. I'm not going to risk my life or any other lives to fix this stupid system. The only fool-proof way to beat them is to beat the Exam—by that, I mean get a perfect score. Think about it. It's a huge middle finger to the government. Imagine if only one person out of hundreds gets to go to Utopia for scoring the highest, and, you know, assuming that only one person gets a perfect score because it's that unheard of. If that keeps up year after year, Utopia will die. They'll be underpopulated. The government will realize the system is flawed with time."

"That would take years and years. And a lot of assumptions to make," Taehyung scoffs. "You're talking about one person from every fucking year having the will and intelligence to score perfectly. Statistically impossible."

"So what?" you say. "You think a bloody revolution will solve everything?"

"A bloody revolution would obviously take less time than what you're thinking of," Taehyung says. "There are people fucking dying out there. There are people eating dead bodies. One bloody revolt can do a lot for the future."

"It won't do a lot for the present, though," you argue.

Taehyung sighs. "You know what? I'm sorry we even fucking got into this damned conversation. Whatever. Let's just finish up the book."

You clench your teeth but you don't say anything, merely nodding to show your agreement.

For the next thirteen hours, it is completely silent. After the small argument, neither you nor Taehyung feels the need to speak to the other. There is obvious tension and awkwardness between the two of you—like it had been in the beginning. You try to ignore it, immersing yourself into the contents of family studies, no matter how tedious you found it. Night rolls around and both of you end up skipping dinner.

Breakfast the next day is skipped as well.

By the time lunch comes, you and Taehyung have finished reading and reviewing the last book in the whole library. He slams the textbook shut and slides it across the table. The sound isn't as jarring as you expect it to be. So you just blink your dry eyes and try to steady yourself to prepare to stand up from your seat. Maybe you should leave Taehyung alone for a while... Maybe he doesn't want to talk to you anymore. And maybe you shouldn't hang around him... He could get you killed. He could rope you around in his master plan that his older brother had left with loose ends. You don't want to die; you don't even want to think of the possibility of death.

The only way you can beat the goddamn Exam is to be the only person to score 100 percent. And you're going to accomplish that. For years you've set your mind on this one single goal. Sacrificed food, water and sleep for it. You're not going to let it slip from your hands this easily—not when you're this close to it.

You wobble away from the chair, never looking back at Taehyung as you try to walk away from the table.

"Wait."

His tired voice echoes in the nearly empty library and it rings in your ears. You stop walking but you don't turn around.

"What, Taehyung?" you say through gritted teeth. Though you try to hide the slight waver in your voice that would indicate your exhaustiveness, it shows quite obviously.

"Let's grab lunch together. Please," he says—no, pleads.

God, he must know how much that word affects me. He knows about Jimin, so it probably wasn't so hard to use that knowledge to his own advantage.

After contemplating for what seemed like minutes, you finally turn around to face Taehyung. It surprises you when you meet his eyes almost immediately.

"You didn't finish telling me about Yoongi," he says. "I hate cliffhangers."

It occurs to you that both of you are too proud to apologize over an argument; in fact, this was Taehyung's way of apologizing to you without uttering the words, 'I'm sorry.' Your apology would be something similar.

You nod. "C'mon," you say. "Let's go to the cafeteria."

For two whole years, you were the happiest you've ever been with Yoongi. He made you almost forget about Jimin, but you made sure you honored your dead best friend by visiting the pit every now and then. It had been the last place you'd seen him.

Yoongi likes to come with you when you go to the pit. He's been getting anxious these days when you're not by his side.

Actually, you notice that he's been acting a bit strange. In the past few months, he began lecturing you about famous inventors and world leaders. He taught you the locations and capitals of countries you didn't know existed. He's been telling you the events of history as if he'd lived through them himself. The most annoying part was when he tried to make a damn math problem out of everything.

You only assumed that the pent-up knowledge inside his head was finally getting to him and he had to let it out to someone before he exploded. So you went along with it. And you suppose that sometimes, the lessons Yoongi taught you were enjoyable.

Until it got to the point that he began to quiz you on the material you learned from him.

You groan, eyes fluttering open to greet the morning sunlight that floods through the faded curtains in Yoongi's room. You had a rough night with a bad dream. You've never been this glad to finally wake up from your sleep.

Aside from the sunlight, you're also greeted by Yoongi's loud voice the moment he catches you awake. "Capital of Senegal?" he demands, pointing at you as if you had just committed a crime.

You squint your eyes at him, frowning as you stifle a yawn. You're still cranky from having a bad dream (that you can't remember now that you've woken up), so without so much of the slightest blink of an eye, you tell him to "Please, stop."

Yoongi snorts. "No, seriously," he says. "What's the capital of Senegal?"

"I dunno," you lie even though there's no way in hell that you don't know at this point in time because Yoongi's been making you memorize the world capitals for weeks now. But frustration starts to bubble up inside of you. You thought Yoongi would know a thing or two about maintaining personal space. Making you answer stupid geography questions the moment you wake up for six days in a row was downright mean and he deserves to hear a mouthful from you. "Yoongi what the hell is up with you?" you huff. "What does the capital of Senegal have to do with anything??"

"It's Dakar!" Yoongi yells, throwing up his hands. "Fucking Dakar, Y/N! Is that so hard to remember?"

"Why does it even matter?!" you yell back at him.

"I'm trying to help you!" Yoongi shouts. "I'm helping you learn, goddammit!"

"Why would I have to learn??" you say absolutely confused out of your mind. "You know how much you hated being stuck in tutoring. Well, I hate it too!"

"Oh, shit," Yoongi curses, collapsing on his bed with his hands buried in his face. He realizes that you'd just made an extremely valid point, and it puts him to shame. "I was just trying to help..."

"What? Help me pass the Exam?" you snort half-jokingly. "Yoongi, I want to go back to my home, Dystopia, with you."

"No, Y/N," Yoongi says. "I'm not going to Dystopia."

"Then wha—"

"I've been thinking, Y/N," Yoongi cuts you off, patting the spot next to him for you to sit. You do, rubbing your eyes and trying to tame your bed hair as you wait for him to continue. "I've been thinking a lot..." Yoongi says, "about the future. I've thought about every scenario in my head, and I don't think I'll ever be content."

"Aren't you happy with me, here?" you say. "I thought we were having fun..."

"Sooner or later, Y/N, I'll have to take the Exam," Yoongi says. "I'll fail, as expected. I'll be tossed into Dystopia and I'll have to wait until you come back home. But I'll most likely die in less than a year so you'll never actually get to see me again."

"Don't say that!" you shriek. "Don't even—"

"I'm obviously not going to make it in Dystopia. I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth and waking up in this dingy room in Purgatory every day disgusts me. Think about how horrible it'd be for me in Dystopia when I can't even stand it here. Then the only solution left is for me to go back to Utopia," Yoongi explains. "And that's not going to happen because I don't intend on learning new material anymore. I'm not a scholar. Was forced to be, but never wanted to be. I give up."

"You're giving up??"

"I'm giving up."

"But Yoongi..." you breathe but no further words come out of your mouth. You don't want to put words in his mouth, but you're scared of what he's thinking of doing to himself in the future. Yet you don't have the guts to ask him about his plan out loud.

"I know, Y/N," Yoongi sighs. "But I'm not bringing you down with me."

"What??"

"You're going to Utopia, Y/N," Yoongi says. He's so nonchalant with an atrocious statement that you wonder if he has a concussion. But when he's staring at you so intently, you realize with a heavy heart that he's dead serious.

"It's too late, Yoongi," you protest. "I would never beat the Utopian-borns... I'm already two years behind the game, and if you factor in the time the Utopian-borns have studied, I'm twelve years behind!"

"It's not too late," he argues. "Think about it. Utopian-borns like me—unless they're batshit crazy—aren't trying as hard anymore. Their parents aren't there to supervise them, and they're probably insanely cocky about how much they already know."

"What's your point?"

"You can easily beat them with willpower," Yoongi says. "And I already tried teaching you some stuff that I remembered too—whether you were paying attention is solely on you, though."

You huff. "I was paying attention," you say. "And that's impossible. I'm not a genius, Yoongi. Intelligence is genetic. You told me so yourself."

"I did," Yoongi admits, "but it doesn't matter how innately intelligent you are. What really matters is willpower. And I have none. But you have a lot. I'm just saying, Y/N. Utopia... it's not really a life for me. I don't really give a shit about education and being intelligent. I don't really give a shit about anything. But I think Utopia is a life for you. It's a life you deserve."

"I can't just accept what you're telling me, Yoongi," you say.

"Yes you can," he says. "I want to leave soon, you know. I don't want to distract you from your studies... And besides, Purgatory's food fucking sucks. I bet they have better food in the afterlife."

The afterlife. It's then when it truly dawns on you of the atrocity that your friend would commit to himself.

"You can't just kill yourself," you scoff, twisting your body towards Yoongi in complete bewilderment. "What about me? I never agreed to any of this!"

"You've wanted to go to Utopia the moment I started to tell you about it," Yoongi says. "You think I wouldn't know? I'm helping you get there."

"But I don't want to be alone!" You sniffle, chin pointing to the ceiling so the tears that are starting to well in your eyes dry away. But it's no use. The more you think about being abandoned again, another person you genuinely cared for leaving you into the afterlife... it makes you feel broken.

"Well, I don't really want to live," Yoongi says. "We're all selfish. It's human nature."

"I thought you cared about me!" Your voice rises two octaves. "We were supposed to spend the rest of your time in Purgatory together! You can't just leave early because you feel like it! What am I going to do without you??" You're sobbing now, the tears running down your face in fat droplets that blur your vision.

"Hey..." Yoongi murmurs. "Y/N..." He gives you some space to cry, to let out the worst of your emotions. Then he encompasses you in a warm hug in which your face is up against the soft material of his sweater and he pats your back comfortably. "You'll get over me."

"I won't," you whimper. "That's a promise."

"C'mon don't waste a precious promise on that," he whispers.

"I will so waste a stupid precious promise on that," you whisper back. You hate him for doing this to you. For telling you that he was going to leave you so you knew what was coming—now you were dreading the moment he was going to abandon you instead of relishing in his presence, his embrace, his warmth.

For hours, the two of you bask in complete silence. You've calmed yourself down to the point that the tears roll down your face sporadically, but not in steady streams anymore. Yoongi runs his fingers through your hair, an act that he only does to ensure you that everything will be all right. It's rare that the two of you are ever this close in proximity, and you want to cherish this moment before he's gone. But curiosity pulls at the strings inside you and you just have to ask—

"W-When are you going to do it?"

"Hm?"

"When are you going to commit suicide?"

"I'm not going to tell you."

You pull away from Yoongi, scowling at him. "Why not?"

"You'll try to put a stop to it," he says. "I need to get through with this, Y/N. You can't change my mind."

"I want to say I hate you, but now I feel like I need to be nice to you," you confess, running a hand through your hair in confusion.

Yoongi smiles, shaking his head. "Act normally." He hesitantly reaches out for your hand, and when you give it to him, he holds it perfectly—not too tightly nor not too loosely. "Just promise me one thing." When you don't answer, he turns to you, squeezing your intertwined hands for emphasis. "Get to the top for me, will you?"

"I can't promise tha—"

"And please don't frown when you study. You're gonna get a permanent crease on your forehead."

"Fuck, Y/N," Taehyung chokes, blinking away a tear that was starting to become too heavy for his eyes. "That's it? You let him just... leave you like that?"

"I feel like I should've put up a bigger fight too," you admit, playing with what's left of the bread crumbs on the lunch table. "I should've helped him. Nursed him back into a healthy mental state. But what did I know? I was fucking twelve then. I didn't know shit about mental health or psychology."

"You know now at least," Taehyung offers.

"I'd rather not know," you say. "Now that I know that I could've helped him... it just feels worse." You let out a deep sigh that takes the heavy weight off of your chest. "He overdosed about four days later. They found him before I did... And since then, I've been alone, studying my ass off."

"I can't help but admire your determination," Taehyung says. "You honestly can't beat human willpower. Yoongi's right."

You smile, shrugging nonchalantly. "I just want to keep my promise with him... And maybe I want to live in glory for the rest of my life, but who am I to blame? Everybody wants that life."

"Everybody deserves that life," Taehyung says. "No one should have to go through near-death experiences to get to it."

"Life's never fair," you say. "Deal with it."

Taehyung snorts. "I know. I'm trying." He pauses, placing a pensive hand on his chin and looking off into the distance as if he were thinking hard about something. "Hey, you know, the best way to retain information is to repeat it out loud or teach it to others."

"That's exactly what Yoongi made me do," you say. "All those random quiz questions throughout the day... I didn't appreciate it then, but I'd sure appreciate it now."

"Then we can be study buddies," Taehyung declares. "We'll quiz each other. We have about a year left before the Exam. We'll review every concept in the whole damn library together. Two heads work better than one!"

"Aren't we supposed to be competitors?" you say. "I'm looking to get a perfect score, Taehyung," you grin. "If you can't keep up with my rigorous schedule, you shouldn't even be proposing this plan to me."

"Oh yeah?" Taehyung cocks an eyebrow as he grins right back at you, revealing his perfect teeth and boxy smile. "Bring it on, Y/N."

Bring it on? Oh, you'll bring it on, all right. Taehyung won't even know what hit him.

Having someone else to study with you doubles your competitiveness, which is a feat in it of itself because you are definitely more competitive than at least one hundred of your peers combined.

Every day, you've been trying to wake up earlier than Taehyung to get to the library first. The only problem is, he's been doing the same as well. You thought you had him beat when you sauntered into the library at 4 a.m. feeling quite refreshed after an hour night's sleep, but it turned out that Taehyung never even left the library. He'd grinned at you, practically staring into your soul with bloodshot eyes and croaking, "I win!" so victoriously that you really had to accept his triumph over you.

But when the two of you start to play a little game of who-can-stay-awake-for-longer, Taehyung has to put a stop to the madness when you start to mumble jumbled sentences in Latin after he asks if you need some water.

You and Taehyung look out for each other almost by habit at this point. It's become a routine for you to wake the other up if you were the first to awake. Now morning trips to the library are done together, and you have to admit it feels much better to be able to walk side by side next to someone who is willing to babble his head off to wake you up a bit more.

Dinner is skipped Mondays through Fridays to make extra time for review. On Saturdays, you and Taehyung indulge in the full three meals that Purgatory has to offer while also finishing up your studies. But Sunday, Sunday is the holy grail of the week. No studying, no library, just you and Taehyung taking some time off (for once).

Surprisingly, you'd come up with Special Sundays, after Taehyung had a huge mental breakdown over plumb-forgetting how to graph polar curves on one typical Saturday night. And the special day has stayed since. Neither of you wants to get rid of something that is the only non-study related activity of the week.

Most Special Sundays are spent in either Taehyung's room or your room. Taehyung prefers your room because you have extra blankets that Yoongi left for you, and as winter comes by, any additional coverage is very much appreciated.

This Sunday, however, you managed to convince Taehyung to hang out in his room—only because his mattress is softer than yours and you've been getting bad back and neck pains these days.

"By the time I'm twenty, I'll be suffering from a fucking herniated disc," you tell Taehyung as you groan, shifting your position on his bed for what seems like the hundredth time. "I feel so fucking stuffy. Like I need to crack my back but I can't. Don't even get me started on my fucking neck."

"By the time you're twenty, you'll be in Utopia and the special doctors will be all over you to treat Atna's very own princess," Taehyung snorts. "They'd do anything to keep the perfect scoring girl alive and well."

"Princess my ass," you laugh. "I'd like to wish. How's the cot, by the way? Kinda feel bad about making you sleep there while I take your bed."

Taehyung shrugs. "I don't mind. I honestly don't even feel a difference," he says without skipping a beat. "And we don't want your back messing up your chances. On the day of the Exam, it'd be worse to have your body betray you than your mind."

"I'd literally fucking cry if my stupid back is still like this before the Exam, Taehyung," you say. "All these years I spent with my nose buried in a book... Only to fail because my body couldn't handle it."

"That's the worst," Taehyung sighs. "But if you stretch every day, it might get better. Honestly, we need to start taking care of ourselves better. We need to reserve time to rest... to take our minds off of studying. Even if it's only one day per week."

"Yeah," you agree. "You know what's fucking sad though? We're still talking about the stupid Exam even now. It never escapes our heads."

"We're slaves to the system," Taehyung bitterly murmurs. "What do you expect?"

"That's true," you say, wincing as you try to shift your position on the bed again. "I don't expect much at this point. Not from the people who've turned the library into a battlefield and the students into soldiers."

"The Exam is the war," Taehyung says. "Losing the war means death, mostly. I see no difference."

"We are so depressing," you sigh. "But it's all true."

"I know," Taehyung says. He turns over on his side to look up at you on his bed. "You ever think about the worst-case scenario?"

"You mean like... we don't make it to Utopia?"

"We?" Taehyung smiles. "So you think we'd get perfect scores together? What happened to being competitors?"

"Oh, shut up," you snort. "We're a team. I thought it was obvious. And I am not talking about not making it to Utopia. We are not going to self-sabotage months before the fucking Exam."

"You're just going to ignore the chances? You're going to ignore the chance of failure?"

"Yes!" you say, turning on your side to face Taehyung. "Of course I am. Do you really want to lie here talking about failure? We shouldn't even plant the thought of that in our heads right now. It's all about victory. We're the smartest, most capable people in our year, so if we don't get to Utopia, no one will. Understand?"

Taehyung belts out a laugh that has you frowning. "Your confidence deserves a gold medal sometimes," he says. "I do understand you..." he continues, "but only to a certain extent."

You scoff, "Oh, come on, Taehyung. What happened to the cocky bastard I met months ago??"

"That was such a mask behind the real me, Y/N," Taehyung laughs. "I thought you knew that by now. I'm fucking terrified of failure and even the slightest thought about failing makes me want to crawl in a hole and just... vanish."

"I swear to god, Tae, if you talk about vanishing like that again, I'll seriously make you want to vanish," you threaten him with the most menacing voice you can muster up. "We're already victors to this stupid game, winners of the war. Don't you dare think otherwise."

Taehyung smiles, eyes twinkling when he realizes you'd called him by his special nickname (that he kept trying to get you to call him) for the first time. "I'll try not to," he says. "But I'm not making any promises."

"Well, that's still good enough for me."

Four months until the Exam.

You're both physically (your back pains are gone) and mentally (you've always been) ready. But your friend is another story. As more days pass, the more anxious Taehyung begins to feel. He's never able to sleep, so he steals a couple of library books back to his room every night to read while everyone else is salvaging every hour of shut-eye they can get.

His insecurities are catching up to him. And you've always been quite loud-mouthed and confident, so you don't understand him very well. Yet, you're a team, and you do not leave team members stranded.

Motivational pep talks are not really your thing, but they have become your thing these past few days. You walk Taehyung to his room from the library every night, telling him that he had nothing to worry about—that he was going to do superbly well on the Exam. Sometimes, you feel like you're repeating the same phrase over and over again to him, but Taehyung reassures you that whatever you say helps him calm down.

But the mental breakdowns are becoming more and more frequent. Taehyung can't seem to sit still for ten minutes without starting to shake his leg and vibrate the whole table. He has to stop reviewing the Exam material to catch his breath, wipe away his tears and relax the tensed muscles on his face.

You let him take his time. You're always there for him to lean on, to help him catch up on the study time that he missed. And he's forever grateful to you.

"I don't think anyone's been this understanding of me," Taehyung sniffles as you pat his back comfortingly as he blows his nose on a scratchy napkin you handed him before. "Back home, my brother used to tell me to man up when I started to have my panic attacks. He was always the mentally stronger one of us."

"That wasn't very nice of him to say that," you remark. "It's normal to feel uneasy, especially at a time like this. The Exam is four months away... Not too close but not too far either..."

"God. I wish I wasn't so anxious all the time," Taehyung sighs, crumpling up his tissue and pocketing it. "I wish I was like you. Not afraid of losing... Not afraid of failing... Just so confident all the time."

"You can be like me," you say. "Just stop worrying so much."

"Easier said than done," Taehyung scoffs. "You're going to Utopia for sure. There's literally no doubt, Y/N."

"You're coming with me," you argue. "Not to avenge your brother's death or whatever. But just to enjoy the wealthy living since we both deserve it at this point."

"I'm not a charismatic leader," Taehyung shrugs. "I would've never been able to help start a revolt like him. I'd really like to go with you to Utopia... If we both got in, do you think we'd keep in touch?"

"Of course!" you exclaim. "We kept each other company in the loneliest of times. Have you seen anyone else in our year who's serious about taking the Exam making friends now? Everyone's too busy thinking about competition."

"What did I say?" Taehyung grins. "Teamwork works, and two heads are definitely better than one."

"Very true," you smile. "Remember when we fought for that book? The very first time we met?"

"How could I forget?" Taehyung laughs. "I thought you were going to murder me with that look of yours, honestly."

"Oh, wow. I'm not that scary, am I?"

"Oh, yes you are," Taehyung argues. "Do you know how hard it was for me to literally act tough in front of you in the beginning? So you wouldn't take me as some kind of wimp?"

"You acted tough for me?" you giggle, resting your hand on your cheek as your elbow sits on the table. You stare at Taehyung with an amused look on your face. "So you're just actually a big ol' softie?"

"W-Well, I wouldn't call myself a softie per se," Taehyung blushes. "I'm just uh..." he trails off. "Damn, Y/N. You put me under the spotlight."

You shrug, grinning as you watch Taehyung squirm under your intense gaze. Maybe you're a little mean, but making him blush is pretty funny. Teasing him is even funnier.

"It wouldn't be the first time. And definitely not the last," you say with a mischievous grin playing on your lips. Taehyung huffs, but his face looks much more relaxed than it had been several minutes ago—even the redness of his eyes are slowly fading away. He looks much better. He looks ready. "Hey, wanna go back to where we left off now?" you say. "If you're feeling better?"

"Yeah, sure," Taehyung smiles. "Thanks."

Goddamn. His smile is insanely contagious. It must be those perfect teeth and that boxy smile.

"No problem," you manage to murmur, feeling yourself start to blush thinking of Taehyung's immaculate smile. "Um," you hesitate, "yeah, so as I was saying before about Einstein's theory of relativity..."

Three months.

Something fishy is going on here. The closer the Exam looms over your head, the more you expected yourself to become miserable—stressed about the last-minute study material you could've forgotten over the years. Yet you find yourself rather relaxed.

It occurs to you, however, that you're only this relaxed because you have to be—for Taehyung. One of the two of you has to show strength to help the other. Pretending to be so strong-headed and confident (even when you fell into the familiar pit of self-doubt), helped you actually become confident in your knowledge and predestined success. There's really nothing to worry about, you tell yourself and Taehyung. If it's not the two of us, then it can't be anyone else.

The more you comfort Taehyung, the more he opens up to you, and the more you open up to him. Your friendships in the past have always been a little lopsided—with Jimin, you constantly comforted him, cared for him, and with Yoongi, he had been the one to take care of you. For once in your life, you had a relationship in which you both gave and took; Taehyung is your balance. The in-between of Jimin and Yoongi.

The platonic relationship with Jimin is mirrored in your relationship with Taehyung, but sometimes blush creeps up your cheeks when Taehyung teases you back or when your hands graze each other. So maybe you're not completely platonic with him.

And maybe you're just missing someone to love.

"Do you think we'd be happier if we just... never studied for the Exam?" Taehyung whispers to you as you lie side by side on your bed. The midnight moon is bright enough to illuminate just a sliver of Taehyung's face as he stares at the ceiling of your room pensively. "We would be hanging out... never going to the library... Making friends..."

You hum thoughtfully. "I don't know," you say. "I guess maybe we would be happier—just for the eight years we're in Purgatory, anyway."

"That's right," Taehyung says. "That's a good point, actually. I feel like what we're doing right now is right. We're suffering now to make gains later. And..." he trails off. "And... um, if we don't make it, at least we'll know that we tried."

You nod. "Yeah, I guess. It would be better than being tossed back into Dystopia and wondering for the rest of our lives what would've happened if we did study for the Exam."

"Exactly," Taehyung says. "I think it's crazy that we only have three months left," Taehyung says. "But weirdly... I feel less stressed than before. Maybe your optimistic preachings are getting to my head," he laughs quietly, nudging your shoulder playfully.

"Me? Optimistic?" you snort. "That's the first."

"It's true," Taehyung muses. "My anxiety isn't as bad as before, and I'm pretty sure you had a part to play in that."

"In three months, you won't have any anxiety ever again," you reassure him. "You won't even need to hear me babble on about optimism and self-confidence."

"And we'll be having the time of our lives in Utopia," Taehyung breathes.

You smile to yourself, nodding silently. The two of you let the silence consume you, letting Taehyung's last words echo in your head; it's a good way to end the conversation—on a positive note. A lasting note of hope and faith.

It's then when you feel something warm on your hand. It takes you a moment to realize it's flesh. It takes another moment for you to realize it's Taehyung's hand. When you don't flinch away, he quietly almost hesitantly encompasses your hand in his. Delicately, your fingers intertwine and lock perfectly together.

Immediately, your cheeks heat up but you refuse to speak about it. Reassurance floods through you as the two of you lay side by side in the comforting darkness of your room with your hands held tightly together.

And neither of you speak until the sun peeks out from the horizon to paint the skies with another morning, another day. You don't need to talk to Taehyung to know he's thinking the same thing as you.

We'll have the time of our lives in Utopia.

Two months.

The last-minute crammers crowd the library so much that there is a line to enter it. You and Taehyung found a very effective way to battle the sudden influx of students, though. Every day, the two of you enter the library as early as three in the morning (to ensure that little to nobody was there) and take six to seven books with you, hiding them under your jackets and sweaters.

Studying in your rooms is much better.

There are less judgmental eyes, fewer chances of catching a stupid cold that's been making its way through the younger kids in Purgatory and you and Taehyung can lounge on the beds when you get tired of sitting straight.

Two months to the Exam is shockingly close, so close that your back pains have been plaguing you once more. Taehyung tells you to stop slouching when you sit, but you find it hard to sit straight and read the tiny text of the textbooks. So you end up ignoring him.

But on some days, it hurts for you to turn your body, your back aching to the extremity that you started believing one uncalculated movement could leave you paralyzed for the rest of your life. It's on those days that you wish you listened to Taehyung earlier. You push on though, too stubborn to admit to Taehyung that he's right and too impatient to try to fix your pain at such an urgent time.

Except you're not too good at hiding your discomfort and Taehyung catches onto you.

"We should take a break," he says, closing an astrophysics textbook and practically tossing it over his head.

When you hear the loud thump of it hitting against the wall, you gasp. "Tae! You can't just throw the fucking book. We're not even supposed to have these in our rooms!"

"Maybe that was a bad idea," Taehyung says, fidgeting his hands. "A little too late now, though, isn't it?" He shrugs. "We need a break."

"I'm fine! I swear!" you say. "We'll study for a few more hours."

"Your back's killing you, isn't it?"

You scoff. "N-No!"

"You stuttered."

You groan, wincing quietly as you try to sit up straight. "I'm not gonna die because of this. I think I can keep going."

"If you don't fix that now, you probably won't be able to sit down for four hours to take the Exam," Taehyung tells you. He takes your book and throws it over his head, making you grimace when it thuds against the wall. "I'm gonna loosen your back muscles!" he declares.

"What are you gonna do? Step on my back and make it crack?" you snort. When you see that Taehyung actually looks like he's contemplating it, you quickly say, "Please don't."

"Don't worry. I'll try not to make it hurt," Taehyung grins. You look at him so threateningly that he has to raise both of his hands defensively. "Oh, c'mon! I'm trying to help."

You give him a nervous look. "So what? You're gonna give me a massage?"

"It'll help!" Taehyung says. "Just get all comfy and lay flat on the bed. Stomach on the covers, please."

The mere thought of his hands roaming on your back makes your face heat up. God, this is going to be intimate. Maybe that's why Taehyung suggested it... and maybe that's why you're actually complying with him.

Hesitantly, you situate yourself on the bed, laying your face on your arms. "Just my back," you tell him.

"Yeah, of course," he says. "I have credentials, technically."

"Oh?"

"I found a magazine about it," Taehyung says. "So I'm very much qualified."

"Oh god."

You hear Taehyung rustle behind you and you try to twist your body to see what he's doing but your back prevents you from moving. In frustration, you ask, "What are you doing?"

"Rolling up my sleeves and staring at your back. Why?"

"Why the fuck are you staring at my back?"

"I was trying to figure out where it hurts," he answers, "but I guess I could've just asked you instead."

You snort. "God, Tae. It honestly hurts everywhere. But especially around the shoulder blade area."

You can just imagine Taehyung nodding professionally, with his sleeves rolled up and his hair slicked back to prevent stray strands from poking at his eyes.

"Okay, I'm gonna put pressure there," he says. "Deep breath out..."

You obey him, closing your eyes and blowing air out of your lips, simultaneously relaxing your body. The moment you feel his hands on your back, goosebumps checker your arms. No one's ever been this close to you; no one's bothered to be this intimate with you.

"Feel good?" Taehyung asks.

He sounds closer to you than you expected him to be, and your breath hitches quietly. "Y-Yeah," you stutter. "A little lower."

Taehyung listens, rubbing your sore back with such care and calculated pressure that you have to bite your lip from letting rather embarrassing sounds from escaping your mouth. You don't realize how tense your body was until Taehyung calls you out. "You're so tense, Y/N," he remarks, his hands dealing with the clumped muscles on your back. "Try to relax."

You're red-faced, unable to admit to him that if you do as he says, you might just let out a moan and it'll really be game over then. You are not going to embarrass yourself in front of him because Taehyung would never let you live that down. And if you're really going to spend your days in Utopia with him, you'd rather not let him have any memories he can use to tease you.

"I am relaxing," you lie through your teeth. But when Taehyung gets to a particularly sensitive part on your back, you hiss through your teeth. "Ow..."

Taehyung immediately stops his ministrations. "Do you want me to stop for a second?" he asks with so much worry laced into his voice that you almost feel guilty for making him question himself.

"No!" you exclaim. "I mean, no. I'm fine. I guess my back was much worse than I thought..."

Taehyung laughs. "Well, if I do this for you occasionally and you stretch every day, you'll be in good condition again."

"Thanks," you mutter. "Really, Tae, I mean it."

You can just imagine the boy grinning ear to ear behind you. Though you expected him to say something cocky or silly, you received silence in response. "Tae?" Gritting your teeth, you try turning over on your back, which was easier than expected—Taehyung's massage had already done wonders.

With a little oof, you flip over to finally get a good look at Taehyung. "Cat got your tongue??" you tease him, raising an eyebrow and gazing at his rather blank face.

"No... no," he answers right away. "For a second I thought..." he trails off. His handsome face morphs into a look of worry, of nervousness.

"You thought...?"

"I thought I..." he trails off again, much to your impatience.

"Oh, come on, Tae," you sigh. "Spit it out!"

The boy grins, shaking his head. "For a second, I thought I heard you moan, Y/N. Enjoying yourself a little too much, aren't we?"

Okay, you had not expected that. The color quickly drains from your face and your mouth drops open rather unflatteringly. You sputter to think of an excuse, any excuse that would whisk you away from the embarrassment consuming you at this moment.

"I'm just kidding," Taehyung says as he nearly falls over in a fit of laughter. "You should see your face!"

"That's not funny!" you yell, sitting up on your elbows and glaring at the laughing boy.

"No, it was definitely funny," he says, grabbing your hand and helping you sit up. The action brings heat to your cheeks and you have to look away. "Oh, c'mon," Taehyung whines, "learn some humor, Y/N."

He must mistake your embarrassment as anger. You'll play along.

"You can literally shut up," you huff.

"Damn, you're not very scary when you pretend you're mad," Taehyung says, grinning mischievously at you.

"I am not pretending!"

"You're still holding my hand, Y/N," he teases.

Oh shit. He's right. That's the second time that's happened in one month. Is it strange to seek physical comfort? Or is it strange to feel so comfortable with Taehyung? "I-I," you stutter embarrassingly, unsure if you can even finish your own sentence when Taehyung interrupts you.

"It's okay, Y/N," he says. "I don't mind holding your hand."

You gape at him in shock—so much so that you're sure you don't look too attractive at the moment with your mouth hanging open and your eyes bulging.

Taehyung tightens his grip on your hand as he tugs you closer to him. His eyes sparkle with something you recognize as mirth, which is funny to see in a student's eyes just two months before the Exam.

Hm. You like the way his warm hand encompasses yours, and you adore the way he stares into your eyes as if he knows you and cares for you.

Before you know it, you're breathing out a rapid, "I don't mind holding your hand either."

You didn't know it was possible for Taehyung to grin even wider but sometimes even you're wrong.

One month.

This is the official crunch time. The time when existing contenders of the Exam become vicious and violent to ward off competition. The time when those who never cared for the Exam begin to host parties to live their best and lasting moments in glee. The time when some cocky Utopians begin to study—they think they're so above everyone else that they only need one month to prepare.

But you and Taehyung relish together in the time left in Purgatory together. You'll see him again in Utopia, but Purgatory is the place where you met him and got to know him. It's special, no matter how much you hate the dingy library and cramped dorms. It's special because, without the given situations, you would've never even met Taehyung. You would've spent the last year in Purgatory alone, haunted by the thoughts of Jimin and Yoongi. You couldn't have survived. Or maybe you could've. But Taehyung's helping you survive with a huge smile on your face. And happiness has never been so close to your fingertips.

Your hands are intertwined with his larger ones as the two of you stand against the wall of the building, staring into the empty pit of the dark abyss.

At this point, you're not quite sure where you stand with Taehyung, but you don't care as long as he's here to comfort you every day and you're there to hold his hand.

The cozy wool of Yoongi's sweater keeps you warm in the brisk night air as does Taehyung's presence right next to you. You look out at the pit, and for once, your stomach does not sink with misery. Paying your respects to the dead loved ones has never been this peaceful before.

"Do you think they're watching over you?" Taehyung whispers, judging you softly as he gazes up at the sky dotted with nighttime stars. "Maybe they're wishing you the best on the Exam."

"I actually have no idea..." you say, looking up at the sky with Taehyung and squeezing his hands. "But I miss them."

"You'll reunite with them one day," Taehyung tells you.

"Yeah," you say, "I definitely will."

"In the meantime, I bet Jimin's having the best time eating good meals and getting good sleep on a comfy bed..." Taehyung trails off as he looks at you. "And I hope Yoongi found his happiness by now."

You nod to yourself. "Me too, Tae."

"Only a month left, Y/N," he answers. "And strangely, this is the most peaceful I've been in my whole life."

When you look up, you find that Taehyung's already staring right back at you. A small smile stretches across your cracked lips. "Trust me, it'll be even more peaceful on the day that we're finally admitted into Utopia. We're in this together, right?"

"Definitely," Taehyung says. "I'm not nervous anymore. Not since you convinced me that I don't have to be afraid."

"Still gonna start a violent revolution?" you whisper. "Follow in your brother's footsteps?"

"Not now, not ever," he answers. "The system works. Why would I bother changing it when the people who truly deserve it are going to Utopia? I'm not brave enough to revolt... And I'm not putting you at risk for my dead brother."

"Thank you... Tae, that means a lot," you say. "Do you ever think there will be another revolution, though?"

"There are always revolutions," he replies. "There will always be more revolutions. Not everyone can always be completely satisfied with the authority's actions. It is what it is. Even if I have to take the brunt of it."

"You won't," you tell him. "We'll be long gone in Utopia before that happens."

"Y/N..." Taehyung mutters. He turns you around to face him, studying your features before pulling you in for an embrace. "I know you don't like it when I talk about this... but," he pauses, unsure. Yet he takes your silence as the cue to continue on. "In the case that we are separated after the Exam... In the case that something goes wrong... we... we should just continue on with our lives."

"And ignore whatever separated us?" you murmur against his shoulder. "We won't have to worry about that though. I told you not to worry. We're going to Utopia."

"I'm saying, just in case," Taehyung whispers. His hands run through your hair as he rests his chin on your shoulder. "But I'm sure you're right. We'll be in Utopia in no time."

You hum, basking in the warmth of Taehyung's arms. "Of course."

One week.

The library is swarming with teenagers in your year, desperately fighting over books and arguing over facts. It's funny only because you and Taehyung had once been in that state of animosity. It seems such a long time ago, though.

You and Taehyung lounge about in your room, reiterating textbook information out loud to each other over and over again so the material is ingrained in your memories. After a while, it occurs to both of you that you know too well about every book in the whole library. It's no use regurgitating the same information repeatedly when you already know it. So the two of you spend more and more time talking about your futures.

"Do you think they'll let me work as a family counselor when we get to Utopia?" Taehyung asks as he tosses another textbook against the door to your room.

You laugh when he hits the target on the door and shrug. "I don't know, honestly. Do you think they even have family counseling there?"

"You're right," Taehyung scoffs, shaking his head. "We know so little about the place we want to be in so badly."

"Maybe the more we know of it, the less we'll want to be in it," you say. "It's like that thing... that saying..."

"Ignorance is bliss?"

"Yeah, that," you say. "I'm sure we'll have good things to do in Utopia, though. Whether there is a family counselor position or not."

"But I guess we'll have to find out in a week."

One day.

You feel sudden unrest in the air. People are biting their fingernails so hard, they bleed. Others are pulling out their hairs. Some are picking at their scabs.

You and Taehyung hold each other the whole day, whispering little facts here and there to ensure complete memorization. You would be lying if you said you weren't the slightest bit nervous. Yes, you're intelligent, yes, you deserve to be in Utopia and yes, you've been diligent for years... but Taehyung's right. There are some scenarios that might just happen.

Maybe you and Taehyung earn perfect scores along with six others. Or maybe you and Taehyung earn the same scores as fifteen others. Or maybe you and Taehyung don't earn the same scores at all, leaving you separated forever.

You try not to dwell on the negativities too much. After all, it's no use to think of such thoughts anyways, they'll only distract you while taking the most important test of all time. Positive thoughts, only.

Tomorrow will be the very last day in Purgatory. For four hours, you and the hundreds of other students in your year will take a life-changing test. The Exam results will be kept confidential for a painstaking two hours after the final student finishes the Exam. Then men in white suits will whisk away the highest-scoring ones without another word. You will know when you didn't score the highest. Because the men in white will not give you a second look. They will walk past you like you are the scum of the earth. You've seen it happen; you've seen how much that can break someone.

You swear that you will not be broken. You will be the victor who is escorted out with the men in white. You will be accepted into a wealthy society. You promised Yoongi. And Jimin would've wanted to see you like this.

Most of all, you and Taehyung are in this together.

You visit the pit with him in the dead of the night one last time. There are already a few dead bodies piled up in the dark abyss and the stench of death protrudes up your nose quite uncomfortably, but you manage to ignore it. This will be the last time that you will see the last place you saw Jimin and Yoongi. If it weren't for them, you wouldn't be here, so confident about acing the Exam with another man you see your future with.

When you close your eyes, you can imagine your ten-year-old self standing at the edge of the pit, contemplating jumping to be with Jimin. You can see Yoongi scoffing at your stupidity before taking you into his arms and reassuring you. You can see your ten-year-old self crying. You can see a younger version of Yoongi crying. And every year after Yoongi's death, you've visited the pit by yourself. Until this year. Until you met Taehyung. And now you're not so alone anymore.

"Are you tired?" Taehyung asks, placing a warm hand on your cheek.

Your eyes flutter open immediately and you shake your head. "No, I was just thinking. I don't think I'm going to miss this place, but I'm going to miss the memories I made here." You fist the fabric of your sweater—Yoongi's old sweater, which is surprisingly still pretty large around your frail, petite frame. "It's too bad I don't really have a token of remembrance with Jimin..."

"He was all of your childhood," Taehyung soothes you. "I'm pretty sure you don't forget your childhood best friends."

"That's true..." you sigh. "God, I really don't want to forget anything that happened in my life. I need to remember all of this," you gesture towards you and Taehyung. "So we can recall it in the future."

"You'll remember us for sure," he says. "How can you forget? When you'll see me every day, pestering you for the rest of your life?" Taehyung teases, poking at your cheek playfully.

You roll your eyes. "Fun."

"Damn right," he coos, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "We deserve the fun."

"I know," you say, smiling at his unfiltered flirtiness. "C'mon," you tell him, grabbing his hand and dragging him into the building, "we should sleep early today."

"Good idea," Taehyung giggles. "To getting perfect scores tomorrow!" he yells to the sky, his eyes squeezed shut as he dwells in the last few euphoric moments of being in the fresh, night air before being tugged into the dorms by you.

Your heart flutters when he grins widely at you, revealing his row of pearly whites. Damn. You used to hate those too-perfect teeth, but now you love them as much as you... god, as much as you might love him.

To getting perfect scores tomorrow indeed.

One hour.

One hour before the Exam, everyone is lined up to enter their own private room, which is barely a room at all from what you've heard. The space is hardly enough to fit a desk, but it's decorated with bright fluorescent lights and spotlessly white walls. Apparently, it looks more like a mental asylum than an Exam room.

Some may be sensitive to such a small, suffocating place, but you don't really mind. As long as the information is in your head and you don't come down with amnesia in the middle of the Exam, you're fine. You're more than fine. You're going to win this thing—with Taehyung of course.

You and Taehyung hold each other's hands, strangely not as nervous as the jittery teens around you. It's strange for the two of you to be in silence for so long, but it seems fitting in such a loud environment. You probably couldn't hear each other even if you did speak.

There are peers who are already crying. Those who are missing because they jumped into the pit the night before. Those who are physically unwell and have failed to take care of their bodies. Those who look confident on the outside but their eyes brim with fear and uncertainty. And then there is you and Taehyung—radiating confidence.

Taehyung squeezes your hand when the men in white come into the halls, starting to drag the students away by random to shove them into the private Exam rooms. The process takes forever, according to the others, given that there are hundreds of students and hundreds of small rooms.

"It's hilarious how they haven't come up with a more efficient system," you whisper to Taehyung, shaking your head in disdain. "You'd think after taking away the smartest people in Atna that they'd somehow make this process less time-consuming. But they didn't."

"What?" Taehyung whispers back, looking confused as he sees you talking but he can't hear a single word.

"It's hilarious how—" you stop yourself, "NEVER MIND," you say, raising your voice. He wouldn't be able to hear you even if you did yell. And you weren't going to risk a sore throat before the Exam.

Taehyung nods at you, squeezing your hand. The two of you are reduced back into a state of silence as you watch your peers being taken away before you. The men in white are getting closer and closer, and for the first time, you're nervous. You've waited six years for this moment. Four hours are going to decide your future.

Taehyung must sense the tenseness building up in your shoulders because he places his hands on them, wordlessly telling you to relax. You thought in the last moments, you'd be comforting him, but you suppose it's the other way around.

The tables have turned.

The two of you are closer to the men in white than ever. Both of you are going to be whisked away any second now. Taehyung turns you to face him and hands you a tiny ball of paper, grinning.

He mouths something that you do not hear over the incessant roar of students, but you can make out exactly what he says. 'I'll see you in Utopia.'

The small amount of pressure on your shoulders is immediately lifted. 'I'll see you in Utopia,' you mouth back, tightly clenching your fist around the tiny ball of paper he had given you. He gives you a bright, reassuring smile before a man in white takes him away. You watch him leave, mirroring his smile and letting out a deep breath.

When a man in white finally whisks you away into your cramped Exam room, you can't help but feel reinvigorated. Even if your desk is shaky and your chair squeaks when you shift in it, you're absolutely hung up on the fact that you need to finish the Exam as quickly and carefully as possible to read whatever Taehyung had written on the small piece of paper.

The countdown commences, the camera in the room zooms in and out to check if you were keeping your integrity... the Exam booklet sits in front of you.

God, you're so ready.

Confidence surges through your body. You're going to make it out alive. You're sure of it.

Well, that wasn't so bad at all.

You don't want to brag, but the Exam was a piece of cake. The questions were never about understanding the material—instead, they focused on the specifics. The stuff you couldn't common-sense your way out of. The stuff that you either knew or didn't know. But you're a strong memorizer so the questions—even the oddly specific ones—were easy.

The men in white already took your Exam booklet away to score it. Now you're forbidden to leave the testing room for two hours while they grade it. But it's boring in here.

Your neck is a bit sore from looking down at the paper and your fingers ache from gripping your pencil. Maybe once you get to Utopia, Taehyung can give you one of his insanely therapeutic massages?

There's nothing really to do in the room except stare at the camera that's still watching you or counting the number of cracks on your desk. You contemplate for a short while whether to open the note Taehyung had handed you, but you don't want to risk an accusation of dishonesty.

If you're accused, you're likely to never be seen again.

So you make use of your time and doze off. After taking the Exam, you realize that there's no doubt you scored extremely well (you might've even gotten a perfect score!) and all the nervousness you had over the past several years (which wasn't that much) have vanished into thin air. You're confident enough to sleep.

In your dreams, you see Jimin, Yoongi and Taehyung. The four of you are best friends in a world that looks like Utopia but isn't. There is no Exam that determines your whole future. There is no Purgatory, no Dystopia... No horrible education system. No rats... No pit... It's a utopian world that's better than the Utopia that you know today.

And you're only woken from your heavenly dream when there's a knock on your door. It opens before you can stay anything and a man in white gestures for you to walk out of the room. Rubbing your eyes and shaking away your drowsiness, you obey him. The man closes the door once you are out of the room.

Left and right of you, there are hundreds of students standing outside of their rooms. The tension, the nervousness in the long hallway could be sliced with a knife. But you don't contribute to the sea of worries. You lean against the door, waiting for you to be whisked away, waiting to meet Taehyung at the end of the hallway. Waiting to be driven away in some grandeur vehicle.

You wait for only two people to be taken away. Or maybe there are others who scored a perfect score? No matter. At this point, you only care if you and Taehyung made it.

Everyone holds their breaths as the men in white start to walk through the halls. You see Taehyung ahead of you, already giving you a silly look and smiling confidently at you. You breathe a huge sigh of relief before turning your head to watch the men in white.

So far, they haven't taken anyone from their stance in front of their Exam rooms. Your heart beats loudly in your chest when they come closer and closer to you. God, they must've passed at least two hundred people to get to me. And still no high-scorer.

You and Taehyung have an enormous chance now.

You hold your breath as the men in white come closer and closer.

Any minute now...

You grit your teeth, tensing your shoulders when they're so nearby, if you reached out to them, you could touch their white suits. Your ears ring, drowning out the cries of the students who were standing behind you and were left stranded by the men in white.

Closer and closer and closer...

Your nails dig into your skin.

Closer...

You nearly scream in victory when a man in white stops straight in front of you. He nods in your direction and then places a hand on the small of your back to escort you away.

You can feel the burning eyes of jealousy digging daggers on your back as you begin to walk. But you can't help feeling like royalty. This is the moment you've been waiting for. You've been selected. You've scored the highest. You're going to be Utopian.

Taehyung catches your eye and gives you a huge thumbs up from afar. You're grinning from ear to ear as you begin to approach him. As soon as a man in white officially deems that he is coming with you, you're going to proudly hold his hand and walk through the hallway like you owned all of Purgatory. You're going to spend the proudest moment of your life with him by your side. Knowing that you made it through with him. And then you're going to read his note in the vehicle, on the way to Utopia. You have it all planned out in your head. It's going to be wonderf—

Wait.

The man in white who is escorting you is not slowing down, and the other men around you aren't looking to stop either. Wait.

You're going to pass Taehyung at this rate. Wait a fucking minute.

You suddenly break out in cold sweat as you and the men come closer and closer to Taehyung.

There's no way.

He had to have done extremely well. He has to come with me.

Taehyung looks a bit taken aback as well. His eyes reflect fear and the worry lines pressed on his forehead indicate no less than that.

You don't lose eye contact with him as the men continue to escort you down the hallway.

"Taehyung," you murmur when you're directly next to him. "Taehyung!" you yell. Your voice echoes eerily across the corridor.

"Y/N!" Taehyung yells back.

He's behind you now. The men won't let you stop walking.

"Taehyung!" you scream again, trying to turn around to look at him. "Tae!"

"Don't turn around, miss," the man escorting you speaks gruffly.

"There's been a mistake!" you cry. "Tae-Taehyung is supposed to be with me! Taehyung!"

"Don't make this difficult," the man answered. The hand on your back suddenly seems threatening.

"Y/N!!" Taehyung shouts again. His eyes brim with tears and he sinks to his knees.

"Get up!" someone yells at him. "Stand up, boy!"

"Y/N!" He ignores the command, sobbing with his hands reaching out for you and eyes pleading for safety, for your comfort.

You twist your body around, shaking off the grasps of your escort as you yell his name so loudly that your voice echoes across the vast expanse of the hallway.

"Behave," your escort grunts with gritted teeth as he tugs you away, gesturing the other men in white to block your view from Taehyung.

Tears stream down your face as you beg the men in white to let you see Taehyung one last time. They don't budge. It's not until you hear the beatings and Taehyung's agonizing screams that you try to kick the men's shins and escape. But they catch you, hoist you up and carry you away.

You thrash, scream, "Please don't hurt him!" but the screams, grunts and kicks never stop. You always thought your walk down this hallway would be glorious—the glory only lasted for a few minutes. You were supposed to walk down here hand in hand with Taehyung. Now Taehyung might be dead for disobeying orders.

You were supposed to be draped in silk and mink coats. You were supposed to be spritzed with sweet fragrances and treated like a princess. But everyone—even your peers—look at you with what you recognize as pity. Or maybe even disgust.

They must think you're crazy for not being thankful for being a high-scorer on the Exam. Some would kill to be in your place right now.

You hadn't expected—after your eight years in Purgatory—for your journey here to end like this. You're embarrassingly carried across the shoulder of the man in white, forced to dangle over him like a dead animal. You can feel the scrutinizing gazes of your peers. The ones who didn't get chosen.

It strikes you that you're alone now.

No more Jimin. No more Yoongi... And no more Taehyung.

You squeeze your eyes shut, praying for another person who scored the same as you. Maybe you'll find a new friend? Maybe you won't be alone again.

But the hallway ends and opens up to a door and you're still the only person the men in white have escorted. Your heart sinks. You're alone.

They shove you in a shiny black vehicle where the inside is air-conditioned and smells of roses. There are unfamiliar snacks in elaborate wrappings and ice-cold fizzy drinks around you—all for you—but you aren't hungry. The tears won't stop.

Were the riches and wealth worth the loneliness that will consume you for years to come?

You are a legend. A model figure. A genius.

The first to ever score 100% on the Exam. You're dragged from here to there, paid by the richest of Utopians to tutor their young children before they're sent off to Purgatory.

Frankly, you're upset at the lavishness of Utopia. There is always more to eat—so much so that one-fourths of every meal goes into the trash. The people here put ice cubes in their water to cool it. In Dystopia, there was never enough to eat and water was scarce. Purgatory never had a diverse array of food, and water was always lukewarm.

You're not sure if you belong here.

You miss Taehyung more than ever these days. Your new home is far too large for one person. You feel empty, cold inside. Even basking in the sunlight shining through your gold-rimmed window isn't enough to warm you. You tug the sleeves of Yoongi's sweater over your hands. Even after all these years in Utopia, you can't get accustomed to the fancy, frilly clothes here. You like Yoongi's old, frayed sweaters much better. And it's your only token of remembrance of him. You feel like you did him well because after all, you kept your promise. But Yoongi was wrong about one thing: the life of a Utopian did not suit you.

You can't help but think back to the days of Dystopia—of you and Jimin. Taehyung's right, you never really forget your childhood best friend. You've written down all of your memories about Jimin in a black leather-bound journal, which you keep out in the open by the window sill. On harder days, you like to read through the entries to refresh your memories and recall the stories that make you laugh or tear up with nostalgia.

The magnificent garden outside your home looks empty despite the plethora of flowers and colorful vines that sprout and bloom across the expanse of the healthy, verdant grass. Sighing, you clutch the silver locket resting between your collarbones. You've been wearing the necklace ever since the day you were first admitted into Utopia.

Inside the locket is a neatly folded up note. The piece of paper is old and crinkled and it has obviously been ripped out from a textbook called Family Studies. Taehyung's writing is etched onto it in black ink. You've read over the note so many times that you know exactly what it says by heart.

Y/N,

I was saving this to tell you in Utopia, but I can't wait for that day, even if it's tomorrow. I need to tell you now that I love you. Thank you for being by my side. Thank you for dealing with me. Thank you for calming me down.

You're welcome for those back massages. You're welcome for listening to your stories about Jimin and Yoongi. You're welcome for being by your side. I do it so much because I hate seeing you lonely.

Utopia will be great, Y/N. I think we'll live a great life there, don't you think?

I just want to say that if anything happens, we need to continue on with our lives. Because whatever the Exam decides, we deserve the results.

Nevertheless, I'll see you in Utopia, Y/N~

You tear up every time you open up your locket and study Taehyung's handwriting and his last words to you. Of course, you love him too. And it kills you that you don’t even know whether he's alive.

How cruel it is to live in such a wealthy place but feel worse than you had been in Dystopia and Purgatory.

The Exam is a curse. There is no way you could've beaten it, but you'd very much rather be hauled back into Dystopia with someone you care about than being stuck in this fast-paced, artificial world with no one but yourself.

It dawns on you horrifyingly. You did not beat the Exam. You did not win. You survived it.

And for the rest of your life, you must suffer the casualties.

—masterpost

—masterlist

[floribus-reginae]

His steps came to a stop, yet Sesshomaru did not turn to look at Rin right away. He felt conflicted. A part of him thought he should just keep walking and ignore her plea. It warned him that doing otherwise would lead to unpleasant consequences, maybe to a conversation he did not want to have.

Against his better judgment, he half-turned to rest his gaze on Rin. Or who he struggled to recognize as Rin, anyway. It was still a bit frightening how quickly humans aged and changed. There was almost nothing left of the child he had gotten used to trusting by his side for so long, many years ago.

For daiyoukai like himself, time simply flew at a different pace. What humans called a week was but a second to him. A year felt little more than mere days. That was why some youkai slept for thousands of years. How they were capable of holding grudges for centuries, or mourn for even longer.

If for anybody else Rin’s growth had been natural and regular, for the man who had granted her new life and brought her to this village it was like she had been swapped with an unfamiliar girl overnight. It was a feeling which had started almost as soon as Rin entered puberty, and it had made him uncomfortable. His visits had been rarer, and shorter. Would he even consider himself used to her before she died of old age?

He didn’t like it. Her growth was like a clear embodiment of her mortality. It reminded him, with each time he gazed upon her, that soon she would be too old and too far gone for even Tenseiga to bring back. Soon he’d have nothing to even come back to, and perhaps in an unconscious mechanism of self-preservation, Sesshomaru was seeking to detach himself emotionally. Trying to let her go, before any hurt could be felt.

And what he dreaded the most was that she might have caught on to that.

His eye contact with hers was emotionless, his voice spoke matter-of-factly. “You know I cannot stay.”

He didn’t need to point behind her. He was sure she was aware of the wary looks the villagers still directed at him whenever he came by. Even as years passed, he was feared and respected as a dangerous threat to their lives. It didn’t bother him. This was how things were meant to be. @roleplay-abiogenesis2

•*¨*•♫♪♪♫•*¨*•.¸¸Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ    The    young    lady    was    already    foreseeing    that    response    from    him,    nevertheless,    his    utterance    perforated    her    gentle    quintessence    like    a    poniard,    acrimonious    &    pernicious.    Rin    knew    the    western    land’s    Lord    well    &    his    unbreakable    personality,    a    sealed    countenance    that    seldom    bestowed    any    kind    of    emotion.    The    prince    was    a    stoic    being    &    difficult    to    interpret,    even    for    the    brunette    who    was    looking    at    her    precious    Lord    with    a    crestfallen    face.    Her    hopes    had    entirely    petered    out.    

❝H-Hai.❞    Uttered    in    a    whisper,    looking    down.    His    visits    were    increasingly    meagre,    brisk.    Despite    his    essentially    unaltered    posture,    Rin    was    noticing    more    &    more    inconstancies    in    his    demeanour.    His    departure,    even    if    uninterrupted,    was    affecting    her.    Why    would    he    neglect    her?    She    couldn’t    attain    a    plausible    answer.    With    an    exhale,    she    faced    him    again    with    a    smile,    attempting    to    camouflage    her    disquietude    &    the    vulnerabilities,    all    the    morose    sentiments    that    were    travelling    inside    her.    Coffee-coloured    cores    locked    themselves    in    Sesshoumaru’s    ambers    as    if    they    ache    to    read,    decipher    what    was    going    in    his    thoughts.    Would    he    always    be    an    enclosed    and    indecipherable    Codex?    Who    would    have    the    privilege    of    surveying    the    pages    of    his    thoughts    &    decode    the    conundrum    that    was    his    kernel?

❝Demo,    I    feel    like    you’re    trying    to    ignore    me.❞    Stated,    using    her    typical    honeyed    timbre.    Neglecting    the    glances    of    some    inhabitants,    she    sat    cautiously    on    the    river’s    bank.    Even    after    so    long,    the    demon’s    ubiquity    still    instilled    suspicion,    &    of    course    respect.    The    demoiselle    was    one    of    the    few    people    capable    of    being    in    his    presence    without    feeling    intimidated.    She    &    Sesshoumaru    had    a    story    together,    ventures    that    she    frequently    told    the    juveniles,    trying    to    enforce    the    etiquette    that    humans    &    demons    could    coexist    in    friendship.    These    adventures    had    ended    as    soon    as    Sesshoumaru    had    decided    to    leave    her    in    the    village    with    Kaede.    They    granted    her    the    opportunity    to    live    with    her    own    species,    grow    as    normally    as    possible,    mature    &    self-discover    in    a    natural    way.    At    first,    her    unification    with    the    other    children    was    complicated    because    they    looked    at    her    with    repugnance,    however,    this    feeling    was    promptly    replaced    by    curiosity,    excite    in    the    adventures    she    had    spent    with    her    dear    Lord.

Relations    were    enhanced    over    time,    leading    the    tender    young    woman    to    make    acquaintances    with    humans    &    half-demons.    Throughout    the    years    Rin    recognised    that    she    &    Sesshoumaru    were    from    completely    parallel    realms.    Not    only    because    he    was    a    demon,    but    also    due    to    his    social    prestige.    He    was    an    inheritor    to    one    of    the    most    prominent    empires    of    the    feudal    era    while    she    was    merely    a    human    belonging    to    the    peasant    class.    Despite    the    colossal    disparities    between    them,    Rin    wanted    to    be    part    of    his    world    even    if    it    was    only    partially.    Regardless    of    the    companions,    the    harmony,    she    felt    something    was    missing    in    her    life,    something    that    nobody    could    replace…

❝You    don’t    visit    me    as    frequently    as    you    used    to.    I    feel    like    something    is    going    on.❞    Confessed,    looking    up    to    gaze    at    him.    During    adolescence,    her    friends    began    to    evolve    emotionally,    developing    more    profound    affections    for    each    other,    or    individuals    from    other    settlements.    It    was    throughout    this    period    that    Rin    was    confronted    with    some    emotional    things    that    she    didn’t    know    until    then.    Her    closest    companions    started    dating,    courting,    and    some    married.    Many    were    those    who    sought    &    still    attempt    to    conquer    the    young    woman’s    awareness    with    sweetness    &    gifts    but    without    success.    For    some    mysterious    reason,    her    feelings    were    blocked    &    couldn’t    get    beyond    friendship.    For    a    long    time,    she    lived    in    obscurity,    doubting    herself,    until    later    something    awakened    in    her.

❛When    you    are    troubled,    or    anxious,    or    sad    or    any    other    time    feel    free    to    call    me…❜

❛I    will    come    to    you    immediately.    Even    if    we    are    far    apart    if    you    call    my    name    I    will    absolutely    come    flying    to    you.❜

❛Our    hearts    are    tied    together…You    can    examine    your    heart    at    your    own    pace.❜    -    Inuyasha    cd    drama.

The    maiden    had    never    forgotten    such    messages,    so    she    wasn’t    understanding    what    was    occurring.    Was    he    also    experiencing    some    kind    of    metamorphosis?    Had    she    done    something    to    agitate    him?    Why    after    saying    those    words    he    wanted    to    leave?    leave    everything    behind.    She    had    been    left    in    the    village    to    grow    up,    studying    her    core,    her    feelings    &    then    deciding    whether    she    wanted    to    be    with    him    or    not.    Even    before    she    knew,    she    had    already    made    a    decision.    She    craved    to    be    with    Lord    Sesshoumaru,    that    was    her    strongest    eagerness.        ❝Did    I    do    something    wrong    Sesshoumaru-sama?❞    Rin    missed    him    &    Jaken.    Nothing    would    be    like    before,    she    was    no    longer    a    child    even    though    she    still    had    some    naiveté.    ❝I’m    sorry    if    I    did    something    that    upset    you.❞    Apologized    in    advance.

[theuniverseisforgetting]

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Attack On Titan

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Episodes: 12

Information: Takuma Sakamoto is famously known as Diablo throughout the MMORPG Cross Reverie. And although he’s a magical prodigy in-game, in reality, he’s a total social outcast. One day, in his video game body, Takuma is summoned to another world by two girls seeking to control him.

Toilet-Bound Hanako-Kun

Genre: Comedy, Supernatural, Romance

Episodes: 12

Information: It is said that "Hanako-san" lives in the girl's toilet on the 3rd floor in the old school building and will grant anyone a wish for a price. Yashiro Nene goes looking for "Hanako-san" in the hopes for a successful love encounter, but the one that she meets is completely different from what she imagined.

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Stars Align

Genre: School, Sports

Episodes: 12

Information: The teen adolescence story revolves around the coming-of-age of boys in a junior high school's soft tennis club, which is on the verge of shutting down. Touma Shinjou asks Maki Katsuragi to join the team for his vaunted abilities, and mentions a summer competition. Katsuragi asks for money in return for joining the team.

Case File No 221: Kabukicho

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22/7

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Haikyuu!!!

Genre: Sports, Volleyball, School, Comedy

Episodes: 85 + 4 OVA

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Genre: Drama, Horror, Mystery

Episodes: 12

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Episodes: 12

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Genre: Comedy, Drama, Psychological, Romance, Science Fiction

Episodes: 12

Information:  The fictional Japanese city named Sugomori City is built on reclaimed land. But as the years go by, the city's population is decreasing. One day, Sonosaki tells her classmate Katsuhira: "You have been selected to be a Kiznaiver." The Kizuna System, which allows Katsuhira to share his wounds, connects him to the classmates whose lives and personalities completely differ from his. The Kizuna System is an incomplete system for the implementation of world peace that connects people through wounds. All those who are connected to this system are called Kiznaivers. When one Kiznaiver is wounded, the system divides and transmits the wound among the other Kiznaivers.

[marshmallowprotection]

I just realized I’ve yet to say a word about Lucretia, well at least I’ve yet to go in-depth into her character just yet. I went in-depth with Eros already so I’m going to do that with Lucretia now.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Have you ever heard of the “Truth Princess”?”

“Whose that?”

“I hear it’s a pretty girl who tells the truth!”

“Whatever do you mean by that?”

“Did you not hear? The Truth Princess writes anonymous articles and submits them to newspapers to spread the word, the truth, of everything!”

“But why is she called the ‘Truth Princess’? How do we even know she’s a she?”

“Well, we don’t. She signs her papers with the alias “Truth Princess”, which is why she’s called that in the first place. So far she’s turned out to be correct in everything she writes.”

“Really now?”

“Yep.”

“Huh. I wonder who this Truth Princess is…”

“I kind of doubt we’ll ever know, bud.”

“Still…I can’t help but wonder…”

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

  Name: Lucretia

  Aliases (If Any): Marie-Elise Pierre (Current Identity)

“Truth Princess”

Delilah Dubont (Previous Identity)

Adelphia Malinac (Previous Identity)

Cindera Dew (Previous Identity)

Maria Lamogre (Previous Identity)

Helia Tanya Vesper (Previous Identity; Maiden Name Helia Tanya Levintheim (Pronounced as “Levin-th-eim”)

  Age: 2,099 (Physically Looks 25) [As of 1545 T.C.]

2,624 (Physically Looks 25) [As of 2070 T.C.]

  Date of Birth/Birthday: 555 B.T.C.

  Zodiac: None

  Status: Alive (Faked Her Death Several Times)

  Species: Demi-Goddess (Masquerades As An Elf)

  Magic: Goddess Magic

  Height: 5’4 (162 Centimeters)

  Ethnicity (The Ethnicities She Claims To Be Throughout Her Various Identities As She Has No Actual Ethnicity): Mercenian (As Marie-Elise; Currently)

Ibisian (As Delilah)

Erisian (As Adelphia)

Omnian (As Cindera)

Vesperian (As Maria And Helia)

  Relatives: Eros (Mother; Comatose)

Unnamed Father (Deceased)

The Other 11 Goddesses (Technical Aunts)

  Birth Place: Parie, Continent of Alluria

  Nationality/Current Residence: State of Mercenia, Continent of Theda

  Religion (Which Goddess Do they Worship?): None

  Occupation: “Truth Princess” (As “Marie-Elise Pierre”)

Journalist (As “Marie-Elise Pierre”)

Archbishop of The Allurian Church (Formerly; As Herself)

President of The United Republic of Ibis (Formerly; As “Delilah Dupont”)

[Elected] Empress of The Erisian Empire (Formerly; As “Adelphia Malinac”)

Judge In The Omnian Empire (Formerly; As “Cindera Dew”)

Mayor of Elvara City (Formerly; As “Maria Lamogre”)

Princess of The Vesper Empire [By Marriage] (Formerly; As “Helia Tanya Vesper”)

And Many, Many, Many More; The Above ^ Are Just Some Notable Ones

  Affiliations: Allurian Church (Formerly)

Parie (Formerly)

Elvara City (Formerly)

Vesper Empire (Formerly)

Omnian Empire (Formerly)

Erisian Empire (Formerly)

The United Republic of Ibis (Formerly)

Thedian Rebels (From 1545 T.C. - 1547 T.C.)

  Marital Status: Single (Several Previous Relationships)

  Sexuality: Pansexual

  Likes: Nature, Reading, History, Music, Dancing, Nature, Rain, Libraries, Quietness, Lakesides, Practicing Magic, Researching

  Dislikes: Her Mother, People Who Ignore Both Sides of Each Person, People Who Blindly Follow The Goddesses, People Who Blindly Believe in Anything, Dealing With Nobles and Royalty, The Church System Itself

  Role: Secondary Character

  Debut: Chapter ??? The Monochromatic “Truth Princess” (As Marie-Elise Pierre)

Chapter ??? The Lady of Verdant Green (As Herself)

  Lucretia is the daughter of Eros and a human male I have nicknamed B. Since her birth, Lucretia has had to hide who she was from the world until she was around 5. Even then she had to pretend to only be Eros’s adoptive daughter and her father had to pretend to be Eros’s servant. Lucretia frequently argued with her mother about the situation, asking her why she even married B or had herein the first place if all she was going to do was pretend they didn’t exist almost all the time, and make them hide who they truly were. If she knew the consequences then why would she take such a huge risk? Lucretia considered her mother a stupid fool who didn’t properly think through any of her actions, and constantly called her out on her foolishness. Eventually, she just stopped talking to Eros entirely because she realized that it was too late; Eros was just not going to listen to her. 

When her father died when she was 15 years old, and Eros decided to put herself into a self-inflicted coma, she felt abandoned by her mother since her mother was just pushing her responsibilities onto Lucretia and running away from her problems. But in the end, she could do nothing about it and took up Eros’s duties anyway. She immediately realized her mother’s incompetence in running the church as archbishop of the Allurian branch, as she realized that everything was working inefficiently and there were mountains of work her mother had put off for whatever reason. She became known in history as the one who heavily reformed the way the church worked and became known as “Lucretia The Reformist”. She faked her death about 50 years later and went into hiding as she realized that due to her never aging past the age of 25 as she inherited her mother’s immortality and eternal youth that eventually everyone would figure out that “HEY SHE AIN’T MORTAL!” and so decided to fake her death. About a century later she took on her first alias and used a spell to make herself look different. She began to live out the life of the identity she had created and then fake her death after several years. She became several different historical figures from one of the greatest empresses of the Erisian Empire to currently being the mysterious “Truth Princess” who releases anonymous articles through continental-scale newspaper companies and reveals the corrupt truth of governments all over the world but mainly in Theda, especially in the Vesper Empire. 

Over the years Lucretia started to lose her sense of self, as she took on so many identities and lived through several different things as each, met so many different people, and watched them die out over time, overall she just became fatigued from it all. Tired of changing herself all the time. But due to her immortality, there was nothing she could do as no one of the humanoid races on the planet were truly immortal, and because she heavily resembled an elf and overall just wasn’t able to look like nor act like another race besides a human or elf she couldn’t masquerade as a long-lived race like the Ange. 

In 1545 T.C. upon the breakout of the Second Great Theda Civil War, Lucretia (as Marie-Elise Pierre or “Truth Princess”) ended up protecting the young Alia Hallow from a Sylvannese soldier who almost took Alia’s life. She later decided to join the rebellion because she was bored. After the war was won she continued her work as the Truth Princess before faking her death in 1613 T.C. and went into hiding yet again. For the next 500 years, she would continue pretending to be several different people and faking her death several times before Aya became a problem in 2070 T.C. She would finally reveal herself to be the thought of dead Archbishop Lucretia and that she was actually the daughter of Eros. She would end up seeing her mother again for the first time in over 2,000 years, and all she had to say to her was this:

“You ran away from everything, for what? And now your awake, and now the world has changed, and guess what? You still haven’t changed one bit. Your still the same. And the only reason your choosing to stay awake is to eliminate this threat. I have nothing else to say to you.”

Lucretia would be amongst the group who defeated Aya and witness to Nymeria’s sacrifice in 2070 T.C. and would witness the remaining 10 goddesses go into a deep sleep to avoid destroying the world. 

She honestly didn’t feel any empathy or sympathy for her mother, no, not after everything.

In the end, Lucretia would continue to fake her death and pretend to be several different people for centuries to come, but would several times secretly destroy records of the goddesses’ existence and the fact that the world really truly actually faced an actual threat to its existence and that the goddesses if awakened could end up destroying the world as she didn’t want anyone to attempt to awaken the goddesses just to force them to destroy everything, similar to what Aya wanted. She wanted the goddesses to fade into myth where she believed they now belonged for how much they screwed over the world. She believed the world was better without them, and so she acted accordingly.

  Lucretia is honestly a sort of no-nonsense, serious person. While she has pretended to have several different personalities she really is the type of person who just doesn’t joke around, and in the first place, her humor is kind of bad. Her idea of a joke is pretty dark, and anytime she’s asked to make a joke it’s usually an extremely dark one. 

While Lucretia isn’t self-deprecating, she often feels unwanted due to her belief that her mother didn’t think through what it entailed to have her and so believed (and didn’t bother to confirm whether it was true or not by asking her mother mostly because her mother was unavailable and she just couldn’t stand being around her) that her mother now didn’t want her and only kept her now out of obligation to not throw her onto the streets. And so she often needs to feel as if she is needed, and always tries to take on jobs where she would become irreplaceable and takes it extremely badly whenever she’s fired because it makes her feel like she’s simply a replaceable tool. 

Lucretia despises religious people who blindly follow the goddesses because after she studied more history she realized the goddesses were overall more of a harm than good for the world, and she was aware that the goddesses would eventually destroy everything due to inevitable insanity. And so she despises anyone who believes in the goddesses blindly. While she has pretended to believe in the goddesses whilst taking on different identities, she actually despises the goddesses overall even though she’s technically the niece of them all (except Eros of course, whose her mother).

Lucretia has genuinely fallen in love before with several different people as she took on different identities over the years but has resolved herself to never get too attached because she knows she’ll have to fake her death anyway and watch them move on from her if they don’t die before her. She also has accepted the fact that she has to let go of everything because of her immortality, and that she can’t let herself get too attached due to knowing she’ll lose everyone eventually whilst time will continue to go on and she’ll continue to live.

It’s the same tragedy, over and over; the pain of being immortal, a tragedy which many of my characters face, whether they only have an extended life span or are full-out immortal.

And so, fate continues to change, but the destined result is the same-

~An Ever Changing Fate~

  Concept Art of “Truth Princess”, aka “Marie-Elise Pierre”.

Also, “Elise” is not a middle name, it’s part of her first name, just saying because thats a misconception a lot of people have about hyphenated first names.

Lucretia used a spell to full out change her appearance, however it’s a pain to both cast and uncast but she kind of has no choice because she doesn’t want anyone to recgonize her as Lucretia the Archbishop of Alluria or as any of her previous identities. Also, due to Lucretia being part human she has to eat and sleep and all of those human needs which is why she is sleeping in one of the little sketches above. I used a monochromatic-ish color pallet for Marie-Elise because I wanted her to seem mysterious and stuff, and apparently black represents mystery but I didn’t want her to just be all black so thus monochrome colors. Also, the reason there are white roses behind her name in the picture is because they can apparently mean “truth” which is awfully fitting for her profession as a anonymous journalist who goes by the alias Truth Princess and submits articles telling of the behind the scenes truth of the governments all across Theda and even the world. How she knows all this? Hehe, thats a secret (ok well over 2,000 years travelling across the world lets you find out about alot of things, ok? She also has access to invisibility spells and she even has a spy network and everything known as “Royals De Verite” which is French for Truth Royals, and because her home continent Alluria is heavily inspired by France thats why I used the French words for her spy network’s name)

- Submission

It’s actually kind of interesting that this character has been around for so long that they’ve amassed the start of energy and power underneath their belt. So, it’s very clear that she’s not all-powerful because there’s just such a gap between how much of her power that she can expand how much she cannot. The way that you framed her in the drawing as well as just something that makes it have the sort of longing sense to it that I cannot put into words. Like, it feels like I’m such a depth here that even I’m not grasping. There is definitely a reason for that though she clearly doesn’t want to be found out.

[obutsuwrites]

A Little Wicked (overhaul x reader)

Summary:  “Are you denying yourself your innermost wishes? Do you not quiver for my touch?” Overhaul countered, his gruff voice shrewd. The sorcerer tried to hide his morbid pleasure. Lips curled into a lustful grin. The knot in his stomach was hot. Touch-starved fingertips excited.

warnings: non-con~!

word count: 3,460 xxx basically a self-indulgent overhaul smut fic~! oops,,

my ao3 for more shitposts

my ask box is also always open 4 requests or wateva

Notes: 

numinous (adj.) - describing an experience that makes you fearful yet fascinated, awed yet attracted--the powerful, personal feeling of being overwhelmed and inspired

nemophilist (n.) - a haunter of the woods; one who loves the forest and its beauty and solitude

The young adventurer navigated through the overgrown forest, screeches of owls echoed over head; sounds of nature after dark. Thick trees obscured the woman’s vision. Mother nature was finally reclaiming lost land. However, this particular forest held a secret as precious as new life. A powerful sorcerer was said to inhabit this jungle of trees and predators. She knew man-eating animals roamed this land. The woman had grown up on heroic tales of would-be heroes besting creatures of the night. Heroism. Adventure. Glory. Tales she idolized. Titans of old seemed almost god-like to her. Abilities she had prayed for every night. However, her pleas fell upon deaf ears. 

After enduring this for years, she realized she must manifest her own destiny. The allure of magicks too tempting for her quest. She knew it was wrong. No respectable explorer had stood on the back of giants. No. They started small; stories eventually amassing to celebrity. Folk tales repeated for generations. The ultimate means of being remembered, she acknowledged. Mortality no longer applied to them. They gained immortality through legends. 

The young woman sighed. The lantern was her only light source in the decrepit grove. Thick roots ran along the leaf scattered earth. She had already tripped once, her lantern almost shattering. Tonight, even the moon hid. Just like the predators. The hoot of owls were the only sound in the moonlight. She wondered if the fabled Sorcerer of the Forest even existed. The tales of him on par with legends of heroics. Was it possible the man didn’t exist? The land showed no sign of recent travel. Untamed earth. 

She stopped. The sudden thirst hit her senses. Her mouth was like the desert. Quickly, slender hands grasped the gourd that sat upon a leather belt. The woman drank deeply; water trickling down exposed flesh. After a swallow, oxygen-starved lungs greedily inhaled. Earth and pine wafted through her nostrils. 

Suddenly, a twig snapped behind her. The rhythmic pounding of her heart threatened to leap out from her bosom. Primal fear seeped into her body. Goosebumps painted into her skin. The dame paused, her hand at her side, clutching the gourd. 

Breathe, she told herself, You are brave.

“Who is t-there?” The explorer called, her tone momentarily faulting. Anxiety ridden eyes waited. Could be a rabbit, right?

A gruff voice broke their silence, “Filthy mortal. You have been searching for me, haven’t you?” The man sounded perturbed. As if her very presence was a nuisance. “Well, here I am.” Ungrateful.

The woman blinked. Surely, this wasn’t the Sorcerer of the Forest? The male sounded no older than her. Far too youthful to be such a myth. 

“I don’t t-think you’re him,” she replied, slowly turning to face the owner of the voice. 

Foreign eyes observed her, his nose crunched with disdain. The young man was adorned in black; a pulled hood and avian mask blurring his features. A pristine cloak hung around his wiry frame. Leather gloved hands fidgeted. His posture betrayed his voice, uncomfortability spread throughout his spine.

“A sorcerer. You mortals ask for such frivolous things,” the masked man replied. Despite his age, the Sorcerer of the Forest never quite understood mortals. Useless stories amused them. Inspired them. This caused a problem for him. Rarely the man would receive dim-witted guests to his side of nature. Naive mortals that didn’t understand his terms. They would agree to his services, not realizing the peril. 

A laugh escaped from the woman, a nervous habit. Clearly, this man was mortal, too. Just has a little superiority complex. It wasn’t unexpected. Such a talented display of magic was too prideful. Like a secret to be shared. 

“...okay. Wait. You know what I need?” 

The words hung in the dusk. Disgusted eyes still trained upon her, memorizing her. He looked almost pensive. A leather gloved hand rested against a clothed elbow. The masked man’s dark brows furrowed together.

“Moronic girl,” he chastised, “you desire a strength potion. It’s rather bold to assume I’d stoop to such a vile practice.” The man was a sorcerer, not a desperate apothecary.

Another laugh bubbled from her. Genuine sounds. “You’re a sorcerer. Surely, you mix potions?” 

The woman’s tone was immature. Naive wonder spread across her face. She prayed he would remove the formerly intimidating birdlike mask. It’s shape provoked a primal fear within her. As if she should run as far as her legs would carry her. Instincts screaming.

The man stepped forward, dead leaves crunched under his boots.  

He scoffed, his eyes darting from her. The mysterious man smoothed invisible hairs along auburn hair. His hair looks soft, the woman noted. Perhaps he was an Adonis underneath the beak. With the distance between them shortened, she noticed brass goggles upon gilded orbs. The same contempt within them. 

“Do you even carry a sword? Perhaps a dagger. Oh, I know. You don’t do you?” he quizzed. The man clearly taking delight in her vulnerable form. 

The maiden softly gasped and dropped her gourd to the ground. Her hands now wrung in doubt. No legend about the Sorcerer of the Forest told of his scorn. He was the un-sung hero; the powerful force that provided the hero a winner’s edge. 

She didn’t reply. Horror locked the adventurer in place. Her eyes trained on the man before her. 

He closed the gap between them, the linen of his cloak brushed against the woman’s shirt. “What you desire will cost you.”

Xx

The young explorer had followed the mysterious, angry man to his hut. The design was simple, but presistine. Not a single ingredient or amulet out of place. His shack reminded her of the shaman huts in her village. The after smell of incense a permanent fixture. 

The two discussed their deal. An insistent voice spouted a word vomit of myths. Her eyes alight with passion. The possibility within her hands now. 

“...and that’s why I need this potion, talented Sorcerer of the Forest! I don’t care about t-the consequences.” The maiden stuttered, her excitement had gotten the best of her. 

“I have told you, mortal. I am Overhaul. This fantasy of the ‘Sorcerer of the Forest’ doesn’t exist. Merely stupid childish stories,” the man corrected. His tone stern. 

Overhaul.

Instantly, the woman realized the mistake she had made. The man before her was not the great Sorcerer of the Forest, but his antithesis; Chisaki Kai. A rumored lesser demon in fables. Overhaul being his preferred title. His deals the catalyst for despair in his epics. The being a play on devil’s advocate. A strong occultist that dealt in absolutes. In his parables, the heroes would receive their most intimate desires, but at the grievous cost of their humanity. Their soul.

Her features were clouded by concentration. The temptation mulled over in her mind. Is… Is it immortal to sell my humanity for the greater good? Surely, heroism cancels out sins.

She offered her hand in a show of solidarity. “Please.”

A good handshake was the cornerstone for any business transaction. Even the resident smithy had a crushing grip. A truth the maiden had learned early, the concept of goodwill familiar to her. 

Golden eyes stared at her. His indifferent glare almost seeing through her. 

“Handshakes are informal. If you weren’t so naive, you would know.” Naive laced with venom. Ignorance was a sin to him. Cretins were beneath a messiah. 

Stand tall. Make your demand known.

The nervous woman straightened her back. Eyes meeting Overhaul.

“Sorcerer or lesser demon; I humbly request the potion. Please,” she asked, her hands clasped in prayer. Stubborn hands with steadfast faith. Illusions of adventure plagued her. The poison deep in her bones. She could taste her immortality in fiction. 

Overhaul almost pitied the woman before him. Feminine graces for deceit. The ghost of a smile stretched across his features.

“As you desire.”

Xx

The aspiring adventurer had inquired about a strength potion. A rudimentary task that would only require several days work for Overhaul. The reply caused a grin to break out upon the young woman’s face. Her face… almost cute. 

While working, Overhaul caught flashes of the maiden’s frightened expressions. A sick delight taking root into him. His psyche was a chasm of perverse thoughts. The mixture of worry and dread intoxicated him. Like an inch he couldn’t scratch. 

He felt on fire. 

Xx

She wandered aimlessly, soft footsteps echoed through the abyss of trees. This was her ritual now. Naively calling for Overhaul. The beaked man was behind on his promise. The confident woman’s belief in him wavered. A gourd still hung from her belt; a failed lesson. 

“You can be so damn loud. Do you realize that?”

The naive mortal’s expression tightened; the intimate reaction caused a flush to scatter across him. Foreign anxiety and a rush of dopamine through his body. Hot breath huffed against the hollow of his beak. The fervor burned like a wildfire. 

She averted her eyes; the earthen ground her chosen subject. Overhaul’s aura engulfed the young woman in anxiety. Instincts feral. 

The nemophilist beamed; fangs bared for prey. Sadistic glee painted into his face. Amber eyes studied her. Victim no match for an apex predator. 

“Sorry… I’m happy I found you, I think. You’re behind schedule, Overhaul, but it’s for good reason, right? Maybe you ran into a lack of ingredients?” the woman hoped, her heart unable to conjure the alternative. Panic surged through her nerves. A feeling she couldn’t ignore. Body hot with anxiety.

“Follow.”

Xx

Yet again, the young maiden found herself in the wooden cabin of the occultist. A scent of wood and flowers assaulted her nose. The smell less pleasant than before. 

Overhaul held the vial; gloved hands gingerly guarding her desire. She felt a pang in her bosom. The promise of immortality dangled before her. Breath caught in an eager throat, words cramped. 

“Please. I have money. Gold. I can pay you.” Desperation covered her tone. The zealous woman features pulled tight. Eyes glued to the vial. The key to her quest. 

The masked man laughed, placing the vial on the wooden table between them. His eyes stuck to her. Selfish eyes fixated. Overhaul’s chest hitched; the anticipation of her fear tantalizing. He felt drunk from her presence. 

“No… No money. As Overhaul we both know I’ll claim my due. For someone that prides themselves on mythos; you genuinely are stupid,” he sneered. His words overrun with acid. The man was merely prodding for her adorably fearful visage. An image that haunted him. Perhaps, he could coax the emotion out of the meek woman via insults. Overhaul knew the power he held. His veins burned with it. 

The woman nodded. Distinct horrible stories flooded her. The sparks of misery burning into her psyche. A terror she prayed to avoid. “Whatever, Overhaul. We made the deal. So drop the act. It’s embarrassing.” As soon as the words tumbled from her mouth; the ignorant mortal understood the weight of them. The nervousness in her back. 

“Take it before I change my mind.” 

An empty threat, or so she thought.

Xx

A week passed. The young explorer still felt as before. No obvious strength stockpiled within her. It took her three days to deduce that the willowy man she met had been a pretender. Merely a man fascinated with Overhaul. She was familiar with the insanity of it. The very same thing motivated her to find the Sorcerer of the Forest. A pretend man. 

Life for her was stagnant as before, too. No excitement lived in the heart of the village. Routine a sacred theme. Mundane. 

Despite this, the steadfast mortal had continued her prayer. Feverish belief burned in her chest. Perhaps faith was the secret to immortality in mythos. 

Xx

Soft knocks echoed through the woman’s door. A late night visitor. Panicky fear settled in her bones. After dusk visits only brought tragedy. Slowly, she rose from bed. Anxiety flowed through her muscles; simple movements a struggle. 

Delicate feet dragged across wooden floors. Tired eyes in a haze. She reached for the door knob, the brass cold against her. The young explorer cautiously opened the door. A sheepish plastered. One must be strong in misery. 

The exhausted mortal’s eyes dropped; Overhaul curiously before her. The man barely an inch from her. Just as before. The kindling of a blush erupted across her face. Pink, squeezable cheeks.

Overhaul’s urge to touch such a filthy creature was almost overwhelming. And yet, he restrained himself. A promise of fulfilling her desire fueled him. He ached to see her afraid again.

“What are you doing here?” She was unprepared for the gravity of her choice. No soul was worth heroics. Not even a naive mortal’s. Humanity was the last shred of chaos the woman had. Every aspect of her life routine. 

A smirk took root. “Moronic girl. I’m fulfilling your greatest desire. Follow.” 

A phantom hand guided the woman’s numb body through the village and into the forest. Overhaul only a few paces ahead. A haze developed over her; the extent of her actions a mystery. 

Xx

She had no memory of adventuring to the occultist Overhaul’s hut, yet, here she was. A dressing gown clad body sat across from gold eyes. The ghost of a smirk still lingered on his face. Her distressed frame was the source for his perverse joy. A sick knot settled into his stomach. 

“Do I give you my soul?” she inquired, a sniffle in her tone. Tears building inside her chest.The reality of her agreement attacked her. 

Overhaul stifled a chorkle. An unrealistic expectation mortals held. So side-eyed. He assumed nothing less from her. Naivety was an illness. “No, idiot. Strip.”

Her mind glazed over. Robotic limbs carried out the sorcerer’s demand. Dark magicks at work. 

“Please… stop. I don’t desire t-this.” The maiden stood before him; horror in wide eyes. She cowered. No memory of disrobing; her heart in her ears. Had he drugged her? Was the vial a love potion? 

Gently, gloved hands removed the avian mask and goggles; Overhaul’s face on display. She did not expect him to be handsome. His features carved from stone by da Vinci. The ironic nature not lost. How could a vile man be so beautiful? 

“Are you denying yourself your innermost wishes? Do you not quiver for my touch?” Overhaul countered, his gruff voice shrewd. The sorcerer tried to hide his morbid pleasure. Lips curled into a lustful grin. The knot in his stomach was hot. Touch-starved fingertips excited. 

He licked his lips. Pining yellow eyes burned into her. The man known as Overhaul drank from her vulnerability. The woman’s soft body was a treat. Only for him. 

The mortal blushed. Crimson obvious in the moonlight. “Not like t-this.” She was attracted to him, but every instinct screamed at her to flee. The man was suffocating. 

Overhaul reached out, pinching her flesh between his fingers. Tense skin responded to his touch. She shivered. 

“A brat like you doesn’t deserve to use my title, don’t you agree? Refer to me as Kai.”

The woman felt helpless beneath him. Even his thin frame towered over her. The height difference only incited Chisaki Kai. Her vulnerability was a luxury. A privilege. She shifted, a futile attempt to escape him. 

Kai suddenly grasp the woman; his hands finding purchase around her wrists. Her skin was a map of goosebumps. He pulled her to him; the heat of her body melted into him. A delicate form for him to break. He shuddered at the thought. A tapestry of bruises. Lilac suits you.

“O-Kai. Kai, please let me go. I won’t tell anyone. It hurts,” she pleaded, as purple blossomed on her wrists. The beginning of a bruise. Gloved hands ignored her cries. The filthy mortal’s request only riled up Kai. A throbbing ache formed between his thighs. An urge to bury himself inside her crawled from the back of his psyche. 

Lecherous eyes scanned her body. Kai’s body snug against the frightened woman. Clean linens. A faint bouquet of clean linens drifted to him. This must be the essence of the disrobed body before him. Simple fabric separated Kai from eden. The garments weren’t flattering, he convinced himself. That’s why a gloved hand detached from her wrist; her arm falling limp as the sorcerer examined dull cloth between disinterested fingers. Florcets of pink rested twisted into pure horror. Traces of anxiety now settled in her ribs; the woman’s throat choked shut. The lack of sound a disappointment to Kai. The inch on fire with arousal for terrified looks. 

“You don’t need this,” Kai whispered, his breath hot against the woman’s exposed skin. Unceremoniously, Kai ripped the brassiere. Fabric ripping the only sound between them. Quick, short breaths followed. The occultist felt overwhelmed. His fantasy before him. Saliva pooled; the man’s mouth flooded. 

Delicate skin winced in the biting chill. A free arm shot up in a frantic attempt to cover shame. Chisaki Kai frowned. Adonis features twisted. Fangs threatened in a snarl. “Show me.” 

She held steadfast, a lilac now settled into her wrists. The naive explorer refused to allow an erratic man the pleasure of her stripped bosom. A right reserved for lovers. Not a cruel con man. 

Gloved hands swiftly detached from her. He harshly pulled off the leather gloves and pathetically tossed them behind him. Kai was finally able to feel her. Feverish hands returned to exposed flesh. Sadistic hands roughly grabbed the numinous woman. A yelp sounded from her, his impatient touch a cause for surprise. In her nerves, she felt a spark.

Yellow eyes marveled at the beauty before him. Inspiration. 

“On your knees.” 

The mortal woman before him obeyed. Dread flowed through her body. Images of violence danced before her. Promises of Chisaki Kai’s power.

“Not such a bitch, now are we?” Kai teased, a cruel smirk upon his face. Satisfaction from her blind devotion. Warmth tightened against his pants. The compassion he held for her. A little gift for not misbehaving. Kai couldn’t spell his excitement; his chest heaved in anticipation. 

“Isn’t t-this enough? I’m begging you; please stop.” A chorus of no’s followed after as Kai pressed the dame’s face against his crotch. His throbbing need now stimulated by the friction. He moaned, the sound deep and guttural. Animalistic. 

Satisfied, Kai released her face. Feverish hands unbuttoned his pants. The furor caused slender hands to shake. “I don’t care. You desired this, wicked girl.”

The scared woman audibly gulped, terror and arousal swirled in her mind. Gentle hands found his hard cock. Length throbbed in her palm. The man’s very body craved her touch. She began to tenderly stroke him; her hand exploring veins. 

Kai growled, instinctively bucked into her. No time for shame. He could chastise the adventurer later. Her hands were heaven sent. Curiosity mingled with lust. A free hand snaked to her panties. The woman teasing herself. A whine fell from her lips. The syrupy sound encouraged Kai; the sorcerer’s sentence spilling out. 

“Suck my cock.”

She stopped pumping him, her hand poised around his head, foreskin pulled down. Innocent eyes viewed the brown haired man. A meek air engulfed the woman. Moist hands now covered the grove of rose upon her cheeks. The heat devouring her. Was she on fire?

Breathe.

Plump lips wrapped around his cock, veins pulsating. Kai’s pleasure was obvious. The flustered woman began to swirl her tongue around him; her hands caressing his manhood. He melted into her touch. The man’s bucking now at a  sweltering pace. An idea presented itself. 

He knew he had to be quick. Otherwise, she could bite him. A degloved hand shoved her head down him. The wet chasm of her mouth coupled with gagged sent Kai into ecstasy. The knot branded into his stomach, working its way to his chest. An orgasm approaching. 

“Don’t fucking stop,” the auburn man mewled. Spit spewed from the asphyxiated woman; droplets decorating his hips. She needed to breathe, he reasoned. Hands clawed at thighs in a vain attempt for air. He released her.

Hungry lungs inhaled; the aroma of wood and flower heaven sent. 

“No more…” she rasped. Voice hoarse from the man’s violent bucking. Snot leaked from her nose, eyes brimmed with tears. 

She looked so broken, Kai realized. The fire within him a roaring blaze. A dire need exploded in his chest. The man roughly grabbed the woman’s face, shoving her against him again. 

An anxiety fueled mouth played with his length. Muffled cries juxtaposed against moans. Tiny streaks of fear now displayed down her cheeks. Pink cheeks shining. 

Orgasic euphoria burst from Kai. The abrupt event caused her to gag; a sloppy spray of hot cum and saliva ran from the woman’s chin, the final droplets resting against her bosom.

[emma-nation]

Bloodline - KamilahxMC Fanfiction (Chapter 3)

Summary: A Feral attack, a mysterious serum and a big mistake… what consequences will it bring to Kamilah’s life and her relationship with Amy?

Rating: T

KamilahxMC Tag List: @iam-the-fuckin-queen, @annabellewerecorgi, @voltos9, @scorpistraub, @leavemeandmyshipsalone, @jen825, @andreear17, @spacecarrousel, @justejuste727, @aureliaxj, @graceschoices, @sleeping-with-her06, @supersphynxsworld, @gavryllo, @galaxyside-0, @msuhailey, @zoe6111, @ptxgirwaffles, @tigerbryn11, @shanuuh, @ilovetaylor13m, @honorablebicycle, @ilovekamilahsayeed, @fal-carrington, @begging-for-kamilah, @kennaxval

Notes: 

- Thank you so much for the positive feedback on my post-finale fic, Till Death Do Us Part. I never imagined getting over 100 notes lol. Your likes/reblogs/reviews are deeply appreciated.

- When I wrote this chapter I had no idea of Chapter 16 yet, so I beg your apologies for putting Kamilah through more angst.

The Changes - 1 month later, 9:30 AM

Kamilah woke up in the morning with strange activity coming from her kitchen. At distance, she also heard music. A modern song she wasn't very familiar with. At first it appeared strange, but it didn't take long for her to remember she no longer lived by herself. She smiled fondly.

After finding out about her pregnancy, Amy didn't want to spend a minute away from her. Kamilah invited her to move in to her penthouse. It was the first step into this crazy family journey ahead of them. The female vampire thought she'd have a hard time getting used to the idea, but she was enjoying it more than she could ever imagine. Amy was working hard into giving her a lot of extra attention and care, and Kamilah loved rewarding her for that.

Actually she felt like doing that right now, the smell coming from the kitchen suggested Amy was preparing them an delicious breakfast.

"Oh no," looking at the digital watch on her bedside table, she realized how late she was for work.

"Amy, I missed the alarm," she complained, by the kitchen table.

"It happens, Kamilah. To all of us."

"It had never happened to me before."

"I've read many women will experience excessive sleepiness during pregnancy."

Kamilah rolled her eyes. That was a brand new symptom, aside from the intense hunger and mood swings.

"You're too obsessed with these books," she mocked Amy. The girl would invest long hours into reading pregnancy books and websites.

"I know," Amy winked and smiled.

Kamilah embraced her from behind, placing a trail of kisses all over her neck.

"What are you doing?"

"Thanking you for cooking such a delicious breakfast?"

Amy turned around to face her and the female vampire kissed her long and passionately, while pressing their bodies together against the kitchen counter. Increased sex drive was another thing Kamilah was experiencing with her pregnancy, and apparently Amy did too.

"Aren't we... late?" Amy asked, between moans.

"We can make ourselves a little bit later," Kamilah told, nibbling on her lower lip. "Perks of being the CEO."

They left together to Ahmanet Financial. Amy never returned to her job at Raines Corporation after the argument with Adrian. She was doing a good job at Kamilah's company as Junior Executive. She didn't know yet, but part of Kamilah's shares were now hers. Since they were going to become a family, Kamilah wanted her future wife to have part of her assets.

She and Amy agreed to wait until the baby was born to decide if they were ready for marriage. Kamilah didn't want her to feel any pressure.

From the bigger fridge she installed inside her office, Kamilah took a blood bag. She had improvements with sickness, but her hunger had never been so intense.

"Kamilah," Amy entered the office, carrying some papers. "They loved the idea of building a space for children before school age inside the company. We've got... 100% of the votes."

"Great job, Amy," Kamilah responded with a smile. "Not only your idea encourage women to keep pursuing a carreer after giving birth, but the space is very educational too, preparing children for the school years. Congratulations."

"Thank you so much for giving me a chance. I mean, I didn't want to be an assistant forever, but I wasn't sure I was capable of something so big yet."

"Amy, you're capable of so much more. I trust you, this is why I've given you this job."

Kamilah placed a kiss on her lips. Amy placed her hands on her waist, then caressed her stomach.

"How long until it starts to show?" She asked, with some frustration. "I just can't wait."

"Not too long, I assume."

When her belly started to show, Kamilah would publicly announce to the media she was going to be a mother. Before, Amy would tell her family and introduce Kamilah to them.

Kamilah still wasn't fond of the idea of being pregnant. But Amy did everything to make her feel better about it. In the previous night, they went out together and the girl suggested they should buy an item for the baby. Kamilah thought it was too early, but she eventually agreed. She bought a beautiful navy-blue bodysuit with a little crown embroidered on it. Amy bought a pair of Converse shoes for infants.

"How are you feeling today?" Amy asked, noticing the empty blood bag on her desk.

"The same," Kamilah told. "No sickness, but the hunger is still extreme. Nobody can say this boy isn't your son, after all."

"Hey!"

----------

The Invitation - 1 month later, 12 PM

Kamilah was surprised when Lily Spencer wanted to see her in the middle of the day. Being such a young vampire, it should be more difficult for her to be out in the sunlight, even only for a few minutes.

"She said it's important," Erin told.

"Let her in."

Minutes later, Lily entered Kamilah's office in a hurry, joining her and Amy.

"Lil, what brings you here so early?" Amy asked, noticing she looked a little affected by the sun.

"I... I received this last night," Lily told between pants. "As well as... everyone else in the Shadow Den. I needed to ask Kamilah what it's about... people are panicking."

Kamilah took the envelope Lily handed her. It was a formal invitation for a Vampire Assembly, to discuss matters that could compromise the safety of the entire community, as well as the human race. Hosted by Adrian Raines.

"What?!" Kamilah shouted when she finished reading.

Amy grabbed the invitaton and read it too.

"Do you think..."

"I'm very sure of it. After all, I'm the only Vampire in New York who hasn't been invited."

Kamilah confirmed with Erin. She hadn't received any mail from Adrian in the last couple of days.

"Guys," Lily looked at them confused. "What's going on? What are you talking about?"

Kamilah let out a long sigh.

"Tell her," she told Amy.

"Just like that?" Amy asked. "Lil, Kamilah is pregnant. With my baby."

Lily laughed for five minutes straight, before realizing they were serious. It was only when Amy explained in details, that she was finally convinced.

"Wait, so you're telling me this crazy experiment Adrian made, impregnated Kamilah with your child. Who could be not only the heir of Ahmanet Financial, but the most powerful living vampire?"

Amy nodded in response. Lily immediately broke down in tears and hugged her best friend as tight as her mortal body could handle.

"I'm going to be his aunt, right?"

"Of course, Lil," Amy started crying too. "In my mind you've been his aunt since the moment I found out."

"That's it," Lily sniffed and wiped off her tears, "we need to celebrate. Kamilah, where's the booze?"

Kamilah wasn't paying any attention. Her eyes were red in pure anger again. Adrian was hosting an assembly to convince the Vampire community of New York that her son was a hazard, and ask them to sign a petition in favor of interrupting Kamilah's pregnancy. That shoudn’t be allowed to happen.

"Kamilah," Amy placed a hand on her shoulder. "We should go to this assembly. We have the right to expose our version of the facts too."

"After what Gaius has done, Amy? They'll hunt us alive to preserve their safety."

"We can't just stay here with our arms crossed while they make this decision for us! It's our son."

"The best we can do is to leave New York," Kamilah lamented. "One of my major offices is in Los Angeles. We'll be safer in West Coast."

----------

The Assembly - 1 month later, 10 PM

After much pondering, Kamilah decided Amy was right. They couldn't simply run away from their own home. The life of their child was their decision to make. No petition would make her change her mind about keeping her son.

When they arrived, the largest conference room in Raines Corporation was crowded. Every vampire in New York was watching as he presented a slide show, explaining his experiment and the mistake he had done.

"This baby was generated from blood of the Tree Of Eternal Life, as did Gaius, Xenocrates and Rheya, the First Vampire. He will be carrying the very same power in his veins. A power that will control him and transform him into a ruthless monster."

Kamilah crossed her arms, wondering when would be the most appropriate moment to interrupt. By her side, Amy couldn't hold herself anymore.

"Kamilah is not only being irresponsible," Adrian continued, "but extremely selfish. After everything this city went through with Gaius, are we ready for another bloodshed, another war?"

When Kamilah noticed, Amy was already standing by his side in front of the room. The Vampires started to yell all kinds of insults and offenses.

"Good, Adrian told his version of the facts," she started. "As you know, every story has two sides and now I'm here to tell you mine."

They weren't willing to listen, but Amy proceeded with her speech. Kamilah was admired by her bravery and determination to fight for their starting family.

"You couldn't have picked a better mom," she thought, placing a hand on her belly. It was the first time she actually did that. Amy spoke to their baby all the time, telling stories and assuring him of how much he was loved.

"The blood from the tree was only part of this child's conception. He's the result of Kamilah's DNA mixed with mine and most of all, he's resulted from our love."

Amy glanced in Kamilah's direction and the female vampire responded with an approving nod.

"I understand you are all scared, after everything we went through with Gaius. But I promise you, that if we have one chance to raise our son, we'll make him a good man."

"I'm not risking my existance again," a vampire yelled from the middle of the crowd.

"Neither will I!" Another one added. "Death to the Third Son!"

The rest of the crowd joined him. All repeating the same words.

"Death to the Third Son!"

Upset, Amy returned to Kamilah's side. Kamilah wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kissed her forehead.

"You tried," she attempted to comfort her. "But there's no problem, okay? We're going to Los Angeles, where nobody will ever touch our boy."

"Okay," Amy muttered, "it's still unfair. He's being judged and sentenced even before he's born. New York should be his home too."

As they left the room, Kamilah exchanged one last look with Adrian, who passed his petition to the crowd. There was something different about his face, instead of darkness, Kamilah detected a hint of sorrow and sadness.

----------

The Promise - 1 month later, 1 AM

Despite the exhaustive day she had, Kamilah couldn't force herself to get any sleep. Amy was sleeping by her side, like a rock. She wished she had this same ability of resting her mind so easily and get a deep night of sleep.

She closed her eyes, trying to relax, when she heard the bell ringing. Who could it be, so late at night? Before opening the door, she looked at the video security system.

"I didn't expect to see you here," she sighed, opening the door. "What do you want, Adrian?"

"I wanna talk to you," he answered.

"We have nothing to talk about. I've made my decision."

"Please."

Kamilah guided Adrian to the living room. She acommodated herself on the couch, next to him.

"Only Lily refused to sign the petition. Jax isn't willing to risk the safety of his clan again," Adrian told.

"Who cares about their opinion?" Kamilah scowled. "It's my son and I'll kill whoever tries to hurt him."

There was a moment of silence between them, until Adrian crumpled the petition and threw it in the fireplace.

"I know. And I completely understand you."

"What?"

"I'm so sorry, Kamilah," he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. "There were a lot of things going through my mind. I failed my company when I made such a big mistake. I failed you too. You've told me you never desired to have children, not even as mortal."

"I'm still not very fond of the idea, but..." Kamilah's lips curled up in a smile. "Amy makes it look so easy and amazing. I want to try. I want to start a family with her, the woman I love."

"I've been there. I still remember when Eleanor told me I was going to be a dad. I was happy, but at the same time I was scared, insecure. In the end, I failed them both too."

"Adrian..."

"But I won't fail again," Adrian fought a smile. "Kamilah, do you forgive me for all I've done? I was so consumed by my own feelings that I never considered yours. Deep down, I think I was jealous of what you and Amy have, and of your child. I'd do anything to..."

"You stil can," Kamilah placed her hand on top of his. "You can have a family again."

"Would you give me the honor of being this kid's uncle? I promise to protect him with my life, if I have to."

"Of course. After all, if it wasn't for you he'd never exist."

Adrian wiped off a few tears from his face before hugging Kamilah and stroking her stomach.

"Thank you, Kamilah. So, have you picked a name for this little guy yet?"

"I may have something in mind."

----------

The Betrayal - 1 month later, 6 PM

After some effort, Kamilah and Adrian managed to convince the vampire community to trust they'd keep them safe, and raise that child with caution, watching for any possible signs of danger.

With that, she was free to live in New York with Amy by her side. There was still one thing she'd like to do though, make their commitment official. Inside her secret drawer, she grabbed a small box containing a ring and smiled. That night, after taking Amy for a special dinner, was the perfect opportunity to propose her.

"Ms. Sayeed," Erin knocked on the door. "The blood bags you ordered have arrived."

"It was about time. I'm starving."

Kamilah took a blood bag and stocked the rest in her fridge. Erin watched her in silence.

"Anything wrong, Erin?" She raised an eyebrow, while she drank.

"Nothing, Ms. Sayeed. I'd like to know if you'll need anything else before my shift ends."

"Actually," Kamilah grinned. "You can go home earlier. I have a special dinner tonight."

"Really? What's the occasion?"

"I'm officially asking Amy to marry me."

"Such good news, Ms. Sayeed," her assistant prepared to leave her office. "I wish you all the luck in the world."

"Wait," Kamilah told her, "could you do me one last favor? Would you hire a..."

A sharp pain in her lower abdomen made her wince. The pain started to grow stronger, becoming more and more unbearable. Something Kamilah had never experienced before.

"Erin..." she groaned. "Call Adrian... I think I'm... I'm losing my baby."

Erin stared at her with a cold gaze. It was obvious she had put something in Kamilah's blood bag. Some abortive substance.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Sayeed. I've heard the news. I'm not willing to risk the future of my kind to preserve your child. Have a good night."

She closed the door and locked it from outside. Leaving Kamilah and her baby at their own fate.

[crvelsovls]

—

delphine laurent has been seen walking around town. hazelgrove is familiar of the twenty-nine year old demon as she is against restoring the town’s glamour spell. the people of hazelgrove can agree that the dancer can be poised yet still be destructive. let’s just hope something can be settled before the town is turned upside town. + rose gold highlighter shimmering along the height of prominent cheekbones, black satin dresses draped over a svelte frame and blood-red roses in a vase on the window sill.

why, hellooo there !! i’m chrissie and i’m super duper excited to be here !! this here is the first of my gals ; delphine aka my sassy lil demon child fkhfjh she’s kinda a newish muse so pls bear with me while i navigate this chaotic hellcat lmao anywaysss i’m utter plot trash so feel free to slap a lil heart on this and i’ll come pester you for plots n all that good stuff !! : )

FUNDAMENTALS.

full name. delphine athena laurent.

nicknames. del, & della.

physical age. twenty-nine.

actual age. three hundred and fifty seven.

birthday. unknown.

gender. cisgender female.

pronouns. she / her.

species. demon.

nationality. unknown.

religion. agnostic.

birthplace. unknown.

current residence. hazelgrove, me.

sexual orientation. pansexual.

romantic orientation. aromantic.

education. psychology degree.

occupation. dancer at purgatory.

CONNECTIONS.

birth mother. unknown.

birth father. abraxas.

full blood siblings. unknown.

significant other. n/a.

children. n/a.

pets. n/a.

PROFICIENCIES.

spoken languages. english, spanish, french, italian, german, & russian.

negative traits. brusque, obstinate, destructive, deceptive, & promiscuous.

positive traits. elegant, headstrong, observant, independent, & confident.

strengths. etiquette, resourcefulness, knowledgeable, quick-thinker, original, brainstorming, charismatic, & energetic.

weaknesses. argumentative, insensitive, intolerant, finds it difficult to focus, & dislikes practical matters.

skills. skilled with blades and various knives, skilled with firearms, hand-to-hand combat, memory recall, physical stamina, able to use initiative, & excellent problem-solving abilities.

talents. violin, dancing, & photographic memory.

APPEARANCE.

eye colour. green.

hair colour. dark brown.

height. five feet, five inches.

weight. 61 kg.

build. she is considered average height for a female and is both slender and toned.

scars. a rather noticeable one across her clavicle and a few others in less visible places.

tattoos. n/a.

piercings. earlobes.

glasses. n/a.

MISCELLANEOUS.

zodiac. unknown.

element. fire.

house. slytherin.

myers briggs type. entp-a.

alignment. chaotic neutral.

enneagram. type eight.

temperament. choleric

intelligence type. intra-personal.

character label. the vixen.

diseases. n/a.

past mental disorders. post-traumatic stress disorder, & acute stress disorder.

current mental disorders. undiagnosed.

addictions. tobacco, cocaine, & alcohol.

vices. lust, greed, & wrath.

virtues. temperance, diligence, & humility.

allergies. n/a.

diet. carnivore.

dominant hand. ambidextrous.

accent. american.

blood type. o negative.

felonies. petty theft charge when she was fifteen. she also has a history of both kleptomania, & pyromania when she was a teenager.

vehicle. red 1966 shelby 427 cobra.

BACKGROUND.

trigger warning(s). mention of death, mention of imprisonment, & mention of murder.

although the region of her birth remains a mystery to delphine, she knows for certain that her parentage is a complex story. the by-product of a human mother and a demonic father, delphine entered this world destined for a life of chaos and disarray. though she never knew her mother, her father had been thrilled by the sheer idea of having a child he could mould and shape into the pitch-black soul he desired her to be, minus the influence of a mortal. indeed, the demon abraxas had big plans for his little girl, plans she grew to work against despite her father’s best efforts to rein her in.

the instant little delphine began to display her powers, make use of her abilities and disobey daddy dearest, the girl was locked in her room. a room that contained every possible thing that a child could want. for the first few years of her life, delphine was homeschooled by a demon under her father's command. while her father made sure she had wanted for nothing, the older she grew the deeper she desired to explore the world  and her capabilities. one fateful night, the girl managed to escape her father's abode; used her enhanced speed and endurance to run far into the dark night. of course, it wasn't long until her father's demonic henchmen were on her tail, dragging her back to her prison. delphine knew her father gave her the best life possible but she also knew that there were ulterior motives behind his kindness.

eventually, delphine proved to defy her father to breaking point resulting in him having her shipped off to an all-girls boarding school. during her schooling years there, her father sparsely visited or, instead, often sent one of his subservient demons to check in with his daughter in his place. then, after a long period of time, the visitations ceased; the last thing delphine heard was that her father had wound up entangled with a couple of hunters.

delphine deemed this both a blessing and a curse. a curse as all she'd known was her father's rule. a blessing as she was finally free to lead her own life; make her own choices and follow her own path. she wasted no time in graduating from the academy before deciding to move to new york city where she found herself enrolled in new york university, undertaking a psychology degree.

still, with no word from her father or his servants, a small element of delphine continued to look over her shoulder in fear that they would creep back into her life. perhaps her father’s involvement with the hunters had ended in disaster. or perhaps he’d simply given up on his daughter fulfilling the prophecy he placed upon her. though the latter seemed unlikely to her, delphine wasn’t entirely sure if she truly cared enough to give any of it a second thought.  

after her graduation, she was cornered by a demon who claimed to work for her father. it soon became apparent that her father had vanished, seemingly having fell off the face of the earth altogether, and that this demon had stepped in to fill his shoes. naturally, the demon was trying to recruit delphine into the fold once more but refusing to take no for an answer had deadly consequences for this other demon.  

having killed the new ruler of her father’s faction, delphine made her way across various states until she would up in hazelgrove where she laid low for the first year. after a while, she began working in purgatory as a bartender until she decided she wanted to be front and centre stage, ending up becoming a dancer. 

while delphine isn’t fond of the idea of serving demons, she isn’t utterly opposed to working alongside them nor using her demonic powers. delphine can be a ruthless, callous creature who most definitely doesn’t exist to serve anybody or bend to the will of anyone.

PERSONALITY.

the semblance of delphine can only be accurately encapsulated by ribbed turtlenecks and skin-tight jeans with red-bottomed heels. the air of her seemingly callous persona epitomised by the ease of narcissism and offhand sardonic quips accompanied by a playful grin. delphine is the perfect balance of an elegant, self-assured woman and an intelligent, artful creature; effortlessly displaying only a rare sum of her persona, the elements of her she wishes others to see while concealing all the other elements of herself she deems less than favourable. one’s initial opinion of delphine might be that she appears cold, the kind of person who wouldn’t blink while grasping any opportunity to cut you down only to build herself up. delphine couldn’t be farther removed from her childhood self. every inch, every last detail of the once bright-eyed young girl has been broken down and reshaped into the icy-glared creature who lives today. life strengthened her, shaped her into a careless adaption of who she once was; a woman who stands her ground and speaks up for herself and what she believes in, never fearing the consequences of her actions.

QUICK FACTS.

owns waaay too many pairs of heels.

her signature look is her blood-red lips.

often wears suits and totally rocks them.

extremely skilled with knives and blades. always carries one on her person at all times.

has never been in love or had her heart broken.

although she wears a lot of red, black is actually her favourite colour. she feels her most powerful in an all-black outfit.

her most prized possession is her brushed chrome zippo. it has her initials engraved on it and where she got it or from who is something she’ll never tell.

always seen with a cigarette in hand. she seriously chain smokes. always says she needs to quit but never does and probably never will either.

is very soft underneath and a lot more sensitive than she lets on but she’d rather die than expose this about herself.

has a history of both kleptomania and pyromania when she was a teenager.

has a felony of petty theft when she was fifteen.

has a psychology degree from nyu but never tells people about this.

drives way too fast but loves the thrill of it.

is aromantic. believes she doesn’t have the capacity to love.

can speak quite a few different languages though she never usually makes use of this.

she can be pretty deadly if you piss her off enough.  

thrives on chaos.

a tad theatrical.

is truly an independent woman who don’t need no man.

her drink of choice is vodka tonic.

WANTED PLOTS.

for wanted connections and potential plots, i’m open to anything and everything. seriously, throw any idea at me and if it has angst, i’m a million per cent there !! however, some connections i’d love to see delphine have are :

a confidant / friendship.

a best pal.

an unlikely supernatural creature who turns out to be her friend.

of course, fellow demons.

a potential love interest.

past or present flings / hookups / fwb / one night stands.

frenemies or plain ole enemies.

clashing personalities.

somebody she often spends time with, most likely drinking with.

[clansayeed]

Bound by Choice ― IV.i. Complex Creatures Are They

PAIRING: OC x OC x OC (Valdas x Isseya x Cynbel) RATING: Mature (reader discretion advised)

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Choice ⥽

Before there were Clans and Councils, before the fate of the world rested in certain hands, before the rise and fall of a Shadow King ― there was the Trinity. Three souls intertwined in the early hands of the universe who came to define the concept of eternity together. Because that was how they began and how they hoped to end; together. For over 2,000 years Valdas, Cynbel, and Isseya have walked through histories both mortal and supernatural. But in the early years of the 20th century something happened―something terrible. Their story has a beginning, and this is the end.

Bound by Choice and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Choice is the only book in the series not based on an existing Choices story. It is set in the Bloodbound universe and features many canon characters.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Choice/series tag list!

⥼ PART IV ⥽

— London, 1876. They have been everywhere and done everything. Watched empires rise and fall and seen marvels never even dreamed of. The Trinity have wealth, they have youth — they have each other. But after two thousand years... is it still enough?

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Invitation to dine at the Montes Estate is a desirable thing. Earning the ire of its Lords and Lady; less so. Though the years continue to change the Trinity's devotion to one another will always stay the same.

[READ IT ON AO3]

London, 1876

“If you ask me my opinion on the matter —”

Valdas sighs around his forkful of mutton — a little thing easily missed by mortal ears, but they catch it quite plainly. Valdas has the patience of a man who has weathered the petulance of monarchies for ages. If he cannot hold back his disdain there must really be something worth disliking about the man.

Well that much is more than obvious. And this is only one of the several evenings they are meant to host the boorish Viscount?

“Please,” Cynbel encourages with less than half a heart, “do go on, Lord Edwards.” And because his head is so far up his own rear end he does. In such a fashion that matches his red-faced appetite no less.

“Well, my opinion is that of Her Majesty’s. Shame only that she could not have exerted her authority enough to silence that ponce Gurney permanently.”

Pick any other dining room in London and one might find Edwards’ sentiments met with agreement from all around. Here, however, he’s lucky to get similar views out of even a third of the table. The best part is that he has the misfortune of realizing it far too late to take it back.

That they have been able to surround themselves with like minds so quickly since their arrival is nothing short of luck. Or perhaps, he’s willing to admit, expert skill on the parts of his lovers.

There’s a reason Cynbel is no longer allowed to attend even a simple tea without one of them; at the very least. Usually it takes both to undo the damage he unwittingly causes whenever he opens his mouth.

Because the Viscount Edwards is a fool he waits — lets the silence drag on uncomfortably in the hopes that someone might raise their voice to agree with him. Doubtful such a fragile ego could handle healthy debate.

Valdas and Cynbel exchange glances of barely-contained bemusement. They do so enjoy watching her tear into lesser men — even if it no longer means literally so.

“If you would not have women in the medical profession, my Lord, where would you have them then?”

Their darling girl — she’s never been known for her mercy. She doesn’t even allow the Viscount a moment’s offense before she snaps her fingers brisk, startling him into attention. “I asked you a question. As you are in my home and at my table, and as the words you so childishly spew are wetted with my wine, the least you could do is muster me an answer.”

“Such a brazen young wife you have, Lord Montes.”

Cynbel covers his mouth with his hand — if he starts to laugh now he simply won’t be able to stop. Valdas, too, looks ready to mock the man but he knows better by now. Both of them know this is simply the mentality of such fragile creatures; it is in the nature of the weak to find someone to subjugate as a means of removing that weakness. But it is still there; they are merely blind to it. And it will be the death of them.

“I believe it was the Lady Montes who was addressing you, my Lord, not I.”

But Cynbel’s restraint is only so much, and far less than his beloveds. “Unless you picked up a fair talent for ventriloquy in secret. Have you, Valdas?”

“I doubt even a master of the profession could impose upon my Lady his will.” She would eat his tongue for even trying.

With every quip the Viscount huffs and puffs, red face now a compliment to the plum of Cynbel’s dinner jacket.

And if there is one thing the Trinity has learned since immersing themselves in the upper echelons of Victorian society it is this: the wealthy are fools who equate riches with longevity; because they have money they think they will live forever.

Yet they do so love to dig their own graves.

“I admit there are certain advantages to having the nurturing concern of a woman at one’s sickly bedside,” Edwards digs and digs and digs, “but there is an inherent difference between the sexes that cannot be denied. That has been proven scientifically! And by those very same who would now burden themselves with the task of catching a woman up to their decade’s worth of knowledge.”

“‘Nurturing concern?’ Who, our Iss’?” Cynbel whispers for Valdas’ amusement even though it receives him the sharp sting of a shoe on his toes.

Though if either man had not seen the carnality Isseya was capable of with their own eyes they might not believe any claims to such. Not of late, anyway. They humor her these lashings of wit because she suffers the brunt of the burdens among this closed-minded society — the least they could do is allow her to bring men like the Viscount to heel like the dogs they are.

A task which she has not only accepted — but which she flourishes in. More than once her words have been enough to sway the dustiest of aged lechers, the young men raised to think their mothers less than them, the whole lot.

And when words are fruitless—because some are born and will die ignorant—both Valdas and Cynbel watch with delight (and no small amount of desire) while she serves them threats on their lives dipped in honey with their wine.

Cynbel shifts so as not to do so obviously — but one look to Isseya’s perfect features and he knows the Viscount will join the latter ranks this night.

He slips his hand down to rest on her thigh. Draws soft circles with his thumb, carves the old tongue they try desperately not to forget in the light drag of his fingernail over silk. Her tension eases slightly.

“Bold that you would impose such vulgarity on me in my own home.”

“Your husband’s home.”

Valdas tsks and folds his hands over his meal. “Best I’m kept out of this, I despair to think of the mess.”

“My home,” another snap to draw the Viscount’s attention, “where you have grossly overstayed your welcome.”

Of course men like him have the gall to look offended. Guest of Parliament or not Cynbel is having a hard time resisting the urge to tear his spine out in the middle of the entree. If he could manage to find it, anyway.

“I beg pardon?!”

“No amount of begging could change my mind, though you are welcome to try.” Isseya smooths her skirts and stands, her lovers following suit. And with them, the rest of their guests save the Viscount join in.

“Montes, surely you see this—this —” Don’t say it… don’t say it… “— this hysteria for what it is!”

Innovation has been a wonderful thing but Cynbel knows firsthand he and his are not the only vampires resentful to some of its finer points. Disposing of a body used to be such a simple thing; you could just leave it out and save grieving families and vengeful lovers nothing more would come of it. Do you know how hard it is to make a body vanish these days?

But the effort of it is a necessary one. His title will spur investigation, and already he’s contemplating when the constable will come knocking with statements of this very argument in hand. And it will be worth it for the satisfaction their beloved will get in eviscerating him.

It is Valdas who speaks and they both know why. Neither of them particularly eager to deal with the consequences of the fangs Iss’ will undoubtedly bare.

“Get. out.”

“My Lord —”

“Now!”

They scurry like the insects they are. Those who have been to the Montes Estate for before—and wish to do so again—are polite enough to push their chairs in before they join the crowd. Valdas takes note of their faces. They wouldn’t have survived this long without knowing the faces of what few humans were worth getting acquainted with.

The Viscount takes his pitiful time. Still aghast; unable to fathom that he is somehow in the wrong despite insulting the hostess numerous times, lacking in the common sense to read the bloody room.

He is the last to leave. As though lingering might somehow change their minds, as though they might apologize. He has the political clout to make Valdas’ work with the House of Commons difficult and he’s undoubtedly petty enough to do just that.

Or he would if he had the chance.

He won’t.

Only then does he notice that Isseya isn’t still at all. She’s shaking.

“Iss’…?” Cynbel moves to pull her close by the waist — or he would if she doesn’t slap his hand aside with a noise of discontent.

He doesn’t know what to say, to do. Looks to Valdas because he is their Light, their Lord, and he always has the answer. But even he seems uncertain.

His tone is perhaps a little too warning and not sympathetic enough. “Isseya, that was uncalled for.”

“Fuck your ‘uncalled for!’”

Cynbel is a victim of proximity and bears the weight of her lashing; squeezes his eyes closed so tight the spectacles they once thought so amusing on him nearly slip off his nose. The stale evening air doesn’t lessen the five points of pain where she gored at his cheek. Feels his blood wet and warm in rivulets trickling down his skin to drip drip their crimson stain on his collar.

Not like they haven’t struck one another out of passion in their eternity together. They have before and no doubt they would again; such is the burden of loving too hard—too much.

But Isseya doesn’t even look remorseful. No, she looks satisfied.

It stuns both of her lovers still and silent. She bares human teeth with a fire in her eyes. “You think all is made calm with a—a touch?! That fucking me content undoes the words I take night after night after night?!”

“Neither of us would dare,” replies Valdas cool and calm. It only angers her further.

“I will not deny it was amusing at first; toying with their heads, seducing their wives, dismantling the safety of the disgusting mentalities they have held for far too long. But I can only take so much. Why should I have to make argument as to whether or not I am worthy of personhood in front of these worms?!”

Cynbel has to wait until his cheek has healed to speak, until he can no longer feel the breeze near the candles against his teeth. “You seemed as if to enjoy it.”

“Like I said — at first.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

She snarls. “I do. Every. god. damned. night. I do.” Her chest heaves against her corset with every word and Cynbel can’t remember ever seeing her like this; so repulsed by him, by them. “But I don’t even get to kill them! To show them just who they have angered — who they have wronged. A thousand years ago no man would dare say such things even in my presence lest they lose their precious cocks, or find their entrails strung up like garlands in the trees, or taste their pathetic little spines.

“But I can’t do that anymore, can I? Not without risk of exposure, of being caught. If not as vampires then as murderers.”

“We have all made sacrifices in the face of a changed world, darling.” Valdas insists, but they all know it to be true.

She raises her chin despite the trembling of her lower lip.

“I can no longer, my Lord. Do not ask it of me, not even for another night. I can’t.”

When their Divinity rounds to her Isseya struggles, even if only at first. Tries in vain to pull her wrists from his grasp, to push him away, but Cynbel knows firsthand the efforts are fruitless.

Then, not even a needle of space between them, she dissolves into tears in her God’s arms. Wails with the might of a banshee muffled into his collar and he weathers the storm of her in an eternal embrace.

Of course. Of course they have all given up the old world, the old ways in lieu of progress. And Cynbel thought himself the most resistant to it all but he could not have been more blind to the truth. In many ways he is still given a berth to be the hunter, the predator that lurks beneath his skin. But not her, not Isseya.

When Valdas goes to rest his hand upon her hair the ornaments braided in stop him. Ornaments, baubles they bought her, bound her with Cynbel’s mind unhelpfully reminds him — but he pushes it aside to gently comb them free, to free her even if just a little bit.

He could—should, is about to—step back. But with claws still stained by his blood Isseya reaches back for a fistful of his dinner coat. Don’t go. So he doesn’t; rests his forehead against the crown of her and allows them both to envelop her until she is no more.

It was a drunken amusement to them; this echoing cavern of a house in the heart of crowded London. Certainly it was more space than they would ever need. They had their bed, as they had always done. And more often than not every other room stood still — as preserved in time as the home’s occupants.

Only by force has the Trinity ever slept apart.

Until now.

He’s awake but Cynbel doesn’t open his eyes. And when he does his arm is thrown over them. Trying to keep the world away for as long as possible.

It’s with a selfish relief that he wanders into the dining room to find the other parts of his soul looking as just as sleep-deprived and lost as he feels.

Cynbel’s half into his seat at Valdas’ left when he catches Isseya’s subtle cough. Looks up to her as perfect as ever and strangely he’s a little disappointed their healing did not let her stay red-eyed and savage — as though it somehow seeks to invalidate her agony — but he can’t imagine not being at her beck and call and makes his way to her instead.

Before Iss’ can rise to meet him Cynbel takes a knee at her side.

The absent rustling of papers stops behind him; Valdas taken with the sight of them even all these years, decades, centuries later. But pride is for those better-rested, so Cynbel settles on contentment that only grows when Isseya’s hesitant hand begins to card through his hair.

“Waking was…”

“Torture?” she offers, and he takes it because it’s true, “I… would fall to the edge of sleep, but there was such a void around me I never really rested.”

Cynbel nods, knows. “I must have come to around midday but could not bring it upon myself to move.”

The Children of Valdemaras look to him as one. Neither of them could expect the stack of bound papers he produces from his lap. “I finally finished that play I started with William.”

They laugh because it’s ridiculous and because they could not possibly lament any more than they already have. There’s a comfort between them even if he’s sitting on the rug so that’s where Cynbel stays; where he pulls the manuscript down and flips through it while Isseya tries to read over his shoulder. “No no, go back, I saw ‘cock-chamber’ what the bloody hell is a ‘cock-chamber’?” And when Valdas does not answer his Golden Son makes use of long legs and nudges teasingly at the man’s groin for incentive to do so.

“Come on, tell us. Tell us. Please tell us? Tell us please!”

“You’re like a child!”

“You adore it.”

“I — you both know very well that this catastrophe of a script was started under some very strong hallucinogenics. Get your foot — we’ve discussed my dislike of your feet!”

Valdas bats away the offending foot; fixes what likely would be a harsh and cold glare down at his firstborn. But there’s a snort up above Cynbel’s head and both of them look to the sight of Isseya with different tears in her eyes, desperately plugging away at her nose and they’ve only made her laugh like that maybe ten times in two thousand years and she’s so beautiful — he’s so beautiful — they are both so fucking beautiful it hurts him all the way down to his bones.

“Oh I remember,” Isseya agrees, “and if my memory serves me—which it usually does—you came back to us in full costume regalia for the role of a… what was it, beloved?”

She looks down to Cynbel, whose mischief matches her mirth.

“Why my dearest love I do believe it was the role of a whore.”

Not that they haven’t told him this story dozens of times for the sheer amusement of it, but that each time Valdas still manages to look so offended makes it all the better.

“I—without proof I refuse to believe —”

“You made such a pretty whore,” Isseya croons.

“I would have paid you in the crown jewels.”

“You—the both of you are such awful, terrible, ungrateful progeny!” And I will love you as I have loved you, as I love you now; boundlessly and effortlessly and eternally. He doesn’t need to say it. That’s what makes it wonderful.

By the time their attending man comes in with the post Cynbel has returned to a proper seat. But the corners that divide the three of them no longer feel so sharp at the edges; the distance no longer so vast.

How delightfully, dreadfully domestic they are in these moments. One could forget they once ravaged continents were they to see this, now; three vampires pouring over letters, missives, the paper.

Isseya lets out a noise of discontent, a lilted “bastard,” as she devours a small handwritten missive. Cynbel glances at the envelope but doesn’t recognize the handwriting.

“Not another wedding invitation, I hope.”

“You know I would prefer it to this betrayal.” She takes no small amount of satisfaction in holding the thick vellum sheet over the nearest candle; lets it burn bright and until the flames tickle her fingertips before she drops what remains onto her empty plate. “It seems my own ungrateful progeny has taken it upon himself to choose the new home of the Musea Sanguis.”

Valdas frowns. “We agreed Jingyi was to move the collection here, to London. Don’t tell me he’s kept it in Paris.”

“On the contrary, snide little worm stabbed us in the back. He sends his ‘good tidings and well-fucking-wishes’ from New York.”

And they all know what that means. Not that there’s anything inherently wrong with the Godmaker taking principle ownership of the Musea, in fact given the political unease on their side of the world it makes the most sense.

Still. “It would have been nice to reclaim a few of our things before they fell into his hands,” Valdas mutters, and is not disagreed with.

With the fewest ties to society Cynbel rarely has anything specifically bearing his title. And if he does its importance is always greatly exaggerated. Like the invitation to Tepes’ new estate in Prague — he thought the man would have given up by now; what with his other dozen requests for their attendance at his bal masqué ignored. Unfortunately not.

Today, though, is different.

“Would you look at that…” He drags his knife along the common stock envelope but there’s only one person who would take the time to address him these days. “Seems Ambrose has made his way North. Though I suppose if there’s ever a time to wander those winters it’s when you can no longer feel the chill.”

“The boy from Virginia? He still writes?”

Cynbel shrugs and hands the letter off to Valdas’ curious eye. “What can I say, he saved your life and I was feeling nurturing.”

It’s the word that earns Isseya’s scornful mocking. “Then you shall be the one to keep the estate tidy.”

“I am the fairer sex, thank you for noticing.”

“Positively porcelain.”

“Isseya, my love?”

“Hm?”

“Kindly fuck off.”

It’s the kind of laughter that can’t help but be infectious. Seeping from one to the other to the other and linking them as they link their hands.

This. Cynbel knows it, feels it between and through them. This is worth living for.

And it is.

They’ve given themselves this gift for a reason. This indulgence, this life of excess. It is their reward for such a brief time without. Is it possibly too much too fast — he won’t say no. But what is endless life without going a little too far sometimes?

And though they are so desperately (painfully, yearningly, eternally) in love, the Trinity accepts that there are simply some facets of life in which they will never agree.

That would make this splendid time — trivial though it is — a first for them. A time in which they are all contented enough.

He should have known it would come crashing down sooner or later.

It takes a few days, lulls them into a false sense of security, but it does. It always does.

Cynbel’s mood sours the moment he steps into the mortuary. The smell that tickles the tip of his nose — fake death. Just let corpses rot, fucking humans.

“You’d better have a good reason for dragging me down here so close to dawn, Whittaker.” He barks because he knows his voice will echo harsh on the room’s tiles, because he knows the skittish man will (and does) cringe and make his shriveled self smaller at the mere presence of him.

Whittaker is a small whelp of a man. He never stops fidgeting, messing with his hands. Cynbel has half a mind to take one of his medical devices and saw his feet off at the ankles just so he doesn’t have to hear the rustling of his shuffled steps.

As expected he jumps out of his own skin; barely puts it back on before he’s tripping over himself in an attempt to greet the vampire at the door.

“As I ss-said in my letter, I deeply apologize for the inconvenience, sir,” and his words are oily with prostrated subservience, “but this could not w-wait. You will thank me f-for the warning.”

Exactly how Whittaker’s mortal life had crossed paths with enough evil to curse him revenant is a mystery Cynbel will never solve, but one that will haunt him until the end of his days.

“This way, if you please.”

Technically there is not a living soul among them. Three bodies — two who just so happen to have the fortune (and misfortune in Whittaker’s case) of permanence on this the plane of the living.

The revenant’s translucent hand hovers over the sheet for a moment. Perhaps he debates on whether or not to withdraw his summons — though they both know Cynbel will not allow it. He grasps the edge and pulls it back.

Cynbel isn’t surprised to see Viscount Edwards there; their unwilling guest of honor. Gladdened, perhaps. Concerned, deeply. But not surprised.

“You recognize him then.”

“Would you have called me here if you thought I would not?”

There is almost an “ah-ah,” from the mortician as Cynbel reaches for the corpse, but he thinks better of it and simply hovers. A fly seeking spoils while the vulture circles carrion.

His touch is clinical, methodical. Fingertips over peeling lips and down the full face. Eventually he whips the sheet aside and lets it fall behind him to be forgotten. Hears the mad dash of Whittaker to pick it up but doesn’t really listen to it.

“I feel no trace of warmth coming from him.”

His question, unspoken, is answered; “Lamplighters pulled him from the Thames not a few hours ago.”

“A drowned man doesn’t look like this.” Like this, he says, but even for a connoisseur of death such as himself Cynbel struggles to put it to better words. And he cannot help his reluctance to turn the man’s chin this way and that — but there are no wounds to be found even on his neck.

With every answer, a dozen questions more.

When he finally manages to wrench his eyes away Whittaker is back on the other side of the table straightening his smock. “I’ll need a carriage and a disposable driver. He’s not yet in rigor — have you a trunk or a crate? Something discreet.”

No creature as low on the evolutionary food chain as Whittaker should ever look at him like that; with pity. He’s feeling enough strangeness as it is — adding anger would only be adding fuel to the fire. “This is not a task to be negotiated, whelp. I’ll take him back to Montes and you will claim the death a suicide.” Why else would he have brought Cynbel here if not to help him cover it up? “Isseya can perform her own autopsy.”

“Ah, see…” Whittaker ticks his tongue; Cynbel takes great pleasure in the thought of ripping it out with a pair of nearby forceps, “that — I mean to say — that won’t be possible this time.”

This time. Because he’s to believe this creature has suddenly grown a spine? Bodies in far worse condition and definitively by the Trinity’s hand (because this, this he isn’t sure) have gotten the same treatment. Why else would he keep Whittaker’s ill company? He wouldn’t.

Cynbel leans forward and braces his hands on the edge of the table. It creaks under the weight of his years and Whittaker is right to jump in fright.

“And the logic to your insanity would be…?”

There is a great deal of fumbling and the metallic clatter of scalpels on the stone floor. All leading to an offering; a file of worn leather — something that has seen its share of reports all of them with bodies such as the Viscounts; set about in an endless cycle of morbidity.

“A—A detective of the Yard, sir. He’s already opened an investigation.”

Happenstance and the Trinity’s bad luck, really, that at the same time two skin-and-bone Lamplighters soaked through were catching the attention of a night constable, across London a detective was doing his level best to avoid his wrathful wife by staying on the job as long as he could. That he was two steps out into the night just as that same constable was rushing up in a fright.

Happenstance and really. bad. fucking. luck.

“So you s-see,” Whittaker hastens to finish his tale, casts glances at the poor excuse for a window near the ceiling to gauge the morning’s arrival, “I must dissect the poor Viscount here. Claiming his body gone would — dare I say it — be even more suspect than it already is.”

“So you brought me here to make a mockery of me?”

“Of cc-course not sir!”

“Then why —”

“To warn you.”

There’s a twinge of the Veil in the bespelled man’s warble. Whispers both his and not on lips that don’t move, a tongue that doesn’t speak. Cynbel prides himself on being a worldly man, on knowing secrets of both the worlds of light and shadow, and has seen this from Whittaker before.

If only it would stop the sinking pit of despair growing inside.

Their home is vast, yes. But Cynbel is loud.

“Isseya! Isseya!”

He breezes past the one who tries to take his coat and thinks little of it. No break in his bounding strides up the stairwell three at a time even though he hasn’t an inkling where they might be hiding at such a cunning hour.

“This isn’t the time for games! Valdas — Isseya!”

“Grief, you’re a dramatic one. We’re in the drawing room!”

Cynbel rounds the doorway to a peculiar sight. The first of its kind and for them that’s a bold statement.

But Isseya does not look up from her careful medical practices. Her grip doesn’t waiver even slightly on her scalpel where it slides like a hot knife in butter inside their Divinity’s abdomen.

Valdas reaches up what little he can where he lays prone on a chaise and dabs at her forehead with a handkerchief. As though live and conscious surgery is as much a part of them as lovemaking.

If this their darling girl’s fascination with the medical profession continues it may very well become such.

Cynbel’s words choke back down his throat as he approaches. All thought gone but for the sight before him. Watching intently as she slices along the layers of Valdas’ skin until she can pull back the flesh enough to expose bone.

Valdas hisses at that, which causes Isseya to still. Not to remove herself from him, but to wait until he gives the go-ahead for her to continue.

“I’m glad you’ve returned before she finished,” wheezes Valdas — a noise that draws Cynbel’s attention up to his similarly-filleted left lung as it goes through the familiar process of molding itself back together, “here I was beginning to worry I wouldn’t get the opportunity to ask your opinion on the matter.”

Would his opinion have stopped her? “My opinion on what, exactly?”

“How lovingly our dearest penetrates me, of course.” Both of his children can see the strain on his insides as he holds back his laughter. “She’s not as thick as you are, Cynbel, but she’s a quick study.”

“Obviously.” She mumbles back.

“Do you mean sexually or medically, beautif—aah, ow—ul?”

Even at the compliment she remains focused. “Yes.”

For a moment it’s almost enough to forget; to imagine all is well. Until it isn’t.

Valdas picks at a stray bit of flesh absently. “Whatever had you in such a maelstrom must not have been that important. Though if you care to explain why you return so close to sunrise, I would hear it.”

Isseya muses alongside; “One would have thought you got your fill of sunlight for the next century or so. I certainly did.”

Yes, right. “Whittaker sent for me.” And their disgust is understandable.

“What could that thing have possibly wanted that warranted such an outrage?” asks Valdas, but it’s Isseya that Cynbel fixates on when he speaks next.

“He wished for me to identify a body pulled out of the river. That of Viscount Edwards.”

Her composure slips in an instant. Her blood-slicked grasp veers harshly to the side, is followed quickly by their Lord and Light’s cry of malcontent and fresh blood bubbling up from the new incision. Of course he has sustained greater wounds, he is the Made-God of countless ages and innumerable battles. But that doesn’t stop Valdas from watching their darling beauty with a hesitant shadow on his previously carefree expression.

It takes little time for Isseya to regain her composure, she clasps fingers interlaced over the wound as if to demand the pieces of him knit back together. Cynbel grabs a cloth from the nearest washing bowl and kneels beside her to help.

That she goes rigid at his touch hurts him more than she can ever know.

The Made-God speaks first. Because his Golden Son has no more to say. Because his Priestess will not.

“Explain yourself.” But the movement only agitates the wound and the doctor.

“When you’ve healed. Stop talking.”

“I am not beholden to your whims, Isseya,” Valdas doesn’t care that he smears his blood on her as he grasps her chin; forces their eyes to meet, “you are beholden to mine. I seek an answer, and you will not deny me.”

Decades have passed since they have heard that voice from him. The one that demands their worship and takes nothing less than all they are. The voice of their Maker; more than a God in affectionate compliments but real and true. Old and craven.

Even Cynbel feels the pull of his blood towards Him, how it turns his skin inside-out and bends his spine in supplication. Were he not so desperate for the same answers he would almost pity her.

Fuck, she’s so proud. Not defiant—never—but proud. “Of course, my Holy One. I could never — would never think to.”

“I will not repeat myself.” Explain yourself.

“There is nothing to explain.”

He moves in a blur; a speed they will never hope to match. Grip tight enough to part her lips and expose her tongue. Her scalpel still stained with his blood now with the tip pressed against it. She learned her favorite torture methods from Him after all.

“You would lie to me with mine own tongue? Then I will take it back.”

“Were I lying I would cut it out myself in offering,” and for the first time she actually wavers, “but I am not, and would ask my Holy One to spare me for it.”

Two fights in the same fortnight. He wants to scream. But he cautions a tender hand between her shoulder blades instead. “Iss’… think about this.”

Not like they haven’t killed for revenge before. So why does she tempt his wrath like this here, now? Why would she not boast of this cur’s well-deserved death like she would any other?

The thought must occur to Valdas at the same time. He drops her and the blade all at once and pulls her against him, teeth grit through the pain of his healing body but that would never be enough to stop him.

Their kiss isn’t one of apology. This is what the two worshipers of Valdemaras walked willingly into millennia ago. They love Him for this. And He loves them in return.

Cynbel’s wide palm rests where their thighs meet. Their hands cover his on instinct.

“Wash up,” he tells them, “I worry that the revenant calling on me was a sign that this will not be a thing so easily ignored. The Yard has called for an investigation.”

It’s a messy thing; the way three bodies intertwine fingers. But they have seen the uniformity of two held hands and deemed it mundane; too mundane for what they are together.

“I…” Isseya tries to speak — but the words catch in her throat. So of course Valdas kisses her again; of course he takes the words she cannot say.

“I know.” He rasps.

“You swear?”

“On my love for you,” he squeezes their hands again, “for both of you.”

Promises like that are not easily cast aside.

“I’m still struggling to understand what makes this one instance different than all the others.” And Isseya has a point, really she does — but the growing petulance in her voice is admittedly unbecoming of someone with her rank and years. “He was a disgusting, pathetic little nuisance and — and surely the both of you can attest I was positively tame that night.”

Valdas exhales through his nostrils long and slow. A pointed effort on his part to continue sipping his tea rather than speak his thoughts on the matter.

“Unlike the Ambassador to Bombay?” He’s the most recent in Cynbel’s memory and only because he still remembers the smell of fragrant oils, burning flesh, and tropical fruit. A wonderful chance to reminisce of their days trekking across the continent.

“He touched me.”

“And lost those charming looks he so coveted for his troubles.”

Valdas’ cup clinks against the saucer and draws silence from them both; has them waiting on bated breath.

“A fine memory to be sure, though made less so when paired with the hefty sum it cost our coffers to shut him up.”

Cynbel averts his eyes. Isseya refuses to regret her actions — rightfully so — but even she can’t deny the effort it took to smooth over that particular incident.

“My point remains. The Viscount and I exchanged words but he left very much alive. Call upon the other guests — force them to speak on my behalf.”

What made Cynbel think Isseya was behind the Viscount’s midnight swim in the first place? It didn’t take a genius to come to that conclusion. Revenge is to justice is to swift acts of cruelty — all things they love about her.

Valdas pinches his brow. “He was a guest of Her Royal Highness. She will want to see a culprit found and hanged.”

“Well that’s not so bad.” Cynbel himself has been hanged more times than he can count. But his relief is not shared among them.

“If Isseya is hanged we will have to flee London.”

And as always their Divinity is the most rational even in irrational hours.

“Worse —” the serving spoon in her hand doesn’t survive intact; is quickly replaced by the attending butler so used to their displays of frustration, “— if I am hanged he wins.”

“He is dead, dearest.”

“His ilk, those fucking skeletons with their skin that clings like wet lace to their outdated ideals of broodmares and sacrificial virgins.”

A word choice that has Cynbel adjusting his cravat. “You say that like being a sacrificial virgin was a bad thing…” And its a sympathetic offer his God gives but he takes the outstretched hand nevertheless.

Isseya continues; “Hang me and any woman who dares challenge those living mausoleums will suffer the same. And that I will not abide.”

Their God hums his approval. “I was wondering when you would find your righteous cause.” And her confusion only amuses him, but he takes pity and continues; “Thank about it. All of my attempts at freedom from my Maker—fruitless at times but not always—they have fueled me as much as your companionship. And Cynbel… well.”

“Such lofty compliments you bestow.”

“You tread dangerously, beloved mine. But you always have, haven’t you? Just as Gaius will always be snapping at our heels there will always be war and you haven’t exactly been subtle in your desire to seek it out.

“But nothing has held my Priestess’ interest for long enough to consume her, as we have been consumed.”

She hesitates.

“Now that I have found it I will burn London to the ground before I let it go.”

“We would not dare ask it of you. This is a good thing, Isseya. Even shadowed in death as it is.”

“A little death isn’t a bad thing.”

It takes a moment but soon his lovers wear matching smiles; the pressure of what might come eased from their shoulders.

Truthfully it would solve much of their current strife if something were to rile the world. Something to silence the aristocracy and cull the herded masses. Something to distract the Yard so the Trinity may take care of this unpleasantness swiftly and quietly.

Cynbel would kill for a war right now.

Idle hands supping on silver spoons have always fueled the world’s creativity. Didn’t matter where they went, what they saw, what was tearing nations and empires in half outside the safety of gilded walls.

The rich always find a way to make life interesting. Anything for them to feel something, even the barest spark, that their wealth no longer offered.

All those brimming vices, the pot so very near boiling over, paired with the stiff and reserved top of the English social class? Fucking insanity — and the best kind, too.

All one had to do was pull back the velvet curtain to see every temptation succumbed to, every fantasy explored, every debasement given if only for a night — if only here. What? They had to be known for something; better sodomy and seduction than for their body count. Or… that was the plan.

“Forgive the interruption, my Lord,” says the butler with all the tact of an ass in a thoroughbred race, “but your presence has been requested in the library.”

How laughable, he thinks, and because the opium started to kick in mere minutes ago he does indeed laugh. Swings his head heavy with no crown in sight and looks up with utter disinterest.

“It’s not Whittaker, is it?”

“No my Lord.”

“Thank the Christian god.” Cynbel, however, makes no move to stand and take his leave. Instead he goes back to the far more enjoyable show of paint-smeared flesh closest to the window. At least his abandoned hobby was good for something.

“Ahem, my Lord.” What are they paying him, again? Whatever it is it isn’t enough — such determination, such professionalism and decorum. Though his voice strains the third time; “Please, my Lord.”

“Cynbel just go with the fucking man,” growls Valdas from his confines; his eyes brighten red when his firstborn doesn’t immediately obey, “because at this rate I’ll have his head just to shut him up and Tobias has been so very good to us.”

“He’d be far better if he would let me enjoy the show in peace.”

There it is; the barest chip in Tobias’ almost preternatural ability to stay composed. The young man nearly rolls his eyes but catches himself at the last breath of it — especially when he sees Cynbel has indeed abandoned his delights.

“Very well,” he relents, but Tobias’ relief is short-lived, “can’t you just invite whoever it is up here? I hate that I should be inconvenienced because someone didn’t bother to send word they were calling.”

That the butler’s hesitation is confusing doesn’t make it any less amusing to him. Not until Tobias forgoes his usual announcing tone to lean forward and practically whisper into Cynbel’s ear.

“Forgive me, my Lord, if I speak out of turn. But I would rather think you would want to keep a detective far away from events such as…” he gives a shaky exhale, “such as these.”

His ease drops out from underneath him and makes Cynbel pull back; judging the truth in the familiarity of Tobias’ too-bright eyes. A detective, though of course he should have suspected this it comes no less of a surprise.

The Trinity seek one another out about the width of the drawing room. Statues of flesh soft as silk but no less stone amidst passions abundant; their artist might call them The Tragedy of Youth. Or something equally waxing philosophical and waning in temperament.

Valdas nods almost imperceptibly. Go.

Well there’s no use in staying now, anyway. Nothing kills arousal quite so easily as the police.

Just before Tobias opens the library doors Cynbel stops him with a touch to his shoulder. “Wait — did you sense anything about him? Is he…?”

With the high almost completely vanished it’s easier to see through Tobias’ glamor. He prefers to keep himself ignorant to the young man’s true face — even despite coming into a fair bit of contact with various sects of faerie outcasts through his long life there’s nothing quite so disturbing as when the shimmering veil of magic is parted and one catches the first glimpse of them. Cat-like eyes and too-high cheekbones on faces nearly always perfect and even.

Unlike in his earlier years it’s nearly impossible for the Trinity to come across an exile of the Fair Folk that meets even half their age but it isn’t impossible. Tobias is a mere three hundred at best — “But time is so different in our lands,” he had told them, “your ilk are so easily measured in generations, but we are less so,” — yet how his true face looks upon Cynbel now makes the vampire feel…

It makes him feel vulnerable. The gall of him.

Cynbel does little to contain his relief when the butler shakes his head no. “The detective is entirely human, my Lord. His aura carries echoes of will-o’-the-wisps, but —”

“But they are likely from his interactions with the revenant at the Yard.”

“I thought the same. My Lord, if I may…” he hesitates; to see an elven face uncertain is an ominous thing, “he carries the burden of grief in his soul.”

“He has seen death, it doesn’t surprise me.”

But Tobias is insistent. “The grief is not his own. Mortals are dull things to be sure but few among them have been known to… understand our world even if they are not conscious of it.”

There’s no masquerading it — its a warning; one Cynbel would be a fool to ignore. And of course he wants to hold them both back just a little longer, ask Tobias what exactly he’s trying to say, but he knows it would just be in vain. Powerful creatures were the fae. Powerful and utterly incapable of saying anything plainly and not laced in a thousand metaphors.

So Cynbel just nods. “Thank you for telling me.”

Tobias’ glamour begins to shift back into place. Though his eyes may look human now, though, he can’t see anything but the seelie truth. “The Trinity has been good to me. I could have found the same fate as the rest of my kind; wandering the foggy moors up North and giving the humans something to both fear and revere. But I have work, I have my own earned wealth… I would not see that taken from me so soon.”

As long as our interests align. It’s the only thing about the boy Cynbel half-likes.

He gives the go-ahead and Tobias opens the doors.

[reading-while-queer]

Adult Onset, Ann-Marie MacDonald

Rating: Great Read Genre: Realism, Literary Representation: -Lesbian protagonist -Lebanese protagonist -Protagonist with anxiety/panic disorder Trigger warnings: Infant death, Stillbirth (explicit), Child abuse, Child sexual abuse (not in scene), Homophobia, Misogyny, Biphobia, Animal death, Internalized racism, Reclaimed D-slur

Note: Not YA; somewhat sexual but not explicit

Transitioning into reading more adult fiction than YA in your early twenties is often unpleasant.  Disturbing topics make a happy home in adult fiction, and they don’t always announce themselves in the book jacket.  (Adult Onset’s book jacket even describes the novel as “hilarious” - a fact which is hilarious in itself. Are adults okay?) The disturbing topics aren’t bad in and of themselves.  Adult readers of these difficult literary novels can sometimes resonate with the battle between ugliness and meaning, finding catharsis in the trenches.  Some readers may even find an unpolished aspect of themselves reflected in the novel, their relationship to the book becoming a form of literary therapy. The books that save lives are rarely the easiest reads.  By the same token, undertaking a difficult literary novel can put a bitter taste in your mouth. Sometimes that moment of catharsis isn’t worth the taste.

I found myself waffling over my opinion about Adult Onset.  On the one hand, it’s about the generational gift of abuse from mother to daughter, and the ugliness of that abuse is not safely contained within a “bad guy” the reader can despise, but in sympathetic characters.  It’s an uncomfortable book with a subject matter that isn’t going to appeal to the escapist reader, that’s for sure.  On the other hand, as we get older, many of us develop more tolerance for morally gray characters as we discover that we are morally gray ourselves; it can even be refreshing to read about someone with our same flaws - flaws bad enough we might hesitate to speak about them - treated not as evil, but human.  Reading Adult Onset, I felt myself straddling that line.  Yes, Adult Onset was an uncomfortable, unhappy read.  But at the same time, I saw glimpses of myself in the main character’s serious anger and anxiety.  While I’m not a mother in my mid-forties struggling to manage a suburban household, anyone who has had to grapple with mental illness or abuse will feel kinship to Mary Rose.

Adult Onset is one of those books that can’t be measured by plot. The narrative is urged forward by the compulsion of symmetry, not linear time, and so the story takes a beautiful, mirrored shape, rather than the parabola of a plot arc.  The central character, who is the line across which the shape of the story is reflected, is Mary Rose (“Mister” for short), a lesbian mother of two who used to write YA novels, but who has since traded roles with her wife in favor of home-making, giving her wife a chance to follow her career as a theater director.  Mary Rose has untreated anxiety that causes her to catastrophize everything in her life.  She has untreated anger that causes her to yell and throw things in front of her kids.  She is kind of a dick, to use the most accurate term, which causes her to ask her wife, “If she got the flowers?” when Mary Rose never sent any flowers (but feels like she might be in trouble if she doesn’t make some claim at a redeeming quality).  Mary Rose is also the heir to two generations of abuse.  Her maternal grandfather married a twelve year old child.  Her mother hit her and her brother (her elder sister had a different experience). Both parents rejected her in the most severe way when she came out as a lesbian in her twenties.  She has chronic pain from childhood bone cysts, a pain which leads her down the rabbit hole of memory as she tries to find some closure on a childhood that her aging parents don’t fully remember anymore.  

Adult Onset is a good book.  It’s a beautiful piece of art.  The structure of the novel is inspired, leaving one more than satisfied with the symmetrical beauty of it all.  The narrative about Mary Rose is inter-cut with glimpses from Mary Rose’s mother’s perspective, showing the reader not an old woman with memory loss, but the young mother struggling with postpartum depression she once was.  We also receive the perspective of the main character from Mary Rose’s popular YA book series, a young girl whose magical adventures were unwittingly inspired by Mary Rose’s trauma.  These snapshots of other points of view are unannounced, and even confusing at first - but therein lies their value.  Mary Rose’s identity bleeds into her mother and her main character, and the structure of the novel itself illustrates that.

Adult Onset is a good book.  It takes Mary Rose’s flaws, holds them before the reader, and says: motherhood is not easy, and you’re not a bad person for floundering. It explores where the line is, that makes a person irredeemable.  Mary Rose almost hits her toddler, and she thinks with horror - what if there is an alternate universe where she really did?  She thinks about her own life in those terms, considering that while she is the Mary Rose who was abused by her parents, perhaps there is an alternate Mary Rose who wasn’t.  She loves and defends her parents as if they didn’t pass her trauma down to her, as if she were the lucky Mary Rose - yet she still contends with the unhappy result. She asks herself: if her parents don’t even remember her childhood anymore, are they still the parents who did and said the things that hurt her?

Adult Onset is a good book, but it is also a book that very artfully dances around a concerning issue with its theme.  Herein lies the problem: Adult Onset gives itself an almost impossible task, that of fixing Mary Rose’s unhappy life into a somewhat happy ending.  Mary Rose almost hit her toddler, her marriage is on the rocks because she keeps yelling at her wife, and she refuses therapy to the bitter end.  The reader won’t be satisfied with the realism of the book if Mary Rose changes too much for the better, nor will the reader be satisfied with an unhappy ending.  In the end, Mary Rose doesn’t really change, so much as realize she can ask for help.  She asks a friend to come over and stay with her for a couple of days while her wife is out of town, and she has an all-day play-date with a mom from her son’s preschool - a mom who Mary Rose has always believed is perfect, but who whispers to Mary Rose, “You saved my life today.”  Mary Rose could have said the same thing, a fun little turn of the tables with the positive message that there is no perfect mother.  Women suffer far too much unaddressed misery, desperation, and shame (with dire consequences), but there is solace and reprieve in one another’s support. This one play-date, and the lesson therein, is the cathartic moment of the novel.

Yet one play-date carries a heavy burden, if it is to be the cathartic moment of a novel about abuse, infant mortality, anger, anxiety, lesbianism, and motherhood.  On reflection, a reader might be more horrified than satisfied, that a play-date is the only help Mary Rose is to receive. Perhaps MacDonald would agree, because after this play-date from heaven, Mary Rose’s life magically falls into place in all sorts of ways.  She’s the mom who has it together now, offering organic pretzels to the lesser mothers who forgot to pack a snack for the park.  She even makes peace with a memory of her father’s homophobia, satisfied by how far he’s come in the twenty years since.  Her wife, who hasn’t wanted sex over the course of the novel, suddenly changes her mind when she finds some lingerie that Mary Rose bought for herself (even though she didn’t even really want it). Mary Rose’s experience of gender is what some readers might call dysphoric, but Mary Rose herself calls “internalized misogyny.”  She feels like it’s wrong of her to be uncomfortable with womanhood, so when her wife tells Mary Rose to wear the lingerie to bed, reminding her with exasperation that “I’m attracted to women,” Mary Rose falls in line.  What a tidy ending! Motherhood? Resolved. Relationship with parents? Resolved. Sex life? Resolved. Complicated lifelong relationship to gender? Resolved.

This was the real key to my discomfort with the ending of the novel.  The message seems to be: if you’re about to self-destruct (taking your children down with you)... just get with the program.  At your breaking point? Just ask your friend to come over with spaghetti.  Just set up a play-date.  Just perform motherhood better.  Just perform womanhood better.  How sad is it, that this was all the book could give Mary Rose? If the theme of your novel is also the Nike slogan, it’s not as radical an outlook on life as one might think.

The weak ending aside, there are only a few such cracks in the perfect veneer of Adult Onset.  The Gen X humor is off-putting (What’s up with Facebook, ladies, am I right?), and Mary Rose obnoxiously discredits her wife’s bisexuality, saying “She refuses to call herself a lesbian.”  She still uses the word “transgendered,” too, which even word processors auto-correct these days.  And yet, for all its flaws, Adult Onset is a good book.  If you have anger and have ever been a hair's breadth away from hitting a child in your care - and let’s face it, this is the unspoken shame for many, many mothers - it’s a book that will make you feel seen, and understood.  The mothers that have hit their children in a moment - or months, or years - of weakness are seen too, in Mary Rose’s mother, who is neither torn down nor excused, but simply put to the page.

Adult Onset is a good book, yes, but do I recommend it?  Not to everyone.  It’s a frustrating book.  It covers topics that may be triggering. It’s a book that can, and probably will, ruin your day (Gen X humor just isn’t enough to cut the despair, folks).  On the other hand, it offers an underlying message that not every book can give you: Even if you didn’t solve the problem, even if you’re just barely hanging on by a toxic “Just do it!” attitude, there is grace for you.

For more from Ann-Marie MacDonald, visit her website here.

[fenrys-moonbae]

Lily of the Night--Chapter 3, A Day in the Market

“It seems like the storm front hasn’t passed,” Anelisse noted, the old shawl wrapped around her shoulders billowing in the turbulent winds, their whistle an eerie call through the salt drenched cliffs, “I wonder how long it will remain in the Bay for.” “Who knows,” Celeste replied, her eyes cast skyward as she watched gulls circle to and fro, clearly unsettled by the weather, “means the fishermen will be out of work until it passes though.” A feeling of dread settled over her, knowing that each day without work were days where they would be without food. If it hadn’t been for the money Adder gave her Celeste wasn’t certain what would have happened.

“Atleast you get the day off.” Anelisse reassured, always looking for the light side to Celeste’s dark. She lazily twirled a strand of her ashen hair around her finger, “We can spend some time together for once. Consider it a sign of good fortune.” Celeste smiled in response, she hadn’t had much time with her sister since she’d taken to going out to sea with the fishermen, just their nightly conversations over their meager meals before they slept. This had been the first time in nearly a year that the two had ventured to town together, had really ventured anywhere together. Yes, maybe this storm was good fortune.

Celeste and her sister made their way down the old path towards town, the weight of the copper in her pockets welcoming, especially since it seemed she was to be out of work until the storm passed. Passing the old fork in the road they came to the edge of town, the point where the grass and dirt changed to pressed cobblestones, the sounds of the market quiet for once due to the weather.

Passing by the baker Celeste’s nose was onslaught with the smell of fresh baked bread and pastries, a memory tinkling at the back of her mind of a place she had long since forgotten. Anelisse let out a groan of longing, her lips pressed together in a tight line.

“It’s been years since I’ve had fruit pastries,” she murmured, her eyes glistening with memories as she glanced over the pastries propped in the windows, “when father was here we would go every evening to the baker and share one. Apple, peach and cherry in the summer.” A brief glimmer of happiness crossed her face, “We’d walk the shore after, Father and Mother swinging me between them as the waves danced along the shore.”

“I imagine it was wonderful,” Celeste supplied watching the happiness fade from her sister’s eye, reality reeling itself back into place, “it will be wonderful like that again someday, I’m certain.” When that day was coming she wasn’t sure but for Anelisse she’d be willing to look forward to such a day.

“Yes it will,” Anelisse’s voice chimed as she pulled the old faded umber shawl about her shoulders, her worn cream colored dress less than a barrier against the chilling wind, “we’ll have pastries every evening one day AND we wouldn’t have to share.” A tinkling laugh.

“I’d be frightened to share a pastry with you,” Celeste drew dryly, her eyes glancing over her sister and a smirk tugging at her lips, “I’d be fearful of my life to even try to take one from you. Who knows you might even eat me with that appetite of yours.” “That’s not true!” Anelisse shot back, her cheeks flushing red, “I have a lady like appetite mind you. Sweets just….seduce me.” Celeste snorted, an amused sound. “Did you just describe the pastry as seducing to you?” A grin broke across her face as she faced her sister, who was still clearly flushed, and crossed her arms over her chest, “I wasn’t aware you were into that sort of…..sexual endeavor. Lady like indeed.” “Celeste!” Anelisse growled, her face now several shades darker than it had been moments before as she glanced around checking for listening ears, “that’s not appropriate! You shouldn’t refer to…such things so casually.” “Don’t worry,” Celeste waved her hand nonchalantly, her fingers coming up to her lips and making a zipping motion, “my lips are sealed. I swear I won’t tell Anidre of her daughter’s deepest darkest desires.”

“You’re foul,” Anelisse hissed, swatting her sister across the shoulder, “you must of been raised by a flock of brutish men if your feminine mind is filled with such ridiculous thoughts.” Anelisse regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth, Celeste flinching ever so slightly at the mention of her past.

“Celeste,” Anelisse said, realizing her mistake, it was the one thing that they never talked about- “I didn’t mean to…I..”

“It’s fine,” Celeste responded coolly, her face once again set in a wide grin, her previous discomfort hidden cleverly beneath it, “and some lady you must be to walk about in your knickers all the time.” A distraction, anything to get away from the subject of…..that.

“I do not strut about in my knickers!” Anelisse yelled stomping her boot in annoyance, catching the attention of others in the market, their concerned glances shifting to the two girls outside the bakery, “If either of us prefer a state of undress it’s you!”

“And?” Celeste cocked her head, a devilish grin on her face, “I’m perfectly accepting of that, you, however, have not come to terms with the wildness that lurks inside. A sexual vixen only waiting to be unleashed, untamed and ready for ravishing-”

“You’re spouting nonsense-“ Anelisse blurted, her hand waving wildly at Celeste, trying to clamp shut the mouth that would not cease it’s spewing but was interrupted as a young handsome man with dirty blonde hair approached the girls, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. “What was this about a sexual vixen?” The man asked, his voice thick with the accent that all of the people in Vanica had, his hand idly scratched his scruff covered chin. Celeste’s shoulders suddenly went ridged the playful aura about her shifting to one of lethal intent. The amusement left her face immediately as she drug her eyes from her sister to the intruder on her left. “Why Celeste wouldn’t be referring to you Miss Anelisse would she?”

A look of horror passed over Anelisse’s face as she slowly turned to face the man, the planes of his handsome face lifted in an amused grin. The blush deepened, something that would have seemed entirely impossible.

“No Lukas,” Celeste’s features were set in a cool wall of stone but her eyes were icey as she shot daggers at the man, “I was referring to the bitch in heat in the alley so desperately calling your name. Why don’t you tend to her.”

“Celeste,” Anelisse reprimanded, her arms suddenly wrapped across her chest and beneath her shaw, attempting to hide herself as best as possible, “There is no need to be rude.” Oh, there’s plenty reason to be rude Celeste thought as she wedged her way between the man and her sister, enough to throw his sorry ass off a cliff.

“Your sister speaks the truth,” Lukas supplied, running a hand through his golden hair, “I was only wanting to join in on the teasing. It has been ages since I’ve seen either of you in town.” His attention directed towards Anelisse, his eyes taking on an almost feral sheen, “Especially you Miss Anelisse, you look as lovely as ever.” Taking her hand, he gently pressed a kiss to the back of it, his lips lingering.

“T-Thank you Lukas,” Anelisse replied, the flush in her face now for an entirely different reason, “I’m glad to see you are doing good as well.”

“Always,” he replied, his voice a sultry baritone purr, “especially now that my Father has struck up trading agreements with several merchants on the mainland, the hardships that this island knows should soon cease.”

Celeste snorted, loudly and rudely. “Maybe if you’d share some of that wealth your father has then that would actually be the case.” Lukas turned to Celeste, looking down his nose at her as though she were vermin. “The wealth of my family will always be shared amongst my people, human people that is.” A brilliant cruel smile broke across his face, “and that wealth would be extended to all those who need it amongst my people,” a glance towards Anelisse his eyes burning with molten desire, “all they need do is ask.” “We don’t need your handouts Lukas,” Anelisse spoke quietly but firmly from behind her sister, her silver eyes hard and mouth set in a tight line, “now please go about your business so we may tend to our own as well.”

A breathless laugh. “Of course Miss Anelisse, I did not mean to offend,” A bow followed with a flourish of his hand, Celeste contemplated kicking in his knee caps, before he straightened his form. “Please enjoy the market on this fine day,” he made to walk to Anelisse but Celeste wedged herself further, “and, Miss Anelisse, please do not forget my proposition.” “She’s already told you no,” Celeste growled, shoulders backing as she evaluated his stance, calculating just how much effort it’d be to deal with the fallout of ripping his throat from his neck and ceasing his endless blabbering, “so move your ass before I move it for you.”

“It wouldn’t be difficult for you would it,” Lukas drew, his eye fixating on Celeste as he shifted his neck, three long haunting scars showing from beneath his collar, “how easy it would be for you to kill all of us on this island really, with that strength and agility of yours. Killer’s born in beautiful bodies that’s all the fae are,” his smile grew wicked, “even among their own kind it would seem if those scars on your back are any indication-“

Celeste saw red, her body tight ready to strike, consequences be damned-

“Enough of you,” Anelisse’s voice had gone dark, it’s previous waver gone as she shoved herself between the man and Celeste, her shoulders backed and head high, a queen among mortals, “Be off before I personally see to it.” Without so much as a glance towards him Anelisse hooked her arms through Celeste’s and pulled her away, directing their attention towards the tailor further down the road.

He did not pursue.

The blood was pounding in Celeste’s ears, rage wracking her whole being as she seethed quietly through her teeth. Killing him would be so easy, so incredibly simple-

“Forget him,” Anelisse commanded her sister, the previous confidence still sent on her features, “He is not worth the consequences of ripping him limb from limb. He is all bark and no bite, he knows he can’t win against you and instead provokes you with words. Cool your temper.”

Celeste heaved one heavy sigh from her chest, shoving the anger down and sealing it beneath the surface. She would have her chance to deal with Lukas Pennington, royal fool of Vanica, one day. He had been a nuisance in her life since the incident on the cliffs so many years ago and had taken it upon himself to harass her by any means necessary including directing his attentions and affections towards the one thing that meant everything to Celeste.

Stepping inside the tailor’s shop Celeste was encompassed in a well-tended wooden paneled room, the smell of leather oils prominent. A small counter sat at the back of the room in front of a door that lead to the work room in the back and across the walls hung rolls and rolls of fabrics, ranging from subtle greens to rich hues of red and purple to the palest creamiest beiges. Celeste remembered the first time she had been to this place was the day after she’d woken up the first time on this island and Anidre had brought her here to be fitted for a new set of clothes.

Behind the counter sat a middle-aged woman with brown hair and brown eyes, her thin brows narrowed in concentration with the fabric in her hands, clearly concentrating on the details of her stitching.

“Pennelope,” Anelisse greeted, startling the woman from her work and causing her to drop her needle in surprise, her hands flailing. Anelisse winced, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you.” The woman looked up from behind the counter, her face breaking into a wide smile. “It is good to see you girls, come in come in!” Stepping from behind the counter she made her way towards the two woman her round face lit up with pleasure, “It has been too long since I’ve seen either of you! My goodness how you’ve both grown.” She looked over both of the girls, her brow furrowing.

“You’re still wearing those clothes I made for you two years ago,” she clicked her tongue in annoyance, “I told you to come to me when they started to wear out and I would make new ones for you.” “We could never ask that of you Pen,” Celeste said as the woman scrutinized her old white shirt, holes having formed in the shoulders and the waist, “we haven’t had the money to pay-“

“Hush,” the round woman said, waving her hands rapidly, “this is nonsense, I should have known you two would be wearing rags before asking for any help.” Her accent was unlike the rest of the occupants of Vanica, a slow draw clearly derived from the country fields in which she had been raised, “Come along let’s get you measured so I can get you two dressed in something that’s not literally falling to bits off of you!”

The girls glanced at one another, small smiles tugging at the corners of their lips. For all the ignorant cruel people that inhabited this tiny town there were a handful of very kind individuals who tried to look out for them. Individuals who had watched the girls grow with nothing but each other for help and warmth. Pennelope being one of those individuals.

She had come from a wealthy farm family on the main island with a rich dowry, had fallen in love with a simple cobbler and had married him, against her parents’ wishes, and settled in the small town of Vanica. They made a decent living catering to the fishermen and their families on the coast but had an expansive savings that allowed them to be generous in their dealings.

“Anelisse,” Pennelope chastised, “You’re dress is tight in the hips and chest, you’ve clearly grown since last I fit you, you shouldn’t be flouncing about in something so skin tight, especially with these foolish young sailors flitting about.” A blush crossed her cheeks as she murmured her feeble apologies.

“And you,” Pennelope said, pointing an accusing finger at Celeste, “you’ve been out in the sea water in the same pair of pants and shirt for the last year,” She tugged at Celeste’s shirt, promptly ripping it wide open causing Celeste’s eyes to flair open, “the fabric may be strong but it’s not made to hold up against that much wear and tear without ripping!” A gentle smack was placed against the back of Celeste’s head, “Stubborn prideful girl.”

Throwing the piece of fabric she had ripped from Celeste’s shirt aside she ushered the fae woman into the back work room, maneuvering around spools and blocks of fabric. Rounding a corner Celeste came face to face with a mirror.

“Stay here,” Pennelope said and began muttering to herself, “now where did I put that measuring tape?” She mozied away, intent on finding her missing tool. Celeste however paid no attention as she looked at herself in the mirror for the first time in years. She was slightly taken about by the woman who gazed back.

Her long-tapered heart shaped face had gained more structure, no longer holding the soft childish curve it had only a few years before, and her eyes, violet and ever striking, were still as large and almond shaped as they had ever been, her arched brows sitting delicately above them. Her thick lips, dipped with a delicate cupids bow, sat down turned as she glanced over her body, thinner and taller now than before, her ribs poking out slightly.

“I’ll never understand how you’re so beautiful,” Anelisse mused from behind Celeste, her hands holding onto her shawl as she looked at her sister in the mirror, “it’s kind of cruel really to be the sister of such a beautiful creature,” a phony dramatic sigh from upturned lips, “I’ll never find a husband with you to compete with.”

“Don’t worry,” Celeste replied glancing over her shoulder, pink tinging her cheeks slightly, how many years had it been since she’d been called beautiful? Had been praised for her physical attractiveness? Those thoughts of vanity had faded when she’d woken up on that beach so long ago, “You can have all of them. I’d settle for a library full of books and a means to hear music.” “Mm books how lovely they must be,” A pause and a finger tapping lightly on her chin, Anelisse’s heard slightly cocked to the right, “But AH! Alas, I am illiterate so I will have to settle for the wooing of men to keep me entertained,” she pressed a hand to her forehead, feigning weakness, “however will I survive.”

“Oh I’m sure a pair of broad shoulders could help you keep your strength,” Celeste joked a single brow rising, “but I thought you weren’t interested in the pursuits of men? What happened to that long-sought dream of being a healer?”

“Oh yes yes I’ll get to that,” Anelisse said, “but until I learn to read or find someone to teach me the healing arts I won’t be much use on that front.”

“You just need practice,” Celeste reminded her sister, having spent the first few years of their time together teaching her to trace letters in the sands, “You know the letters shapes and the sounds you just need material to read and write, you’ll pick it up quickly.”

“I suppose so,” Anelisse mused her eyes trailing over her sisters exposed back, her eyes stopping on two festered and tapered scars that ran alongside her shoulder blades to the middle of her back.

“I always wondered how you survived that,” Anelisse whispered, her eyes glazing over as she took in the site of the anger red marks that stretched down her sister’s shoulders, “They’ve always looked so painful.” Celeste paused for a moment, her mind unwilling to acknowledge the memory that so often haunted her dreams.

“I do not know.” Celeste replied, unwilling to even use the mirror to glance at the brandings on her back, the brandings that had marked her an outcast from her people. Those marks served as a reminder to her that she was never to return to the place she had once called home.

A pregnant silence followed.

“I found it! I found it!” Pennelope broke the silence as she came bounding into the room, waving a measuring tape above her head, “now we can get started.” --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Several hours later the girls were making the ascent back to their home, wearing new temporary clothes until Pennelope could make their new ones. She had also taken the time to measure their feet so that boots could be crafted for them both when her husband returned from his trip on the mainland. In true Pennelope fashion she had refused the money that Celeste had offered her and had shooed the girls out of her shop saying she had a wedding dress to finish for Emily Lingard, the stitching she had been working on before they’d interrupted, before she could get to work on their clothes.

Having acquired everything, they needed from the tailor and cobbler and having spent none of the copper Celeste had insisted on taking Anelisse to get her paints, allowing her to buy the small set of primary colors in the window alongside a container of white and black paint and some paper before heading to the market and buying dinner, bread, cheese and slice of beef steak, before stopping off at the bakers. Celeste knew they shouldn’t have spent the extra bit of money but seeing Anelisse bite into the apricot pastry had made the purchase well worth it. They had split the pastry and ate it on their walk home, talking and laughing about the antics of the locals and which sailors they fancied over the sailors they did not. By the time they reach the house they had laughed themselves hoarse.

Opening the creaky door Celeste made her way inside, intent on prepping the food for dinner and starting the fire when she was met with an unexpected site. Sitting in the chair wrapped in a wool blanket was Anidre.

[angelsndragons]

Lost Times

Crack treated seriously! Kid!Horsemen and weirded-out pseudo-parents Crowley and Aziraphale.

Many thanks to @kedreeva​ and her Death’s Daddy anons for this little gem.

Read here or at AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19905892

Most beings believe that Cain and Abel were the first children. They are not. But the only ones who know otherwise won’t say.

The thing is, what neither of them realizes until some six months after the whole garden debacle, is that their actions have far greater consequences than they knew. Crawly had given humanity Knowledge, Aziraphale had given them Will. And with these two forces, well, naturally, others follow. 

“Oh thank Somebody,” Crawly says in a rush as he dashes towards that angel. The angel isn’t alone and while that normally would be cause for concern, he is not accompanied by another of his kind but instead a pale, disconcerting-looking little being which might or might not be a mini-Eve. Indeed, it’s the being’s presence that sends a surge of relief through Crawly, as he has been accompanied by a disconcerting little being of his own since they parted. True, his has giant wings, is as black as the space between stars, and has a skull for a face so it’s not entirely the same thing. But Aziraphale had been willing to help him once and that was when they had nothing in common. Besides, he has heavenly contacts, surely one of them knows what the blazes is going on. 

Aziraphale blinks at him, at his little shadow, and sighs in relief. “You too, then?” he asks, hope dancing in his eyes.

He’s just as clueless as Crawly is. Dammit. “Yeah. Yeah, come here, let me introduce you,” he calls back to the little shadow, who winds himself around one of Crawly’s still unsteady legs. Aziraphale’s little one stares at Crawly’s then darts towards him and holds out a hand. It’s at this moment that Crawly realizes her hair is bright red, nearly his shade.

“I like you,” Aziraphale’s tells Crawly’s, a smile slashing her mouth. Crawly can’t decide whether it’s a good expression or a bad one. “Camael, but I’m thinking of changing it.”

 Azrael, Crawly’s...well, doesn’t say, because he doesn’t have a mouth, but the idea is close enough, as he extends a skeletal hand and takes Camael’s.

Aziraphale seems to be having a similarly indecisive moment, if the way he can’t take his eyes off of Azrael is any indication.

“There are fish in the river,” Camael continues, “I like stabbing them. Would you like to stab them with me?”

Why?

“Because it’s fun,” she whispers, red ringing her gold irises.

Okay, then. Azrael nods then steps out of Crawly’s shadow and lets Camael lead him over the nearest dune towards the waiting river.

“Be sure to give the fish to the humans,” Aziraphale calls after her, his only response a pair of raised fingers from her free hand.

He sighs as the little ones disappear from view. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with her,” he mutters, more to himself than to Crawly.

Crawly gapes at him. “What the blazes is going on? Because, I don’t know about you but-”

“Azrael?” Aziraphale asks, expression torn between amused and concerned.

Crawly rolls his eyes. Because of course that’s the important part here. And what can he say, really? That the little one, the shadow, had rejected all other attempts at naming him, complete with sulking and the silent treatment? That Crawly, in a desperate attempt to have something to call him besides shadow, threw out a mangled version of the angel’s name only for the little one to take to it like a duck to water? That the little one likes hearing their story over and over again? No way on Earth is he admitting to that.

“Oh, yes, I was just traipsing through life when this brand new thing pounced me, attached itself to my leg, and followed me for months. Of course my first thought was naming it after you,” he sneers.

Aziraphale takes his point with a blush and mercifully cuts Crawly off. “I beg your pardon.”

Crawly makes a face at him.

“So we really did create them. What do you suppose they’re for?”

“How the Heaven should I know? You’re the one with the Ineffable Plan.”

“Do the humans see the boy?” Aziraphale asks, determined to ignore Crawly’s mocking.

“Is that what he is?”

“Young humans are called boys or girls depending on their place in society,” Aziraphale explains primly, “and given that beings such as ourselves do not have young in the traditional sense, their words are as good as any.”

”Where’d you learn that?”

“There’s a human settlement a few miles from here.”

“Already?”

“They do move fast.”

“Not been around any humans since,” Crawly admits. “I don’t think they’d see him, though, not entirely. They don’t see your wings, do they?”

“They do not.”

“There you go. Might just see a small human.”

“I do hope so. The humans frequent that river.”

“And you let them go off alone?” Crawly does not yelp but instead voices his question at a very high pitch.

“She can take care of them,” Aziraphale says with a shudder. “She’s quite good with violence.”

“How’d you know?”

“Just trust me on that.”

What Aziraphale means is that when he and Camael had arrived at the human settlement, they were met with more than a little suspicion. The humans, having never seen a child that age before -all of their children were six months old exactly or had yet to be born, had hurled a few insults, and some pottery, their way before the girl had yelled and thrown pots back at them. Her victims hadn’t died but they did fall into a coma which Aziraphale had promptly and helpfully healed. The humans had given the pair a wide berth but hadn’t tried anything since. 

“Spirited thing,” Crawly says when Aziraphale finishes his story.

“And yours?”

Crawly shrugs. “He likes watching. And listening. Thinks a lot. Finds venomous creatures fascinating.”

This is because the being known as Azrael had existed long before the garden, just not in this form and not with his current ability to think, ponder, and experience. But Crawly doesn’t quite realize that yet.

“So what do we do?” he asks the angel, hoping he’s got an idea.

Aziraphale sighs. “I suppose we do as humans do. Raise them until they are grown then let them make their way in the world.”

“And if they’re like me?” The words leave him before Crawly can think them through and realize what he’s saying. He turns away from the angel. Silence reigns for a long moment.

“Then I will have my hands full, thwarting three of you,” he finally replies. Crawly chances a glance but the angel’s looking away too. Aziraphale clears his throat. “But I don’t think they will be. Like you, I mean. Or me. They don’t feel like it, anyway, they feel more...”

“Human,” Crawly agrees with a nod. Azrael reminds him of Eve, quiet and thinking and pondering. What little he’s seen of Camael paints her in Adam’s light, action and impulse and burning desire. The little ones aren’t human but they are closer than the angel and demon ever can be.

A shriek fills the silence.

“Father!” 

Aziraphale charges towards the river in a flash, simultaneously running and gliding. Crawly stays hot on his heels. Whatever’s bad enough to get that girl calling, Azrael’s right in the middle.

At the top of the dune, he takes stock, even as Aziraphale continues down to the river. First, there are half a dozen humans. Three women are cowering in the river, their babies crying on their backs. Three men, presumably guarding the herd of cattle stamping and drinking several meters downstream, are wading up towards the distressed women. And there, at the river’s banks, are their little ones. Camael is shrieking and pointing at something within the herd while Azrael lurches back onto the bank, something clinging to his back and wings. 

Aziraphale is already darting towards the herd so Crawly takes advantage of the chaos. He snaps his fingers and holds time, grunting and sweating with the effort. The mortals freeze. Aziraphale scoops a small, wretched looking being from underneath the legs of several startled cattle. Crawly rushes to the bank and pulls the reed-thin, fragile-looking, brown child off Azrael’s wings. The child kicks and fights him until Azrael quells their resistance with a dark look.

“I do believe we ought to take our leave,” Aziraphale calls to them, the tiny child being on his hip and reaching back for the cattle.

“Ya think?” Crawly snaps as he hauls his catch back the way they came, Azrael hot on his heels. Camael makes a beeline for Aziraphale instead of heading straight towards the dunes. 

For his part, Aziraphale waves his free hand and says, “You can release them now. They’ll think it a dream.”

“Not taking that chance,” Crawly calls back as the dark-skinned being finds their footing and decides they’d rather walk than be dragged. Crawly holds their wrist like a vise anyway.

“How long can you hold them?” Aziraphale asks as they meet. The child on his hips has nasty looking pox and sore scars across their body and deep bags under their eyes. At their whimper, Aziraphale miracles them a brown robe, does the same for the child in Crawly’s grip, the better to ignore all the bones Crawly can count under their skin.

“Long enough,” he says with effort.

“If we head north, we should be able to stay out of their reach,” Aziraphale says, “Granted, finding a new settlement might be problematic but-”

“My things, I want my things!” Camael snarls and stomps her foot, refuses to take another step. “We can’t leave them! They’re mine!”

Crawly wants to growl at her but with keeping the humans frozen, his focus is rather occupied.

“We can and we will,” Aziraphale orders, patience and experience leeching into his tone. “I will make you new things once we are certain we are safe.”

“No, they’re mine, I want them,” she yells and kicks his shin.

Enough, Azrael says, projecting a glare even though he lacks eyebrows and eyelids, or I won’t play with you anymore.

Camael scowls and crosses her arms but starts walking again. Aziraphale breathes a sigh of relief. They walk for several miles before Crawly drops the freeze, heaving and stumbling as he does. Aziraphale places the pale child on the ground and reaches towards Crawly before abruptly aborting the movement.

“Do you, um, that is...”

Crawly shakes his head. “Let’s just keep moving.” He’ll worry about feeling the strain later.

Aziraphale, to his credit, purses his lip and frowns. “You could shift to a snake,” he says slowly, “You wouldn’t be that heavy.”

Crawly is about to refuse when Aziraphale says, “I would feel more comfortable if you recovered quickly. Treacherous area, this, even without those humans.”

Crawly sighs but shifts, conceding the point. The sand burns his sensitive underbelly for the brief seconds between shifting and Aziraphale picking him up. He winds his tail around the angel’s waist and settles his head on one shoulder, tongue tasting the air. Beyond the angel’s love, Azrael’s bones, and the new scents of the new little ones, he finds nothing out of sorts. Certainly no humans, thank somebody. Speaking of.

“What were you lot doing anyway?” he calls to the kids staring them down with yellow eyes.

“He was drowning,” Camael says, shoving the brown-skinned child.

“Was not,” the boy retorts, “Was looking at the leeches.”

“You were under the water and not moving forever,” the girl snaps. “You were freaking everybody out so Azrael tried to grab you and you pulled him under.”

“You did what?” Crawly hisses.

I was fine. He cannot hurt me.

Even so, Crawly’s offended on Azrael’s behalf. “You can’t go round grabbing people like that, especially if they’re trying to help you.”

“Why not?”

“It’s impolite,” Aziraphale adds, “Instead, tell them you are fine. Most will leave you be.”

“Whatever.”

“And you, white one, what’s your story?” Crawly asks. The kid’s moving a little slower than the others but seems otherwise fine, her fragile act seemingly just that.

“I like cows,” she says, like it’s all the explanation she need give. “And chickens and sheep. But cows are the best.”

There is something in her tone that sends shivers down Crawly’s too long spine.

“Chickens are stupid,” the boy needles.

“No, they’re not. They’re fascinating.”

“They’re stupid.”

“I think they’re good for wringing necks,” Camael interrupts their bickering, “They make the best noises.”

The boy rolls his eyes while the girl gazes into the distance thoughtfully. “I suppose they can be good dead, too.”

The entire conversation is giving Crawly the willies, Aziraphale too if his shaking head is anything to go by.

“So you decided to look at a whole herd of cows up close then?” he asks the girl.

“Oh, yes. I wanted to look at their mouths but they wouldn’t let me. That’s why they were cross.”

“Next time, ask the herdsmen for permission. They know their animals and can keep them calm for you,” Aziraphale offers.

“If you say so,” the girl replies with a shrug.

“Where are we going?” Camael asks.

“We’ll know when we get there,” Crawly says.

“That means you don’t know anything,” the boy says sagely then tilts his head and sniffs. “Nothing out here for miles and miles. I think there’s humans that away but they’re really far.” He points in the direction Aziraphale is already heading.

“How far, do you think?” the angel asks curiously.

“Thrice as far as we’ve traveled so far.”

“You have a good sense of things,” Aziraphale compliments as the kids go back to their strange conversations.

When night falls and Crawly can’t take any more of the strange bickering behind them, he shifts back into man-form and starts talking about the stars above them. The little ones are distracted for long hours, Azrael especially, as Crawly tells story after story of their creation, points out all the different constellations and different names for each thing in the sky. They run out of night long before he runs out of words, of course. 

They come across a caravan near noon. Aziraphale apparently knows the leader as he steps inside the man’s tent to converse with him. Crawly’s left to keep Camael and the boy from running off, the girl having decided that Azrael is the new most fascinating thing she’s seen and staying close to him.

When they exit, Aziraphale gestures at them to follow him, which they do, into a nearby, empty tent. He miracles a few things, bed rolls, blankets, rugs, cushions, and a few items Crawly doesn’t recognize but Camael does. She begins playing a rather violent game with them, dragging the others into a spirited fight between them.

“Omar has allowed us to remain with the caravan,” Aziraphale says lowly, “provided, of course, that I navigate for them and the rest of us assist them.”

Crawly raises an eyebrow. “And when they notice...” he gestures at Azrael’s wings, Camael’s violent game, the boy’s twig-like arms, the girl’s scars, and his own slitted pupils.

“He knows it’s temporary, just until the next oasis,” Aziraphale replies, just as lowly. His breath tickles Crawly’s ear. “If you have a better idea, I’m all for it.”

Crawly doesn’t. They could hide in the desert, of course, it’s not like they need food, water, or shelter. But the desert does run out of things to do and Crawly is supposed to report back some new devilish work before too long. Can’t really do it away from humans. And while the little ones are not human, they are young, in a way Crawly and Aziraphale never have been. At least with humans, who do have young who grow and change, there’s less chance of them missing something obvious. And if Aziraphale knows and trusts this group, well, at least they have a little breathing room before their next flight.

“Yeah, all right,” Crawly finally says.

“Oh, wonderful,” Aziraphale replies then hesitantly adds, “Omar believes you are my wife and they are our children. I did not correct him, should I?”

“If it makes it easier, who cares? They’re gonna need names, though,” he finishes, looking at the newcomers pointedly.

The boy will settle on Dumah, the girl on Kushiel. They will travel for a while, never remaining with one group for too long. They will cross Adam and Eve once more who, remembering the kindness bestowed upon them by the snake and the guardian, will insist on providing a home for the six, together with their two young sons. Dumah and Kushiel will bond over sheep, watch together when illness strikes the lead ram and Adam diligently, but fruitlessly, tries to save it. Camael and Cain will be thick as thieves, Azrael will hover over young Abel.

Life will be decent, for a while, as all things are. 

Things will end in tragedy two decades later, all of them scattered to the eight winds. They will meet again, of course, but will never be the same.

But there was a time, not a long one, when the four horsemen were young and protected by the godfathers of humanity. And, despite it all, neither Crowley nor Aziraphale can bring themselves to regret it.