#going to bed before I start ugly crying about true love and it's infinite forms

[lesbijkas]

soulmates this, soulmates that... you will never have the emotional, mental, physical, metaphysical significance of t'hy'la

[riseatlantisss]

His Sweet Kiss

Jaskier x female!reader

warnings: body issues, sense of not belonging, but mostly fluuufff ! 

Jaskier knows you are struggling with insecurities and body issues. And while he cannot fight that battle for you, he certainly can help you realize that you are never alone. 

one-shot, 1,7k words

@antigonick​ thank you so much for your help/support on this 

A/N: Writing this fic was therapy for me, and if it can help anyone else out there too, then I am happy ! Enjoy, you beautiful people <3 

English is not my first language, please excuse any mistakes. 

“Honey, are you ready?” Jaskier’s voice echoed from the other room. “We have to leave if we’re going to make it on time. Now I know it’s hard not to be blinded by my amazing voice and my utter handsomeness but still, it would be weird if you weren’t attending our own engagement party!”

You were actually really far from being ready. You weren’t even sure you wanted to go at all. Here you were, standing in front of your bedroom mirror, wearing the dress you had specially made for tonight. It was a stunning bare-back black dress with gold lace trimmings on the collar and sleeves. The only problem was that it was tight. Very tight. And it was revealing. Very revealing. You did not anticipate that. You thought it would be the final touch to a perfect night. You thought you would be confident enough to pull it off when the time came. Now that you were actually seeing yourself wearing it, all your dreams and expectations for this very special night seemed to have gone up in smoke. No pride, no confidence, no beauty. On the contrary. To your eyes you just looked fat, disgraceful, silly. Like a disgusting pile of jello. You could not stand it. Tears blurred the reflection in the mirror and you looked away. I can’t do this, you thought, as you quickly slipped out of the dress and put your large, comforting nightgown on.

“Come on, honey,” Jaskier pleaded as he entered the bedroom. “We’re going to be la--” he stopped short when he saw you sitting on the bed, hugging your knees up to your chest, the dress lying beside you. He understood right away that you had been crying.

“What’s wrong?” he immediately asked in his softest voice.

“I’m sorry. I – I don’t feel good. I have a headache.” You cringed at the lame excuse. You felt ridiculous. You couldn’t even make eye contact with your future husband. That felt particularly harsh because as far as you remembered, Jaskier had been the only person in the world to whom you could tell anything. You never ever felt self-conscious with him. He had shown you time and again that he loved every inch, every curve of your body. He always looked at you in pure awe. He wrote songs about his boundless love for you, and told tales about what he called your “infinite beauty”. Still, you couldn’t shake this feeling of unease and anxiety. The mere thought of having all eyes turned on you tonight while you wore a tight, revealing dress made your chest hurt.

Jaskier frowned and sat on the bed beside you.

“Y/N, it’s me. What’s going on?” He muttered. He had attempted to keep his tone light, but sounded genuinely worried.  

“…Nothing.” You weren’t fooling anybody. Your voice cracked, your throat sore from crying. Your whole face felt tight with drying tears. You couldn’t pretend anymore. Not with him. “It’s just -- the dress,” you finally mumbled, still avoiding Jaskier’s gaze. “It looks ugly on me. I don’t have the right body type to wear it.”

“Nonsense!” Jaskier exclaimed. “You are gorgeous!”

“But look at me.” You sobbed, “Let’s face it, Jaskier. Your friends are sorcerers, royals, bards... They are all talented, powerful people. Everything I am not. I know I shouldn’t care about all this because I love you, and that should be enough for tonight, but I can’t help it. I just don’t fit in.” It felt good to finally explain all this out loud, but it did not ease any of your anxiety.

Jaskier rubbed his neck and pulled his arm around your shoulders. You felt his fingers tuck your hair behind your ear. A finger trailed down your cheek and under your chin. He lifted it up gently, coaxing you to look at him.

“Let me tell you something,” he said, looking deep into your eyes, dead serious. “I don’t fit in either.” You frowned and gave him a questioning look, but he went on before you could protest. “We don’t fit in a society of boring, conventional people who all look the same. We are all different and we come in all shapes and forms. Of course, it is not easy to be confident in the face of judgement, but our appearance matters not as long as we stay true to ourselves and support and love each other for who we are.”

You didn’t have anything to reply to this. Not right away anyway. You buried your head into his chest but you were no longer crying. He just said everything you wanted – needed – to hear for such a long time.

“So,” you asked after a little while of remaining silent, “you feel insecure too sometimes?”

“Are you kidding? Of course I do!” he scoffed.

Now, that was surprising. To you, Jaskier was always the confident and outgoing bard who never feared standing in front of huge crowds, getting out there, living life to the fullest. Well, it turned out he too could feel as vulnerable and doubtful as you sometimes did. And somehow, knowing this, you loved him even more.

“But you know what,” Jaskier added, “you are the one that gives me courage every time I fear something. I could never be the man I am today without you by my side. And these people you speak of? None of them holds a candle to the light you give off. You’re the light of my life. Every sunrise, every winter day, every rainfall, every twinkling star in my world.”

Once more, you were speechless. You felt the physical pressure of anxiety lift as he spoke, so you just listened to him. And you smiled. You smiled wider than you had ever smiled before. And more importantly, you seemed to have run out of excuses not to go to your engagement night. Though you didn’t move, not yet. You didn’t want to. The warmth of his chest was all you needed at that moment.

“Are these lyrics for a new ballad?” you asked. 

“Might be!” Jaskier chuckled, “but everything I said is true. I love you, Y/N. I just want you to be happy.”

The dress was still beside you. You gently caressed the fabric, admiring the sumptuous colors and quality of the drape. It really was a stunning, expensive piece of clothing, but right now you kind of hated it.

“Is it ok if I don’t wear the dress tonight?” you asked after a while. “I still don’t really feel comfortable--”

“Y/N. The- Dress- Does- Not- Matter”, Jaskier intoned.

“But, it’s such a waste…I mean, if I don’t wear it tonight, I don’t think I’ll ever wear it.”

“Let me wear it then!” Jaskier laughed as he grabbed the dress and put it in front of him. “The color does match my eyes, don’t you think darling?”

You burst out laughing. “I guess that’s an option!”

“Seriously though, I don’t want to you to worry about all this,” he muttered, softly caressing your hair. “On the other hand, if you do want something to worry about, Geralt told me he’d come to our engagement party with Ciri and Yen, and all their mage and witcher friends.”

“Oh my,” you laughed. “How many people are we talking about exactly?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I’m guessing that means dozens of sorcerers who can cast spells and manipulate fire will be there, so yeah, definitely worry about that.”

You shook your head and laughed. This night you had been dreading so much promised to be very interesting after all. And you were starting to think that it would be a shame to miss it. 

Jaskier gently kissed your forehead and let you get ready. You still weren’t comfortable enough to wear the dress, so you decided to wear something else, something you loved and you knew your future husband would love too.

Before leaving, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. For once, you weren’t afraid to look at the reflection. Quite the contrary. For the first time in a very long time, you were happy with the way you looked. You could even say you were beautiful.

Jaskier beamed with joy as soon as he saw you. The bright moon rising behind him made his eyes glow almost amber and his hair shone a golden shade. He was wearing dark blue linen pants and the silk red surcoat you loved so much. He was very elegant, as usual.  

“How am I supposed to just stand next to you when you look this gorgeous?!” he exclaimed, making you twirl as you walked over to him.

You were wearing a simple but cute long-sleeved loose dress, which happened to be the most comfortable piece of clothing you owned, and also the most special, for one particular reason.

“Wait,” Jaskier stopped and took a step back to take a better look at you. “Isn’t that the dress you wore that night at the tavern, when I --”

“The night you kissed me for the first time?” you grinned. “It is.”

Jaskier leaned forward and kissed you ardently, holding you tight against his chest, as if he would never release you. You held on to him, smiling into the kiss, feeling his arm tighten around you. What a night, you thought. Full of so many different emotions. You used to think that your self-consciousness and your insecurities were like scars on your body that could never fully heal. You used to think you would have to find ways to hide them like a shameful secret in order to fit in, even if it meant never being happy. But why pretend and seek happiness in impossible places, when true bliss was right here, right now, in your husband’s arms, on your way to celebrate your love? It did not mean you were definitively and irrevocably rid of your old familiar demons, but you were getting there. Yes, what a ride of emotions this night has been. And the night was still young.

[codename-bewareofthefangirl]

can i request kirishima, todoroki, and kacchan comforting their s/o bc they're going through an insecure moment where they dont like their body (too meaty, too skinny) thank youuu~ 💗

Hi dear! I’m sorry if it took me so much (I’ve also your matchup in progress)! I’M ALWAYS FINE WITH COMFORT WRITING AND THESE BOYS ARE PERFECT FOR IT! I hope Bakugou doesn’t result exaggerated or an animal, but I believe he’s more a man of actions than words, especially about things he deems important (take a look at my hcs if you want to know how I perceive him). Kirishima IS A SUNSHINE, I couldn’t not think that only his presence could lift your mood. Todoroki is the smoother and sweeter (and most forward) boyfriend ever, I tell you.

Well, enjoy and have a wonderful day!

Bakugou, Kirishima, Todoroki x Reader with Low Self-Esteem, Comfort, Hints about Sexy Time, Fluff, Romance, Kisses, Soft, Your Bodies Are Perfect When Imperfect

 Bakugou Katsuki

“What the hell are you doing?”

You jolted, averting immediately your eyes from the microwave.

Bakugou was glaring at you in what you had learned to be confusion and irritation, a spoon of cereals in his mouth and a messy bedhead. Ah, Sunday’s mornings together were the best.

You tried to smile and wave it off.

“Nothing, Katsuki.” You resumed drinking your tea with cookies, obviously baked by your boyfriend because homemade shit was better than bought one.

“Oh yes, because I’m fucking stupid!” He rolled his eyes, putting the bowl aside and focusing only on you. A shiver ran down your back and you played nervously with the cup. “’The hell is wrong?”

You shut your lips and shook your head.

“Nothing.” Maybe, if you repeated it in your head enough times, it was going to become true.

Bakugou literally growled, scratching his head and mumbling insults under his breath before he stopped abruptly. He held his breath for five seconds and exhaled deeply.

He knew the look you were wearing and had learned that getting aggressive wasn’t going to make you talk. Approaching directly your defensive stubbornness was like launching himself from a plane in the sea: he was going to get smashed against the concrete.

Finally, he had again a, sort of, impassive expression.

“Yesterday you were in your world for the entire afternoon. I found you closed in the bathroom five times, for longer than fifteen minutes. This night you’ve slept buried against me. You avoided my eyes. Five seconds you were glaring at your reflection in the fucking microwave.”

You gulped and widened your eyes horrified; you hadn’t thought it was that evident. But Bakugou had always to be exceptional at everything, hadn’t he?

“Try to say again it’s nothing and I’ll lose my patience.” Bakugou was holding you frozen on you chair just by staring, blood red eyes not accepting lies or half-assed truths.

“I-” Your mouth dried and Bakugou took another deep breath to maintain his composure, “I think I’m fat.”

That took him by surprise, his face scrunched into incredulousness and he tilted his head trying to metabolize the words that were falling from your lips.

“I mean, I’m too curvy and chubby. It’s ugly. Like a cow. I don’t understand how can you like me when we’re surrounded by pretty girls all the time! And, overlooking your horrible personality, you could have any of them. I’m so embarrassed that-”

“What the fuck?!” Bakugou interrupted you with an explosion from his right hand. Confusion had been replaced by anger and disapproval. “Stop with this shit immediately, SO.”

You tried to argue, but the sound of another explosion filled the room.

“First, don’t compare me to those lousy motherfuckers who like girls only based on their shape, alright? Goddess or cow, I don’t care until it’s you inside.” Your boyfriend spoke slowly, weighing every word with an astonishing and indisputable bluntness.

You clenched your jaw to not cry, but the simple relief he was giving you was overwhelming.

“Alright?” He repeated, scowling, and you nodded. Satisfied, he continued.

“Second,” he stood up and towered over you, “I love your body as it is and if you haven’t understood it yet, I’m going to mark every spot I adore until nightfall.”

His smirk made you shiver inside and your cheeks heat up.

“K-Katsuki! It’s morning!” You stuttered trying to push him away, but he captured your wrists. Bakugou shrugged.

“It’s Sunday,” He replied before he smoothly picked you up from the waist, bridal style. You let out a small shriek and grabbed onto his pajamas. He marched back to the bedroom.

“Put me down! I’m heav-”

Katsuki literally threw you on the bed and climbed on the mattress.

“Another negative word on your weight,” He growled, swiftly stripping his tank top off, “And you won’t be able to go to lessons tomorrow.”

Kirishima Eijirou

“SO? SO!”

Kirishima was waving his hand in front of your face when you finally snapped out of your cloudy thoughts.

“Ejirou?” You called blinking, a faint smile on the lips.

After his afternoon spar with Bakugou, Kirishima had found you curled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket like a burrito. You hadn’t said the usual “Welcome back!”, hopped to kiss him on the cheek nor acknowledged his presence in any way and he was now more than worried.

“Something wrong, babe?” He brushed your cheek with a thumb in a soothing voice, still smiling happily. He always seemed to smile when he was around you.

You tilted your head and lowered your eyes.

“I don’t think I’m good for you…” you whispered so low that for a moment you hoped he hadn’t heard you and you could take it back, but Kirishima stiffened on the spot and your stomach twisted.

“What do you mean?” His voice was softer now, but you could hear the frailness behind it.

You bit your bottom lip, curling more.

“I’m not pretty enough.”

An infinite second of silent stillness, the Kirishima sighed heavily in relief.

His warm chuckle made your heart flip.

“What are you saying, SO?” He cupped your cheeks and forced you to look him in the eyes, “You’re more than pretty!” He was blushing a little, in that cute way he always did when giving an honest compliment.

“I’m fat,” you argued glaring down, but he tilted your chin up again.

“You’re not.” Kirishima was sporting his toothy, shiny grin, but his words were stern. “You’re curvy and I like that, you know it.”

You shook again your head, stubbornly.

“I’m heavy.”

Kirishima didn’t even bat an eyelash.

He wrapped his arms around your waist and pick you up, blankets and all.

“I don’t think so.” He flashed a smile.

“Ejirou! Put m-” As soon as you started to argue, embarrassed, he laughed and threw you in the air.

You shrilled, before falling in his arms again.

“Ej-”

He threw you again.

“I think you’re very light, you know? The perfect weight!”

And again.

“I’m not even using my Quirk! See SO?”

And again.

“My pretty, curvy girlfriend!” he bubbled, “Please don’t fly away! I’d be very sad!”

Finally, a chuckle burst from your throat.

Kirishima continued to throw you up in the air and saying stupid things until it became a full, warm laughter. Then he fell on the couch with you in his arms, smiling widely; you snuggled against his chest and he pulled you as close as he could.

“Sorry, I haven’t showered yet,” he mumbled, remembering he was still in his sweaty tracksuit. You shrugged, all the sadness and insecurities evaporated like snow under the sun.

“That’s fine…” you murmured closing your eyes, “Can we stay like this for a bit?”

Kirishima beamed and nuzzled against your neck, before smooching your cheek.

“Sure, babe, sure!”

Todoroki Shouto

Todoroki found you sitting with crossed legs on the floor of the living room, in front of the mirror. He was sure he had left you on the couch studying when he had gone out for a run, so now was confused, to say the least.

Especially because you were caressing your reflection with a sad and sort of disgusted grimace.

He padded quietly until he was by your side. Only then he realized your eyes were red and tears still edged at the corners of your eyes; concern immediately replaced his curiosity.

He crouched down, as you shifted your gaze on him, and took you gently by the shoulders.

“Is something wrong? Are you hurt?” He tried to keep his voice calm and composed, but worry trembled under the cold surface.

“N-no I’m fine…” you whispered, wiping clumsily your tears.

He furrowed.

“You’re crying.” His shoulders relaxed a bit as he made sure you weren’t physically harmed.

“Sadness, hate…a bunch of stupid emotions harassing me.” You tried to shrug it off, but your voice broke.

“Why?” Todoroki asked softly, sitting behind you and circling your body with his legs.

Darkening, you turned to face the mirror again. In silence, you raised a hand and pointed at your reflection.

“I’m disgustingly skinny.”

Todoroki flinched at the “disgustingly” and caged you against his chest, gazing at your reflection together.

“It’s not disgusting,” he replied quietly, but his tone was sharper than usual. He was absentmindedly drawing circles on your forearm with his fingers.

You groaned.

“I’m all bones, no curves at all,” you explained, mouth pulled down, “It’s like hugging a shard of ice.”

“I love ice.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips betrayed you and smiled a little.

Todoroki caught that.

“Curvy girls are be-”

“You’re the best,” he interrupted you. You couldn’t look at him, but his eyes pierced holes in you from the mirror. “You’re the one I love, body and soul.”

The honesty in his voice was so vibrant that it washed your insecurities away in slow waves.

“You’re fair and slender, maybe a bit frail, but I know how strong you can be,” he continued, without breaking off the contact, “And when I hug you, I feel certain that you’re made to be in my arms, as you are.”

A lump formed in your lungs and you felt your eyes stinging again but for a different reason this time.

“I don’t care what others prefer, I think you’re perfect for me.”

That was the final blow. You were now burning inside, a flame in the pit of your stomach and heart drumming in your ears.

“You’re unbelievable…” you murmured covering your blushing face and curling with the back against him.

Todoroki smiled fondly and kissed softly your hair, rocking you back and forth.

“It’s fine, I’ve a lot of time to make you believe me, love.”

[yeoldontknow]

Hero 7: (M)

Author’s Note: this chapter is a monster, literally a monster. i have been staring at this thing for about a week, and it could have been even longer, what is wrong with me. anyway, i really truly hope you enjoy this chapter because my heart and soul went into this one. we’re finally moving guys, look at as go! 0-100, ain’t no stopping now. enjoy loves! Song for this chapter: Carrion Flowers - Chelsea Wolfe Genre: Vampire!Chanyeol; horror; thriller; suspense; drama; eventual smut Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Rating (this chapter): M Warnings: graphic sexual situations; graphic violence; blood/gore; ritual sacrifice; explicit language; PLEASE, PLEASE TREAD LIGHTLY Word count: 7,866 why tf

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Ceremony. 

You turn this word over in your mind for hours, breaking it apart and putting it back together again until it seemingly takes a new shape; it becomes something new, something different, something dark. Words, to you, are the most subtle of weapons, an arsenal of infinite proportions comprised only of twenty-seven letters and you’ve always been proud of how utterly sharp yours have grown to be. They’ve been cultivated and crafted over years of sparring matches with your older siblings, your cousins, friends, boyfriends. You’ve used words to cut and sever, used them to soothe and heal, and now you think you think you’ve finally met someone who uses them to kill.

Yixing let the word fall from his lips with a foreboding sense of doom that tasted like gunmetal, and you noticed almost immediately the way the atmosphere seemed to shift around it - making room to let it linger without having to get too close, without having to touch it. Just like Yixing, the word is dichotomous in nature - both beautiful and sinister, aggressive and jovial. And, just like Yixing, it's very nature - its semantics - is nothing without context.

Considering the confines of your situation, the reality of the world you find yourself in, you decide this context affords little room for love and light. Ceremonies take multiple different shapes, many as forms celebrations of new life, new futures, new hope. This, you think, is the true meaning of celebration - something welcomed and desired with wide eyes and wide smiles. Celebration here, in shadows of this damned world, is limited. You can’t imagine the essence of it in the tin and concrete of the building; any that dares brave these walls is likely reserved for death - either of an enemy or an inconvenience, though you don’t think there’s much difference between the two.

Knowing your context means ceremony is the wrong word, a word used to pacify and trick you - a word used by a man made of nothing but false securities to coddle and calm you.

Knowing your context means ceremony gets shattered and replaced altogether. You rearrange the pieces and build yourself a new word. You build yourself the truth.

Ritual.

They dress ceremony up, make it pretty with intent, kiss at it with tongues that handle syllables like treasure, but you think these are two different things. These are words that should never be considered synonyms. With ritual in your head, this world starts to make sense, starts to have rules and an order that you’ve been trying desperately to ignore. Ritual has loomed in the dark shadows of these walls for days, even before you arrived, hovering around the cage with purpose. And, now that you’ve acknowledged it, images start to form in your head. All of them are brutal and none of them end with your survival, and suddenly you start to feel very aware of the blood flowing in your veins.

For the first time in your life, you give it concentration, consideration. You absolutely will yourself to hear it - to truly listen to how utterly alive you are. The throbbing of your pulse in your ears has never sounded so fragile or finite. It’s been steady and reliable, something easily ignored and relied upon, your blood moving in a concentric circle from the day you were conceived but now you start to imagine a thin line from your throat to an open, expectant mouth.

You’re well read, you’re smart. You’ve never been naive, and you think you start to understand why you’ve been left with animals for so long. No cross-contamination between you and the guests of honor; don't play with your food; what is there to do with all of this meat?

Part of you knows you should be scared. Part of you knows you should be weeping over the sudden finite proportions of your life, but you’ve spent days waiting to die and all you can manage is a grim sort of relief that takes wistful forms of I knew it and at least it will finally be over.

The metal door swings open and you hold your breath, almost overwhelmed by the sense of urgency behind the push. Yixing is always cautious and gentle with it, letting you know he’s on the other side before you can even see or smell him, and Chanyeol enters the room like he assumes you’ve been waiting for him - elegant and grandiose. This is an ugly, abrupt swing that sends the door ricocheting off the wall and the noise of it makes you tremble. Even when he was dragging a chair behind him, Chanyeol was still somewhat quiet and composed in his judgement of you.

Two men you don’t recognize enter with gruff footsteps, faces stoic and impassive, and they say nothing as they approach the door to the cage. They don’t acknowledge you as it opens, all its locks coming apart with a din that sounds like a death toll, nor do they bother to speak to you as they reach towards you with outstretched hands. One extends his arm next to you, a hook attached to a leash held tightly in his fist, and your eyes widen at the sight. You dodge him easily only to realize he was not aiming for you, but for the pig at your side.

You've spent days in the cage naming the goats and pigs, calling them your companions, your bed mates, your friends. A small feeling of guilt and sadness settles in your heart, making it drop slightly, when you realize that every animal has a collar with a latch and it's easy to understand where they would be lead. You’ve been sleeping with a herd, sleeping with food stock. Bile rises in your throat as you think of all the meals Yixing has given you, and why you never once questioned where they were getting all the protein. 

The other man interrupts your thoughts by gripping your ankle and dragging you along the cage floor. You topple backwards, the sudden weight on your wrists making you yelp, and you kick your other leg at everything and nothing hoping to break away by sheer force of will. 

He starts to laugh at the sight of you, how you twist and writhe trying to loosen his hold. It only makes his grip tighten, the strength of his arm suddenly so powerful you feel as though you are fighting against steel and you resign to letting yourself be pulled. Your stillness makes him purse his lips and you think he was expecting you to plead or beg or cry, but you're very used to this game and you aren't in the mood to start losing.

As he lifts you up and out of the cage, gripping your shirt and yanking until your legs extend and straighten, you realize how tense you are. You’ve not been able to stand for days, and your knees are throbbing with an ache that extends deep into the bones of your shins. Everything below your hips is painfully stiff, numbed to stone and asleep, so you stagger forward with the effort of keeping yourself upright. A cold hand clenches your wrist, fingers digging into the skin beyond the ropes, as he wrenches you back against his chest, and all at once you aren’t alone in your head.

Do not speak. Walk where I guide. Do not make any attempt to run.

You have the passing sensation you’ve been punched in the chest as you realize these thoughts in your head are not created or spoken in your voice, and your breathing starts to come in shallow huffs. You think this is what influence is, that maybe D.O. isn’t the only one with this gift, but suddenly the voice is back.

This is not influence. I can read and put thoughts in your head. Don’t bother trying to hide anything from me. I can see it all. If D.O. were here there’d be little hope for you, bitch.

And so because you remember Yixing saying connections feel like a door, because you know that if D.O. were here, his influence would have no effect on you, you suddenly understand you’ve been going about this all wrong. Now, you force yourself into this man’s head because you know these gifts can work both ways. If he wanted to take, so would you, you'd take everything from him with greedy, hungry hands, and you’d feel no remorse for never once considering his permission.

Immediately, you come to regret your gumption. The words in his head are jumbled but the images are not. The images are crystal clear and visceral, and they make you bite your tongue to keep from screaming.

There are almost too many for you to focus on, most of them red and angry and brutal, but one - the most detailed and explicit of all - is of you. You're naked, at least what he believes you'd look like naked, and you're splayed out on a table. Your legs are spread wide, delicately spread eagled, and you are looking off in a distance, eyes glassy and vacant, with the whisper of a scream still seeping from your lips. There's long slice marks on your wrists and you are bleeding, in an almost graceful fashion, into crystal glasses on the floor below. This alone would be enough to insight horror deep within your soul, the act of making your murder into a work of art, but you can see him, his head between your thighs and his fangs out, biting, lapping, and sucking at your sex turning your most sensitive parts into raw pulp.

With your tongue against your teeth, pressing in fitful desperation to keep silent, and your jaw clenched, you keep your thoughts empty as shove against his consciousness with one vicious image of your own.

He wanted to take, so you took. He wanted your death to be clear and beautiful and perfect, and so would his.

It’s complicated and strenuous, moving against the threads of his mind to stabilize yourself, more than you thought it would be and a sheen of sweat starts to build along your hairline from the focus. But you gather the pieces of what you want him to see, arranging them first in your head before placing them behind his eyes like the film of a movie.

You, in front of him, naked and sitting up on that table. You, knife in your hands and fist clenched. You, dragging the knife along the center of his throat until he’s bleeding. He’s bleeding all over your hands and arms, so much you’re covered in smears of him, and you’re laughing. It’s a cold, unfeeling laugh, that tastes like bullets and you salivate. You could paint yourself with all the blood he’s lost - you think you look beautiful like this. Him, dead in a heap at your feet and you, walking away from the table as you lick your fingers and lips with a smile. 

Task complete, you find yourself gasping for breath, exhausted from the concentration of building something so clear without having learned the art of telepathy. But you know he’s seen it, you know he’s seen every detail, because his free hand clenches your throat as he presses you against his chest, tight and unyielding, mouth against your ear in hot, sticky breaths in direct contrast with the cold marble of his hands.

‘Don’t be bold. Bold will get you killed, and I am starving.’

His words rumble against your eardrum as he pushes you off of him abruptly, thrusting you forward on your weary legs with such force you fall to the floor. You choke back a sob as your teeth connect with your tongue as you hit the ground, arms unable to catch your fall. Within moments, you’re lifted up by your hair and you clamber with all your might to stand, to be free, to fight. 

Keep fighting me and I will have your heart.

A strong arm is wrapped around your waist, guiding and essentially carrying you as you flail, but it's no use. His hands are strong and large, commanding. You're trapped against him, and you’re tired down to the marrow of your bones, so you decide to conserve energy and take to learning the route he takes as he pushes you into the hallway.

Memorizing without thinking, you find, is a skill much easier to learn than telepathy. Head empty you simply watch, keeping your face blank and your eyes active.

Right out the door, then left, pass four doors then left again. You push through double doors and go down some stairs to take a right.

He shoves you through wide doors not far from the stairs and you find yourself in a large room filled with lopsided pews and elaborate wooden panels lining the walls. The space is wide enough to fit about one hundred people, but it’s not the scope of the room that captures your attention, nor is it the way the pews have been haphazardly bolted into the floor. No, it’s what lingers in the back of the room that commands your attention as you are pushed down the makeshift aisle. 

A platform has been created at the back of the room, raised about three feet from the ground and spanning the length of the wall. In its center is a large wooden chair, almost the size of what you might consider a throne, and it is lined almost entirely with red candles, along the back and arms. They have been lit, now and before, all melting in different shapes and sizes, giving the chair the eerie effect as though it is bleeding. In front of the chair is a large slab of concrete, covered with a sheet of ivory cloth. Resting on top is one large, intricately designed silver chalice and next to it, a large cutting knife.

You know this is an altar. You know this room is meant to represent all the icons and idols of what they consider to be religion. In any other world, you think being in a chapel or temple would bring you comfort, that you finally found faith and hope in a world filled with so much darkness. Instead, your chest is constructed, struggling to breathe as your lungs fill with dread. It's hard for you to ignore the obvious red stains adorning the base of the concrete, how they seem to spill from the stone and onto the floor as if they were attempting to move throughout the room - flooding it with malicious intent.

You are shoved into a pew at the very front of the room, and you drop awkwardly into the wood as your guide comes to sit next to you.

You will sit and you will watch. Say nothing. You are here because sire wishes you to be.

The words travel around your mind with a rough growl, deep and filled with many things best left unsaid. You are a guest in their world. To disrespect means to die. Most importantly, this is a test. 

There’s an anxiety that has been brimming under your skin, seeping out of your pores like sweat the minute you laid eyes on your guide, and now, with him pressed so tightly against your side, you are almost paralyzed. Normally, you’re curious. Normally, you observe and learn your surroundings with an exactness found only among hunters, but now you choose to keep your eyes forward. You plaster what you think resembles disinterest on your features and remind yourself to blink. 

Eyes focused on the panels adorning the walls, you study the intricacy of their designs and patterns, the stories they tell as you feel more people arrive behind you. They are staring at you, hungry for you, willing you to meet their scrutiny and to acknowledge how badly they’d like to bleed you dry. You can feel how intensely they crave you, and you know it’s because you shouldn’t be here. You are neither meant to bear witness to this nor, and you think this is more likely, should your presence be on a pew, you should be laid out on the altar waiting for them. 

Behind you, someone takes a long inhale of breath and you know they are smelling you, pulling all of your pieces from the air to dance along their senses. The man next to you can feel your shoulders bristling and he drags his nail on the inside of your wrist, twisting between the ropes to scratch away at you.

 Get used to it, bitch. You have no idea how sweet you are.

You’ve been chewing on your bottom lip for so long, you’re only aware you’re bleeding until you taste the iron on your tongue. Licking up the mess you’ve made, you keep staring at the panels and one behind the throne catches your attention.

It’s a man, a man you assume is Chanyeol given the height and the elegance of him, arms outstretched beneath the moon. A dragon is wrapped at his feet, curled there for comfort and possibly honor, head bowed in esteem. Beneath Chanyeol’s open hands, an oak tree is taking root, sprouting from the earth with dignity and poise. The longer you look, the more you see the true essence of love and worship, the image becoming a symbol of respect, equality, and magic.

The carving is ornate and striking in its craftsmanship, but you don’t find yourself enamored with its construction rather you find all elements of the display to be familiar in some way. You feel briefly as though you’ve seen the image before, or at least that you have recognized each piece to make it whole before you even rested your eyes on it. You find it beautiful. You find it comforting.

The din of the room suddenly falls silent as the doors are pushed open roughly, and you watch as seven regal looking men enter the room in a line. Their dress is unusual, not the typical black army boots and fatigues you've seen on your captors, or even the basic black denim Yixing regularly sports. Instead, they are dressed impeccably in black suits with metal plated shoulder casings, each man swishing a silk cape in various bold colours. Backs rigid and held in perfectly straight lines, they march to the end of the room before flanking each end of the altar with postures found only on those of high military ranks.

Immediately, your eyes find Yixing. He’s standing on your side of the altar, close to your pew and he’s staring at you with warm, kind eyes that hold the echo of sympathy. Behind his gaze, you see him willing you to understand that this will not be easy for you, but you are supported and welcomed; he is happy you are here and things will make sense soon. 

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him look so truly beautiful, his eyes a brilliant, rich amber- signifying that he’s fed and healthy - and he looks clean, skin glowing from the inside out. He’s remarkable and radiant, and you find yourself wilting slightly beneath his gaze knowing that the gold of his beauty is nothing but an amorous sort of danger. 

Next to him, however, is a man that you find painful to look at. Even as you regarded Yixing, your eyes strained to keep focus because he is blinding, too bright to truly discern beneath the hot white of his glow. After several moments, your eyes adjust, you see him, and you feel as though you are eclipsing the sun.  

He stares straight ahead and you are glad for it, knowing that if he looked directly at you, you would surely melt. Where Yixing glows from the inside out, making warmth with his presence, this man is the light - he's all the light in the world and you are blistering beneath him. Light bends to him, is born from him, and follows only him. You think this is what an angel is supposed to be, that this is what every Renaissance artist was trying to depict when they made halos and tried to control the light.

You realize he's laughing, someone next to him has made him smile, and as he settles back into a quiet, complacent expression, so too does the light dim. In the aftermath of his joy, you think you've finally learned the true meaning of awe.

You wonder briefly if all these men glow, or radiate in some way, and you drag your eyes across their faces allowing yourself to be taken by their energy.

Moving your eyes across their line, you see them all in quick succession: one sending a chill down your spine despite the warmth of his eyes, another making your skin tingle with static electricity, another, the most regal of them all, somehow making you feel as though your lungs are filled with water

Most bewildering to you is the man on the left side of the altar, his cape a deep royal purple and his full lips set into a soft expression of concentration. You see him. You know he is there, but you have the passing sensation he isn't there at all. When you pull your eyes away, you almost forget what he looks like or that you'd even seen him at all, the memory of him disappearing as soon as he is no longer in view. The air around him seems to ripple, as though he moves differently through the world than all the rest.

Beside him, you can feel D.O.’s hard stare as it moves over your face. Everything about him makes you feel rooted to the earth, the ground almost becoming a cavern to swallow you whole, but when you finally think you're brave enough to return his stare, he looks more quizzical than anything. He doesn't look cruel or malicious as you remember him, he simply looks frustrated. You're reminded Yixing had said he was apologetic, but this is not how you expect remorse to look. There's no element of softness to him, just a scowl that makes his brow look withered.

All at once, the men flanking the altar start to hum in a low intonation that is so quiet it takes you a moment to hear it at all. Their eyes are closed and they almost look transcendent, mouths once held in stern lines softening to almost form smiles within the music.

The door opens in the back and suddenly you're lifted to stand by the collar of your shirt. Chanyeol makes his way down the aisle, hands clasped behind his back as we walks, the train of a crimson cape flowing behind him like pools of blood trailing at his feet. You don't fail to notice the bandolier of wooden bullets draped over his chest in an X, but you almost can’t imagine him without it, without the symbols of war. 

When he reaches the altar, you notice the humming now consumes the room. That everyone, not just those on the platform, have joined in and are harmonizing. Chanyeol positions himself in front of the throne and raises his hand as a request for silence, sitting gently in the chair with cold eyes and soft lips. Back relaxed and resting against the wood, you watch as the flames of the candles seem to bend to him, calling and beckoning his skin to their touch, desperate to hold, and taste, and burn. He seems at home in the fire, the colour making his skin look alive and vital, and turning his lips pink.  

Now that he’s seated, you expect everyone to sit with him, however once again they turn towards the door with heads bowed, whispering words in a language you can almost understand but the cadence is off. The language moves through your mind and is too slippery for you to hold, so it drifts through the air and you let yourself luxuriate in the sounds as a tall, slim man with a black cape and a severe brow approaches Chanyeol as though we were approaching God.

Looking at him is even more difficult than looking at the gentleman in the purple cape, though at least you can remember this one when you look away. Again, the air ripples and swirls around him as he moves but it doesn't give you the impression that he isn't there, or never was. Instead you get the sense that he makes the air, controls it, and it is parting for him, its father, out of respect.

He comes to kneel in front of the altar, long limbs gracefully bending in unison with his head, and Chanyeol regards him with what could only be described as a fond expression. It settles deftly on his pink and yellow features, and you find yourself admiring him. 

As Chanyeol rises to stand, the flames of the candles grow larger, as if coming to stand with him, and warping as though they are whining at his absence. He pays them no mind and motions for everyone to sit with soft hands.

 ‘Today is a rite of passage and honour,’ he begins, voice strong and commanding attention. ‘Today is an act of pride. Today, we welcome Oh Sehun, once named and twice born, through the HeTao gates and into the arms of the brotherhood.’

He brings his eyes to Sehun who remains kneeling, bowed dutifully at the altar with piety, and you watch as a smile, a real genuine smile crosses his lips; this alone leaves you breathless in its wake.

‘You may stand, Sehun, and greet your brothers.’ There's a gentleness in his voice, an air of admiration resonating in the deep timbre, that bewilders you slightly. He's been cold and cruel with you, arrogant and political, and never did you think he had it in him to devote himself to tenderness.

Sehun rises, expressionless save for the twinkling of life behind his eyes. A light seems to linger in his irises, swirls of joy, veneration, and respite mixing in the dark shade. To you, this kind of life seems out of place, unfathomable in its brilliance. He turns to face the rest of the coven and his fists clench at his sides, from discomfort or emotion you cannot be sure. 

‘Two hundred years,’ Chanyeol continues, ‘Sehun has served this coven without rank and without oath to prove his worth - the first and maybe last to do this. Two hundred years, Sehun has filled every role within our brotherhood and today, he joins our rank as General.’

This seems to catch Sehun off guard, and his expression falters, becoming one of shock as he turns slightly to regard Chanyeol before remembering himself and locking all these intimate pieces of himself away from prying eyes. You don't think he was expecting this and, giving the whispers throughout the room, you don't think anyone else did either. 

‘You may face me, Sehun,’ Chanyeol says, evenly.

‘You have killed for me, and bled for me,’ he says, voice low and deep, but somehow soothing and affected. ‘You have burned for me, and saved me. You have protected this brotherhood as if your oath had been bled with your mortal birth. You have mastered our armory - I daresay you know it better than I.’

Light rumbles of chuckling seem to vibrate throughout the room at this. The joke, if there was one, is lost on you. 

‘Your allegiance is unprecedented and proved; this rank is deserved.’ He reaches a hand across the altar, and Sehun takes it warily, still unable to comprehend the offer being given to him. They shake only once, and Chanyeol hardens himself only for a moment as he speaks.

‘Does anyone object?’

No voices ring out, but there is reverent applause as Sehun faces his brothers with wet eyes and clenched fists. For a moment, you feel a certain affinity for Sehun. He seems to be just as unprecedented as you.

‘Then we continue with the oath. Bring the pig.’

From the right side of the room, a small door is opened and a man enters carrying the pig taken with you, only now it is limp and unconscious. The man bows briefly to Chanyeol, and then to Sehun, before placing the animal on the altar.

You know exactly where this is going. You know where this is going and you don’t want to look, so you close your eyes and are relieved, if only slightly, that no howl or wail will be made from the animal today. The only sound is the wet noise of skin being cut and blood starting to flow. 

Opening your eyes, they start to water slightly at the sight of the white cloth stained crimson and the blood from the animal’s throat weeping into a cup waiting below in Sehun’s hand. Even after the goblet is placed back on the altar, the animal continues to bleed and you feel a deep remorse at the sight. They’ve placed great emphasis on brotherhood this evening, and this pig was your companion.

Chanyeol lifts his right arm and starts to roll up his sleeve, and Sehun does the same, mirroring everything from his expression to his brisk movements. Taking the knife in his left hand, he drags the blade across his wrist and turns the wound over the chalice, clenching and unclenching his hand to make his blood flow like water. Once satisfied, he hands the blade to Sehun who does the same. In unison, they raise their wrists to each other’s mouths and the lick at the cuts.

Sehun places his right hand on the cup’s rim, wrist now perfectly healed, and begins to speak.

‘My devotion to this coven shall be as unwavering as the flame to your skin,’ he pledges, and the sound of his voice catches you off guard. He’s young, almost a child in tone, but he speaks with sincerity befit for a king.

‘Today I gain brothers of a new life, and new life shall be served, honored, and protected. Should I bring harm to my brothers, may my throat be cut by each of their hands. Should I betray my brothers, may my throat be cut by each of their hands. Should I dishonor my brothers, may the wind of my soul be used against me. Should I dishonor my Sire, may the flames of this coven burn me alive for eternity. Should what I say be false, may your flames consume my soul.’

There’s a pause, and you realize that everyone has turned their eyes to the candles lining the throne, waiting on its actions with baited breath. Only now do you understand that Sehun meant this literally: the flames will tell Chanyeol if he is lying or disloyal. The fire will decide his face.

The flames only seems to spark and dance, and this satisfies the coven who release their tension with quiet sighs. 

‘My devotion to you shall be as unwavering as the air in your lungs,’ Chanyeol begins, placing his right hand over Sehun’s. He stares him directly in the eyes, with admiration and respect, and continues. ‘Today I gain a brother in this new life, and new life shall be served, honored, and protected. Should any harm befall you at my actions, may my throat be cut by our brothers’ hands. Should you be taken against your will, used for ransom, used as a prisoner of war, I will find you, or may the energy of our brothers pierce my heart like swords. Should I fail to protect you at any turn, from any threat, may a silver sword pierce my heart and a wooden bullet find my skull. Should what I say be false, may your air strangle my lungs.’

You look back at the flame, expecting its judgement, but soon realize this is not where you focus should be centered. A breeze seems to be blowing through Chanyeol’s hair, a gust of wind surrounding him and only him. And now you understand why Sehun moves so easily through the air: the air belongs to him.

‘Blood of my blood, blood of your blood, blood of life. We three are bound for eternity by choice and by respect,’ Chanyeol whispers, satisfied and smiling in the aftermath of the current.

‘Blood of my blood, blood of your blood. Our blood.’

Chanyeol lifts the chalice, now filled to the brim with blood, to his lips and drinks, whole mouthfuls spilling down his throat, eyes closed as though he were praying. When finished, he passes the cup to Sehun, who reaches for it with an unsteady hand. He does not seem nervous or regretful - his posture too sure and resolute to be wavering - you think perhaps he is overcome with relief.

‘Blood of my blood, blood of your blood. Our blood,’ he repeats, and he drinks with the same rapture on his face.

He places the cup back on the table next to the still bleeding pig, and you watch as the flames on the back of the throne grow taller, becoming wide and large, and the men flanking Chanyeol’s side step away. All at once, the fire turn to wings behind his back, elegant and enormous. And Sehun, still and proud, releases a sigh that forces a gust of wind throughout the room, smoke from the blaze gathering behind him to deliver him large wings of his own.

You're awestruck and dumbfounded, but this visual seems the only likely conclusion to these oaths: their elements, their souls, are bound. Now, they are pieces of each other’s whole, incomplete should they ever become separated.

You watch this all unfold, the back of your neck prickling with unease as you watch Sehun and Chanyeol regard each other with red lips like lovers, wings fading to memory. Part of you finds it unnerving to think that all these men had looked up at Chanyeol this way, eyes wide with ardor and desperate to be sired. It isn’t hard to imagine each one approaching the altar with a reverence reserved for their wedding day. And, perhaps, that is exactly what this is, a marriage and a baptism, binding yourself to one man and one idol only - your sire.

‘Name yourself, my brother, now at the time of your second life,’ Chanyeol says, a bright air to his voice you find uncharacteristic for this world.

‘I keep my mortal name Sehun,’ is the adamant, quick reply. 

Yixing told you a vampire has three names and said clearly, one of the few things you understood about this world, that the sire gives his members their second name. You had asked why Yixing had been so named twice, and now you understood: Chanyeol never named his members on their behalf, he let them choose. Every man in the room has named themselves of their own volition.

It strikes you now why Yixing had stressed there was always a choice, why he had pressed the notion that kindness existed here in small, unseen spaces. No man is here out of the loss of free will or by force, they each have chosen to be here - to serve and protect. And Chanyeol, as detached and violent and furious he is, has chosen to guard them with the whole of himself, every fibre of his being becoming a thread of gratitude for their service and judgement.

‘You will choose your third name after war. I pray it is never earned.’

They bow to each other, and you think this seems odd, though you aren’t sure why you’re surprised. Chanyeol has made it clear he is the conven’s sire, but he bows to his men and handles them as though they are his equals. This, you think, is the only truly consistent thing about him. 

Sehun rises and walks behind the altar, flanking the left side to stand beside the man in purple and D.O. turns to offer him a smile - a large, full smile that makes his eyes appear soft. Your breath hitches in your chest, awed and baffled that such natural love could radiate from a man you thought to be harder and colder than steel. You see him now, for who he really is, and find yourself believing Yixing against your better judgment. 

‘Kindness exists in unseen places.’

‘Our brotherhood is stronger now that we are all one. Our blood flows in and between, forever amongst ourselves. We stand to serve and protect.’

The rest of the coven repeats ‘to serve and protect’ before rising to stand and offering each general a bow. Assuming the ritual is over, you start to stand on your own, preferring not to be guided by an almost abusive guide. You’ve barely lifted from the pew when a strong hand presses on your shoulder and forces back into the wood.

You will wait. Sire expects you. 

Comprehending what you have seen is strenuous and daunting, every moment of the evening simply too full to be handled by your mortal hands. You've thought it both beautiful and terrifying, remarkable and horrible, and you find it truly unbelievable to have witnessed any sort of love or fraternity in this room. But of all the things you've seen, only one truly stays with you - because it directly effects you, it’s about you.

You've stayed with the pigs, you've named them, and cared for them. The first words directed at you were a reduction of your humanity to nothing more than meat. You've stayed with the pigs and you've seen the ritual, thus you've seen your future. You are a sacrifice, and you've been nurtured and fed to be full and bloated only to spill over into their eager throats.

Now that you know this, you refuse to sit idly by and not fight. You've been called hero over and over again, and now you decide you will live up to the name if only to save yourself.

Slithering out from under his grasp, you make to run towards the side of the altar, hoping to get to the door where the pig was brought through. You’re nearly there, you can see it, and you know you are fast, but strong arms wrap around your waist, lifting and carrying you away. You scream with all your might, kicking your legs as the hands that hold you move around your torso, and suddenly you are everywhere and nowhere at once.

You see the world behind your eyes, time and places blending together to shatter your concept of temporality. There is purple here, secretly presiding in every location until you are drowning in violet. This only makes you scream harder, the knowledge of who is holding you crashing through your senses but you can’t see him at all, and your chest starts to ache with the force of your shouting. 

‘Minseok, please!’ Chanyeol demands, though you are unable to see him.

And suddenly you are cold. So cold you can barely move. A finger has been placed against your lips to silence you and you have no choice but to obey. Your back is tense and aching, and your legs drop to the floor like lead, their fight halted altogether. You are passive and complacent now, body chilled to ice, and the man you thought looked so warm hovers in front of your vision whispering ‘I’m sorry.’

It’s easy now, so easy, to drag you from the room and into the hall. You can’t turn your head to watch the route, your skin nothing but a polar blaze, burning with cold to the very core of your soul, but you know you’re going back to the cage. This, you think, is what breaking feels like, a shattering of will so complete and absolute you wonder if death itself has already found you and this has been your hell. 

Eventually, you enter a room and as soon as you are released, the world gathers at your feet and the warmth returns to your body as though you’ve never been cold at all. You’re suddenly too warm, and you turn to see Chanyeol standing in front of you with a frown as the men in blue and purple swiftly leave the room.

You don’t give him time to scold you. You’re furious. Furious in a way you don’t think you’ve felt in years, and you don’t care that you were guest of honor, you don’t care that he’s shown you your future as though it’s an act of kindness. You want him to bleed with you.

‘What the fuck was that?’ you shout. ‘Am I supposed to feel privileged to have witnessed the death of an innocent animal? Am I supposed to feel proud I’m some kind of fucking sacrifice?’

Chanyeol steps close to you in one stride, close enough so that his face is inches from yours. Any other man, and you think your breath would catch from the intimacy, but instead your rage only burns brighter.

‘You are only a sacrifice if that is your wish,’ he seethes. 

‘Then why are you holding me here?’ you demand. ‘What the fuck is the point of this? I’m just going to stay here and watch you marry or fucking baptize grown men at your leisure for the rest of my life?’

His hand raises as though he were making to hit you, and you don’t flinch. You don’t grant him the pleasure. Instead, his hand pauses by your temple as he remembers himself. 

‘You have insulted my coven and my honour far enough. Next time, my hand will fly freely.’ 

‘I fucking dare you,’ you whisper. ‘You’ve had me in a fucking cage for days, you think I’m stupid? You think you need to prove your power to me?’

‘You have yet to see how truly cruel I can be. You have been spoiled, hero.’

You cock your head back and cackle. ‘You’ve treated me like a prisoner of war.’

‘Are you truly so ignorant to think that is not precisely what you are?’ he shouts, and the closeness of his voice sends you stepping back a step from the force. ‘I had to initiate a young vampire centuries before his true wish because you started a war.’ 

There’s holes in his story, too many moments of kindness and threats unfulfilled that make you question every word he says.

‘If I’m a prisoner of war, why feed me? Do I really need to keep asking why I’m still alive? Why I was in a cage when you’ve made it so clear you’d be happy to kill me?’

He steps forward again, matching the step you took in the wake of his shouts to come close, close enough you feel his breathing. 

‘I am not in the habit of taking in human strays. The cage was to mask your scent so you wouldn’t immediately become a feast.’ Chanyeol whispers the words against your skin and close to your cheek in hot waves, and, against your best intention, you shiver. I feel there is use for you, yet.’

He pulls back then, searching your face for your reaction. You keep every thread of your shock and confusion locked tightly away from his gaze, pressing them into dark corners and keep your face cold.

With an exasperated exhale, Chanyeol leans back and gestures to the room you are in.

‘This room is where you will stay. My apologies that it took so long to prepare. You were uninvited.’

The words fall from his mouth with a slight air of sarcasm, but you know that he means what he says. Turning to glance at your surroundings, you see he’s prepared a large bed for you with one cotton sheet and two large, but lumpy, pillows. A water basin rests in the corner and a wooden closet stands directly opposite. 

‘The walls are coated in petroleum to mask your smell. I’ll finally be able to sleep without you permeating my fucking bedroom.’

You turn back to face him then, and are shocked to find an element of laughter on his face as he chuckles at his own joke. For one, short moment, he looks human.

‘How do you know I won’t run?’ you ask, although your words are not as sharp as you hoped.

‘Because it’s not in your best interest to,’ he responds, plainly.

As loathe as you are to admit it, you know that if you run you will be caught and found, likely punished in whatever twisted way his imagination fancies. But, though he is right, you know you will still try. And the gift of this room may be the flaw in whatever plan he thinks he has. 

So you shrug your shoulders and acquiesce.

‘Okay.’

He cocks an eyebrow at you. ‘Don’t lie. It doesn’t suit you.’

‘My hands are still bound, what fucking escape plan do you think I have?’ you say, shortly.

‘About that,’ he says to himself before reaching for you. He turns you quickly and holds your shoulders with strong, warm hands.

This is a position you’ve been in before, back grazing a man’s chest as their hands roam freely along your arms. You can feel his breath in your ears, the long, deep inhales coming in a tantalizing rhythm. You know this position and you know that with him, you don’t want it.

‘I will not bend over for you,’ you spit.

He presses himself roughly, against your back, hard and purposeful, and suddenly his mouth is next to your ear, tongue laving your earlobe. You're reminded of the soldier earlier, the one who wanted to turn you into a feast, but it feels different with Chanyeol. Almost like there's a fire against your back, warming and warning you, and you tremble in his arms.

‘If that was what I wanted from you,’ he whispers, deep voice vibrating into your chest, ‘you would already be on your knees begging.’ 

Air escapes your lungs in a silent sigh at this, and your eyes close briefly as fire starts in your chest and spreads down into your fingers. It burns at you with an almost ravenous desire, and you’re unsure if this belongs to you or to him.

Distracted as you are with the flames, you only realize your hands are free when Chanyeol turns you back around to face him, his eyes much warmer than you’ve ever seen them before. The black has turned to a chocolate brown, and you’re bewildered by the change.

‘Now it is I who is at your mercy,’ he offers gently.

He gives you no time to ponder the words, turning on his heels to stalk out of the room as you are left massaging the soreness of your wrists, the fire still burning, burning in your chest.

[emilyrumboldt-blog]

This time last year, I was nobody.

  Of course, that’s not entirely true. I was getting by, so to speak, minding my own business whilst coasting along in my own little fantasy world. Think of a cloud: drifting way up in the sky, no anchors or weights holding it in one place. Gravity is a stranger up there, so it would seem. What I am trying to say is that, in many ways, I was that cloud once upon a time. The funny thing about clouds is that they are so much bigger, so much more significant, than they originally appear; apparently the average cumulonimbus is about 1000 feet thick. And to think: before NCS, I didn’t even know that clouds had names! This cloud had a name, too. Emily. In fact, that might be the only thing about me that hasn’t changed, because this time last year I was preparing for the biggest, most life-changing opportunity which has ever found itself lying on my doorstep. NCS: The Challenge.

  My experience with the National Citizen Service has been, in many ways, the key to the locked door labelled “FUTURE” which I had been vacantly gawping at for so much of my adolescent life. It’s not that I wasn’t trying to get through; it was more like I had been brainwashed into thinking that life was easy, and that any door in the world would eventually open up for me given enough time. I could mutter Alohomora under my breath a million times and counting, though. That door needed a key, and that only came with experience. At that point in time, I only associated “experience” with work. Ah, work experience. By the time you reach my age, even the thought of the term work experience begins to tickle your nerves. Everybody wants it! Employers, Universities, UCAS: in fact, I have heard that godforsaken word so many times that I wish I could lock it inside Room 101 for all of eternity. Ah!

  All of a sudden, during one of those dreary Year 11 assemblies we used to have, a virtuous symphony of fanfares exploded upon us. The sky, previously murky and grey, was blanketed in a warm ray of light, and from the heavens above fell my guardian angel. An NCS worker by the name of “Pete” stood before us, singing a divine chorus about experiences and challenges far beyond the likes of anything our normal lives could offer. NCS: The Challenge. Of course, Pete wasn’t really an angel, but oh how much I wanted to get involved with this so-called “NCS” business. I practically ran home that evening – a miraculous feat in itself, considering my particular dislike of all things active – and forced my mum to sign the consent form. Before that day, I hadn’t even thought about the summer following my GCSE exams, but from then on my experience with NCS was all that I could think about for months.

  On the morning of August 11th, 2016, I felt more sick-to-my-stomach with anxiety than I had when coming out for the first time. I remember my alarm screaming obscenities at me for the fourth or fifth time that morning, promising an endless, terrifying wrath upon everything I loved if I didn’t get my lazy self out of bed, for the last time, woman! Well, something like that. It was stupid o’clock in the morning; the sun had barely risen above the line of conifer trees at the end of my back-garden, and both of my eyes were plastered shut with sleep. I sat up, and at once my ears erupted with a sharp, drilling pain, like a pair of needles were being shoved through them. Ear infection. Brilliant.

  Looking back now, I can’t help but laugh at my last-minute aversion towards the whole thing. On that morning, I just didn’t want anything to do with NCS! “I’M NOT GOING!” I would scream at my poor mother as she hammered on my bedroom door, fighting with all the strength she had to get me to cooperate. The thing about my pre-NCS self is that, unlike now, I had next to no control over my mental health. I was riddled with anxiety, with generous helpings of depression, PTSD, and OCD mixed in. My brain at that point was like a cocktail of negativity, garnished with whipped cream and a scattering of rainbow-coloured sprinkles. Meeting new people was one of my biggest fears, succeeding my crippling phobia of judgement, and so I was practically drowning in the proposal of meeting an entire wave of complete strangers.

  What did I think would happen? I have no clue. Whatever it was, however, it couldn’t have been further from the reality. I stepped foot through those doors, both hands shaking as I hauled behind me the most tragic offense of overpacking known to man, and I found myself greeted by the most sympathetically sweet smile I had ever seen. That smile belonged to an equally sweet woman, who took that stupid yellow suitcase of mine and led me to my group.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  Before me sat the most incredible group of people I have ever had the honour to meet. No monsters. No ruffians or thugs. Just real, INCREDIBLE people. People who wanted to get to know me, who cared about me and the constant film references I make. People who would grow to be my fiercest friends, who in the next few weeks would learn more about me than I knew about myself at that point in time. People who, for the first time in my life, I could connect with.

  I have spent hours deliberating the best way to tell this story. NCS really was the best experience of my life; even now, a year on, I can’t stress that enough. Of all the places I’ve been, all the memories I’ve made, nothing quite compares to the independence and sense of worth that The Challenge gave me. In fact, I have so many priceless memories thanks to NCS that I can’t possibly share them all. This blog would be infinite! Instead, I have tortured myself by coming up with a Top 3, a decision which was incomprehensibly difficult to make. My chosen three are not just stories: they are anecdote ROYALTY. They are nostalgic, filled to the brim with banter, affection, and cringe-worthy soppiness which my NCS team will probably curse me for sharing. But first, here’s a little context.

  NCS: The Challenge is an experience like no other, and I don’t mean that in the horrifically clichéd way. What I mean is that, unlike anything else in this big ol’ world, NCS actually gave me the motivation to stop bingeing Netflix in the sun-free zone that is my bedroom, and instead put on a pair of trainers and DO SOMETHING. The course is split into three phases: adventure, skills, and social action. Phase 1 is exactly what it says on the tin: an adventure. They ship you all off to Wonderland – South Wales, in my case – to take part in death-defying challenges, by which I mean a series of perfectly safe activities such as rock-climbing and coasteering, all of which are run by trained and experienced practitioners. In Phase 2 we stayed in accommodation at Reading University, where we spent a few days learning our chosen skill – photography – to present to a dauntingly-large audience of parents at the Showcase. Finally, in Phase 3, we took to Reading town centre to raise awareness of an amazing local mental health charity, Compass Opportunities, who work with adults in Reading to help improve their mental wellbeing. Our plan was to run a dramatic flash mob in town, but you’ll hear more about that later.

  At the end of all this, we graduated NCS with an impressive skillset appealing to any good employer, an INCREDIBLE addition to our CVs and UCAS applications, and a set of friends to last a lifetime. But you don’t really care about that, do you? I promised you my top three NCS memories. So, without further ado…

  3: THE LAST DAY™

  Alas, the last day. It seems weird, really, that the day which put an end to this magical adventure would find itself in my top three best-days-ever. But hey, not all finales are as dreadfully disappointing as the final episode of ‘Pretty Little Liars’. No, this was a finale for the Gods. Think of the ‘Friends’ finale, with its soppy goodbyes and happy sadness galore. I had never seen any of my new friends cry until that last day. They’d all seen my ugly, Kim K cry-face plenty of times, of course; I am nothing if not an emotional wreck. It had taken until that last day for us to process that, after all this was finished, there was a chance that we would never see each other again. That, of course, was a load of rubbish: NCS had made us inseparable, a band of warriors sworn to protect one another from the big bad world. We barely go a day without talking to at least one other Team SPICYyyy member (our team name was one of a selection of wonderfully wacky nicknames which have somehow stuck after all these months).

  But the Last Day™ was also quite possibly the most hectic, stress-inducing PANDEMONIUM to ever hit our busy little lives. Why, you ask? Well, cast your minds back a couple of paragraphs to when I mentioned our social-action project. Why we ever thought we would be able to pull off a flash mob was beyond me, but heck, we did it anyway. The plan was fairly simple: we would scatter ourselves around town dressed in hoodies and eerie facepaint, all surrounding our leading lady Ashley, who was dancing to grab people’s attention. Slowly, we would close in on her until she was completely overwhelmed by hooded figured, representing different mental health conditions and the effect they can have on the most innocent of people. After the demonstration, we would talk about the importance of Compass Opportunities and hand out leaflets.

  The problems started with the weather. Rain. Lots of it. I guess we should have planned for a downpour, really – we live in England, after all. This, however, was as though Mother Nature was performing a flash mob of her own, namely a modern rendition of Shakespeare’s ‘The Tempest’.  By the time we even arrived in town, the whole lot of us were soaked through from head-to-toe. To make matters worse, I had broken my toe a couple of days prior in a freak makeup accident, rendering me useless, our “loudspeaker” wasn’t exactly very loud, and our spot in town had been high-jacked by a friendly busker named Jack. Yikes. Team SPICYyyy, however, are no quitters, and so we spent the majority of the day singing acapella with Jack, helping him raise money whilst promoting Compass Opportunities at the same time. Success!

  To find out more about Compass Opportunities and the incredible work they do, please click here.

  2: THE VERY STRANGE EASTER EGG HUNT

  Imagine this: you are a normal person, minding your own business as you make your way through the bustle of your local high-street. It is coming up to midday, the sun is blazing, and you have just left MacDonald’s with a fist full of Big Mac when you see it. Right in front of you, barreling down the road, is a technicoloured Leviathan! You choke on your Big Mac, for you have never seen such insanity in your life. You blink: once, then twice, until you FINALLY realise that Leviathans do not exist, and the entity charging towards you is, in fact, a team of hyperactive young hooligans dressed in onesies.

  Yeah, we were the hooligans. Now, believe me, in normal circumstances I in no way condone the heinous act that is public onesie-wearing. Never. That is a privilege awarded only to the most special of occasions: Pride, pyjama parties, pretty much anything beginning with the letter ‘P’. However, when NCS threw a very strange Easter-Egg Hunt at us, Team SPICYyyy went all out. The challenge was simple, really: each team was given 100 tasks, and we had the rest of the day to complete them. Let the games begin!

  I could sit here listing every ridiculous thing we did that day, but as Fred R. Barnard said: a picture is worth ten thousand words!

  Cheeky Nando’s with Team SPICYyyy

Abbey Road

Mannequin Challenge: Family Edition

Eleanor and I – 100 Challenges

Yes, we’re twins

Squirrel, Celery, and Dobby

Team SPICYyyy

Yes, that’s an egg

Maddie and I – 100 Challenges

    1: THE METAPHORICAL CAMPFIRE

  I adore metaphors. My writing, by nature, is full of them; a trick for dealing with anxiety that I learned on NCS, in fact, is to turn all of your negative thoughts or experiences into metaphors and create stories out of them. My favourite metaphor of all, however, was born on the night of August 13th, 2016, two days after I had met the people who would change my life forever. Team SPICYyyy had spent the day rock-climbing and abseiling, which for me had been a metaphor for life in itself, leading to the discovery that I am much better at falling down than climbing up. I also found myself pretty badly sunburned, which was odd as I had become obsessed with a bottle of glittery sunscreen which transformed its wearer into a real-life Edward Cullen. Anyhow, by the end of the day, I had become such a scratching post for the claws of the cliff-edge that my fingerprints had been scraped off. The last thing I needed was a night in a muddy Welsh field, but that was exactly what I got.

  I hated camping. Actually, I despised it. The single other time I had slept outside had been on my Year 6 Residential trip to, wait for it, SOUTH WALES. Renowned for its sheep overpopulation and consequent poop-minefields. So, forgive me for being a little apprehensive when being told that I would be spending the night in a two-person tent with three other girls, a blanket of clouds threatening to burst over our heads at any moment. As it happened, however, our little camping trip became the mother of a million memories. We weren’t allowed to light a fire as the campsite didn’t allow it, but we quickly made our substitute. Shoving a torch inside an empty water bottle and dubbing it our metaphorical campfire, we sang and joked and laughed the night away. It was in this beautiful moment, all of us sat in our little circle with a ball of light at our heart, that I realised how special our connection was. The other teams were close – my twin sister was even in one of them, not that we spoke much – but not one of them had what we had. In two days, we had become family. No metaphor is needed to express that.

  Good morning Wales

  The funny thing about NCS is that, for me at least, it never seems to end. It’s like going to Disneyland, only for the magic to return home with you and slip into your mundane life, opening up doors to fantastic opportunities which you would have only dreamed of before. Since graduating, I have had my first part-time job, helped The Challenge to choose this years’ batch of Senior Mentors, and even begun to launch my writing career. It astonishes me that, a year ago, I was one of the shyest kids I knew – a cloud with no destination – and now I am on my way to publishing my first novel and getting my A-Levels! Now, free of the shackles of my mental health, I am able to pass through that door into a world of possibilities, and NCS: The Challenge was my key.

  Day 3

Day 3 – Pre-camp

We set our kitchen on fire…

Cheeky Nando’s with Team SPICYyyy

Wet suits

The dreaded hike

The girls

Yes, we’re twins

Light painting

Day 1 vibes

Eleanor and I – Showcase

Camping food

Abbey Road

Day 1

Eleanor and I – 100 Challenges

Beach babies

Good morning Wales

Mannequin Challenge: Family Edition

Day 2!

Yes, that’s an egg

When I couldn’t swim because of my ear infection

Day 3

Ready for the Showcase!

Maddie and I – 100 Challenges

Wet wet wet

This took longer than expected

Squirrel, Celery, and Dobby

Pre-Finding Dory

Team SPICYyyy

Day 3

Maddie and I – Showcase

Tired after day 1

Squad goals

MY NCS experience: a year on. This post is so nostalgic it brought tears to my eyes. @NCS This time last year, I was nobody. Of course, that’s not entirely true. I was getting by, so to speak, minding my own business whilst coasting along in my own little fantasy world.

[ask-the-phan-site]

The White Collar Fiend of Self Righteousness

>It’s time.

Our target tonight: Will Harangue.

Protecting the alien superhero of Bellwood. This will be interesting.

I’m also looking forward to this. I wonder if we will meet Gwen Tennyson.

I doubt it. We need to pull this heist off without the Plumbers knowing. Which reminds me, you think that Zen guy will come though about keeping Paradox away from us?

Joker: Lavenza said he would. We can only believe she’s right.

Mona: Very well, Joker. If you trust her, than I trust her too. After all, she and I are both from the Velvet Room.

>Mona becomes our van and we go forth to take Harangue’s heart.

>2011, Bellwood TV Station. Will Harangue was just concluding another edition of the Will Harangue Nation.

That’s it for tonight. And remember, we’re still waiting to fear your comments on the supposed hero, Ben Tennyson. Our operators are standing by 24 hours. Ben Tennyson: Threat or Menace? You decide!

Camera man: And that’s a rap!

Will: Good work everyone!

>Everyone spoke in agreement. All except one.

Sound manager: ...

Will: What is it, Danny?

Danny: Well... I don’t agree with you about what you said about Ben Tennyson!

Will: What!? I thought I made it clear that Ben Tennyson is nothing but a danger to everyone on Earth. Why do you support him?

Danny: I just don’t think you should judge Ben before getting to know him. In all the times he has been doing hero work, has he ever hurt anyone?

Will: You left out “yet”.

Danny: That’s not fair! You didn’t give him a chance! Maybe it was a good thing you got that calling card.

Will: Or maybe it was a mistake to hire you as a sound manager. You will cease this talk of Ben Tennyson and that card or you’re fired!

>After hearing that, Danny had no choice but to back down.

???????: Jeez, just how much do you hate that guy!?

Will: !

>A red wave passes over Will. When it was over, he was now in what looked like a palace-like spaceship.

Will: What the hell?

?????: You think that because you have the media on your side, everyone else is? What is your effin problem!? Are you that arrogant!?

????: You abuse the media for your own ratings instead of using it to benefit the newest hero in town.

???: We cannot stand by and watch you make such a disgrace of such a young hero and yourself.

>The ship’s lights came on to show us on the cock pit seats.

Joker: Target: Will Harangue.

Your loud mouth has been running long enough. Time to shut that yap.

When you talk, you sound like some stupid scientist from some Disney cartoon show. That just makes you even more annoying.

Nothing good ever comes of slandering. A true hero should prove himself before being branded.

It is very ugly of you to put down the hopes of others by discriminating a hero so young. Just how far are you going to ruin someone’s life for you news show?

Queen: That is why we must take your heart and change your cognition of Ben Tennyson. So there may be hope for him and others.

Oracle: I bed even Jimmy Jones couldn’t come up with a speech like that.

Mona: Get ready, Will Harangue. Because tonight...

Joker: We will take the Treasure.

Will: ... Just who do you think you are? You can’t do that. It’s my nation. I do what I please! I don’t know who or what you are, it’s almost like you’re from a different time, but know this, you can’t stop me. I! AM! CAPTAIN!

Panther: We’ll see about that.

Fox: There’s no escape for you. We will take your heart.

Skull: Even if we have to do this the hard way.

>A dark aura then came over Will.

Shadow Will: I am one who protects this dominion from those who are threat to it and stamp out menaces like you and Ben Tennyson. I must keep it safe from the likes of you because it is what the people want. I will smite you down by any means necessary.

>The darkness then transforms the Shadow.

Skull: Here we go!

Oracle: I’ll see what I can get. Persona!

>Oracle’s Persona scans Dominion.

Oracle: Got it! It’s weak to Gun attacks.

Joker: Then get ready for this.

>I change Personas.

Joker: Persona!

>The Persona uses Pulinpa on Dominion and made him Confused.

Joker: Let’s go!

>Bullets were flying at Dominion until he was down.

Joker: Everyone, attack!

>We attacked, but it wasn’t enough.

Dominion: I am starting to wonder who the real problem is: Ben Tennyson or you? I will let my followers decide.

>Dominion uses Summon to call two more Shadows.

>The two Angels both use Dia on Dominion.

Dominion: Now feel my radiant splendor.

>Dominion uses Makougaon. Good thing my teammates aren’t weak to Bless and I already changed from Arsene.

Oracle: Looks like you can take those two down with Curse skills. But how are we suppose to do that without Harangue attacking us?

Skull: Leave that to me. Persona!

Oracle: Skull, what are you doing!? Those Shadows resist Electric skills!

Skull: (with a smile) Who said I was going to jolt them?

>Skull’s Persona uses Bad Beat. Dominion dodged it, but the two Angels got hit and fell to Despair.

Skull: Noir, do your thing!

Noir: Okay! Persona!

Noir: Don’t hold back, Milady! Give it all you’ve got!

>Noir’s Persona uses Mapsiodyne. The two Angels were near defeat.

Panther: Here I go!

>Panther takes her gun and shoots the Angels, eliminating them.

Oracle: Whoa! How did you know to do that, Skull?

Noir: It was my idea, actually. Me, Joker, Skull, and Panther thought of it after the last time we were here to secure a route.

Queen: I see. That’s quite cleaver, Noir.

Dominion: It is going to take more than a good plan to stop my campaign.

>Dominion raises his wings and casts Mahamaon. Me, Fox, Noir, and Mona dodged it while Panther, Skull, and Queen were defeated instantly.

Dominion: How long will you continue to defy me? I must purify this town before it is too late!

Oracle: Purify the town, huh? Kind of like how Medjed tried to purify Japan. Well guess what, if we can stop them, we can definitely stop you!

>Oracle’s Persona uses Revolution which increases our critical rate.

Fox: My turn. Persona!

>Fox’s Persona uses Rising Slash which was a critical hit on Dominion.

Oracle: You’ve got him on the run. Go in for the attack!

Hold Up!

Dominion: No! This is my nation! You hear me!? I am Will Harangue of Will Harangue Nation! I will humiliate Ben Tennyson! On TV, I! AM! INFINITE!

Fox: Nothing is infinite. I learned that the hard way with my former sensei. Your days impersonating J. Jonah Jameson is over! Joker, let’s do this!

>After the attack, the Shadow returned to his human form and a light came out of him.

Mona: Now to take the Treasure.

>I take the Treasure. It was the manuscript of his book, Ben Tennyson: Threat or Menace?.

Panther: That’s the Treasure? We can buy a copy of that anywhere, not that they were popular anyway, Japan loves Ben Tennyson.

Will: My greatest written work ever. How could it have come to this?

Joker: It’s because you judged Ben before you really got to know him. You care more about your ratings than the well-being of others.

Fox: He’s right. The way you act, you might as well wear a blonde woman’s wig, dress in women’s clothing, and start being called Agnes Joubert.

Will: ...

Joker: Just give him a chance to prove his worth as a hero. Find a more benevolent way to raise your ratings.

Will: ... Alright. I’ll do that. If it means I can go on.

>With that, Will returned to his true self and we leave as well.

>The next night, the Will Harangue Nation came on with Will Harangue with a look of despair on his face.

Will: I must confess something. I said many things about Ben Tennyson that were completely untrue. I made false accusations to raise the ratings for my show... I am... No different... Than the enemies he fights daily. (begins tearing up) I have given... Him a really hard time... Ben Tennyson, I now speak... Directly to you... I’m... Sorry for what I’ve done... How could I possible make up... For what I’ve done!? (begins crying a lot)

>The Tennyson House. Ben Tennyson, his cousin, Gwen, and her boyfriend, Kevin Levin saw the broadcast.

Ben: (laughing) Now that’s what I call good television!

Kevin: Dude had it coming. Guilt is hard to avoid.

>Gwen, on the other hand, was suspicious.

Something just doesn’t seem right. But what?

>This would be something that was puzzle Gwen secretly for a long time... Until today.

>The Velvet Room. Present. We gathered around Lavenza.

Well done, Former Inmate. This is the second time you have traveled through time and successfully fulfilled a request. You truly are proving yourself worthy of the title Trickster.

???????: Indeed he has.

>Someone was entering the Velvet Room. It was Zen and he was accompanied by a man in a lab coat.

Lavenza: Time Walker, what are you doing here? How did you even get in here? My master made sure that you would be unable to enter the Velvet Room even when he is not here.

I was let in.

Skull: By you?

No. Not by me.

????: By me.

>Four more people came into the Velvet Room. It was Gwen and Ben Tennyson, Keven Levin, and the feline Plumber, Rook Blonko.

Queen: I didn’t think you could get in. Then again, you do have magic.

It wasn’t easy, I promise. Now do you think you can tell us what happened back in 2011?

And I suggest you don’t leave out any details.

>We explained everything about what happened.

Really? It was you guys that made Harangue start those water works? (laughs) I guess I should be thanking you for that. That was really good television.

Even if guilt didn’t get him, he still had it coming.

Noir: What do you mean?

>Ben took out his phone and showed them.

Skull: Damn it! Are you effin serious!? We didn’t do a thing!?

Paradox: On the contrary, you thieves did exactly what was needed.

Ben: What do you mean?

Paradox: Sorry, no spoilers. But I can tell you this: For your friend, James Jones, dreams really do come true.

Skull: I think I see what you mean.

Zen: When Professor Paradox arrived, we didn’t fight. Instead, he assured me that he was on our side. He said this was suppose to happen.

Joker: I see. Well, thank you for letting us do this.

Paradox: Just doing what is dictated for many others.

>Queen was still in deep thought.

Queen: Gwen sama, there’s something I would like to ask you.

Gwen: What is it?

Queen: I know you have great magic powers.

Kevin: Actually, they’re alien powers.

Queen: But they sometimes appear with spells. Which is why I would like to ask... How did you use your powers to get into the Velvet Room?

Gwen: Well... This is going to sound crazy, but... I got it from a cat.

Mona: A cat?

>Suddenly, something else came into the Velvet Room.

Oracle: That cat. I think I’ve seen it before.

>The cat dug its mouth through its caller and took something out of it.

>I try to take the envelope until Gwen stopped me.

Skull: Thanks for that.

Panther: For what?

Kevin: Seriously? You live in Japan and you haven’t seen enough anime to know that a black envelope may not be a good sign?

Panther: I didn’t think that watching anime was mandatory. Though I do like some anime.

Skull: I watch anime too.

Oracle: (smirking) Like Sailor Moon?

Skull: Grr!

Gwen: (groaning) Let me handle it,

>Gwen opens the envelope and took out a folded piece of paper. When she opened it, a holographic-like image appeared out of it.

Hello, Phantom Thieves. I sent my familiar to you to let you know that the time for you to do something for me is coming. Wait for me to make my request and I will tell you the rest. See you soon.

>With that, the letter burst into flames. The cat also disappeared.

Fox: What was that?

Mona: I don’t know. But I have a feeling we’re about to find out.

>So, after Queen and Gwen’s autograph, we leave the Velvet Room.

>Another heist done.