#how many times will i draw the Glass Coffin i wonder

[avocadoraisin]

*beanifies your saw trap*

[monayen]

"Ku-Ku." | Randal Ivory

➷ Paring - Randal Ivory x Fem!Reader [Randal's Friends / Ranfren]

➷ CWs - Noncon, Master/Pet play, cunnilingus, fingering, slight bloodplay, unsafe sex, pain

a/n - randal brainrot, i adore this lil freak :3 first fic on this blog btw !! requests open (check my pinned) also ignore any mistakes

Luther Von Ivory scans his options presented to him, there are many animals, but he's looking for something specific. A human. He actually didn't know what his brother preferred in humans, but he's sure Randal wouldn't question Luther’s wonderful taste.

The employee gets to you, “She just came in.” He sees you kick around in the cage you were in, “Let me out! I’m not an animal!” Luther sticks a long finger through the bars of your enclosure. He winces when he feels you chomp down on it, quickly drawing it back.

“Are you sure this isn't a dog? I much prefer cats if that's the case.”

“She's a full blooded human! Trust me, found her hitchhiking on the side of the road myself.”

“Hm, okay then. I’ll take her.” Luther’s lucky he kept a sedative in his car. You’ll get trained later.

Randal basically squeals when he sees you, immediately pulling you out of the box and into his arms. For however drugged up you were, you could make out what they were saying perfectly.

He shook you, “Brother, you really didn't!”

“I did. Isn't she pretty?”

“Yeah! I like the way her eyes droop, the drool is a great touch too.”

“That's not permanent, Randal.”

“Oh.” He pauses, “Well, her name is (Y/N).” You can barely mumble as you make out blurry beady eyes staring at you through thick rimmed glasses, “I want…to go… h…home.”

A bizarre giggle escaped his lips, ku ku? “Don't be silly, you are home now.”

You decided to just sleep.

Soon, you had to wake up. And when you do, you see you’ve been put in a frilly, black dress. It’s short sleeved with a white bow on the v-neckline, lace detailing follow the curve of your waist. You notice matching thigh-high black socks on you as well, though you didn't have on any shoes.

You are sober enough to note the room. Posters hang on the wall, all odd anime things, along with creepy dolls littering around that stare. It then hits you that you are sitting in a cushioned coffin.

Holy shit. This is some freak shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Before you can fully get up, the door slams open. “You’re awake!” It's the boy, Randal. You scream and jump back, falling back onto carpeted floor. Suddenly, he’s on top of you.

“Nyon reeeaaaallllyyyy got you in some cute clothes! You look like a doll! Very lifelike.” He seems to hum out the words as he straddles your hands to the side of your head.

“I want to go home! Let me go home!” You thrash beneath him, but he's freakishly strong for someone so lanky. His grip tightens on your wrists. “Nuh-uh. We bought you. Legally, you are mine.”

He keeps that toothy smile on his face, “Anyways, you were on the side of the road. You really didn't have a family, did you?” Randal laughs his weird laugh again while you stare at him with wide eyes, “Exactly what I thought!”

He doesn't loosen his grip as he brings his mouth down to lick your ear. You clamp up, “Don't… don't do that.” It comes out meekly, and though Randal isn't that intimidating in size, you feel dwarfed.

“Ah, I can train you however I want. I’m your master, remember?” Randal’s breath feels hot on the side of you before he licks you again, this time on your neck. “How about you say it? Say that I’m your master.”

You choke on a sob you didn't realize you were holding in as he murmurs into your ear, “Hey, listen to me.” Randal’s noticeably becoming more aggravated, his gloved nails are digging into your wrists now. He still keeps that terrible smile on his face.

With burning skin, you whisper, “You're… you’re my master…” Randal twists your wrists, “Louder for me.”

You cave in, “You're my master!” Finally, the pressure on your wrists is gone. He laughs again, moving one hand down to your waist while the other rests on your thigh. “Ku-ku, I like that!”

He fiddles with the side of your dress, slowly hiking it up to where your thighs and panties are fully exposed for him, the red on his face deepens. “You really are so so pretty! Soft, like a human pillow, so soft. I just wanna eat you.” He breathes heavily, “I just might.”

There's something prodding at the fabric on your thigh, he pulls them apart without much hesitation. “Please, don't.” Again, it’s quiet. He coos at your small plea, “Pets have to listen. Now, lift your ass.”

Finally, you're exposed to him. The dress is discarded next to you, along with your underwear. You want to curl up, hide, cover, anything. You can't. His grasp is too firm, and truthfully, you are scared. He doesn’t care to hurt you. He sees you as a pet, his human. That is your biggest flaw

Gloved fingers find your cunt, prodding at your entrance. Randal fiddles with the fly of his pants, pulling himself out. He strokes himself lazily, eyes glued to the sight of his fingers sinking into your pretty pussy. A small moan forces it way out of you, he has long fingers– like his brother. Soon, he’s knuckle deep, face inches from your slick heat.

“Hah, you're dripping!” You can't bare to look at him, head tilted in the air as you huff at the good

feeling. You aren't prepared when he suddenly sticks his tongue between your thighs. Oh. That gets a long moan out of you, “Nooo–”

Randal smirks, savoring your taste as he sloppily laps his tongue around his fingers and against your cunt. He can't help himself but jerk off his aching cock, getting off to your noises. He’s tasting you, but he wants more.

It feels like hours, but it's probably only been a few minutes that he’s been eating you out. It's creditably sloppy, drool drips down between you and you know he isn't great at it– but the eagerness makes a knot build in your abdomen. A loud moan mixes with your pleas when that knot snaps. You let go a pitched breath when he finally separates his tongue and fingers from you, moving to hover atop of you.

“I was right, you taste amazing.” He’s catching his breath, grabbing his cock as he aligns it between you, “You’ll feel amazing.” You want to beg but you know he wouldn't listen, why would you? You're just a pet. A pet he can do whatever to.

He rubs against you, teasing his tip at your entrance. “You want it? You want me to fuck you?” The shade on his face is heavy, his glasses are foggy but you can still see the glint of lust behind them, staring right at you. He grabs your face to look at him, “Say it. Tell your master you want it.” Again, he digs his nails into your puffy cheeks.

“Please– please master…” He roughly ruts against you, the side of his length rubs against your clit as he groans, “Fuck yeah!” Randal pitches, loud moans pull out of him, grabbing your clothed legs and angling them to rest on his shoulders, finally sinking his whole length into you.

You swear you see blood drip from his nose when he forces himself in, but you can't focus on it, he’s already moving in and out.

God, he's loud. Louder than you even, he can't keep himself together, clearly in bliss with his mouth hanging open slightly. “Ooooh– perfect, perfect pet!” Randal folds you, positioning roughly. He's trying to reach the deepest parts of you, he isn't concerned how your legs sting at the stretch. He's too focused on the way your tits bounce up and down, hypnotizing him to go deeper, faster.

You really are perfect, tight and wet around him. He wants to keep staring into your big, teary, eyes. It all aches him to get closer to you. He wants to fully consume you. For him to become a part of you. No, scratch that. You become a part of him.

“Hah, hah, you make your master feel soooo good.” He licks your tears, making you attempt to pull slightly from him, but he doesn't allow that to happen. Instead, he makes sure to fold you more, knees pressed against your chest in a way that makes you even tighter around him.

He’s speeding up, babbling about how good you feel. You feel like you can't even get a breath in now, it's hard to expand your lungs with your legs and Randal’s weight so close to your chest. Red blood drips onto your face and you look to see the pure lust Randal has spread across his face. You want to reach and wipe the blood so badly, feeling how it drips so closely to your mouth. Randal beats you to it first, gripping your face again and wiping his blood around with his thumb.

He laughs, smearing it across your face. Then, he tightens his grip again, his blood covered thumb rests on your quivering bottom lip, “Open up, doll.” You grit your teeth, trying to turn but his grasp locks you in place. “Ah, you should listen to your master.” You relent. “Good girl, ku-ku. I know you bite– don’t even try.” Then, he sticks his whole thumb in your mouth, rubbing it on the back of your tongue to make sure you taste the iron. You want to gag and bite, but you know you can't.

Randal finally draws his gloved thumb from your mouth, his blood replaced with your saliva. “Fuck– you feel so good, you me to come outside or inside? You– ah, tell me.” He’s twitching inside you, and quickly you shake your head, “No–”

“Kidding, I'm coming inside!”

Your stomach turns, and you hate the knot in your abdomen that makes you tighten around him, helping him come undone inside of you. He’s pumping white before you can even refuse, snapping his hips against you so hard you're sure you might bruise.

It's hard to tell how long it's been when Randal finally pulls out of you. You feel him drip down your sore legs, dampening your thigh-high socks. He eventually gets off on top of you as you both catch your breath. You lay on the carpet, a sticky and full sensation swallows you whole.

Randal has the nerve to snuggle next to you, wrapping his arms around your bare waist and burying his face into your neck. The smallest sob gets stuck in your throat, there isn't any way to get out of this, is there?

“Sh, just go to sleep. You have more training later.” Ku-ku.

[hamliet]

Chemical Weddings in RWBY

So once upon a time Hamliet said she’d write a meta about ships in RWBY, and then arrived months later without Starbucks. 

The central tenet of alchemy is solve et coagula: dissolve, and then coagulate. The process (RWBY appears to be following Ripley’s 12 Gates) repeats, rinses, and repeats again and again throughout the steps, “each time at a more refined level.” The point of a chemical wedding is to reconcile opposites, which is something I touched on in my pseudo-quick meta here. Lyndy Abraham, the author of A Dictionary of Alchemical Imagery, describes the chemical wedding as: 

a crucial operation in the creation of the philosopher’s stone. The alchemists were ultimately concerned with the union of substances, the reconciliation of opposites.

Basically, it unites opposites (fire and water, air and earth, sun and moon, passive and active,  etc., etc., etc.) and then the opposites start to take on each other’s qualities, creating the “Rebis,” or a person both male and female. 

The first chemical wedding is usually somewhat violent, primitive even, whereas the second one signifies the creation of the stone. However, characters can have more than two weddings, and chemical weddings do not inherently have to be romantic--Sam and Frodo aren’t, for example--but most often are, because it’s the most obvious way to show a union between separate people (the old adage “two become one” in marriage, for example). 

If we look at George Ripley’s 12 Gates, chemical weddings tend to be focused on in the fourth stage of conjunction (which I wrote about here) and in the ninth, fermentation (which is probably going to be in volume 10--maybe a little in volume 9, but traveling between worlds seems to be a hallmark of sublimation in fiction so I’m guessing we’re stuck there for the time being). But in a lengthy series spanning eight years and counting, there is going to be overlap. 

So let’s talk about chemical wedding imagery historically. It tends to involve dissolution (via water or fire--keep in mind metal was associated with fire in olden days, so stabbing with metal was considered liquid fire, or so it was believed to be by alchemists) and then coagulation (healing/coming together). 

Four of the five ships--two of whom are definitely happening, one of which I think is happening and one of which I think has a good chance--reference historical alchemical artwork and symbolism in key moments. (RWBY does reference alchemical artwork; see here and here.) So let’s dive in and examine potential chemical wedding allusions in RWBY:

Lie Ren/Nora Valkyrie (Renora)

Let’s start with the most obvious couple: Ren and Nora. Their first chemical wedding occurs when they are children. In alchemical art, birds are often used to show the volatility/primitiveness of a first chemical wedding:

The raven is replicated in the Nevermore which forms a similarly threatening pose over Ren and Nora when he unlocks his semblance to protect her, thus honoring his father and mother’s legacies. 

You can even see earth (trees), water (river), fire, and air (the bird flying) in the scene as it pans out. After this, Ren and Nora become “Ren and Nora,” as Nora herself says in Volume 8. They’re inseparable, because they’re on their way to becoming one. However, unification doesn’t mean that they’re literally the same person; in stories like these, it’s more like they become better versions of themselves through growing towards each other and adopting each other’s traits (like Nora’s courage for Ren, and Ren’s caution for Nora). 

Their second, elevated chemical wedding is in the same place as their first, when in Volume 4 they return to the village and defeat the monster they were too young to defeat last time. This time, Nora is the one who protects Ren by telling him he could not sacrifice his life by pulling Ren back, in a reversal of his running to her in their first moment years ago. 

Like the first, there’s water involved--Ren and Nora hide next to a river, watching as the Knuckelvee advances on them. I talked previously how I thought this looked like a possible allusion to this alchemical image (look at the moon symbol on the head of the aggressor): 

The moon symbol actually shows up quite a bit in this scene, first when Nora and Ren discover the Nuckelvee is still alive in the cave: 

And then in the moment when they defeat it: 

While I am certain this is a chemical wedding, I’m not certain why the moon symbol is so prominent in this, though I do think it is possibly in reference to this image and how Nora and Ren are united now: 

Yang Xiao Long/Blake Belladonna (Bumbleby)

Firstly, the alchemy image is somewhat of a creepy image, right? In this, Mercurius has united the two principles by beheading them (amputation is a Thing in alchemy), leaving them to putrefy and then coagulate.

Like the Nuckelvee for Nora and Ren, Blake and Yang have a somewhat antagonistic Mercurius who unites them: Adam Taurus. He doesn’t cut off their heads, but he does seriously injure Blake and cuts off Yang’s arm in a scene that is romantically charged (you have Blake’s possessive ex telling her he’ll target someone she loves and specifically chooses Yang). 

While I have my issues with how Bumbleby is written, it’s hard to interpret that as anything other than him seeing Yang as a rival for Blake’s affection.

Their second chemical wedding also involves Adam. There’s no one direct image that seems to have inspired it, but it does take place in a place full of waterfalls (fountains and flowing water in general, like the ones in Nora and Ren’s village, are common elements of chemical weddings’ settings) and by the ocean (the “mercurial sea” is where the elements dissolve to make the Philosopher’s Stone, so it’s also a common hallmark for chemical weddings).

(To briefly address this: this is where my complaints about the writing pile in, because you can also make a damn strong case that Blake and Sun fighting on the ship to Menagerie is a chemical wedding, which it is, but I think it’s clear at this point that Bumbleby is endgame. Either both were written for a reason, like if they weren’t sure if they could do Bumbleby, or a narrative reason, in which case Black Sun should have been dealt with rather than hand-waved away, or they were just teasing, but baiting fans is never, ever good writing; it’s cheap. All that to say that while I think there’s a compelling case they were interested in pursuing Bumbleby from the start, Black Sun shippers have a right to feel tricked and not all criticism thereof is based in homophobia or a lack of narrative understanding, or even in a dislike of the ship.)

At the beginning of this scene, Adam makes it clear that this is a redo of their previous chemical wedding by reminding them of it: 

Blake stabs Adam with a silver weapon; Yang with red. We have earth, air (clouds), water, and weapons as a stand-in for fire.

It’s still somewhat of a violent wedding, which makes me wonder if Bumbleby will have a third (and Renora as well). But it also parallels Renora in this: returning to a pivotal scene where they were traumatized, but this time being able to overcome it because they’ve become more like each other. Blake is in many ways Yang’s trauma stretching far beyond Beacon (Blake runs away, as does Raven, Yang’s mother who abandoned her), and likewise Yang for Blake (she’s hotheaded and holds grudges, like Adam). But Blake and Yang have been working on becoming better versions of themselves. 

At the end of this scene, they even exchange quasi-wedding vows (since Blake’s promise is to not abandon Yang): 

And the artists drive home the point by drawing Blake’s hair far bushier than normal (more like Yang’s), and Yang’s far tamer than normal (like Blake’s). 

Jaune Arc/Weiss Schnee (White Knight)

Weiss and Jaune have had one chemical wedding thus far (possibly two but not sure) and I didn’t ship them at all until I saw this scene. Like Bumbleby and Renora, they have an antagonistic Mercurius: Cinder.  

(This one I’ll be arguing a little bit about why I think it’s set up for romance as well.)

In this scene, Cinder directly compares Weiss to Pyrrha in regards to how Jaune feels about them (and we know Jaune and Pyrrha were romantic--you can also argue Cinder was an antagonistic Mercurius uniting Pyrrha and Jaune). 

When Weiss screams, Cinder gets an idea and slides her gaze from Weiss to Jaune. 

And then reenacts this: 

As I also mentioned previously, Jaune then plays the role of the Prince to Weiss’s Snow White (which is an alchemical fairy tale). Like when Ren unlocks his aura to protect Nora, Jaune unlocks his to save Weiss. Weiss looks as if she is in a glass coffin that gets more and more golden, symbolic of refinement. 

It’s also probably an allusion to this image of a chemical wedding presided over by Saturn (Mercury in this scene, since he’s there) and Death (Ruby and Qrow, who are also present in the scene with Jaune and Weiss). (For more on this image, see here.)

Weiss and Jaune also have some oppositional imagery and arcs: Weiss starts Beacon with a deep family legacy and an inherited semblance, she chooses to go to Beacon on her own and is the favored child (at first). Jaune too has a family legacy of warriors, but instead of feeling empowered because of this, he is insecure and  literally cheats his way into the school. He doesn’t have a semblance until season 5. After this incident, Weiss and Jaune spend some time recreationally together (seeing a movie in vol 7); Jaune becomes more confident as a leader, and Weiss continues her arc in becoming more sympathetic to those from less privileged backgrounds.

Arguably, what happened at the end of volume 8 could be seen as having some symbolism of a chemical wedding for Weiss and Jaune too, but I don’t think it actually is one since they weren’t focused on as characters enough (if this was intended to be the start of one, we’ll get something next season, I’d imagine). The only reason I’m mentioning it is because it does function as an inverse of the previous one, which is the case for Renora and Bumbleby’s first and second weddings too. Cinder again almost kills Weiss (she falls in the exact same position as in vol 5), but Jaune saves Weiss when he screams after killing Penny. Instead of saving Weiss by healing, he kills. There’s also some distinctive red and white imagery. 

And then Winter arrives with a six-pointed star and birds before telling them to run together:

But again, I wouldn’t really call this one; it just has some imagery of one and fits a pattern, so I’m including it as a potential lead-in to an actual one in the void or later. 

Ruby Rose/Oscar Pine (Rosegarden)

Like with Weiss/Jaune, I’ll be arguing a little bit about why I think this one is likely to end up romantic, too (for example, Cinder most recently in volume 8 used Oscar to taunt Ruby in a callback to using Pyrrha and Weiss to taunt Jaune).

Also: oh look, finally a wedding that isn’t violent. They just... meet. Which is also normal for a chemical wedding but less dramatic.

Behold, the bird uniting the solar king and lunar queen: 

(Fun fact: unless CRWBY came up with ship names which I highly, highly doubt, this is pure coincidence, but it’s a funny one: the art series this image is taken from is called Rosarium Philosophorum--which literally means “rose garden philosophy.”)

Let’s look at the scene where Ruby and Oscar meet for the first time. What makes this a chemical wedding is in part how obvious their markings are and the overall imagery is in the scene.

They are united by Qrow (who in addition to being named after a bird can literally transform into a bird):

Oscar asks about Ruby specifically (yes, I know because Qrow’s her uncle, but the writing is telling us to focus on his relationship with her): 

And immediately notes/is in awe that she has silver eyes (i.e. the moon): 

Qrow seems to realize he’s done something momentous in a way that almost doesn’t entirely work within the frame of the narrative (but he is drunk, so). 

The scenery of this room is also telling. The table is literally an Emerald Table, the legendary foundation of alchemy itself. 

Once they sit and talk, behind Oscar are the elements of earth and water, which he represents, and also the moon, which while traditionally associated with earth and water, he does not (at least not as strongly as he’s associated with the sun/gold):

Similarly, behind Ruby we have the elements of fire and air (like, if you zoom in, they actually drew air), which she is marked as, and the sun, which again, she’s not as strongly associated with as she is with the moon:

In Splendor Solis, which CRWBY has referenced before, the Solar King does eventually end up grounded in the moon, and likewise the Lunar Queen in the sun:

Oscar and Ruby also do have oppositional arcs and roles: Ruby starts the series in the very first episode by being invited to Beacon two years early because of her leaping into action to stop Torchwick. She’s scolded for her recklessness, but immediately picked out as special because of her silver eyes. In contrast, Oscar is reluctant to leave his farm once Ozpin inhabits him; he refuses at first, and then once he does leave, is nervous and timid.

Anyways I wouldn’t be surprised if Qrow arrives in Vacuo with RWBYJ in tow and this time reunites Ruby with Oscar in an inverse. We’ll see. 

I do want to say that I also see potential for Emerald Sustrai/Mercury Black, in that they often act as one and share a theme song, but I haven’t seen any actual visual references to a chemical wedding for them... yet. 

[dreamescapeswriting]

Unfinished Business ~ Part Nine

WORD COUNT: 7.3K

WARNINGS: Mentions of mafia, strong language, murder, blood, torture

PAIRING: Bang Chan X Reader

DESCRIPTION: Part Nine of nine of my new Bang Chan series. 

You’re taken hostage but one of Seoul’s leading mafia families Bang Chan but he doesn’t take you because he wants to fake a marriage or make you fall for him in 365 days no…He wants to use you for his own personal gain. To take over another family but when you try to escape things take a turn for the worst and you learn Chan isn’t one to be messed with.(Please I suck at describing stuff)

THEMES: Chan x Fem!Reader, Self insert

MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS | 

The day had finally arrived, the day you had been dreading for the last two weeks, you'd barely left Chan's office from the moment you got back. The only times you ever came out of the office was to go to sleep - in his bed - or when Jisung and Changbin forced you to eat something downstairs so you wouldn't have to feel so alone. But today was something you weren't going to be able to survive, something you'd have to get changed into real clothes for, for the first time in weeks instead of Chan's clothes you'd been wearing. 

"The dress is in his bedroom," Changbin whispered, as he walked into the office to see you staring at the same set of photos you'd been staring at for the last few days. They were of Chan and his ex-wife, standing together and smiling. 

"Y/n-" He went to repeat himself to make sure you heard him. You'd been so lost in your own world lately he just wanted to make sure you heard him correctly.

"I know, Changbin," Over the two weeks you'd gotten closer with him. He began trying to comfort you to make up for what had happened with Chan, never once telling you that it had been the plan to leave you there all along. 

"I'll go and change now," You muttered, standing up from the leather chair and walking out into the hallway. Jisung, Felix and Minho were all standing there in matching black suits with their heads hanging low as you walked into the hall to join them. They'd been talking in hushed tones but stopped as soon as you came out, 

"Who am I riding with?" You questioned, clearing your throat as you looked up at each of the boys who were avoiding your gaze. It's what all of them had been doing all week, it bothered you. They were treating you as though you were broken glass, tiptoeing around you and whispering about something you could never hear. You'd heard them whispering at night when they thought you were asleep - you would lay awake most nights. Staring at the same photos of Chan and his wife wondering if they were together now or if he was still around you all as a ghost. 

"You'll be with me." Jisung cleared his throat, being the first one to break the silence and everyone walked away from you so you could be alone with him. 

"Thanks, Jisung," He knew you were most confident with him. Knowing that if you had to cry, it would be better to do it around him than the others. Plus they all had places to be today and had to make sure they were on their best guard. Jisung had been the one to keep you comforted throughout Chan's death and the two weeks leading up to now. Mostly because he'd been the only one able to stay in the same room as you, as you cried out about it all.

"We're gathered here today to say goodbye to someone who was loved by many people," You were sitting in front of the coffin, holding a red rose that Jisung had given to you before you sat down. The rest of the boys were scattered around the graveyard looking around for something, you knew it was their job to pay attention to everything going on around them but none of them was crying. None of them had been crying since the day it had happened and it bothered you about how they were so cold about this, 

"We believe a few people have chosen to speak so please stand up.” You watched as Felix walked up to the coffin first, clearing his throat into the microphone. He looked at you and then to Jisung beside you and nodded, as if they were having some kind of conversation. 

"I knew Chan for four years, he took me under his wing when I first moved to Korea. Many people will tell you that he was a bad guy for what he did in the business but he was well respected and did everything by the books unless he had a real reason not to." You looked down at the floor not wanting to cry, memories of Mrs Lu came flooding back to you as you remembered the night that Chan had her killed. 

"He never hurt anyone, he would put out fronts of hurting people but he never did. It was all part of his bigger plan." A hand was placed on top of yours, but it wasn't Jisung's like you expected it to be. You turned your head to the left side to see Mrs Lu smiling weakly, as she kept her head forward looking at Felix who was still going on with his speech. Your mind was filled with confusion and your mouth hung open as you stared at her. For a moment you'd thought you'd died and this was hell for you, being forced to go to the funeral of the man you loved.

"He took on many people, faked their deaths if they needed to get away from somebody bad. He'd help them start a brand new life, helping them out of their debts with other mafia families, mostly out of Namjoon's life; giving them that fresh new start they needed." There was some shuffling happening behind the chairs, people mumbling as someone pushed past them with a walking stick and you looked over your shoulder to see someone moving towards the coffin. 

"J-Jisung who's that?" You whispered, leaning closer to him so no one else could hear you. A man dressed in a baseball cap was walking towards the front with a limp and a walking stick. A gunshot rang out causing you to scream in shock, Jisung dragged you onto the floor along with Mrs Lu. Everything was happening all at once, bringing flashbacks back to the night you lost Chan. The man who had been walking to the front was on the floor, the coffin knocked over with a mannequin on the floor where Chan should have been if he was inside of it.

"What the fuck?" You whispered, another gunshot rang out and you were covered in blood again. You gasped out, flinching as the shot sounded, 

"JISUNG?!" You cried out, turning to see if he had been the one to get hurt. But he was holding you and smiling up at someone above you. You looked up to see Chan holding a gun that had been fired recently, covered in blood and aiming the gun down at the man who had knocked the coffin over. 

"What. The. Fuck?" You struggled to get up from underneath Jisung. But once you were up, you stepped over the dead body in front of you not bothering to check who it was. Because it wasn't important to you right now, Chan smiled at you brightly expecting you to hug him or kiss him. But he was shocked when he got a slap across his cheek, before you ran away from him. He held his face watching you walking away, he guessed he deserved it for faking his own death. 

"Y/n?!" He called out, but you ignored him sobbing into your hands as you rushed towards the car that Jisung had driven you to the funeral in. Jisung looked at Chan rushing over to you to get you home safely, since you were in no fit state to drive right now.

"Y/n," It was Jisung this time. You'd been back at the mansion for a couple of hours now and Chan had been trying to worm his way into the spare room, but you hadn't let him. You couldn't see him so you refused to, sitting in front of the door so he wouldn't bang it down.

"Food." He placed a plate on the table and you stared at him, wondering if he knew everything that was going to happen today.

"You knew he was alive didn't you?" You questioned. You were still dressed in the black dress you had been wearing to the funeral, which was pointless now that you looked at it. It had all been fake. His death, the funeral, all to get to Namjoon who was now dead and laying in a coffin of his own. There was no doubt in that after the bullet went right between his eyes. That was who you had stepped over to slap Chan round the face. 

"I did, but-"

"Why didn't you tell me?! I cried over him for weeks! You let me suffer for nothing!" You yelled, but there was a knock at the door. Chan was standing there holding his side which was where he'd been shot, but you had no sympathy for him right now. As much as your heart was begging to go over to him, you couldn't. Jisung left the room as soon as Chan came inside and you scoffed,

"He had orders to keep his mouth shut you can't be mad at him-"

"I can be mad at whoever I want, you especially!" You yelled, pointing your finger in his face and pushing him back so he would stumble back hitting the wall. He shook his head at you, he knew you had to get your anger out somehow and if this was how you were going to do it, then so be it. You hit his chest with your fist, right before breaking down into tears and falling to your knees as he wrapped his arms around you. 

"I had to do it, we had to draw him out...We knew he was after you that night...We had to do it, Y/n" You whimpered against his arms, wondering what he was talking about. You'd only mentioned him faking his death, but he was coming clean about everything.

"I have to be honest with you about everything, just listen to me please." You sobbed into his arms and he instantly felt bad for everything he'd put you through. He'd already gotten it in the neck from Changbin and Jisung about everything you had been through, even though most of what happened on your date night had been Changbin’s idea. Changbin and Jisung wanted to tell you from the start that he wasn't dead, but they had to use your sadness and pain as a way to make it look real to Namjoon. It was the only way he was ever going to come out and make sure that Chan was in fact dead. That he'd gotten away with killing one of the biggest mafia leaders in Seoul. Now he was gone there was no reason for Chan to be in hiding, Namjoon's shares would go straight to Chan who in return was letting a bunch of people off with their loans. But all you could hear was that he was using you to win something he wanted, 

"W-Was I a pawn this whole time?" You questioned, remembering that very first time Chan had taken you and accused you of working for Namjoon. The very first time he'd hurt you and told you he was going to kill everyone you loved - when he, in fact, hadn't. Mrs Lu was very much alive and doing a lot better, she and her husband were living out of Seoul in some richer neighbourhood better off, with a new restaurant to run happily together. Has everyone been in on it? Laughing behind your back? While you mourned for someone who wasn't dead? 

"No...At first, yes. But then I started to fall for you, it got harder to stay away from you and keep you at a distance. You were just supposed to help me lure Namjoon out and the boys would take him out no matter the costs. But I found myself falling for you Y/n, I didn't want to risk putting you in danger anymore so I wanted to stop, have it all over faster..." He took a deep breath looking at you, 

"That night, when we went on our date, I was supposed to leave you in the gardens for a while but not long. Just long enough for Namjoon to come out so we could get him, but then when you told me you loved me, I freaked out. No one is supposed to love someone like me." He whispered, feeling suddenly pathetic in front of you for everything he'd done. He hadn’t thought of you when he left you there, he'd just left you in danger as he thought about saving himself from getting hurt by you.

"You used me, knowing that Namjoon would come to me because he did the same for your wife?" You pushed yourself away from Chan. Everything was too much all at once, all of the facts coming right at you, it was starting to make your head hurt. Had this all been some kind of sick revenge for Chan? Had he felt nothing? You tried to move away from him, but his arms stayed locked around you, not wanting to let you leave him there alone. He was done running from his feelings for you now.

"I will explain everything when you calm down..."

"Calm down?! You faked your death! I mourned for you for two weeks and all this time...While what? You've just been off partying?" You got up from the floor wiping your eyes.

"Healing from a gunshot wound actually," He grunted, still trying to make things light hearted. But you shook your head at him, not wanting to waste your tears on this, but you gave him no time to stop you from leaving him on the floor. 

"You have to talk to him," Changbin said, when he walked into the garden that night. You were sitting by the firepit that they had, looking into the flames while drinking from a glass of hot chocolate. You didn't know if you could leave and even if you could, you had nowhere to go. 

"No, I don't. I don't have to talk to any of you. I want to leave." You'd been thinking it over since you left Chan on your bedroom floor. There was no sense in staying when he'd faked his death and faked the killing of someone you held close to your heart. If he'd just been honest from the start, maybe things could have been different. But this was too big of a lie for him to come back from. 

"Y/n, you don't mean that. You're just upset." You'd had enough of people telling you what you did and didn't mean and what you did and didn't feel. You threw the cup off at the pavement listening to it smash against the floor. 

"Shut up! You don't know a damn thing about what I am feeling! I love him! It was that easy for him to just walk away and hurt me, as if it meant nothing to him! Leaving me alone, cold and out as bait!" You yelled to him, walking along the grass towards the giant mansion and making your way inside. Chan was standing there looking at you with sad eyes, he'd heard you yelling and wanting to come down and calm you down. 

"Can we talk?" You walked away without answering him. Heading towards the stairs, but it was blocked off by Felix, he wasn't about to let you pass until you at least acknowledged that Chan had been speaking to you. 

"What? If I don't talk you're just going to chain me up in the basement like old times?" That tore a hole in his chest, hearing you bring up the basement like that it was clear to Chan that you were upset over everything that was happening. But you didn't need to lash out on everyone else, so he wasn't going to take it to heart. 

"I hurt you, I know-"

"No Chan! Hurting me was when you sprained my ankle by keeping me locked up like an animal! This! Making me fall in love with you and then ripping the world out from underneath me! That was fucking torture." You whimpered, finally giving in to the tears. You ran your hands through your hair, wanting to rip it out as you let out every emotion all at once. All of the hurt and anger you felt towards him had been building up and you'd finally hit your breaking point. 

"Leaving me out there as fucking bait because Namjoon was worth it more than I ever was, wasn't he?" You wanted straight answers from him. It was going to be the only way to get them out of him, then so be it. You were going to be as nasty as you could possibly manage. 

"Yes, but the plan was to come back right away, it was going to be safer than what it was that night I left-"

"Safer?! What was the plan!? I could have helped! But instead, I was chained up in some sicko's warehouse where he burnt me, spat at me and called me names I never even want to repeat! Cut me, threatened to shoot me and all for what?!" Your voice was hoarse because you were crying and yelling all at once, 

"For your own selfish reasons?! For you to be able to say you took down one of the biggest leaders!?" He looked down at the floor, it had originally been the plan to get Namjoon to come out so the boys could take him down as revenge for his wife. The plan would be for him to see you and want you because they all knew Namjoon wanted what Chan had. He thought he could use you without getting attached and hurt, but it hadn't worked that way. You'd been too nice and kind to him for him to ever want that, 

"Originally it was the plan." He wasn't going to waste his time lying to you anymore, he looked down at the floor. 

"I thought you worked for him and if he saw you with me it would create some kind of war and he'd come after me and then you weren't working for him...So I was going to use you more, which was why he was everywhere we went...He had us followed the moment he first saw us together. But I never expected to fall for you!"

"Oh, so because you didn't expect to fall for me it makes it all okay?! It's fine! You were just going to throw me out once the plan was done, so what does it matter?" He groaned, running his hands through his black hair. He wasn't good at this sort of thing, but he knew Changbin was. 

"Changbin, explain it to her please." But Changbin kept his mouth shut, knowing better than to get involved in other people's business, even if it was his plan. Even though he didn't like you very much back then, he wanted to go back to you at the gardens. But Chan wouldn't allow it, he was too busy locking himself away and breaking things in his office.

"Answer these questions, were you or were you not going to use me against Namjoon for your own good?" 

"I was." He replied. You nodded, understanding him, 

"Was the original plan to kill me once you killed Namjoon?" He froze in place before nodding his head,

"Do you love me?" 

"Yes." He answered that quickly and you stared at him. There was a point where you'd kill to hear that from him. That first night when he left you in the gardens practically naked and alone, you'd have killed for him to stay beside you and admit he loved you too. The old lady in the nursing home was right, loving someone like that was dangerous. You'd fallen right into his open arms, sinking so far down you had no idea if you even wanted to get out of there.

"Y/n?" You stepped back as he stepped closer, shaking your head at him and moving away. Your back hit the wall as you thought about everything. 

"Like you weren't doing the same to me...Pretending to like me-"

"Chan...There was a difference, you were keeping me prisoner here...Are you going to do the same now that I know everything?" He shook his head and you nodded.

"I need space." You whispered, staring at the floor instead of at him. If you looked at him, all of this would be over. You wouldn't be able to listen to your head, which was making good points. You would instead listen to your heart, that was telling you to leap into his arms and forget everything that had happened. But how could you after everything he had done and put you through in such a short time period? It was too much to be with him. 

"I can give you space, you can stay upstairs-"

"I need space away from you." You spoke up this time, not daring to meet his gaze. Jisung stepped forward as you rushed towards the staircase, pushing past all of them this time. If you stayed in the house where you got to see him every day it would be too easy for you to give in to him and not see clearly enough.

"Take her somewhere she'll be safe, she's not to go back to the bad side of town...She'll need a guard," Chan swallowed the lump in his throat. He wasn't about to cry in front of the boys over this, but he started up the stairs as he heard you whimpering in your bedroom. He would wait until you were out of the house and he could release his anger onto something else. 

"She'll need a place to stay. I'll wire her some money, Jisung will you stay with her or at least near her." He was being unusually calm about all of this, but the boys didn't say a word to him. Not wanting to poke the bear as it was, Changbin knew what was going to come when everyone went home or to different parts of the house. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Two Months Later~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The tea was steaming as you poured it into the ceramic cup, trying not to spill any of the hot liquid onto the table,

"Where is that boyfriend of yours?" Mrs Park asked, as you stepped away from her table to place the pot of tea onto the tray that was waiting behind you, 

"Sooyoung! You can't ask such things." You softly laughed at the ladies in front of you who you were serving tea to, you'd begun working in the nursing home full time. They'd ask you this all of the time, hoping you'd change your mind about Chan. But it never happened, you just ignored their question and continued on with your job.

"Besides, he always comes by on Fridays to see her." You knew that. You'd seen him sitting out on the bench every Friday for the last two months with a bouquet of flowers, waiting for you to tell him to come inside, but you never had the strength to do it. You loved him. You knew that. But loving him and allowing him to be in your life was two separate things, just because you loved someone didn't mean you had to be with them. You wanted to be happy but being with Chan brought on a wave of emotions, not just happy...though that had been the main focus at one point for you. 

"She has to see him at some point, they have unfinished business." Your grandfather mumbled from the other table, not looking away from his dominos in front of him. He still had no idea as to who you were, but he treated you with respect just like he did every worker there. Though he did treat you a little better than the rest, since you were closer with him than the other nurses. You did have unfinished business, but it wasn't anyone else's problem except your own and Chan’s.

"We don't have unfinished business." You told him, as you turned around to hear your phone vibrating from the trolley behind you. You groaned walking over to it and turning it over, yet another text from the doctor informing you about your late appointment that you had with them. You'd been avoiding it like the plague ever since that last one you had. 

"It's not supposed to rain today, we were supposed to go to the botanical gardens!" Sooyoung cried out, as Nurses poured into the room to make sure everyone was okay. A sudden thunderstorm had come out of nowhere causing you to drop your phone, nurses were helping patients out of there quickly. Some of them were sensitive when it came to things like thunderstorms happening.

"You dropped this, dearie." Your grandfather said, holding up your phone for you to take. You took it and thanked him before helping the nurses out with patients. 

It was a long drive to the hospital from the nursing home, even longer since you'd tried to get there in a thunderstorm. Chan hadn't been to the nursing home for a couple of weeks, which seemed like a good thing to you. You weren't going to have to face him until after this scan...You knew deep down it was wrong to keep this from him since it was his child, but he was who he was. You weren't sure if you could bring a child into his life, your mind was split once again. 

If it wasn't for being pregnant, you would go back to Chan in a heartbeat, you'd spent months crying over everything that had happened. Overthinking every small detail that had happened that last time you saw him and you realised that no matter what, you still loved him hopelessly. 

"I have an appointment," You stuttered out to the blonde receptionist who looked you up and down. 

"Name?" Your eyes glanced over her. She looked like a nice girl, but was coming across mean.

"Y/n Y/l/n," She nodded and began typing it into the computer. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail and she was wearing scrubs, she looked like she might have been a nurse rather than a receptionist. 

"You're on the fourth floor, take the elevator at the end of the hall and it'll bring you out on the correct ward," Taking the sheet of paper with your name and appointment on, you followed her orders and walked down the hallway. It was brightly lit and filled with people all doing their own business in the hospital, you glanced over your shoulder as you felt eyes on you. Since the charity event with Chan eyes had been on you a lot. Whenever you went to the store people would stare at you, expecting to see Chan somewhere behind you, but you were alone all of the time. "Miss? Are you coming inside?" An elderly woman questioned, you nodded and stepped into the elevator with her and a little girl who was holding her arm and crying. From the looks of it, it looked badly broken so she was probably in a lot of pain. 

"Fourth floor," The robotic voice called out. You let the elderly woman and her granddaughter out first before following behind them towards the second receptionist. You handed her your piece of paper and she flashed her teeth at you, 

"One moment please," Her long red nails were hitting the keyboard as she typed and you watched her as she smiled brightly at nothing,

"You can wait in the second waiting room," Nodding, you walked away from the desk and the crying girl. Heading over to one of the waiting rooms, it was completely empty so you took the first seat closest to you. Though you'd never been for one of these before you thought for sure that it would be a lot busier than this. The whole waiting room was empty, it made you feel uneasy, but you took a deep breath trying to calm yourself down. The thought of doing this all alone was terrifying, more terrifying to you than that night you'd been with Namjoon. Thoughts of you raising a baby alone in this world began to cloud your judgement, making you think of nothing but Chan.

To help the time pass by, you began reading through a magazine that was in the waiting room, but you wished you'd never picked it up. The page you'd flicked it open to was a photo of you and Chan leaving the Charity event when he'd picked you up. Your foreheads were resting against one another as you smiled, out of the corner of your eye someone entered the room. 

"Did you have me followed?" You questioned as you shut the magazine. Placing it into your bag, you hoped Changbin didn't see the smile that was on your face while you were looking at the photos, but he'd seen it. How couldn't he have seen it? It was the first time you'd smiled properly in months and it lit up the entire room. 

"Why would I have you followed? It's my job to watch over you," He reminded you, as he began to flick through a newspaper that he'd brought with him. You squinted to see the date, it was a recent newspaper. 

"Give me the paper, there's nothing good here," You held out your hands. but he ignored you and continued pretending to read the newspaper that was in front of him. 

"Changbin-"

"We came to an arrangement, remember? You pretend I'm not here and I don't talk to you...Would you like me to tell Chan where you are right now?" His eyebrows raised as he turned to look at you, your stomach sank and you looked away from him remembering the deal you'd made. 

Jisung was supposed to be the one watching over you, but Changbin took his place since he felt so bad for all of this unfolding. He blamed himself for you leaving Chan, since it had been his plan in the first place. The deal was that Changbin could watch you without talking to you, you didn't want to know what Chan was doing. It would only make getting over him -- or trying to get over him -- harder and Changbin wouldn't tell Chan what was happening.

"You don't need to tell Chan where she is right now, he already knows." Chan's voice came out and you stood up instantly and stared at him. Your eyes were almost as wide as Changbin's as you stood staring at his boss. 

"We'll talk later. Home." He had ordered Changbin, who scuttled out of the waiting area, knowing he was already in trouble enough without causing a fight here. Your back was pressed against the wall as you watched Chan calmly walk into the waiting area, sitting down on the chair where Changbin had been. 

"You can sit," He mumbled to you, you sat back down in your seat and glanced at him. He hadn't changed, but there was something about him that was new, his head lifted and that was when you saw it. A scar going from the top of his brow to under his eye on the right side of his face, you filled with worry as you saw it. 

"Chan? What happened?" He frowned. Then glanced at you as you pointed to his eye, his hand slowly raised to his fingers to his face and he nodded. 

"Had an accident, it's nothing-" He froze as you were sitting next to him suddenly, running your fingers over the scar, he hadn't expected you to get this close to him. He was just here out of moral support for you. 

"I-Is this why you stopped coming by?" He held back the smile that was threatening to escape. You'd missed him almost as much as he missed you, by the sounds of it. But he couldn't lie to you, so he wasn't going to try. From this point forward he was going to be as honest as he could with you without scaring you away.

"Yes." He answered plainly, not wanting to give too much to you. 

"What- What happened? Did someone do this to you?" You panicked, thinking someone else was after him, but he shook his head. It had been an accident with the boys, he'd gotten into a fight with Changbin after you left the way you did.

"It doesn't matter," He mumbled, not wanting this to be about him. He lowered your hands away from his face whenever you tried to make him look at you. Since he got the scar he hadn't been able to look at himself in the mirror, it was one of the reasons he stopped coming by. He didn't want you to see him with this scar on his face, he was insecure about it, but it was nothing to you. 

"It does matter! You've been hurt and I lo-"

"Y/n Y/l/n," A nurse interrupted you before you had a chance to finish what you were trying to say to him, you'd wished she hadn't. You wished you had more time to tell him what was happening, but he clearly knew you were probably pregnant. 

"Coming." You stuttered out as you stood up from the chair and looked at Chan who was eyeing you up. 

"I'll wait here if you want?" You nodded at him, before he even had time to finish his sentence. You wanted him to be there. There was a chance this wasn't even a pregnancy. You'd been in for a test for something else and the doctor at the GP told you that you'd come back positive for pregnant, but there was absolutely no way. The thought of being pregnant alone terrified you. But would you really be alone? You loved Chan...You could do this together. Couldn't you?

"Have you had an ultrasound before?" You nodded at her question and got up onto the bed, you'd had them before to scan your liver and kidneys when you got sick before.

"This will be a little cold, roll your t-shirt up for me," You did as she said and looked at the ceiling. She applied some cream onto your stomach and then applied the wand to scan your stomach. You were sure your lip would start bleeding the way you were biting down on it so hard, you weren't ready for a child, were you? The whole drive over here you'd been thinking about it. Trying to figure out if you were ready for this, but there was no way you could go to bring a child into this world knowing what you knew, but you'd always wanted to be a mother.

"Hmm," She pressed harder onto your stomach and you thought you were going to burst. They'd told you to come in with a full bladder to make it easier for them to see inside and every small push was pushing you closer to peeing yourself. 

"Go and pee for me and come right back," Following her orders you walked out of the room and to the bathrooms to pee, Chan caught sight of you and sprung to his feet in a rush.

When you came back out you were face to face with Chan who looked worried, the panic was written across his face as he watched you coming closer to him. He had no idea what to say to you, what he could ask. He'd never been in this position before.

"What happened? What did she say?" You shook your head at him, as you began walking to the room again with him by your side. 

"She didn't, she wanted me to pee first..." He watched as you hesitated about going back into the room, your whole body was frozen as you waited to go inside. 

"I don't want to do this alone..." You admitted to yourself and to Chan while looking at the door handle instead of him. There was one thing you knew for sure: pregnant or not, you wanted Chan by your side throughout everything from now on. You wanted him there through every moment of your life.

"Do you want, Changbin?" He began, turning to reach his phone from his pocket. You placed your hand on his wrist and shook your head at Chan's question. Looking up at him while swallowing the lump that was forming in your throat, 

"I-I want you to come in with me," You whispered, as you finally admitted it to him and yourself, he nodded and opened the door for you. 

The screen lit up and you were left to stare at it for a second, while the nurse worked her way around your stomach with the machinery, 

"Here," She whispered, clicking onto the screen with her free hand to point out what was happening. Chan's hand was holding yours when a sound began to play through some speakers, you didn't know what it was until she spoke to you.

"Strong and healthy heartbeat." She whispered calmly, as you let out a gasp listening to the thumping happening. Your eyes filled with tears as you glanced up to Chan, tears were rolling down his face. 

"There you go, here's the little one." She zoomed the screen in to show you a baby moving around inside, it was hard to see with the screen being so black and white and 2D but there they were. Your child sitting happily on the screen while you and Chan stared at them. 

"I'll get some photos for you," She whispered, as she began clicking away on the keyboard snapping multiple photographs of the baby.

"You look about two months so the little one is perfect. You'll be able to find out the gender around your four-month mark." If the nurse continued talking, you didn’t know.  You and Chan had drowned her out as you watched the screen together, happily smiling as you stared at it. 

"I'll give you both a moment while I go to get the photos." She clicked a button on the screen and the baby stayed on while she began to clean your stomach up. 

"I'll be right back." She stated, as she walked out of the room.

The door to her office shut and you stared at Chan before you stared back at the screen, neither of you quite believing the fact that there was a baby on the screen. Your baby.

"A baby," You whispered to him, still in shock as you watched the screen. The one time you have sex, it would be your luck to end up pregnant. 

"Our baby," He whispered back to you, as he sat down beside you on the nurse's bed in shock. When he followed Changbin to the hospital he thought there was something wrong at first, he never expected you to be carrying his child. You glanced up at him wondering what all of this meant now, what this meant between you and Chan.

"Chan-"

"Move back in with me," You spoke at the same time together, you stared at him for a couple of seconds while you weighed up the pros and cons of everything going on. Raising the child alone could never work and you could never take Chan away from his son or his daughter, that would be too spiteful on your part. 

"You don't have to think about it right now, but I want you to think about it. Y/n, I can't eat or sleep without you. I feel sick whenever I think about you being alone and when I followed Changbin today, I thought you were sick or something worse-" He began to ramble on about how scared he was, but you cut him off by grabbing onto his hands again.

"I'll do it." You surprised yourself as you said the words to him, his eyes widened as he realised what you were agreeing to, agreeing to go back to him. 

"Y-You'll move back in?" He stuttered over his words as he got excited at the prospect of you coming back. You shook your head at him again - it was starting to make you dizzy.

"I have conditions first." You weren't going to go back there with his life the way it was.

"Anything," The door opened and the nurse came in with paperwork and ultrasound photos. You and Chan began making your way out of the hospital and towards your car. 

"No more secrets or schemes, no more guns in the house. If we're coming back I want- I want it to be a safe place." You stuttered a little as you realised what you were saying, then it hit Chan what you were saying. 

"The guns have to stay in the office at least, for our own protection," He counter-offered, you nodded in agreement with him. The finer details could be sorted out later when you were in the comfort of his home. That was probably the better option for his lifestyle, 

"That's your only condition?" You nodded along with him, it was the only thing that mattered to you. As long as the house was safe and ready for your baby you could do it. 

"I want a safe space for us too...All three of us." You looked up at him and he looked at your car that was waiting for you to get inside of, he smiled at the thought of you keeping it. It was the car he'd ordered one of the boys to drop off to you, he didn't want you walking everywhere or catching a bus when he knew you didn't have to. 

"Y/n?" You hummed, looking up at him again whilst unlocking the car. 

"I love you." Your heart swelled as you heard him tell you he loved you first, instead of you saying it first like the first time.  

"I love you too, Chan," You moved closer to him, before placing a small and gentle kiss on his lips, wrapping your arms around his neck and standing up on your tiptoes to reach him.

You weren't blind, you knew that there was going to be hard times coming for you and Chan with this baby and his lifestyle but right now you didn't care. 

There were still things you had to talk about, but all you could focus on, all that was keeping you sane throughout all of this, was knowing how much you loved Chan. How much Chan truly loved you and how much your future with him and his child was going to mean to you both. Nothing would ever compare to your love for Chan and you couldn't wait to spend the rest of your life with him.

A/N: I've never ever finished a fic before so I hope this is okay! I had a completely different ending for this but i hated it and reworked it the last week before it was uploaded! So let me know what you guys think! [Lol I simp i could never kill him]

Tagline: @moonprincessdiviniation my editor I have put through hell, @taestannie​ @kneel-begyourpardon​ @calling-dips-on-j-hope​ @hugs4chan​ @ncitythoughts @inseonqt​ @cloudsgathering​ @atletino​ @mischiefmakerliesmith5​ @freckledquokka @happygirl327​ @seraplantery​ @km-98​

[babbushka]

In The Becoming

Mob!Kylo Ren x Reader

1.5k ; cw: Mild angst (metaphoric discussion of depression and past trauma), introspection/existentialism, Jewish theology, Kylo just loves his wife so much

Available on AO3

                                                     -------------------

If it be your will, that I speak no more

And my voice be still, as it was before

I will speak no more, I shall abide until

I am spoken for, if it be your will...

 Kylo has never been a religious man. Yes, he goes to synagogue, and yes he celebrates the holidays. Yes he keeps Kosher and he knows the mother tongue, yes he wears his chai proudly around his neck. But he’s not so sure he believes, really believes. Too much of a skeptic, he always has been, even his mother says so. He doesn’t know if anything is out there, condemning or judging him. He’s never been concerned with condemnation, Kylo thinks.

Well, perhaps that’s not entirely true, he muses as your palm smooths up against his, and your fingers twine together. He steals a glance at you, just a peek at you from the corner of his eye. He hopes to see you stealing one at him too, but you are staring straight ahead listening to his uncle, Rabbi Luke, give the shabbat service on this Friday night. It is the second night of Hanukkah, and Luke always gets excited about adding in the special verses and prayers.

Kylo speaks them when he’s meant to, but he finds that when he does, it is not an all-knowing all-powerful God to whom he prays.

It’s to you.

If it be your will, that a voice be true

From this broken hill, I will sing to you

From this broken hill

All your praises they shall ring

If it be your will, to let me sing...

 For as long as Kylo can remember, you have occupied the holy space in his mind. If he has a soul, you are the one whose fingers are clutched around it. And how kind are you, that with this power you hold all you want to do is love him? He has loved you for as long as he has known you.

Kylo would do anything – anything to protect you, to keep you happy, keep you safe. He knows no other person who deserves the magnitude of his strength; and if he did, he would strike them down so you can remain on the pedestal that you have rightfully carved for yourself out of his ribs.

Beshert, Uncle Luke had called it. Two halves of a whole, cut from unique unseen scissors, fitting only with their missing partner. Kylo had never been more divinely inspired, than by learning of this ideology during one of Luke’s school sessions. They had tried to encourage him to become a Rabbi in his own right, follow in his uncle’s footsteps and keep him out of the crime which his family was infamous for. Poor Luke had to deal with him for an entire summer, taking Kylo under his wing and teaching him all he knew.

It hadn’t gone well.

Sitting there in synagogue with your hand in his, Kylo remembers the hours of studying and of discussion, asking all the right questions but not being satisfied with any of the answers:

“Maybe that is the point,” Luke had offered one summer afternoon, when Kylo wished he were enjoying lunch with you instead of being lectured by his uncle, “Maybe we’re never supposed to be satisfied. Maybe we’re supposed to spend our time questioning, learning, and working towards answers that may or may not come.”

“How long have we spent questioning, Uncle Luke?” Kylo had grumbled, thirteen and angry, so filled with rage that he has no outlet for expressing. “How many thousands of years? You’d think we could agree on an answer for something.”

He has nothing but his books, and they are so very vague.

“Ah, but the beauty of it all is in the becoming.” Uncle Luke had said, and that’s something that has stuck with Kylo for his entire life.

In the present, Kylo frowns at the memory. You give him a squeeze of your hand, before pulling it away to gently pet through the baby’s soft hair as she fusses in your arms. He leans over and taps her on her little shoulder, and she gives you the exact same look that you always give him when you think he’s about to do something very silly.

The similarity stuns him for a moment, and he just presses the smallest little kiss to the top of her head, and she lets out a happy sound, before snuggling back against your neck.

He doesn’t blame her, that’s where he would spend all his time too, if he could.

 From this broken hill

All your praises they shall ring

If it be your will, to let me sing...

 For too much of Kylo’s life, he has felt like he was drowning, a raging storm out in the open oceans. Leia and Han giving up on him at such a young age had done it, he’s sure. Allowing Snoke to come into his life and ensnare him with promises of power and control – control he desperately sought – had been a nail in a coffin. The gash in his face at the hands of his dearly departed sister reminds him that it didn’t have to be that way – but it had, hadn’t it?

He was drowning, gasping and spluttering on life, limbs sore and aching in his bones. He killed and maimed and brutally beat those who Snoke had commanded, and he had done so without any thought, hoping hoping hoping that perhaps now he would feel something, perhaps now he would be free.

Kylo should have known you were the one who would free him, he should have known from the minute he had asked you to dance at your bat mitzvah, two pre-teens awkwardly stepping on one another’s toes and shyly laughing about it all the while. He should have known then, when you didn’t even tease him for the way his ears stuck out from under his yarmulke.

When you killed Snoke, the night of Han’s murder, the night Kylo thought his life was over, he knew then. He had been drowning in the ocean of humanity, but when you rescued him from the gutter and kissed him for the very first time, he happily swallowed the salted water of your adoration until his lungs were full of it – and for the first time in his life, instead of fighting the tides, he became them.

 If it be your will, if there is a choice

Let the rivers fill, let the hills rejoice

Let your mercy spill

On all these burning hearts in Hell

If it be your will, to make us well...

 When he sees the little bundle of joy in her pretty white dress, her eyes big and wide and eager to take it all in – the lights and the glass windows of the temple, the music and sounds and prayers and the candles on the menorah that burns proudly. A million possibilities for life in this one small infant, so many opportunities.

And you, his wife whom he would do anything for – what a miracle that you are his, and he is yours, here together in this temple alive and well, after the lives you have lived. How far you both have come from those first meetings, those shy attempts at conversation. How far you have both come from the anger and pain and violence and rage – to be sitting here, in synagogue, on Hanukkah together.

He is overcome with emotion then, blinks back tears as his jaw clenches to try and keep composure. Luke is looking at him, speaking words that Kylo doesn’t pay attention to, because all he can think about, all he can pay attention to in this moment is you. Kylo would have walked into the flames of hell for you, had you asked. Even as a teenager, he sought ways to force the universe’s hand to grant your wishes.

Sometimes you look at Kylo and wonder what goes on inside his head, when he is so quiet the way that he sometimes is. He doesn’t have the words to voice the depth and ferocity of his love for you, and he doesn’t know if he ever will. He is overwhelmed sometimes, with the truth of it all – you love him too. You voice it in different ways, but you are vocal just the same. It reminds him of the Torah, of how the text is there but the interpretation is ever-changing.

The service is over, and you move to stand. Like the current to the moon, he stands with you, moves with you, a hand on the small of your back. Kylo’s heart pounds as the little face peeks over your shoulder at him, and when he smiles, she smiles too.

She has your smile.

He knows what Luke meant, now.

The beauty is in the becoming.

 And draw us near and bind us tight

All your children here, in their rags of light

In our rags of light, all dressed to kill

And end this night, if it be your will

If it be your will.

[ayellowbirds]

Today being my birthday, i had the time and energy to finally do some drawing after ages of neither time nor drive. So, i spent that on sketching out some headshots of the recurring characters of 33 Usher Street, my 1920s (and beyond?) vampire hunters story. Meet the employees, management, friends, and nuisances of the Usher Street House of Antiquities and Curios, an estate management company specializing in settling the affairs of the unusually deceased. This is both a source of income and a cover for their real calling: the elimination of dangerous vampires and other hostile undead. 

Solomon “Sol” Szombathy (gay intersex man), a Jewish dhampir of Romanian-American extraction (late of Pittsburgh, Vandalia) has arrived at the USHAC with his guardian in tow, after both of them got involved in a vampire attack. Sol’s ability to see the invisible and the surges of supernatural strength he gets when battling the undead are especially useful, as is the hawthorn-wood cane he uses to deal with the chronic pain he feels the rest of the time. 

James “Jim” Cullock III (asexual cisgender man) is a Scottish immigrant who helped co-found the USHAC as the assistant of a longtime vampire hunter; his love of gardening has given him many potent botanical weapons against vampires, including especially hardy and richly-scented roses that repel most bloodsuckers. He’s taken to maintaining a backstage role for the most part, as his lifelong issues with visual hallucinations have gotten worse with age.

The Reverend Doctor Matteus J. Hammer (transgender man of no particular sexuality) is an aging monster hunter of no small repute, his experience having brought him briefly as a boarder to the Szombathy house. His recommendation brought Sol to Usher Street, but can the perspective of this eccentric wandering hero be relied upon?

Randolph Carter (in-denial bisexual cis man) was once an author of minor repute with a fondness for the strange and occult, but encounters with the genuinely supernatural have mellowed his previously bigoted worldview. While he still struggles to be a halfway decent person in a reality that is at odds with his beliefs, his expertise with languages, obscure subject matters, and research makes him at least a useful jackass when it comes to spending time among his books.

Pluton is a very good judge of character, for a one-eyed cat. And oddly skilled at making his way out of dangerous situations, to the point that one might almost think he has more than the usual nine lives. It’s no wonder that the USHAC often bring the cat along.

Constance “Connie” Wright (pansexual cis woman) is a former orphan with the miraculous talent to ‘chew’ raw materials into new shapes, a skill she most often uses to create nails for sealing up coffins and the like. Naturally, the rail-thin Connie’s favorite weapon is a heavily weighted steel sledgehammer, when she can’t just do some slugging with a sturdy baseball bat.

Dorotheea “Dotty” Szombathy (transgender lesbian) is a golem that once served as Sol’s guardian, and is now happily living as his adopted sister. Her ability to reshape her naturally earthen clay body pairs well with her immunity to most forms of vampiric attack, as an artificial being. Prone to switching between having difficulty speaking at all and being effusively loquacious, she finds it easiest to focus when she has something to occupy her hands and mind.

Marie Bosley (bisexual cis woman) was and is the greatest vampire hunter in the United States, even if these days she prefers to stay at home and listen to music. Her unmatched knowledge of apotropaic magic allows her to create boundaries and barriers that no vampiric influence can pass, and lets her open the way for her proteges.

Esther "Essie” Levi (asexual cis woman) is the self-proclaimed ‘fastest knot-tier east of the Rockies’, and an unmatched expert in knotting string, yarn, thread, and cord to achieve magical effects. Paired with a gift for strategic thinking and an eye for symptoms of vampirism, she can easily weave a web that no bloodsucker is going to get through.

Aleister “Al” Jones (gay cis man) is a multilingual expert in stealth, infiltration, and charm whose gentlemanly demeanor is in no way at odds with his fondness for boxing. Unfortunately for opponents that would see him as unarmed except for a disarming smile, he’s also the bearer of a pair of gloves lined with the relics of a Catholic saint invoked against vampires.

Wilhemina “Will” Fawkes (lesbian cis woman) is the USHAC’s resident machinery buff, with cutting-edge expertise in automobiles, radios, firearms, and more. Her fondness for artifice means that the only thing that can distract her from something shiny and new is an animated short at the nearest theater, and her love of testing the limits of machinery means that her allies often find she’s made unexpected ‘upgrades’ to important equipment.

Adriaen ten Boom (bisexual cis man) is the most senior of the employees of the USHAC, a skilled actor whose pyrokinetic gift makes his good looks more than just smoldering. In spite of these charms, he’s actually fairly naïve when it comes to romance, and is prone to charming his way into entanglements he didn’t mean to get into.

Smith the Mechanical Heel (just a real dick) is a World’s Fair experiment gone wrong, and now runs the criminal underworld in Jackson, Massachusetts—which puts him at odds with the USHAC, since that’s where their home base is. He sees most of the employees as potentially useful additions to his crew, but he’s especially interested in learning more about Dotty’s magically-constructed nature, in the hopes of making himself more lifelike. He’s not above getting involved in things that involve the undead....

The Ghosts of Madeline and Roderick Usher (cis lesbian and cis gay man) are the former owners of the land on which the USHAC was built, and haven’t moved on since the new tenants turned up. Freed of mortal concerns, they’re fond of teasing the living staff members, and serve as a second line of defense after Marie’s wards and magical traps. Roderick is absolutely certain that he’s going to get his ectoplasm all up on Randolph one of these days, and nobody feels up to questioning his taste in men; Madeline is the company gossip fiend and the best source of information on comings and goings at 33 Usher Street.

Dr. Joaquín de la Garza (closeted nonbinary queer) is a local physician who has a close working relationship with the USHAC, and is very fond of the mysteries and excitement they bring to his life. Exactly what brought a medical expert of Zapotec and Spanish heritage all the way up east is uncertain, but the good doctor seems to know a lot more about the supernatural than one might expect from just his familiarity with the secrets of the Usher Street staff.

Phoebe Khrysos (???) is a remarkably pristine ancient automaton, whose actual provenance is uncertain. Resembling a child made of silver, glass, and gold, she has a mischievous mystery about her that makes her more like a mechanical fairy than a precious relic. What motivates her and how she sees the living and the undead remain to be seen....

Zuleika Dobson (pansexual cis woman) is a a con artist, thief, and scammer who has broken many hearts and far more bank accounts; her lack of concern about what she leaves in her wake may have finally caught up with her when she targets some valuable goods in a city with a vampire problem. Can someone so untrustworthy be relied upon when there’s undeath to deal with, or will her self interest put her in the way of both bloodsuckers and the USHAC alike?

33 Usher Street leans heavily on the public domain, and will do so much more than just in the few characters here that originated elsewhere. Some of these designs are likely to change as the story develops, but i’m just so happy to finally get them on paper!

[kiapet2]

where the two ends meet

The newly-elevated Crown Prince Roman knows two things:

First, that his brother is dead.

And second, that it is his fault.

But when Roman journeys into the witch’s forest on a quest of penitence, he discovers that there is more to the story than he could have known. What he finds there may be his salvation— or his ruin.

Takes place after @whenisitenoughtrees‘s fic thrice for another day. Can also be read on its own.

Pairings: Platonic Creativitwins, Background Intrulogical

Word Count: 4,029

Warnings: death mention, grief/mourning, blood and injury, abusive parents

AO3 Link

Nearly a month after his family buries an empty coffin, the newly-elevated Crown Prince Roman slips out from his castle room and walks alone into the forest.

Unlike past evenings, Roman does not turn into the stretch of woods closest to the castle. At this point, he could likely name every rock and tree and still not find what he’s looking for. Instead, he walks in a straight line, heading deeper and deeper into the woods.

There is said to be a witch at the center of this forest, one who preys on the surrounding villages and whom no man should approach lest he meet his end. Roman had once thought to adventure into the woods to slay such a foul creature, but his intention tonight is far different. He has need of help only a wielder of magic can provide.

And if the venture is to end in his death, so be it.

...

Roman hasn’t been walking for long when he becomes aware of someone following him. The feeling comes and goes— a tingling on the back of his neck, like he’s being watched— but as Roman scans the woods around him, he cannot detect any signs of unusual activity.

The third time he feels the presence, Roman comes to a sudden halt and places a hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Show yourself, whoever you are!” he calls, then scans the trees around him for any sign of a response.

“Why have you entered my woods?” an irritated voice says from somewhere behind him.

Roman whirls around and draws his sword in a single, fluid motion.

The person standing behind him raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. Roman takes the man in: dark hair, a sharp-featured tan face, and piercing dark blue eyes that seem to peer straight to Roman’s core through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Despite the man’s simple clothing, Roman knows with a deep certainty that this is the witch.

Ignoring all his instincts, Roman sheaves his sword and holds out his empty hands in a gesture of peace.

“I have been searching for you,” he says. “I have a request to make of you, and am prepared to reward you well.”

“I don’t make a habit of dealing with royalty,” the witch says coldly.

Roman’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Yes, I know who you are, Prince Roman of Thaylar,” the witch says, “and I am surprised you would dare come here, considering your family history. You are either very brave, or very foolish.”

“Both,” Roman says, “but I mean you no harm. If you would hear me out—”

Dark blue energy forms in the witch’s hand. “I have nothing to hear from you, witch-killer. I would advise that you vacate my premises, before I am forced to take action.”

Roman swallows and takes an involuntary step back. Perhaps he should listen to the witch’s warning, abandon this fruitless quest and return to his bed.

It’s not worth it, his father had said after they found Remus’ trail leading to the forest. He couldn’t have gotten far anyways.

Roman straightens his spine and lifts his chin. He owes this to his brother— owes him so much more than this, but it’s the only thing left that Roman can do.

“I only wish to find my brother’s body,” Roman says, “So that I might bury him. Aid me in this and I will ask of you nothing more.”

The witch seems to search Roman’s face for something, his expression unreadable. Then he nods once, sharply.

“That, I can answer easily enough.”

Without another word, the witch turns on his heel and heads off into the forest. Roman hurries to catch up, biting back the urge to question where they are going. The walk lasts far longer than it feels like it should, and Roman suspects the witch is leading him around in circles so he will not be able to tell how to get into his lair. Or how to get out, some part of his mind whispers. He shoves it aside.

Finally, they reach a small clearing with a wooden cottage that looks surprisingly simple and well-kept for a witch’s lair. The witch leads Roman around the back of the house to an herb garden, stopping at a small pile of stones. For a moment Roman wonders what spell the witch intends to cast here; then the shape of the stones registers fully.

A cairn.

“I found him a little ways out from here,” the witch says. “His ribs had broken and pierced his lungs, and he’d been bleeding internally. It was a miracle he managed to make it even that far.”

Roman lowers himself to his knees and hesitantly places a hand on the upturned earth, trying to comprehend that under it is all that remains of his brother. Even now, it feels like all of this is a terrible dream, and one day he’ll wake up and Remus will be alive and driving him crazy again.

“I am sorry for your loss,” the witch says stiffly.

Roman’s chest feels tight, and he swallows past something lodged in his throat.

“He would like being buried here, by the garden,” he chokes out. “He always went on about how everyone becomes food for worms and fungus eventually. If you were to grow your strangest plants over his grave, it would have made him very happy.”

It feels wrong, to speak of his brother in the past tense.

“Might I ask what happened?”

Roman squeezes his eyes shut, holding back the tears that burn at their corners. He doesn’t deserve to cry, not over this.

“I gave him up as a witch,” he whispers. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, and the words seem to grate and tear at his throat. “He trusted me with his life, and I betrayed him.”

The silence behind Roman is telling.

“Thank you,” Roman rasps, “For putting him to rest.”

He stays there, kneeling in the dirt, long after the witch has returned inside.

...

Remus cries out as he tumbles into the tower room’s wall, jarring harshly against the rough stone.

“Father,” Remus cries, “Father, wait—”

“You are no son of mine!” Father snarls, lifting Remus by the front of his shirt. “Foul demon!”

Roman’s mind screams at him to do something, to run forward and grab Remus or yell at his father to stop but instead he just stands there, frozen in horror, as in one great motion his father shoves Remus through the tower’s window and dangles him out over open air.

Time seems to slow as Father screams curse after curse in Remus’ face, as Remus clutches at the hands holding him above a dizzying drop. Remus’ gaze slides over to meet Roman’s, and for one terrible moment Roman sees in his eyes pure devastation. The agony of betrayal.

And then Father releases his hold, and Remus is gone.

Roman wakes up screaming.

He rolls over onto his side and curls up in a ball, taking harsh, gasping breaths. It takes a moment for him to register that he’s not standing in the castle tower staring in horror at the empty space where his brother used to be— the space that was right there in front of him as if Roman could have reached out and touched him but he was already gone and it was too late—

Breathe.

Roman closes his eyes and listens. In place of the screams that still ring in his head, he hears only the sound of wind swishing through trees. He reaches a hand out and feels loose dirt beneath him. He’s lying on the ground, outside. Roman opens his eyes and sees a dark sky full of stars.

Perhaps Remus is among those stars now. Would he like that? He’d probably think it was boring, to be honest. The thought brings a slight smile to Roman’s face.

Roman sits up, focusing on his breathing. It takes another moment for him to recognize where he is: the witch’s clearing, right by Remus’s... by the grave. It is dark except for the light of the moon— full, a poor omen. Roman had meant to be home by this time as the forest becomes vastly more dangerous at night, but apparently his many nights of lost sleep have finally caught up to him. There’s no use to it now; he’ll just have to wait for the light of dawn to find his way home.

Father will not be happy when Roman returns after dawn has already broken.

Roman has been much less concerned with keeping his father happy, as of late.

No, what bothers him most is why he’s been allowed to stay here at all. Considering the witch’s initial hostility to him, Roman figured admitting to turning in his own brother for using magic would result in being thrown out at best and murdered in his sleep at worst. And yet here he is, sitting in the witch’s clearing un-murdered.

Roman reaches out and touches Remus’s cairn with reverent fingers. He can’t bring himself to regret falling asleep here, dangerous though it may have been. It feels right to have slept beside his brother one last time.

“Well isn’t this sweet! Roro, I didn’t know you cared so much.”

Roman freezes. He knows that voice. But— but that’s impossible—

Roman scrambles to his feet and turns, heart in his throat.

Remus stands before him, illuminated by the light of the moon. He’s clad in the clothes he died in— Roman would know, he sees them in his dreams every night— and there’s a stain of something brown on his shoulder and neckline that Roman doesn’t particularly want to identify.

Roman gapes. “Re, what— how—”

Remus’ smile is bright, but his eyes are cold. “I think you know, Roman.”

Roman feels the blood drain from his face.

They’ve all heard the legends: spirits of magic-users who roam the earth, invested with their magical power and seeking vengeance on those who wronged them. Roman’s father once taught him the proper ways to... dispose of... witches to prevent such a phenomenon from happening. It was Roman’s least favorite lesson by far.

“There it is!” Remus cheers as the comprehension dawns on Roman’s face.

Roman falls to his knees, trembling.

“Remus,” he breathes, “Remus, I—”

He breaks off, lost for words. Roman has thought about what he would say to Remus if he had the chance dozens of times, dreamed up countless scenarios where he prostrated himself and begged for forgiveness or explained himself in a way Remus would understand. Now that he’s actually here, those dreams seem childish and futile in the face of everything that’s happened.

“So funny story,” Remus says, “I’ve thought it over and someone must have told the king about me, right? But I never practiced where anyone could see, and there’s only one person I ever shared my secret with. The person I always shared everything with. Got any idea who that could be, brother?”

Roman’s stomach feels like lead, and he can’t bring himself to look Remus in the eye.

Remus laughs softly. “That’s what I thought.”

His face twists in sudden fury and he shoots forward, getting in Roman’s face and forcing him to flinch back.

“Do you know how it feels, Roman? To have every bone in your body shattered, shards of your own ribs stabbing your insides until you drown in your own blood? Do you know how it feels to lie helpless and dying on the forest floor, knowing your corpse will stay there forgotten, with you replaced without a second thought? How it feels to be betrayed by your own twin, the one person in the world you’d thought you could trust?”

“Stop!” Roman cries, clutching at his head.

“Aw, is baby Roman too sensitive for all that?” Remus croons mockingly, pacing around him. “Do we need to protect his innocent little ears from the icky details of his brother’s brutal murder?”

Tears gather in Roman’s eyes, and he struggles to keep them from falling.

“Remus, I swear, I never meant for any of this to happen.”

“Then what did you want? Why did you do it, Ro? Did you want my throne that much? Or did you just hate witches more than you loved—”

“No!” Roman protests. “No, Remus, I could never hate you!”

“Then why?” Remus says, and the raw pain that fills his voice is so much worse than the anger. “Why did you tell him?”

Roman’s throat is tight and his eyes burn, but he forces the words out anyways. Remus deserves to know.

“Y-you kept hurting yourself. You’d come in bleeding and half-dead from experimenting with your magic and you wouldn’t see a doctor and, and I thought that one day you were going to kill yourself and it would be my fault for not stopping you. I thought if I— if I told Father, h-he would make you stop—”

Remus laughs bitterly. “You thought old daddy dearest, who has scores of magic users killed every year, would what— let me off with a warning?”

Roman flinches. “You’re his son! I didn’t— he was understanding before when I—”

“He was understanding of you,” Remus says. “You are his son. I’m sure he was thrilled at the chance to get rid of me.”

“I’m sorry.” The words force their way out in a whimper, and Roman’s stomach twists at their inadequacy.

“You’re sorry,” Remus says flatly.

Roman’s response catches in his throat, and instead he just bows his head, refusing to defend himself further. Nothing can make up for what he’s done.

Remus laughs suddenly, loud and manic. He snaps his fingers and mutters under his breath, and Roman is lifted into the air, a gentle pressure holding his arms against his sides with far more control than Remus ever had in life.

Remus gives him a vicious grin. “And what if I said ‘sorry’ wasn’t enough? What if I said I was going to have my vengeance, right here and right now?”

Roman’s tears finally overflow, and with them the pain that has been building ever since Remus went out that window.

“Do it,” he sobs. “Kill me.”

“What?” Remus says, sounding startled.

Roman bawls, not the pretty tears of the heroes in his books, but in wracking sobs that tear at his throat and send streams of tears and snot running down his face.

“Please, just kill me. I killed you. I killed you, and I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I killed you.” He cuts off with another sob. “Do whatever you want with me, please, I deserve it. I deserve it.”

The force holding Roman releases and he drops heavily to the ground. He curls up, chest heaving, and waits for the first blow to fall.

But the touch that falls on his arm isn’t painful; it’s soft and warm. It pulls him up and holds him tightly against a chest that is solid, breathing, beating.

Alive.

“I’m not going to kill you, Roman,” Remus says, his voice strangely choked, and Roman can feel it reverberating through his chest. “You’re my brother.”

Roman’s heart feels like it’s going to pound out of his chest. Remus, he’s... he... how did he—

The world spins, and Roman sees a brief flash of Remus’ worried face before everything goes dark.

...

“Roman! Roman, please!” Remus screams. He clutches at Roman’s hands where they grip his shirt, his face a mask of terror as his legs dangle over nothingness.

Roman fights desperately, screaming from deep within his mind, but his body doesn’t move.

“Why, Roman? I’m your brother!” Remus whimpers, tears gathering in his eyes.

Roman hammers at the boundaries of his mind but is helpless to stop it as his hands steadily, inexorably loosen.

Remus screams again as he slips through Roman’s fingers and falls into the darkness.

“Roman!”

“Roman! Roman, wake up!”

Roman jolts awake, his heart pounding as he gasps for breath.

“Ro? Hey, can you hear me?”

Roman blinks blearily and a face fades into focus above him. Worried red eyes, that ghastly mustache, a white streak in his hair...

“Re?” he croaks.

Remus grins. “There we are!”

“Remus,” Roman breathes. He reaches out with one shaking hand to cup Remus’s face and feels warm flesh beneath his fingers. “Are you really here? Or— or am I dead?”

Remus gives him a lopsided smile. “Takes more than getting thrown out of a tower and smashing my bones to smithereens to kill me!”

Roman surges upwards, wrapping his arms around his brother and burying his face in his shoulder.

“Hey, come on,” Remus says as Roman begins to shake, his tears wetting Remus’ shirt. “You’re going to dry yourself up if you keep crying this much. Just shrivel up like a human raisin until you end up a dried-out mummy and someone finds you like a thousand years later and wonders what the hell happened.”

The thought is so gross and ridiculous and Remus that Roman finds himself laughing through his tears.

“Gods above, I missed you.”

Composing himself, Roman pulls back and looks Remus over. He’s wearing simple, weathered clothing, his hair is an absolute mess and there are dark bags under his eyes. He’s the most beautiful thing Roman has ever seen.

“How?” Roman says, his voice cracking with emotion. “I thought you were— that I’d— How are you even here right now?”

“I healed a bit and then dragged myself here,” Remus says. “Logan did the rest.”

Remus looks back over his shoulder with a surprisingly soft smile, and for the first time since waking Roman tears his gaze away from his brother’s face to look at where they are. Roman is sitting on a cot in a simple wooden room, bare except for a small table and worn bookshelves lining one wall. The witch’s house, Roman assumes. The witch himself is standing stiffly a little ways behind Remus, his face transitioning from warm concern to dark displeasure as it moves from Remus to Roman.

“You lied to me,” Roman says. “You knew he was alive all along”.

“Technically, I never spoke a falsehood,” the witch— Logan— says coolly. “I did find Remus with the injuries I described. I merely was able to heal them, if barely.”

“We had to be careful,” Remus says. “I didn’t know, if...”

If Roman felt any real remorse for what he’d done. If he would turn Remus in again, once he found him.

Roman rises from the cot, causing Logan to dart forward in alarm. But Roman just lowers himself to one knee, bowing his head and placing a hand over his heart.

“I swear to you on my life, I never meant to harm you in any way,” Roman says. “I have regretted what I've done every day, every moment, since we parted.”

“Yeah, I got that from the whole bursting-into-tears-and-telling-me-to-kill-you thing,” Remus says. “Which was dramatic even for you, by the way.”

“People will often show their true selves during states of heightened emotion,” Logan says, adjusting his glasses. “The ruse was a logical course of action to discern your intentions.”

“And also fun!” Remus says. “You should have seen your face, Ro, it was so white! I make a pretty scary ghost.”

“You were terrifying,” Roman says honestly, which makes Remus beam.

Still on one knee, Roman turns to address Logan. “And thank you, my good witch, for saving his life. I am forever in your debt.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” Logan says sharply. That and his icy glare make it quite clear that he is not as forgiving as Remus. Roman winces internally; this whole debacle is not the best first impression to make to a sibling’s lover.

And that’s what Logan is, or at least what Remus wants him to be— it’s written all over his brother’s face. Before... before, Roman would have teased Remus about it, and then Remus would probably have made some sort of lewd comment that would make Roman sputter and shove at him. They’re not quite at that point now, he thinks. Not yet.

Roman inclines his head to the witch. “You have my gratitude all the same.”

“Look at us, all making up and being friends!” Remus cheers, but Roman knows him well enough to see the lingering discomfort in the slant of his shoulders and curve of his smile. Remus isn’t as okay as he’s pretending to be.

Roman rises and clasps Remus’ hand in his own.

“Remus, I have done you a grave disservice. While I cannot take back the pain I have caused you, I can offer you back the crown. If you wish it, I will give you my blade and the clothes off my back so that you may return to the castle in my stead and reclaim your birthright under my name.”

Remus stares at him for a moment, then throws back his head and cackles. Something deep in Roman’s chest loosens at the sound; he hadn’t realized how much he missed Remus’ laugh.

“Like hell am I going back to that burning trash heap!” Remus says. “Look, getting thrown out a window sucked major ass, but finding this—” he gestures to the house around him— “is probably the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Behind Remus, Logan’s face turns bright red. Well that answers that, then.

Remus takes Roman’s other hand, meeting his eyes. “If you really want to make this up to me, go back. Become king. And change things.”

Roman bows his head once more. “I do not deserve this second chance, brother,” he whispers.

His hands tighten on Remus’s and he meets his twin’s gaze again, determined. “But I will do as you ask. I swear it, with every inch of my being: I will make things right.”

Remus shouldn’t trust Roman with something this important, not after Roman made it so clear what his word is worth. And yet, Remus nods as if satisfied and steps back.

“It is past sunrise,” Logan says. “I will not have you drawing search parties into this forest when the castle discovers you are gone.”

“I’d best be off then,” Roman says, knowing a dismissal when he hears one.

“I’ll walk you back!” Remus says.

“Absolutely not,” Logan snaps. “I will not allow you to walk that sort of distance while you are still on the mend.”

“It’s been a month!”

“And you were bedridden for weeks!”

“Logan can show me out,” Roman says firmly. “The last thing I want is you hurting yourself more over me.”

Remus’ eyes go watery. “But we just found each other again.”

Roman pulls him into another hug. “I will return, as long as you will have me.”

Remus nods into Roman’s shoulder, tightening his arms around him. They stay like that for a few moments more before they reluctantly part.

“Right, then,” Roman says. “Goodbye, for now.”

“Goodbye,” Remus says, unusually subdued.

Logan shows Roman to the door, and together they begin to walk across the clearing to the trees.

“You should know,” Logan says, “that if you break his trust again or hurt him in any way, all the guards in the castle will not be enough to stop me from killing you.”

Roman laughs heartily at that.

“I knew I liked you, Specs!” he says, slapping Logan on the back. “I’m glad Remus has someone like you looking out for him.”

Logan blinks. “Right, then. Good.”

“Wait!”

Roman looks back to see Remus standing in the house’s doorway. He looks... concerned?

“I know it’s going to take some time to be okay with what happened,” Remus says, “For both of us. But you weren’t the person who threw me off that tower. The king was. Just... remember that, okay? Remember that and come back.”

Roman nods mutedly, and the door closes.

“Right,” he says, clearing a mysterious obstruction from his throat, “let’s go then.”

With that, Roman turns and walks into the woods, headed back to the castle. Back to the duty he promised Remus he would fulfill.

And this promise, Roman intends to keep.

[cocobwrites]

Pub Food and Southern Delights

Summary: Henry was many things. Deceitful being just another trait, and it is one that you cannot tolerate.

Pairing: Dark Henry Cavill x Black reader 

A/N: This is my first attempt at something dark. I’m not going to lie. My intentions for this are pretty heavy. Please, let me know what you think!

Warnings: Character Death, Murder/Suicide. Dubcon (later chapters) and I’m sure some other things. 18+

Chop. Chop. Chop. Your hands mechanically diced the red onions. The strong scent of the root caused your eyes to water and the sight of the oak cutting board to blur. You paused taking a step away to the sink, and wetting a cold paper towel to press against your eyes.  

You were stowed away in an unnecessarily large kitchen dicing vegetables for the evening’s dinner. State of the art stainless steel appliances, concrete counters, and ash wood cabinets surrounded you. The combination should have given off a warm and inviting atmosphere, but the gleam and too new look of the appliances left if too sterile and cold. Much like the relationship you found yourself in. Pretty to look at, but lacking in real substance.  

You leaned against the sink, the cold press of the metal pushing into your lower back and heaved a sigh. Tears that were initially caused by the onion were blending with tears caused by utter defeat.  

How had you been so blind? How could you have let it get to this point?  

On and on your mind went around how you allowed yourself to end up in the situation. In the beginning Henry was amazing, an absolute Godsend. He’d been the perfect mixture of gentleman and brute with just the right amount of freak you needed to keep you satisfied.  

Henry had swept you off your feet easily. All sweet charm and dazzling smiles. You’d been a goner the first time he’d pushed that pitch-black hair back winked at you.  

He was able to provide for you in ways you that you had only read about in romance novels. A powerful CEO, he was as rich as he was handsome, and he loved to lavish you with those riches.

Focus. You mentally chided yourself and pushed away from the sink to return to your task.

Henry maintained a love of pub food. Bangers and mash being one of his favorites. You needed tonight to go off without a hitch, hence you bringing out the big guns by way of one of his favorite meals. The onions started sizzling along with the bangers in the skillet. Your mind drifted reliving instances over the past year and a half that lead you here, particularly the events of three days ago.  

                                                    #

You could still feel the nervous hope budding in your chest, barely there, but enough to keep you moving. The voice of the GPS announced that you had reached your destination a full five minutes before, yet you remained in your car trying to muster the courage to walk inside.  

You had moved to open the door several times, but you could not keep your hand steady enough to grip the latch. It was a miracle you made it there at all. The glass and metal doors of the police station were less than 200 feet from you. Given your location it was not a terribly busy place. Which was exactly what you needed. You had driven an hour to get here. Hoping and praying that it was far enough away that you could get the help you needed to escape.  

After a few more minutes of mustering up courage and shaking off the feeling of eyes following you, you finally pulled the handle on the door. It opened farther than it should have considering you had only popped the latch and put no real weight into opening it.  

It only took a moment for your mind to register the long fingers curving around the frame, knuckles white in their grip. The rest of him filled your view. First his black loafers shined to perfection, pressed charcoal grey trousers came next as your eyes traveled up the length of him, before his black wool coat came into view, your head whipped up the rest of the way. You barely registered the suit jacket and navy button down exposed beneath his open coat.  

Fearful brown eyes clashed with icy blue that were cold with fury.  

‘No! No! No! No!’ You mentally chanted, and felt the distinct stinging at the back of your eyes. You scanned the parking lot wondering if you could make a run for it. It was of no use. A sleek black town car was parked behind yours.  

Henry must have registered your debate on fleeing and all but growled “Just get in the car.” Your eyes returned to his, and you could not stop the tears from flowing. You were so close, so remarkably close, and it was ripped away from you. Within seconds your shoulders were shaking, and you were sucking in air trying to keep from howling with the loss of your chance at freedom.

You heard Henry release a sigh, and then he said in a softened tone “Come get in the car, darling. We can talk about this at home.”

That car was the last place you wanted to be. That car would take you right back to the lie you were desperately trying to detangle yourself from. Henry leaned into the car, and unfastened your seatbelt before drawing you from the driver seat. Steven, one of the members of his security detail, caught your eye for a moment his gaze was sympathetic, and he gave a barely perceptible nod to Henry before taking your spot in the driver seat. He was complicit, they all were. They knew and would do nothing to help you.  

Henry’s hand was on your back, scalding where it touched you. You wanted to worm away from it, but it stayed gentle guiding you to the black sedan. The blacked-out windows of the backside passenger door reflected the sad sight you were. Your eyes were puffy, and your make-up streaked with tear tracks. More urging from Henry had you sliding into the backseat.  

                                                               #

It was the quiet snapping of the peas in your hands that called your mind back to the present. The smell of the bangers and onion was mixing with the aroma of the biscuits baking in the oven. This was your normal M.O., blending your cultures, and likes together. He loved those biscuits. It was a recipe taught to you by your grandmother. Shown to you with patience in the happy warmth of her kitchen and dulcet tones of her voice. You missed that time. Missed that place. You longed to be home, back in the states surrounded by the safety and protection of your family.  

That wasn’t a possibility. You knew that without a shadow of a doubt now.  

The food at this point was all but done. You left it warming in the oven while you set the table for two. The six chimes of the grandfather clock from the foyer let you know that Henry would be home in the next fifteen minutes.  

You looked down at the porcelain plates, their elegant waving pattern with gold trim. They screamed affluence, privilege, and old money. You wanted to hurl them to the ground, pull the ivory white tablecloth to the ground and send the flatware skidding across the floor.  

You must have stood there fantasizing for a long while, because you heard Henry calling your name, and announcing his arrival. He strode into the dining room, and the air immediately charged with tension.  

The doorway realistically was wide enough to accommodate two people side by side, but Henry always took up more room than he should. The weightiness of his presence filled the space between you in a suffocating manner.  

Four days ago, you would have easily returned the smile that he offered. You could feel the wrongness in your own. The muscles in your face ticked up uneasily when they attempted to remember how to move.  

He winced but the smile easily returned to his. Liar. “You look beautiful.” He said and closed the space between you. He was close enough that you could feel the heat from his body warming your face and the smell of his cologne filled your nostrils. Even with the knowledge you had now of who he truly was, you still craved him. Craved this.

You sighed and could not help but lean into him. You felt the familiar pressure of his mouth against the top of your head, and you let your arms wrap around him, squeezing gently. You would allow yourself this small pleasure. His arms wrapped around you in the same way yours had him.  

You felt his voice rumble in his chest when the words hit your ears. “We’ll get through this. Now that you know, it will be so much easier between us.” He paused and you could see he debated on if he should say the next words. “Everything I do.” He paused again. “Have done, was to protect you, keep you safe.”

It was the same thing he had said that night you found that all your text messages and emails were being shadowed onto his phone. Seeing that had solidified something you feared was happening throughout the course of your relationship. The nail in the coffin had been him showing up at the police station. That day the wool had been completely and irrevocably stripped from your eyes. The tracker on your car made it clear that his money was put towards more than helping your complete your master’s degree. What scared you the most was the realization of how isolated you were. Time zones away from your family, a long drive from your friends, and without a job you were dependent on Henry. He knew it. He wanted it that way.  

“I understand.” You said looking up to meet his eyes, and you did understand. He believed what he said which is why you had to finish this tonight. You patted his chest and said, “Why don’t you get washed up for dinner and I’ll finish setting the table.” He flashed that brilliant smile again and pecked you on the lips.  

                                                              #

You were going to miss that smile. Henry was very free with it tonight. It had been coming easier since he no longer had to hide the duality of his nature. Yours on the other hand had all but vanished.   “It looks delicious.” Henry said and helped push your chair in before sitting himself down. “Are those your grandmother’s biscuits?”

You nodded and motioned to his plate. “Dig in.” And dig in he did. You wondered how many bites it would take before he started to notice something was off.  

In three short bites Henry looked up at you and asked, “Did you do something different with the gravy?”  

You answered pleasantly “I did. Do you like it?” Your tone held something that should have sounded like a smile but was too icy. “I took something from the garden that I thought might add a little something extra.”  

He hadn’t stopped eating while you spoke. He was maybe five or six bites in before a light sheen broke out across his forehead. You watched him and took small bites of your own food. At first it was the shake of his head.  

“Is it spicier than normal?” He asked and you looked up to see his cheeks were tinged pink.  

“No.” You answered with a subtle shake of your own head. “Shouldn’t be.” Followed by a bite from your own plate.

His only answer after that had been a hum of acceptance. Not a solid two minutes later he started coughing, and you started talking.  

“I just want you to know that I understand. I understand that you would never let me go.” Henry’s eyes snapped to your face while he pulled at the tie around his neck desperately searching for reprieve of the coughing fit, he was experiencing.  

With a heavy sigh you continued “I just hope you can understand that I could never accept that.” Your head shook no, and your grip tightened on your fork. “This isn’t normal, Henry. It’s not normal to alienate the woman you love from the world and keep her locked away.” Your eyes never moved from his red face. Your eyes saddened hearing him gasp for air and seeing the veins in his neck and forehead protrude as he fought to catch his breath.   “This was my only way to be free.” You finished on a whisper, quieting as Henry quieted opposite you at the table.  

The plate of food in front of you blurred. The meal really was delicious, you didn’t want anything less for what you anticipated to be your last. You were amazed at your own resolve to carry through with the plan. You set calmly and ate large forkfuls of the bangers making sure to scoop up enough gravy.  

You soon followed suit with Henry. Your skin felt flush, your breathing becoming labored followed by the strong urge to cough. 

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Typical Colin

Helen jolted awake. To her growing shock, she was not in her own room, but in an unfamiliar, cold, dark place. Not on a bed, but on a hard concrete surface, coarse and rough. High ceilings, distant walls, all swallowed by shadow. Harsh edges everywhere, coupled with the smell of rust. She could taste the grit and filth of this abandoned hall.

Grime had fogged up windows, through which moonlight shone inside, dimly drawing outlines upon crates and steely shelves cluttered with all manners of junk, encased in bubble wrap and cardboard and seas of packing popcorn.

A warehouse she had never seen before, never been inside of before.

From where she was sitting on the ground, she almost jumped onto her feet when she heard something scraping. Metal against stone. Screeching, grating noises.

Drawing closer.

She backed up into one of the shelves, sending shockwaves through the clutter on them and causing it all to rattle and clink and then something toppled over and—

SMASH.

Glass shattered on the floor, shards, and liquid scattering all over, immediately followed by something like vinegar assaulting her nose.

The scraping sounds stopped. She held her breath, knowing what would follow.

Then the scraping started again. Faster.

Heading her way.

In a growing panic and increasingly nauseating dizziness, Helen scrambled away from the sounds closing in on her, taking a left turn here, pacing just quickly enough to not make noise but not fast enough to be running, then taking a right there, meandering her way through this maze of towering shelves and stacks of cardboard boxes of which no human could reach the tops. She descended deeper into the darker insides of this warehouse.

When she stopped to hide in a nook between objects cloaked by shadows, her heart beat so fast and loudly that she worried her pursuer could perceive it. Holding her breath again only made her heart race faster and fear itself erupted from her pores in a cold sweat.

The scraping passed by her, separated by a wall of shelves standing in between them. It was so dark back there that she could only make out a vague silhouette, further obscured by whatever had been piled onto the shelf beds.

Something the size of a man, walking on all fours like a dog rather than upright, creeping through the valley of warehouse junk with abrupt and stiff movements.

SHWINK. SCRANK. SHWINK. SHANK. SHWINK.

It sounded like four huge knives being dragged across whetstones to sharpen them.

Imagery of arm-sized blades filled her mind, attached to stumps where hands and feet should be. Even though she could not see them, her imagination filled in the blanks with something awful. Dripping with ichor, peering out from hollow sockets instead of eyes. A mouth without teeth, made only of hands and grasping fingers.

All in her mind.

Something else audibly clicked.

Behind her.

Trembling like a dry leaf hanging onto a skeletal autumn branch, she slowly turned to face whatever had just made that sound behind her.

Before having fully turned around, a soft glow flared up. Red, hot, and cold, all at the same time, weaker than a candle, closer to the glimmer of a cigarette.

A very big cigarette.

The toxic smell of smoke filled the air and made her cough, covering her mouth.

Something close to what she had just imagined. An eyeless thing only half her size, with grasping hands for a mouth. No blades, though. Its arms ended in stumps from which embers and ashes trailed off, carried away in a nonexistent breeze, like the ends of burning cigarettes, only grotesquely oversized and feeding from pallid flesh that stretched thin around gaunt limbs.

It raised those glimmering stumps, threatening to burn her, while looking pathetic and desperate at the same time. Like a small child, pleading for something and stretching up to try to grab it from the adult keeping it out of its little reach.

All fear drained from Helen. A scorching anger took its place.

She screamed at this amorphous abomination.

"You never got it, did you! Heroin was where you should have drawn the line, Nadine!"

Helen screamed at her old dead friend. But Nadine had never listened, and would not now, either.

SHWINK. SCRANK. SHWINK! SHANK! SHWINK!

The scraping gained speed and stopped abruptly.

The blade-armed thing was exactly behind her, and she was about to turn around and tell it to fuck off, but understood the futility of it. She just never got through to any of them.

Instead of seeing Kent, when Helen turned around, she jolted awake.

This time, she had awoken in her bed. Sitting up in a tangle of sweat-drenched pajamas and sheets, she stared at the empty spot beside her—the spot that had stayed empty for a full year.

Clink.

Clank.

Soft sounds from downstairs.

Sounds from the kitchen.

They made Helen's blood run cold. Her bangs were clinging to her forehead with sweat, sweat born from the nightmare and now painfully felt in the cool air of her bedroom, molting with the knowledge that there should not be any sounds coming from downstairs.

Because Helen lived alone ever since—

Ever since—

Her grip around the baseball bat tightened as she cautiously descended the stairs, creeping around, corner by corner, the hardwood floors burning coldly against her bare soles. A whole slew of unpleasant sensations, all overshadowed by the dread of a home invader, amplified by the horror of having left her phone in the kitchen, her only means of calling for help now separated from her by said invader. And only this baseball bat at her disposal.

Would anybody find her? Or would neighbors eventually notice the smell coming from her house after her inevitable murder, telling police and reporters alike how they would have never expected such a horrible thing to happen in their neck of the woods?

Clink. Swish.

Bottles jingled in the fridge.

Bastard was helping herself to her food, adding insult to injury. Had the lights on in the kitchen and everything—making no secret of the intrusion. Like he owned the place.

How ever had he bypassed the alarm?

His shadow bobbed back and forth, broadcasting his presence as Helen waited in the darkness behind the doorway, baseball bat raised high above her head and ready to crack a skull.

When she turned the corner, she gasped. Some part of her had been ready to scream and swing and strike, but what she saw—or rather, who she saw—robbed her of all ability to act. Her brain broke a little bit in the attempt of making sense of it.

Colin stood in the kitchen, making himself a sandwich. His skin was pallid, his clothing half-decayed and eaten by worms or corpse juices, all of which made sense for a body that had been buried for over half a year.

What did not make sense was him being here, standing in the kitchen, slathering mustard and mayonnaise onto bread and stuffing it with cheese and cold cuts. She had told the doctors to pull the plug half a year after the incident, then he was buried in the local cemetery. Almost twenty people had showed up to mourn his passing.

He turned around with his gross sandwich slapped together, took a bite from it with yellowed, rotten teeth, and started chewing with a terrible grin stretching across his face. More sadistic and malicious than anything he had ever displayed in his lifetime.

Mouth half-full, he said, "Hello, honey. I'm home."

Helen was speechless. Could anybody blame her?

She wondered if she was dreaming, but after waking up from a vivid nightmare just to walk into this unfathomable situation, she very well felt the stark contrast, the difference between reality and the glamours of surreal dreamscapes.

This was very real.

He chewed, swallowed—in a way that looked painful, like he was trying to swallow a cup of gravel—and forced his face to widen his grin. Some of his skin was sloughing off around the edges, drooping from his chin and jaw and turning his face into a grotesque caricature of his former life. But without a doubt, this was him.

This was Colin.

"Surprised to see me? Well, guess what, bitch. I'm here for some payback. I'm here to serve justice from beyond the grave. I—"

"W-what are you talking about?" she asked, cutting in while he rambled on about making her pay and other nonsense that sounded like it came from a bad movie.

Undead Colin guffawed. A raspy, throaty thing, emitting a stinging smell reminiscent of vomit.

"What I'm talking about? Bitch, you know exactly what I'm talking about. You had me killed by those punks. And you thought you could get away with it."

He continued eating the sandwich with a comically oversized bite. Almost to punctuate his accusations. Could he even digest food like this? The way he swallowed continued to look painful, like he was making a point more than enjoying anything from his previous life. Crumbs tumbled from the corners of his drooping lips, slime dripped down right after it.

Helen blinked and shook her head, unsure what of this baffled her more: Colin's return from a coffin buried six feet under, or what he was accusing her of. He took another bite from the sandwich.

"Are you out of your mind? Honey—"

"Don't you 'honey' me, you murderous witch," he grumbled, muffled, mouth full, sputtering out some sloppy chunks in the process.

"Those punks were just some hoodlums, some hooligans tweaked out of their minds on drugs. The cops said they had already put several homeless people in the hospital before they attacked you. You were—they were—you cannot seriously believe that I had anything to do with that. You were on life support for five months. Everybody tried to talk me into pulling the plug way sooner—I am in massive debt over it."

Colin's lips smacked as he chewed, and his face contorted. Dead skin wrinkled and sagged more dramatically than it ever had in his lifetime. Probably because gravity was dragging most of it down.

Confusion marked his visage.

He swallowed again and paused in his almost comical display of pretending to eat like a living human being.

"What?"

Undead Colin was clueless of how many awful things he was dredging up. A full year since his hospitalization and effective departure from this world—and here he was, bringing it all back in the most unpleasant way possible.

Tears welled up in Helen's eyes. She had struggled so much to come to terms with it all, to get over it all. She was not even sure if she had managed to fully move on, yet.

"When one of those dumb asshole kids confessed, he said you were challenging them, taunting them. He said you said you could take them all on with your hands tied behind your back. They tied your hands behind your back and beat you to death, you big oaf!"

Undead Colin had stopped eating. Things were obviously not playing out as he had envisioned.

"You mean you and your lover-boy didn't hire them to murk me?"

Helen's outburst was violent, shaking the baseball bat without raising it, choked by sobbing and anger.

"What the fuck are you talking about? What lover-boy?"

Small chunks and gobs of food lazily plummeted from Colin's speechless, dead mouth.

"You mean you and Frank—you and Frank weren't—you know—"

"No! What's wrong with you?"

"Y-you and Frank always spent so much time together, you knew each other way longer than—"

"So fucking what? I never cheated on you! You should have just asked! I would have told you. You fucking moron! What are you doing here? How? How even?"

No answer.

His milky eyes darted to the baseball bat in her hand, the head of which now rested on the white tiles of her kitchen floor, hanging uselessly by her side as she wiped tears from her swollen face with the back of her other arm. It was just too much for her to take.

And Undead Colin was slowly beginning to put two and two together.

"So, you, uh, you're livin' alone now? Huh?"

"It's been a year. Well, more like half a year since we buried you, but there was nothing they could do. You were—"

She lost her speech, going hoarse. Wiped more tears from her eyes because they kept welling up and flowing uncontrollably.

Part of Helen wanted to hug Colin. But even standing several steps away, he smelled like someone had vomited into a dumpster that a skunk had sprayed its stink in and on top of which a pack of dogs had taken a crap. The stench filled the entire kitchen. Through all the confusion and sorrow and tears, there was a flash of her wondering how many cans of air freshener it would take to get rid of the awful smell.

"Shit. Uh. I'm sorry, babe. I—I thought you and Frank—you know. So, I was wrong, huh? That's good, right? Good to be wrong for a change!"

"Yes, you were fucking wrong, you fucking asshole. I missed you so much."

 "W-well, uh, I'm sorry for bothering you, then. I promise it all came from a place of, uh, love. I, uh," he stopped mid-sentence. Thoughts that must have trailed off. The words died in his dead mouth.

He gingerly placed the sandwich on the counter, no plate, just spilling crumbs everywhere and allowing some mustard to splotch the surface. Undead Colin stared off into the corner. His typical air of abashed shame lingered about him, just like the last time when he set the barbecue grill on fire and burnt off his eyebrows despite insisting that he knew what he was doing when he squirted bottled accelerant into it.

For Helen, the floodgates were open, all memories bubbling to the surface. The tears were not only born by bitterness and loss, but happy memories, as well. And wondering about all that could have been. Helen now wondered what would happen next.

She started to ask him about it, "Does this mean that—"

He interrupted and said, "I'm sorry. I'm—I'm so sorry I didn't have more faith in you. Sorry for accusing you."

He sighed. A long gasp, like a whole cemetery breathing its last breath. Then he collapsed. Colin crumpled to the floor in a lifeless, stinking heap. He did not even twitch for a split second, all the unlife evaporated from his being at once. His milky-white eyes remained open, his body contorted in an awkward arrangement of limbs that were not supposed to bend that way and had no business being left in such awkward positions.

Helen started to sob again and covered her eyes. Torn away as abruptly as he had inexplicably returned from the dead.

A fly even buzzed about him.

It took minutes until she recovered from a jumble of broken thoughts.

Then she realized that he had left her with the mess of cleaning up after him again.

Of course. Typical Colin.

Did not have the decency to crawl back into the coffin he had clawed his way out of. Some poor groundskeeper probably had to take care of re-burying him all over again. And she had to get his body back there, somehow, too. Her skin began to crawl at the thought of what kind of insects he must have had on and in his corpse.

Minutes later, Helen groaned at the realization while pacing in a circle.

Then the doorbell rang, and the rhythmic, repetitive flashes of red and blue light outside the windows suggested that police were at her front door.

Panic gripped her again, because this was no dream, and now she had to deal with the absurdity of it all. She had to pick up the pieces.

Typical fucking Colin.

—Submitted by Wratts

[wreckofawriter]

The World Stilled

Pairing: Carl Grimes x reader

Word Count: 1.8k (sorry its so short)

Warnings: Zombies, panic attack

Request: @alex-sulli the carl grimes imagine, i was thinking like a fluffy imagine where the reader is worried about finding everyone/alexandria falling and he reassures her :,) you can choose either

A/n: I choose Alexandria, I tried writing on the road cuz season four and five are my favorite but it sucked so I deleted it. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

    It didn’t matter where in the walls you were. You could hear them. You could always hear them. The groans and growls of the monsters that had taken over your world were constant in your ears. You pretend it didn’t bother you because it shouldn’t have, you should have been able to walk around like you weren’t trapped inside of a metal coffin. You could live, you would live. That’s what you kept telling yourself. The words running over and over in your head until they lost their meaning and it was gibberish you continued to say. 

    You took as many gate watches as you could, it was better when you could see them, look them in their lifeless eyes, and know what you were up against. You hated hiding from them, it made you unsure, it made you feel like you were in the dark. 

    All-day you were running equations and scenarios through your head. If something were to happen how quickly could you get to Judith? Where was Carl if you needed to run? How much food was in your house? How many could you take out before you were cornered? Carl noticed how distant you got. He saw the way your eyes always darted towards the walls as if to check and see if they were still standing, the way you jumped when he walked up behind you or how your fingers were always dancing around your gun. You were paranoid, just as you had been when they found you, how you had been on the road, how you had been for weeks after first finding these walls. And now you were here again, alert and frightened. 

    Ron wasn’t helping, he had always made you uneasy. something about him made your mind scream. Now he was carrying around a gun, his eyes watching Carl a bit too carefully, you were just being paranoid, you knew that but something still screamed as you watched Rick teach him to shoot. But you were just paranoid. 

    You told Michonne about your fear and she had said it was what kept you alive. You supposed that was true. You couldn’t afford to relax, you knew if you did, you died and the people you loved died. But it was tiring to be paranoid. It was exhausting to jump at every shadow, never get a full night of rest, to run scenario after scenario until you went insane. Sometimes you wished you were as brain dead as some so you could finally take a break. 

    “Are you alright?” Carl’s voice broke you from your spiraling thoughts. He climbed the ladder to stand next to you as you scorned the walkers below you, eyebrows scrunched lip tucked between your teeth. 

    You nodded stiffly, “Fine.” What if you had people shoot from two different sections of the wall, would that clear a path? Or maybe you could use the Wolf’s bodies, if the walkers went to feed a few could escape. But the bodies were cold now, it was no use. 

    “You seem..” He paused looking for the right word, “Jumpy.” 

    You glanced to your side, your right hand ghosting your gun as it always did now. Carl was staring at you, his blue flannel open, a white t-shirt underneath surprisingly unstained. His hair blew away from his face in the slight breeze. “I wonder why.” you scoffed. 

    “These walls are going to hold.” he responded plainly, “I know they will.”

    “Then we’ll starve to death.” You were only half kidding. Your eyes moved back to the walkers. You had about three months worth of food, four if you rationed right, two if people stole. You needed to find a way out. Maybe tunnel under the wall? 

    “I know that look,” Carl spoke up again.

    Your eyes remained on a dead thing, its jaw was dangling from its face, you wondered if it happened before or after it died.

    “You’re thinking. Think about how to survive.” Carl continued, “You used to do it all the time, at Terminus it never left your face, on the road, it didn’t either.” 

    You refused to speak, focusing on the crowd in front of you.

    “I remember when my dad found you and brought you back to the prison you looked at me the same way, like you were guessing how much longer we would all last. Patrick was terrified of you.” He chuckled, “You looked the same way when we first got here, you placed a three-week life span on this place. I remember you telling me that.”

    “I guess I was wrong.” You shrugged, “It was four.”

    Carl sighed, licking his lips, “Look at me y/n.” 

    You snapped your eyes to his own, there were so blue it was almost startling. His soft smile was gone, replaced with a worried look that dislodged something in your chest. 

    “This place isn’t dead yet. I won’t let it die. I need it, you need it, Judith needs it. We can’t afford to let it die.” He took a step towards you, “So stop making escape plans, you can’t jump ship yet.” 

    You swallowed thickly “I can if it’s sinking.” 

    You hadn’t been this angry in a long time, you felt so pathetic, you were helpless, weak. Rick expected you to just wait for dead people to come save you. You were going to die here and there was absolutely nothing you could do about it. You couldn’t stand it. Your heart raced as you picked up a dart, its board was a few meters in front of you but you turned your back to it to look at the photos on the walls. Stock photos of kids who were dead now laughing, a dad serving lemonade, picnics, and blue skies. The first dart bounced off the glass so you pulled your arm back more thrusting the second as hard as you could at the little girl in a french braid and a red dress. The glass cracked, You raised a third, tears clouding your vision as you blindly thrust it forwards hitting the wall where it stuck with a hollow thump. 

You were going to die here. 

    The nights were always the worst. It didn't matter how many doors and gates were between you and them, their constant murmur could always be heard. You tried to bury your head in pillows, you tried earplugs, headphones. It took you two days to realize it was all in your head. The one place no matter how far you ran, you could never escape from. You hadn’t had a panic attack in a long time. Since before, you used to get them over stupid things like science projects and presentations. Now as you chocked on your own breaths it was because you were going to die. Soft sobs echoed around your dark room as you tried to make up for the air you were losing with gasping breaths. Tears clouded your vision, your nose was clogged, you felt like you were slowly suffocating. Your head thumped behind your eyes and the sound of walkers continued. 

    You jumped at the sudden hand on your shoulder, you would have screamed if you had the breath. Your glassy eyes locked with Carl.

    “You’re okay y/n,” He spoke calmly kneeling in front of you. 

    You shook your head wildly, the thick sheen of tears finally falling from your eyes and sliding down your cheeks. “We’re going to die.” you cried, “We’re all going to die.” 

    “You’re not gonna die.” He said so firmly you almost believed it, “I’m not going to, Judith isn’t, my dad isn’t. No one is going to die.” 

    You hiccupped a whimper ripping from your throat, “You don’t know that.” 

    “Yes, I do.” He answered without hesitation, “Now I need you to take a deep breath okay? You’re gonna breathe with me.” 

    You nodded taking in a shaky breath and realizing it. Carl sat in front of you breathing in and out slowly until your hands no longer shook and your heartbeat had calmed. It was silent now, the dead’s noise was gone, replaced by crickets and frogs. 

    “I can’t watch you die, Carl.” You said, “I can’t watch anyone else die.” 

    “You won’t have to.” He spoke, a small smile on his lips, “We are going to make it. I swear.” 

    “How can you be so sure?” you wondered aloud, “How can you know that?” 

    “I just do.” He replied.

    You felt so tired, your eyelids heavy with the weight of shed tears, your head was still aching dully and your limbs felt numb. 

    Carl noticed as your body slumped in on itself. He stood, offering you a hand and pulling you to your feet. You fell into your bed, Carl headed for the door. 

    “Good night y/n.” When he went to shut the door behind him panic set in. You could hear them again, the clash of their rotting teeth, their growls and sickening moans. 

    “Wait!”

    Carl stopped in his tracks, turning back to face you.

    “Please don’t leave.” You begged, “I can hear them when you leave, please don’t leave me.”

    He didn’t question your sanity. He didn’t ask who they were. He didn’t have to. Instead, he walked back inside your room closing the door. You moved over in your bed as he kicked off his shoes and lifted your blankets, lying beside you. It was quiet again.

    “Thank you.” You mumbled turning onto your side to face him. 

    Carl followed your actions, his face was illuminated by the soft moonlight drifting through the window over your shoulder, his eyes almost glowing in the silver light. “Anything for you y/n.” 

    You moved closer to him, burying your head into his chest and fisting his t-shirt. You felt him stiffen for a moment before his arms fell around you drawing you towards him. You could hear his heartbeat, its quickened pace drowning out the endless thoughts in your mind. He smelt of lavender, his warmth surrounding you. 

    “Y/n?” Carl whispered.

    You turned your head up to look at him, head tilted slightly in a silent question. 

    He paused for a moment too long, his eyes flirting across your face delicately. “I love you.”

    The world stilled, the dust in the moonlight air stopped moving, the dead outside the walls froze, the living inside halting their breaths.

“I love you too,” you mumbled. 

His hand found your cheek, his thumb tracing along your jawline before resting underneath your chin and lifting your face to his. Your lips met hesitantly, eyes fluttering shut. His lips were soft and light against your own. Your hands ran up his chest wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer. His tongue grazed the seam of your lips and you tilted your chin to deepen the kiss. 

When you pulled apart you were both blushing, your breaths coming in short pants. 

“You are so beautiful.” Carl murmured and you buried your head into his neck to hide the roses blooming on your cheeks. 

Masterlist

[a-blue-secret]

GENRES: non-idol au, taegyu are fiances, yeonbin are married, not angsty but sad, but it has a happy ending I promise

PAIRING: taegyu, side of yeonbin

WARNINGS: Descriptions of schizophrenia, Beomgyu is dead before the au begins, Taehyun faints but it's nothing major

WORD COUNT: 7.8k+

A.N.: I understand that mental illness is a sensitive topic. Therefore, I have tried to make my account of it as accurate as possible. If I have gotten anything wrong, please just kindly inform me for the next time I may write something like this. -now on ao3 here-

SUMMARY: “Taehyun, please. All jokes aside. Do you… can you actually see him?” Yeonjun asked seriously.

“What do you mean? Of course. I know my fiance anywhere.”

“Ex-fiance, since he’s dead,” Yeonjun muttered: not bitterly, just in a matter-of-fact way. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Taehyun, do you think Beomgyu may just be, you know, part of your… hallucinations?”

People passed by Taehyun, offering their condolences, smiling sympathetically. He smiled back, slightly confused, but took their condolences in his stride.

"Mr. Kang, I understand you were the fiance of Choi Beomgyu?”

“I- yes, I am,” Taehyun answered the old man, slightly confused. The man’s gaze softened, and he patted Taehyun’s arm reassuringly.

“Choi Beomgyu was a good man. Being here, at his funeral… it reminded me of what a wonderful person he was. I am glad I had the pleasure to teach him and know him, before his untimely passing. My condolences, sir.” The man bowed, smiling at Taehyun as he moved away. Taehyun shook his head, confused. Everyone kept on saying Beomgyu was gone. Gosh, that boy really had tricked so many people.

It was odd, really. Taehyun was sitting at home one minute, peacefully drinking a cup of tea, waiting for Beomgyu to come home, but then the next thing he knew he was standing in a black suit in church, everyone weeping over a mahogany box. He just didn't understand it. Nothing was making sense. Taehyun frowned and rubbed his nose. It all started when that pesky police person turned up at his door one night.

-----

Taehyun opened the door, smiling brightly at the person. "Oh hello! You're one of those…police dudes right?"

"Yes, I-I am. Would you happen to be Kang Taehyun?"

"That would be me. How do you do?"

"I am doing, um, fine thank you very much. May I come in?"

"So you're telling me… Gyu is… what? He's 'passed on'?"

The police officer nodded gravely. "Unfortunately so, sir. We are devastated that it had to happen this way. The other car driver has apologised profusely, says he'll pay whatever compensation you need. I know that you will be devastated by this news, as I understand he was your fiance and to have him go so suddenly-" Taehyun could only stand there as the officer's words washed over him. "-again, our deepest condolences, sir."

Taehyun shook his head. "No. He's not gone."

"I understand that it will be difficult for you to process this-"

"No, you don't understand. He- he can't be gone!" Taehyun looked around, for any piece of evidence that Beomgyu was still alive. Suddenly, his face relaxed into a relieved smile. "You're being silly. He's not gone. He's standing right there!"

"What?”

The officer looked to where Taehyun was pointing, confused. "W-Where?"

Taehyun sighs. Honestly, were they blind? Beomgyu was right there. He could see him standing behind the officer, clear as day. He was going to say so, but then Beomgyu pressed a finger to his lips secretively. Taehyun widened his eyes with understanding. Ah, this must be a prank! They're pranking the officer!

"N-nothing, officer," Taehyun said instead. "I- just my brain playing tricks on me."

The police officer smiles sympathetically. They bow, and head for the door. "My condolences. I'm sure Beomgyu was a great man."

Taehyun smiled and saw the officer out. Once he'd closed the door, he spun around, looking for Beomgyu.

"Darling?" he called. "The police are gone now. You can come out." Beomgyu didn't answer him. Odd. Well, perhaps he was in a tricksy mood today. Taehyun shrugged. "Well, I'm going to bed now. You come up when you're ready." Turning away, he swore he heard Beomgyu's gleeful giggle come from behind him. He turned around, smiling at the sound. "Come on, Gyu," he laughed. "It's late. We should get to bed."

-----

From that day onwards, people that Taehyun and Beomgyu knew would turn up at their doorstep, tear stains on their faces. They'd hand Taehyun gifts, draw him in for big hugs, and even burst into tears. Taehyun didn't quite understand what was going on, but judging from how their friends talked it seemed that Beomgyu had pulled a prank to make everyone believe he had passed away. He accepted the gifts with a slight smile, rubbed their backs when they cried, and allowed himself to be drawn into hugs.

"We'll organise the funeral," Soobin had said tearfully, clutching Taehyun's hands tightly. "We promise to give him the most beautiful send-off. Don't you worry."

Yeonjun had given him kisses on each cheek repeatedly. "Gyu meant so much to us as well. We can only imagine how hard it must be for you."

"We're here for you," Hueningkai had promised. "I know you're probably putting on a brave front for us, but I promise you don't have to. We'll understand if you cry."

Seeing his friends so teary and distraught made Taehyun tear up a little too. Their obviously upset faces made him feel a little guilty about the prank Beomgyu had pulled, so he'd leaned forward confidentially and confessed.

"Guys, it's a prank," he whispered. "Gyu-hyung is still alive. It's all a prank."

His friends had looked at each other in an almost sad way.

"Taehyun-ah," Yeonjun said gently. "Is this… is this how you've been trying to cope?"

Taehyun blinked, confused. "What are you talking about? It is a prank. Beomgyu said so."

Soobin sighed, and wrapped an arm around Taehyun. "It's okay, it's okay. We can't believe it either. There's nothing wrong with trying to imagine he's still here, Taehyun, but it's not healthy. We'll have to accept he's gone."

Taehyun squirmed out of the hug. "No, you don't understand. It is really a prank. I can show you. Beomgyu?" He turned around and called for the elder, walking towards the bottom of the stairs in order for him to yell upstairs. "Darling? Come on, we need to prove to Binnie-hyung and the others that it's a prank. Beomgyu? Come on!”

Soobin walked up to Taehyun and attempted to wrap his arms around him again. "It's okay to be in denial, Taehyun."

"He's just being temperamental," Taehyun explained. "I didn't give him a good morning kiss this morning, so he's grumpy." Taehyun frowned. "Although to be fair, he'd woken up before me and decided he wanted to play hide and seek. So it's not really my fault I didn't have time to give him a kiss."

Soobin looked over at Yeonjun and Hueningkai, who had walked over to join them.

"Babe, he's really in denial," Soobin said to Yeonjun. The eldest simply sighed.

"Look, Taehyun. We'll organise the funeral. Heck, we'll pay for everything, even the gravestone. Okay? It's okay to cry over it. It's okay."

Taehyun looked at him, confused. They really didn't get it, huh? "... Sure. You can do that. But trust me, Gyu'll reveal it's a prank soon enough, so don't actually spend money."

Hueningkai's eyes had welled up, and he suddenly snatched Taehyun out of Soobin's grip and pulled him into a big hug of his own.

"It's okay to be scared, Taehyunie," Hueningkai whispered. "We'll be here for you."

Taehyun didn't know what to say to that. He patted Hueningkai's back comfortingly, letting himself be hugged. "Thanks, Hyuka."

Hueningkai leaned back, but kept his hands on Taehyun's shoulders, looking at him with wet eyes. He smiled through tears. "It'll be okay," he said, nodding as if to convince himself. "It'll be okay."

-----

That all happened three weeks ago. Now, Taehyun was getting ready to go to church for a special service. Yeonjun had told him to wear all black and, from that piece of information, he gathered there was a funeral of some sort taking place.

"I just don't understand," Taehyun said conversationally as he fixed his black suit. "We're going to church, and we're wearing black. Who do you think died?"

Beomgyu shrugged.

"Maybe one of Kai's distant relatives? The ones in Hawaii somewhere?" Taehyun carried on. "Can’t be someone we know personally, because then I’d be more upset. Maybe he's bringing us along for moral support."

Taehyun glanced at Beomgyu through the mirror. "Darling? Won't you get dressed?”

Beomgyu stared blankly back at him, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Taehyun sighed. "I'm not sure what I did wrong this time, hyung." He turned around, but Beomgyu had disappeared again. Taehyun frowned. “How do you keep doing that?” he asked, turning around in circles. “Gyu? Beomgyu, darling please, we need to go soon.”

Suddenly, Beomgyu was standing right next to him. Taehyun jumped, and Beomgyu stifled a giggle from behind his hand. Taehyun rolled his eyes, smiling.

“Come on, you,” he said. Then he frowned. “Aren’t you going to wear black?” He shrugged, face clearing. “Oh well. The invitation didn’t specify, so it’s okay. Let’s go then, eh?”

-----

It was the aftermath of the service. Everyone had stayed in the church to have drinks and converse with others, reminiscing about the person who had died.

"How many times do I have to tell you?" Taehyun said. "Beomgyu is not dead."

Yeonjun set down his glass, turning to Taehyun with a serious expression. "Okay, stop it. This is getting serious now. We were literally just at his funeral service, and watched him being lowered into a grave. I don't know why you think he's still alive."

"Because he is. Look, he's right there-"

He’s not here! No, you look at me! The only part of him that’s here is his body, and that’s in a coffin!” Yeonjun lashed, finally losing his cool. "He's not here, okay? Stop!" He looked up at the ceiling and blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the tears. Just as soon as he’d erupted, Yeonjun calmed himself as quickly. Taking a deep breath, he looked at Taehyun again, who was watching him carefully after the sudden outburst. "Tell me honestly, Taehyun. Do you really believe he's still alive? And think, actually think before you answer.”

To his credit, Taehyun really did stop and think. Did he believe Beomgyu was alive? Well, yes. He did. But… was there much evidence to show that he was? Other than his random appearances around the house, Taehyun wasn’t sure.

“I… I don’t know,” Taehyun said in a small, confused voice. “He has to be, right? Yeah, because he’s over there.” The apprehension cleared from his face when he saw Beomgyu waving from the other side of the garden. Yeonjun turned around, trying to spot what Taehyun was staring at. When he couldn’t find it, he turned back around to face the blond.

“Taehyun, please. All jokes aside. Do you… can you actually see him?” Yeonjun asked seriously.

“What do you mean? Of course. I know my fiance anywhere.”

“Ex-fiance, since he’s dead,” Yeonjun muttered: not bitterly, just in a matter-of-fact way. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Taehyun, do you think Beomgyu may just be, you know, part of your… hallucinations?”

“What do you mean?” Taehyun scoffed. “I don’t hallucinate, hyung.”

“But you think you can see him, can’t you? Even think you can hear him. One minute he’s there, but the next minute he’s disappeared. Right? That’s what has been happening, isn’t it?”

“O-oh,” Taehyun faltered. Beomgyu had been doing that a lot recently, now that he thought about it. “He’s just really fast, you know that hyung,” Taehyun dismissed.

Yeonjun looked unconvinced. “Okay, when was the last time you actually touched him?”

“That’s a silly question, not a day goes by where Beomgyu doesn’t…” Taehyun trailed off. When was the last time they’d actually had skin-to-skin contact? Taehyun can’t remember. “Anyway hyung, what’s your point?”

“I did some research,” Yeonjun said solemnly, spotting Soobin and Hueningkai and waving them over. “Last time we visited you, and you kept saying you could see Beomgyu. I did some research and from what I found, and what you’ve told me just now, I think you might… you might…” Yeonjun struggled to form his next words. It was heartbreaking to think that one of his closest friends might be suffering from any sort of mental disorder. Soobin rubbed his back comfortingly, encouraging Yeonjun to carry on. “I think you might have… schizophrenia.”

Taehyun stared at Yeonjun in horror and fear. “No, no no… I don’t. I’m not sick.”

“We don't know for sure, though,” Soobin added, in an attempt to calm Taehyun down. “We’ll need to go to a doctor for them to properly diagnose you.”

“I don't- I don't want to go to a doctor. I’m not sick, I swear!”

“You don’t have to. I visited the doctor’s a few days ago, described your general behaviours… they said it’s likely that you are.” Yeonjun gulped nervously.

He hated seeing Taehyun look so fearful and stressed, and evidently Hueningkai did as well, for he attempted to hug Taehyun. “They said they’ll treat you, but you have to agree to the medication before they can help you.”

Taehyun pushed Hueningkai off, shaking his head. “I’m not sick. I’m not.”

“Hyunnie, please,” Hueningkai begged, holding onto Taehyun’s arms. “Think. You haven’t truly seen Beomgyu-hyung for weeks. Just random appearances of him, right? That’s because of the… the sickness. He’s not actually here. He hasn’t actually been here for about a month now. Please. Let the doctors treat you. We can’t… I can’t… afford to lose my best friend.”

Taehyun’s eyes glazed over. He sat, silent, before suddenly snapping his gaze back to Hueningkai. “You’re saying… Beomgyu has actually died?”

The younger boy nodded, eyes desperate. “Yes, and your hallucinations aren’t healthy so please-”

“So it wasn’t a prank? He’s actually gone?”

“I mean, yes, that’s why we had a funeral-”

“And he’s left me? All alone?” Taehyun’s eyes welled up, as his gaze moved from Hueningkai’s face to the other side of the garden. Beomgyu was no longer there.

“N-no, Taehyunnie, you still have us,” Hueningkai desperately tried to explain. “You're not alone. We can help you- oh my god!”

Taehyun’s knees had buckled, and he suddenly fell against Hueningkai. His eyes blinked shut, dark eyelashes lying in stark contrast to his paper-white face.

“Hyungs, help,” Hueningkai whimpered to Yeonjun and Soobin, who had just been standing there in shock. Yeonjun immediately sprang into action.

“Babe, lift up his legs,” he instructed. “If you do that, I can pick him up. Hueningkai, run to the car and open it. We’re going to have to take him home.”

-----

After his fainting at the funeral reception, Taehyun’s friends had taken to moving in with him for an extended amount of time.

“There’s no way we’re leaving you alone,” Soobin had stated firmly when Taehyun had tried to protest. “It’s not safe. No space? Come on, Taehyun, this house is ridiculously large, even when it was for you and Beomgyu. There’s enough space for the four of us to be here together. We’re not going to leave.”

And when Taehyun had asked why they were staying, Hueningkai had answered with a determined tone. “Because we don’t want to lose another friend.”

Their overprotectiveness carried on for several weeks. One of them would always be home to keep Taehyun company, and they’d constantly let him know that he could talk to them whenever they wanted. They'd assign themselves to be his talk-buddies every few days, and would stick to him like glue until it was someone else's turn to be the talk-buddy.

At the beginning, Taehyun didn’t want to accept that he was potentially a schizophrenic. But, after seeing Beomgyu disappear from where he was standing one too many times, he’d finally broken down and accepted that the love of his life really had gone.

That week had been absolutely miserable for everyone in the house. Taehyun would scream, throw things, and then suddenly dissolve into tears at the most random times. Then came the period where all the emotion seemed to have been sucked out of him, and he’d wandered around the house, as listless as a ghost. Soobin, Yeonjun and Hueningkai begged him to accept treatment, but every time he still refused. Two months after Beomgyu’s death, Taehyun's condition was worse than ever.

His friends couldn't get him to talk, to sleep, to eat. He would randomly appear in doorways, before abruptly leaving. He didn't smile, didn't cry, didn't say a word. Once, Soobin found Taehyun sitting in the middle of his room, staring at the wall. He'd tried to get the younger to go to bed, but Taehyun just shook his head and resumed glaring at the white structure. In the mornings, his hyung would smile and offer him food, even though they knew full well he'd only have a tiny bite before not touching it again. They still tried to pretend everything was fine.

His friends tip-toed around the subject of how emotionless Taehyun was being, pretending everything was still going okay. But there was only so long they could pretend.

-----

One day, Yeonjun snapped. He was tired of seeing his friend wander aimlessly about the house, devoid of any emotion. That day had been particularly stressful, since Taehyun hadn’t slept for the past few days and even refused to eat anything for breakfast or lunch. It was only after copious amounts of coaxing and wheedling that Hueningkai had managed to convince Taehyun to eat some fruit.

Yeonjun slammed his hands down on the table, where Taehyun was meekly picking at some strawberries. The boy flinched, but didn’t lift his eyes from the seed-studded fruit.

“Taehyun. Let me book you an appointment.”

“No.”

Yeonjun sucked in a breath. He wasn’t expecting such an abrupt answer. He tried again.

“Come on, Hyun, you’re obviously not getting any better.”

“No.” Taehyun’s hands clutched the fork tight, fist trembling from the pressure.

"Taehyun, look at you! You're like a ghost. If you get treated, it'll get better, I promise."

"Yeonjun," Taehyun said quietly- too quietly, as Yeonjun didn't hear him and carried on.

"Just, accept the treatment. Please. Let them make you better. You're wasting away by refusing help. Look! You're so thin, your skin is literally like paper, and you can barely eat. Come on."

Taehyun let the fork clatter out of his hands and into the bowl. He looked up, and Yeonjun startled when he realised his eyes were brimming with tears.

“Taehyun, please, just let us help you-”

“I said no, hyung. Stop pressuring me! Please, just leave.” The tears were now pouring out of his eyes, thick and fast.

Yeonjun frowned worriedly. “I- this is not healthy. Let me call the hosp-”

“No, don’t,” Taehyun sobbed, hands pressed firmly against his eyes to try and stem the furious flow of his tears. “I- I don’t want them.”

Yeonjun tried again. “Taehyun-”

Soobin and Hueningkai suddenly ran into the room. Soobin and put up a hand, effectively silencing Yeonjun. “Hyung, stop.” Then he turned to Taehyun, placing a hand on his shaking shoulder. “It’s okay, Taehyun. You just come to us when you’re ready.” He nodded to Hueningkai. “Hyuka, stay with him. Make sure he’s okay.”

Soobin took Yeonjun out of the room, and stared at him disapprovingly. Yeonjun stared back at him, then realised what he’d just done. Soobin pinched the bridge of his nose.

He began, “Hyung-”

“I know, I know,” Yeonjun sighed, rubbing his forehead. “I shouldn’t have forced it upon him like that.” He lightly slapped his cheek. "That was stupid of me. I was so, so dumb. And senseless. I should have realised how stressed he was getting by me going on like that. Oh… I feel really bad now."

Soobin sighed too. “I know you mean well, hyung. But that really wasn't the right way to go about talking to him at all." Yeonjun hung his head as Soobin stared him down. Soobin carried on, "There’s no point in forcing him to accept treatment. His condition isn’t life-threatening at the moment, so there’s no hurry.”

“But there is hurry, Binnie,” Yeonjun said, looking up and holding both of Soobin’s hands in his own. “It… It breaks my heart to see Taehyun like this. He’s not like himself. And his condition could turn life-threatening at any moment, Soobin. You know that.”

“It breaks my heart to see him like this as well, hyung,” Soobin said softly, drawing Yeonjun in for a hug. “But yelling at him to accept help isn’t going to make things any better.”

“I know,” came Yeonjun’s muffled voice. There was silence for a bit, then he spoke again. “So would it be best to leave him alone?”

“I think that’s the best option we have right now, hyung,” Soobin replied. “Hueningkai’s gonna be his talk-buddy for the next few days. Who knows? Maybe he’ll find a way to convince Taehyun to get treated.”

-----

Meanwhile, Hueningkai silently handed Taehyun tissues as the blond cried. He didn't say anything, and just sat by Taehyun, not uttering a word. Every time Taehyun used up a tissue, Hueningkai would tear another one out of the box and offer it to him.

“Do you think I’m sick, Hyuka?” Taehyun mumbled, blowing his nose on yet another tissue Hueningkai had given him. The younger boy sat there thoughtfully, watching as Taehyun took another tissue to dab at his red eyes.

“I don’t know, Taehyunnie,” he said at last. “Sure, you think you can see Beomgyu-hyung, and you’ve shown no emotions over the past week, and yeah, maybe that’s not normal. But then again, no one is normal, so perhaps it’s not that bad.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Everyone’s a bit off their rocker in one way or another, and you just happen to be able to see Beomgyu. It’s okay.”

Through teary eyes, Taehyun looked up at Hueningkai and smiled. He patted the younger’s hand. “When did you become so wise?”

Hueningkai smiled sadly at Taehyun. “When I had to watch my smartest friend be reduced to nothing but a shell of what they once were.” He placed his hand on top of Taehyun’s, and smiled just a little bit brighter. “But it’s okay! Becoming wise is part of growing up, isn’t it? And people change. That's a given in life. Now, let’s not talk about such depressing matters. Do you have any games in your house? ‘Cause I’ve been searching for weeks and all I found were these playing cards.”

Taehyun grinned at his best friend, the tears now drying around his eyes. “Wait, let me show you a trick with the cards first.”

-----

When Soobin had been his buddy, there’d been an uncomfortable air of ‘must protect Taehyun from himself at all costs’. There’d been a lot of soft conversations, with concerned glances and quiet offers of help. Yeah, it had made him feel comforted that he knew Soobin would be there for him, but it also made him frustrated at how he was being treated like a sick little child.

When Yeonjun had been his buddy, Taehyun suddenly became stressed all the time. Yeonjun always had a big presence. One couldn’t help but notice him. And with all of his attention on Taehyun, it made him feel uncomfortable in his own skin. This wasn’t Yeonjun’s fault- he couldn’t help being the way he was- but it still had Taehyun feel on edge for the whole time Yeonjun had been his buddy.

With Hueningkai as his buddy… those days were probably the most normal Taehyun felt since the police came to his door. They’d just talk about silly things, like what would happen if the world turned into food overnight, or theorised about whether there really were such thing as aliens. They laughed and joked and went about their day as if everything was fine. That was one of the things which made Taehyun appreciate Hueningkai so much. He was gentle and kind but also excitable and fun. He didn’t push Taehyun to talk about things that he didn’t want to, instead opting to let Taehyun talk when he was ready. And that day came.

“Hueningkai,” Taehyun said hesitantly as the younger sat down beside him on the sofa.

“Yeah?” Hueningkai handed Taehyun a cookie, stuffing one in his mouth as well. He accepted it, but just stared at it in his hands.

“I just… I want to say thank you, for not forcing me to talk about the… sickness. When I was with Yeonjun-hyung, and Soobin-hyung, they never mentioned it, but the implications of it always hung in the air. You never, ever treated me differently. You even pretended it didn't exist, and I'm thankful for that."

Hueningkai smiled, swallowing the mouthful of biscuit he'd had. "I knew you'd feel either resentful or frustrated or annoyed if you were treated differently. That's why I decided it'd be best just to talk to you as Kang Taehyun, my best friend who I’ve known for years.."

"I'm really grateful you did," Taehyun said earnestly. "And while I appreciate it, I think we might also need to talk about my… condition."

Instead of looking worried or annoyed, Hueningkai just nodded in agreement. "Definitely. While it's good to interact normally, we still need to address the things which are definitely not normal." Hueningkai pointed to the cookie which Taehyun was still holding in his hands. “You gonna eat that?” Taehyun responded by taking a huge bite out of the treat, causing both of them to giggle slightly. Then Hueningkai’s face grew serious, which made Taehyun just a little bit nervous.

“Wait,” Taehyun said. “Can we- can we ease into the subject please? It’s kind of scary to straight away talk about what might be wrong with me.”

Hueningkai nodded understandingly. “Of course.” He hummed, twiddling his fingers as he thought of a topic to talk about. “Ah! I realised that we haven’t really talked about Beomgyu-hyung much. Even at his funeral, we didn’t talk about him.”

Taehyun looked around, nibbling on his cookie apprehensively. “You have tissues ready right?”

Hueningkai patted the box on top of the coffee table. “Right here,” he assured Taehyun. “So, why don’t we talk about the last time we spoke to hyung?”

Taehyun missed the cookie and accidentally bit down on his own fingers. He winced and set it down, sucking on his sore fingers. “I don't remember the last time I spoke to hyung. No wait, I do. It was… it was the day the police officer came to the door.”

Taehyun smiled a little, remembering Beomgyu’s bright, beaming face. “You know how during our lunch breaks the five of us would always meet up to talk? That day, Beomgyu and I had a date. Just a simple one, a quick coffee date in one of the cafes near his workplace. I remember how sunny it was that day, and while I’d complained about the brightness, the whole time I couldn’t stop staring at his face. The sun bathed him in a golden glow, and he looked absolutely beautiful.” Tears pooled into his eyes as he remembered that day. “I remember thinking how lucky I was to have him, and hoping that he’d never disappear.” Taehyun sadly took another bite out of his cookie as a few tears escaped the corners of his clenched eyes. “That thought aged well, didn’t it?” he said bitterly. Hueningkai rubbed his thigh comfortingly.

“It’s okay, Taehyunie,” he said. “It hurts, but it’s better to hurt together than alone.”

Taehyun sniffled, accepting a tissue that Hueningkai offered him. “We talked about the usual fiance things. Wedding plannings, honeymoon plannings, jokes and the simple things in life. At the time, it felt trivial, insignificant- it was just another date out of the many more we thought we’d had.” The tears came faster, and Hueningkai hurriedly handed Taehyun a bunch of tissues. “And then at the end of our lunch break, we parted ways, saying what we always said- ‘I love you, see you soon’.” Taehyun had to stop talking for a few seconds, and close his eyes against the sudden onslaught of memories. The emotions were overwhelming him; a lump was forming in his throat that he just couldn’t will away.

Remembering Beomgyu’s smiling face as he’d bid Taehyun goodbye made his heart ache. He realised just how much he missed Beomgyu- the real Beomgyu, not the ones out of his hallucinations. Taking deep breaths, he opened his eyes again.

“So yeah, that was the last time I saw him. You know how I always end work earlier than Beomgyu, so I was waiting for him to come home when… when it happened.”

Hueningkai smiled reassuringly. “At least your last memory of him was happy, wasn’t it?”

Taehyun dabbed at his eyes. “I suppose so. Why? Is your last memory of him not happy?”

“Oh, no, it is. But it’s also not-so-happy at the same time.”

When Taehyun tilted his head in confusion, Hueningkai explained. “The last time we spoke was over text. A few light conversations, jokes. He said he and I should meet up sometime. It’d been ages since we’d talked, one-on-one. We’d agreed to go get ice cream together, hang out at the park next to our old school.” Hueningkai smiled a bittersweet smile. “The day we’d planned the hangout was the day after the accident.”

Taehyun felt himself tear up on Hueningkai’s behalf. “Oh… hyung was excited for that as well. He told me how much he was looking forward to hanging out with his favourite dongsaeng. That’s… that’s a real shame, Hyuka.”

“Yeah, well,” Hueningkai shrugged, attempting to mask the sadness. “Fate is nothing but cruel, right?” He looked up at Taehyun, smiling a wobbly smile. “It’s fine. I just can’t imagine how awful it must have been for you, though.”

Taehyun peered back at him worriedly. He placed a hand on top of Hueningkai’s, and spoke in a soft tone.

“It’s okay to show how you really feel, Kai. It’s okay. Don’t pretend you’re fine when you’re really not. I can see how much you’re hurting inside. You don’t have to hide it.”

Even though Taehyun was the one who was supposed to be mentally unstable, the one who was supposed to need someone to support and take care of him, here he was, offering his own support to his friend, because he saw how much he needed it. He smiled reassuringly. “I’m here for you."

Hueningkai had always been a gentle soul. Gentle, compassionate, and kind. He was also delicate. No, he wasn’t fragile- he wasn’t one of those easy-to-break people, but he was just more delicately built compared to others. Losing one of his dearest hyungs, and almost losing his best friend too… well, it was enough to test even the mental wellbeing of someone as strong as Yeonjun. Poor Hueningkai had had to grow up too fast. He’d had to watch as his little, perfect world suddenly crumbled, and had had to hastily cover his own delicate heart in order to try and fix the broken hearts of his friends.

Those five, small words, those five, tiny syllables, were enough to expose Hueningkai’s delicate heart. Yes, he’d cried the day they’d turned up at Taehyun’s door after hearing the news, but that had been about it. He hadn’t been able to cry after that.

Now, he cried with his whole heart. His whole, gentle, loving heart. He cried for his hyung, who would never live a full life; he cried for his hyung’s family, who would never see their son grow old; he cried for his friends, who would never be able to hear Beomgyu’s bright laugh again; and then he finally cried for himself. He cried because he’d never hear his hyung’s comforting voice, never hear his thoughtful words, never see his fingers dance across the guitar strings, never feel his comforting presence in the world.

He cried, poured out all his sadness and grief over the loss of Beomgyu into his tears. He let go of all the pain and devastation he’d experienced from the news of his hyung’s death. He cried because he missed Beomgyu, missed his sunshine-y hyung who would never again grace the earth with his smile. All throughout his tears, all throughout this, Taehyun hugged him close.

Taehyun hugged him tight, wrapping his arms around Hueningkai, holding him as his shoulders shook with the force of his tears.

“Shh… shh… it’s okay, Hyuka. Cry as much as you want. Let it all out,” Taehyun murmured softly, rubbing Hueningkai’s back. “You’ve been so brave. It’s okay. Shh…”

The sobs wracked his body, and Hueningkai cried so forcefully that he had trouble breathing for a few moments.

“I- I shou-ldn’t be cry-crying so mu-uch,” Hueningkai sobbed into Taehyun’s embrace. “Y-you had to su-ffer wo-orse than m-me.”

“Nonsense,” Taehyun said gently. “You were his friend too. You’re allowed to cry for his death.”

“B-ut you-ou h-had i-it so mu-uch worse,” Hueningkai hiccuped. “A-and you ne-ever cri-ed like thi-this.”

“Maybe not, but I have my sickness, don’t I?”

Hueningkai just cried harder. “I-I feel so-o sorry fo-for you, Tae-Taehyunie.”

“Shh… It’s okay, Huening-ah. It’s okay.”

They stayed like that for another half an hour or so, until Hueningkai’s tears had slowed a little.

“I didn’t- I didn’t know how badly you felt,” Taehyun said worriedly as he handed Hueningkai the tissue box. “I should have noticed.”

“ ‘s not your fault, Taehyun,” Hueningkai sniffled, blowing his nose. “You had too much on your plate already.”

“My plate is never too full to look after the happiness of my best friend,” Taehyun replied. Hueningkai just shook his head, smiling.

"You're too caring," he said jokingly. Then his tone grew serious. "Come on, you should focus on yourself."

Taehyun swallowed. "Can I… can I confess something? Promise you won't tell hyungs?"

"Of course."

"I- I'm scared of the treatment. I never thought of myself as mentally unwell before, and now being told I'm sick and need to be fixed? It's scary."

Hueningkai took the half-eaten cookie out of Taehyun’s hands and set it down on the table. “It’s completely understandable to feel scared. It’s okay.” He wrapped his hands around Taehyun’s, gently, to try and soothe their trembling.

“Look,” Hueningkai said. “I’m going to be honest as well. I really don’t… care if you accept treatment or not. Don’t get me wrong, it would be nice for you to be back to your normal self again, but if it scares and worries you that much, it’s okay. We’ll support you whatever you choose to do.” He smiled, holding Taehyun’s hands tight. “Your happiness is the most important thing. Whether you’re sane or not? Pssh. We’re all a little crazy. It’s okay.”

Taehyun began to tear up again, but this time it was out of happiness, not sadness. “Thank you, Hyuka. I- just thank you.”

“Any time, Taehyunie. Any time.” Hueningkai smiled. He squeezed Taehyun’s hands a little. “But seriously though, it would really benefit you if you let yourself be treated.”

“I know. I know.” Taehyun took in a deep breath. “Actually, what I wanted to tell you was that… I decided I was going to accept treatment.” He exhaled. The words, when he’d tried to say them before, had stuck in his throat and built up an enormous pressure inside his chest. But now, after he’d actually said them, he realised it wasn’t really that big of a deal. The words which had worried at his mind for days were, he found, simple and almost relieving to say.

It was a simple thing, saying the words, but the promise was so much bigger. It was a promise of, 'I will become stronger', a promise to overcome what had been a dark, hard time in Taehyun's life.

It was with that confession: those tiny, tiny words with their big, big meanings- it was at that time, that Taehyun began to heal.

-----

Life after that seemed to become so much brighter. The dark cloud of stress and worry and fear that had hovered over their lives lessened. When Taehyun had told Yeonjun and Soobin (with Hueningkai there to encourage him), it would be a lie to say that the two eldest hadn't broken down into tears. Tears of happiness and relief, of course.

The road to recovery wasn’t smooth, though. Taehyun knew this. But, for Beomgyu, he’d endure everything- all the pain, all the tears, all the frustration- because he knew the elder would want nothing more than for Taehyun to be well.

Sometimes everything went fine. Taehyun was going to therapy, and had weekly visits from a social worker who came to have tea and chat. They were pleasant; he was never pressed too much to talk about things, and at times they seemed to even like how he'd stay silent. He had his friends, as well. They supported Taehyun every step of the way, reminding him each day that he had them, and he wasn't alone. He had them, and they would never leave.

Sometimes though, the coddling and gentleness became too frustrating to bear.

If Taehyun's patience had been worn thin by the counsellor's patronising tone, he'd lose his cool and start yelling at them. If the social worker attempted to make him drink that weird herbal tea one too many times, he'd storm out of the room in a flare of his temper. If Soobin tried to get him to eat on a day when the medicine's side effects were particularly harsh, he'd snap and push away his friends out of anger.

Other times, when it was really, really terrible and he just couldn't take it anymore, Taehyun would beg his friends to not make him go to therapy. He'd fall against them, tears staining his cheeks, begging them not to make him go back, because I hate it, please, don't make me go, please, please I hate it, I hate it so much, please. Soobin would look at Yeonjun and Hueningkai, sigh, but say nothing. The next counselling session, however, Taehyun would always clamber into Yeonjun's car with a sullen face, neither resisting treatment nor willing to eagerly participate in it. And then the cycle would repeat.

It was a hard process. But still, Taehyun's friends stuck by him, and it was probably due to their support that Taehyun managed to heal. And three years after Beomgyu's death, he was better. Not completely the same as he'd been before the life-changing day, but better than he had been for a long time.

"Kai!" Taehyun laughed, hitting the younger. "Don't sneak up on me! You know the last time Soobin-hyung did that, I almost poked his eyes out with the brush!"

Taehyun's friends had never really moved out of his home. In a way, Taehyun was grateful that they stayed. It would have been lonely to be in the big house all alone. It was three years after Beomgyu's death, and life had gone on. Sure, it hurt at first, but the sharp stab of pain eventually numbed to a dull, throbbing ache. It would never go away, because their memory of Beomgyu could never go away, but they learned to live with it.

Hueningkai stuck his tongue out. Taehyun tutted. "You're 25 now, yet you still continue to act like a child? This is exactly why Yeonjun-hyung won't let you drive round his car when you ask him to."

"Hmph! Like he let's you drive it around!"

"You know it's because he's afraid I'll have another hallucination and crash the car. You, on the other hand, are just a walking disaster."

"Hey! I'm 25 you know!"

"Yeah, but you're still 15 at heart."

Hueningkai grinned. "Yeah, and so are you." He looked around, spotting at the half-painted canvas propped up on the other side of the art studio. "Another painting of Beomgyu, I see?"

Taehyun covered the painting with the black cloth. "Oh, shut up. He was my fiance, I'm allowed to paint him. Besides, it's actually a painting of all of us. It's not finished yet."

"Aren't you glad they recommend art therapy to you? Yet another good thing that came out of those sessions."

"Yes, because pushing a brush along a canvas saved my life," Taehyun stated sarcastically.

"Yeah well, it did, didn't it?"

"...Okay yeah, but that's not the point!"

Ever since his counsellor had mentioned art therapy to help him heal, Taehyun hadn't stopped painting, even after his treatment ended. He found that expressing his feelings through colours and paints helped relieve him from all his stress and worries. At first, though his understanding of shades and tones were not the best, he persevered and now looked proudly at all the canvases of his work displayed all over the rooms of the house. They were far from what someone like Picasso or Turner could do, but they were his own work and in his opinion they were perfect masterpieces.

"Anyway," he said, smiling at Kai. "Was there anything you needed?"

"Nah, just wanted to bother you." Hueningkai cackled as Taehyun jabbed him with the end of a paintbrush.

"You- annoying- brat!" Taehyun said, punctuating every word with a jab at Hueningkai's abdomen. "Go! Shoo! This painting needs to be finished in time for Beomgyu-hyung’s death anniversary!"

"Okay, okay," Hueningkai laughed, retreating. "I'm going! Oh, hi Yeonjun-hyung. Yes, Taehyun! I'm going!" Yeonjun was leaning against the doorway, smiling at the two bickering 25 year-olds. 

"Hey Taehyun," he said, walking in and ruffling the other's hair. "How're you doing?"Taehyun looked at him strangely. 

"You ask me that like we literally do not live together."

"Ouch," Yeonjun laughed, putting his hands into his pockets. "Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to visit Gyu's grave. His death anniversary is coming up, and I can drive you there if you want."

"Oh, I thought you were taking Soobin on another date," Taehyun said, blinking innocently up at Yeonjun.

"Soobin is visiting his parents and has been away for the past three days. You know that," Yeonjun scolded, flicking Taehyun's forehead playfully. "So do you want me to take you or not?"

"Yes please," Taehyun said, standing up and wiping his hands on his apron. "I'll go get dressed into something more presentable."

"Don't be too long!" Yeonjun called. "It's getting dark earlier than usual since it's winter, and we should go there before the sun goes down."

-----

They reached the cemetery as the sun was low in the sky, bruising the sky with its gentle blue hue. As Taehyun undid his seatbelt, he noticed that Yeonjun wasn't coming out.

"Hmm? Hyung, aren't you coming?"

"I- I came yesterday." Yeonjun said shortly, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. Taehyun's heart melted with sympathy. Even after all these years, it seemed Yeonjun was still hurt. He patted the elder's hand.

"It's okay, hyung. I'll go then."

"Don't be too long!" Yeonjun called after him. Taehyun gave him a thumbs up without looking back.

Hands deep inside his coat pockets, he trudged along the snow-edged paths. When he reached Beomgyu's gravestone, he buried his cold nose deeper into his scarf and sighed. He leaned down to touch the cold granite. Gently, he traced the carved letters, smiling to himself.

"Oh, Beomgyu," he said aloud to the chilly winter air. "You were too young to die." Before, the words would have been said with devastating hopelessness. Now, Taehyun uttered them with a joking smile on his face, only a hint of sadness tainting the edges of his lips. A breeze whipped itself through Taehyun's hair and he looked up to see Beomgyu standing there.He startled a little, taking an involuntary step back. It had been a while since he'd last had a hallucination. 

The figure smiled, and silently looked at Taehyun. The younger was unfazed by the hallucination- he knew how to deal with them now. But at that moment, he decided it would be nice to talk to Beomgyu - even if this Beomgyu was just a figment of his imagination - one last time.

"It's been ages, hasn't it, Gyu?" Taehyun said, looking back down at the gravestone. Beomgyu looked sadly down at it as well. Taehyun swallowed, and raised his eyes. "... I miss you."Beomgyu smiled a little forlornly, and reached over to pat Taehyun's shoulder.Taehyun carried on, "During the early days, I couldn't even properly mourn because of my illness. And then, I couldn't visit your grave for ages because they said it might trigger the hallucinations to come again." He chuckled. "Guess they were right. This is the first 'vision' I've had in ages, did you know that hyung?" Beomgyu's eyes sparkled as he gazed at the younger. "Anyway, it was only really a few months ago that everything became sort of normal."

Taehyun kicked at the snow. "And I miss you, hyung. I really miss you." He looked up to find Beomgyu giving him a fond look. He smiled back. "But you know. In a garden, one always picks the most beautiful flowers first, right? And besides, I'm doing okay now. I miss you still, so much, but life is full of ups and downs. This was a really big down, but you know…everything happens for the better or worse, and we just have to deal with it.”They stood there in silence, both of them looking down at the gravestone.

"I just- I can't believe that you're really gone," Taehyun said to himself, feeling tears build up behind his eyes. He quickly wiped them away, taking a few breaths before smiling at Beomgyu.

"I shouldn't cry," he said, trying to laugh a little. "I came here to say goodbye, after all." He nudged Beomgyu. "And I know you never liked goodbyes to be sad."

More silence swept through the cemetery, and this time it was a heavier one. The sky was growing darker, and Taehyun knew he'd have to say goodbye. He was reluctant to say the first farewell, and this must have been evident on his face. The elder turned to him and gently touched his nose to Taehyun's. Beomgyu's eyes were sympathetic and kind, with a look of 'it's time' in them. I love you, Taehyun darling. 

Taehyun sighed, knowing the time had come. He stood up on his tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss onto Beomgyu's dark hair.

"I love you too, darling. Always," he murmured. Then he closed his eyes and squeezed his fists tight so his nails dug into his palms, just like the psychiatrist had taught him to. When he opened his eyes, Beomgyu was gone. And yet, it didn't hurt Taehyun's heart as much as it used to, when he first saw Beomgyu disappear. He knew that the elder was still with him, inside his heart.Taehyun gazed at the granite engraving of his love's name, before turning around and walking away. 

He looked up towards the sky, and sent his thanks to any god that may be out there. He thanked them for letting him have Beomgyu in his life, because, although he may not have had him forever, the moments they shared would be treasured by him until the end of time.

Blue hour faded as Taehyun walked out of the cemetery, and while his eyes were heavy with unshed tears, his heart was light with happiness- and love.

[that-one-girl-behind-you]

Illicio 18/?

Part 17

CW for: -Canon-typical violence, body horror and gore  -Some characters talk about the not so great mental state they were in, including suicide ideation.

"Where are they? Elias, if you-" Jon's rather pathetic attempt at a threat is cut off by Elias' gleeful cackle.

"Calm down, Jon. Gerard's merely a bit... lost in thought. As for Martin, the door is open, if you want him back."

"What door? Elias, what did you do?" Jon snarls, pouring the compulsion thick into the question.

"I cashed in a favor. Or rather, a wager." Elias smiles. "You've grown fairly powerful, haven't you?"

"Elias-"

"You'll find Martin right where you put him." Elias' eyes gleam dangerously, his smile still sharp on his face. "In the Lonely."

XVIII

"Nah. I convinced them I'm not suicidal, mostly because, you know, I'm not? Anyways, they're letting me go this weekend. I'll call you when I'm settled, we'll have a sleepover that doesn't involve eye gouging, how about that?" Melanie smirks in his direction, and Gerry rolls his eyes.

"That's my preferred kind of sleepover."

"You have very low standards," Tim mutters in the background.

"I mean yeah." Melanie shrugs. "He's dating Jon."

"I'll take offense to that," Georgie laughs, closing the door to the room behind her after coming in.

Gerry lets his head fall back against the glass, closing his eyes to feel the rattle of the car as the tube makes its way through London's entrails. Melanie's looking well enough, her injuries healing at a slow, human pace that Gerry can't help but to be hopeful about.

"So you don't feel the need to go back?" Tim asks, leaning against the corner of the room with his arms crossed over his chest. It may be a bit risky to bring an avatar whose powers manifest as fire into a place with so much oxygen and defenseless people, but Tim looks calm for once, no hint of orange in the depths of his dark eyes. "When I left, I started feeling the withdrawal right away. Not like... at first it wasn't pain, I just 'wanted' to come back."

"Nope!" Melanie grins, popping the 'p' with such satisfaction that Gerry can't help but to chuckle along with Georgie. "The only place I want to go to is home."

"Aren't you lucky," Tim says a bit sullenly, but when Gerry looks over he's got the slightest hint of a smile on his face, albeit a sad one.

Tim is sitting two seats away, but Gerry can still feel both the heat -the burns on his skin throbbing in ghost pain- and the conflict emanating from him. Maybe this is why Jon used to feel so comfortable around him, Tim wears his heart on his sleeve and there's no guessing at what he's feeling, regardless of if that feeling holds something good in store for you or not.

"What is it?" Gerry asks after a few more seconds. He doesn't turn to look at Tim, but they both know his words are aimed at him.

Tim's voice, when it comes, holds all the fragility of diamond, hard and sharp and waiting for something to hit at just the right angle to crumble to dust. "Do you- I wonder if this would work on Martin."

Gerry snorts, his tentative good mood wiped away like so much dust under the rain. "Are you asking me?"

"You care," Tim says. It's not a question, and Gerry doesn't bother denying it. Thinking about Martin feels eerily like waiting outside of a locked room, kept barely alive by a voice not done justice by the magnetic tape in a recorder, hoping, praying that the coffin will open, that he will come back, for someone else if not for him.

He keeps hoping the story will end the same, but he knows better than to dare think he'll be lucky twice.

"I don't know that breaking Martin from the Eye is our biggest concern anymore." Gerry sighs. "He told Jon no when he offered."

"...So? Are you just going to leave it like that?" Out the corner of his eye, he sees Tim scowl something fierce. "Jon said the fucking same, are you two just going to sit there and make eyes at each other while he turns?"

"We're trying, alright?! Jon's running himself ragged trying to Know enough that Martin doesn't have to depend on Lukas anymore, and I can keep telling Martin he's more important than the Extinction, but he's too damn stubborn-"

"He said you broke into his flat just to make him talk-"

"Well, you live with him. If you can't bring him back, why-"

"Oh, shut up!" Tim groans, crossing his arms over his chest and throwing his head back to look at the roof "Shut up, for real. You're pissing me off, and we're underground, you're going to make me blow up half the city."

Gerry rolls his eyes, a resigned huff escaping his lips. "Sometimes I wish I'd convinced you to stay behind when we went to get the Dark Sun. I don't know what Lukas did to him, but I doubt he would've done it I'd you'd been here."

"You know what? I do, too." Tim remains focused on the roof of the car, his fingers tapping against his arm in an incessant rhythm that leaves melted indentations on his skin. "I should've stayed where it mattered."

They don't say much after that. What else could they add? He can deny it until he's blue in the face, but they both know Manuela Dominguez burned because Tim still holds Jon dear, whether he likes it or not.

Still, Tim's words weigh heavy in his mind as they climb up the steps to the street and start the short trek to the Institute. It's- he's right. Whatever they promised Martin, this has gone too far. Martin might be ready to sacrifice it out of some misplaced lack of self worth, but nothing is worth his life, not even saving the world. And if he has to break into Martin's office and convince him of it, well... it won't be the first time, at least.

He starts on the stairs up towards the Institute's upper floors, only to stop when he notices Tim is no longer following. When he turns around, Gerry finds him standing at the bottom of the stairs, his face turned towards the door and his eyes overtaken by the bright orange of the Desolation.

"...Are you okay?" Gerry asks, arching an eyebrow.

Tim scowls at whatever it is he's looking at, but lifts a hand to stop him when Gerry makes to walk back down. "You going to see Jon?"

"Martin, actually," Gerry admits. Tim nods.

"Fine. You do that. I'll be down at the Archives." He gestures to the stairs going down instead.

It is a bit odd, but there's something else tugging at his mind right now. Something feels off today crawling under his skin like a many legged being. He wonders for a moment if this is the Spider pulling at him, before he resolves that one way or another it won't do to dwell on it. He feeds the Mother of Puppets either by fearing the manipulation or by fighting against it; the best he can do is be prepared for whatever it is he's being pushed into.

"-ou are. I was starting to fear you'd gotten cold feet." Gerry freezes before turning the corner to enter the corridor that takes to Martin's office. Lukas' voice is light and amused enough that Gerry wants to rearrange his face, mostly because he knows there's only one person in the Institute Lukas really talks to.

"I haven't," Martin says, and he sounds like a gray afternoon given a voice.

"Wonderful! I'd hate for you to give up after so much hard work, when we're already at the finish line. We can go down, then."

Martin doesn't answer, not even when Lukas lets out a satisfied chuckle. Gerry leans around the corner as soon as the familiar static of the Lonely starts ringing in his ears, and he's just in time to see the last of Martin's back disappear into a wall of fog.

The finish line.

Gerry frowns; the Eye won't volunteer any information about what Lukas is talking about, not even when he tries to Look, but if this means that he's done with whatever he was pushing Martin into, then this can't be good. Should he go look for Jon? Would the Eye let him know where they-

"You're looking real unhappy there, dear." Helen's voice doesn't really make him jump as much as merely draws him out of his reverie. "Did you lose something?"

"Someone." Gerry huffs.

"The pessimism... you've been hanging with Jon too much, I'd say."

"If you happen to know where they're going-"

"They're real funny," Helen chuckles. It makes Gerry a bit dizzy, but he merely lays a hand on the wall to steady himself. "They kept saying they needed a map, like there aren't better ways to get to places."

Gerry freezes, the implications of the Distortion's words deafening in his mind.

"Helen?" he asks almost shakily. If he can reach Martin and ask Helen to get the others- "Is it a door that they needed?"

Helen merely stands there before him, her smile curling into itself and her door partly opened behind her.

Gertrude would eat him alive for being so stupid, so selfish, Gerry thinks with a bitter sort of amusement. What gives him the right to stop Martin from saving the world, just because of anything he or Jon may or may not feel?

Probably nothing, but maybe it's high time he tries being self-centered for once, he decides before he walks into the Distortion's corridors.

-----------------------------------

It had taken him a few blocks to place the feeling, but when he finally did Tim found it laughably easy to put a name to it.

At first it feels like a prickle at his nape, the feeling of being watched, and he ignores it because it's far from an uncommon occurrence at the Institute. It's only when he feels the urge to hasten his pace that it clicks in his mind, even when it doesn't feel quite the same as when he first caught sight of Jon ducking behind a corner on his way home.

The Hunt is insidious, playing at your most basic instincts as it chases you to where you'll be easier to strike down. Now that he's recognized it, Tim finds it all too easy to shake it off. Instead the Desolation sparks to life inside his chest, aching for a good fight, for destruction, for the delicious sorrow that lays promised by the bond between the two hunters.

It's a bit funny how they don't notice when he flips the tables, coming back through the Institute's front doors just in time to see the back of the old man disappearing into the alley behind the institute; how very Hunt-like, to underestimate the 'prey'.

They head straight for the door that leads down to the Archives, and Tim feels the burning in his chest grow hotter.

Daisy wasn't lying when she said they were opportunistic, but she failed to mention just how fatally uninformed they were. He still feels the sequels from yesterday, and Jon was trying not to hurt him. Even if they reached him, what chance do they hope to have against the Archivist on his home turf?

He waits until their steps have faded down the stairs, before pushing the door open again and slipping in himself, and he wonders if maybe in another life he wouldn't have shared a patron with them, with how fervently he tracked the Stranger, and how easily he falls into the role of the hunter now.

Jon did kill the thing that took Sasha, and he's not too fond of owing favors.

-----------------------------------

Dying is not so terrible, Daisy thinks. Or maybe it's Basira -as always- that makes it tolerable.

It's cold by the entrance to the tunnel, but the cot itself is warm enough that Daisy doesn't shiver -she doesn't think she has the strength for it- in Basira's arms.

She doesn't smell the scent of tears or despair, and it only hurts a little. She wasn't expecting Basira to cry, or be devastated. In fact, she was counting on it. One of the things she fell in love with was Basira's stability, always a safe port to come home to in the middle of the storm that is Daisy's rage.

She's looking down at her on her lap, lightly brushing Daisy's hair off her face. All the hair was brushed away long ago but still Basira runs her fingers softly over her cheekbones, her forehead, her closed eyelids, and it feels like drifting off to sleep on a sunny windowsill.

It's far too peaceful an end, for all the pain she's caused.

"Basira-" she starts, only to stop a second after, her eyes shooting open at the sound of running feet and hurried breathing, the cloying scent of fear like a shot of adrenaline straight into her expiring heart.

"Jon?" Basira asks, her body tensing under Daisy's in preparation for- for what? "What's going on?"

Daisy chokes back a strained laugh. Of course something else would happen now that Basira has finally run out of excuses to let her die.

"I'm- I- Daisy?" Jon's voice is shaky, and the scent of fear intensifies. It makes her want to howl that she's not only unable to assuage his distress, but that she's a part of it now. "What is- the Hunt-"

"Jon, what do you want?!" Basira snaps.

Jon flinches. "Martin, I- he left me- I don't think he's coming back." There's a tape recorder in his hand, and what makes Daisy sit up on the cot is that he looks like he sounded in the Buried, lost and trapped and all devoid of hope.

"Where's Gerry?" she asks. "He's good at finding Martin. Bringing him back."

"That's- I don't know," Jon says shakily. "I'm- I tried to See him, but- I think he's inside Helen? I don't know- he doesn't feel like he's in danger, but-"

"And can't you See Martin?" Basira arches an eyebrow. "If you can See inside the Distortion-"

"I'm- I can't usually do that." Jon huffs almost angrily. "I can sort of See inside Helen because Gerry's in there, like-"

"Like you're looking through him?" Daisy supplies, when he seems to be out of words. Much to her despair, she feels reenergized already, like the mere idea of a goal is enough to fuel the embers of the Hunt inside her. She can feel Basira's eyes on the side of her face, and she knows she's already plotting, scheming some way to keep her around longer.

"Exactly, yes." Jon nods. "And only barely enough to feel that he doesn't think he's in danger. But when I try to See Martin, it's- it's like- like two mirrors in front of each other. I know it doesn't make any sense, but-"

"Nevermind that." Basira climbs to her feet in a smooth move "We can find him."

Daisy doesn't miss the use of the plural, nor the way her glowing green eyes fix on her with that look she knows all too well. It's a look that beckons her to follow, a siren call she has little to no hope of refusing. She heaves a sigh before she stands from the cot as well, smacking Jon on the shoulder.

"Couldn't wait until I was buried to drag me out again, could you?" she asks.

Jon gives her a small, sad smile. "I'm sorry."

Daisy shrugs. She'll stick around just for a few more hours, just for them.

"Let's find those two."

-----------------------------------

There's a body below the institute.

This is, of course, not the first time this has happened, Martin thinks, and the thought almost feels amusing. The handle of the knife Peter placed in his hand after the whole explanation about the Panopticon feels almost vulgar in its suggestion that violence is the only way to save the world.

"I must admit, he's not at all as surprised as I expected he'd be." says a voice that Martin still hears in his nightmares from time to time. When he turns around, Elias is standing across Peter, the two of them framing the door like guardian statues. He looks immaculate, his suit clean and freshly pressed, his tie perfectly knotted at his throat. Martin arches an eyebrow, wondering if he factored in enough time for grooming when breaking out from jail, and Elias chuckles. "Speaks wonders of your job I suppose."

"A natural, I told you. Now Martin, if you'd move along please?" Peter says without taking his eyes off Elias. The smirk on his face speaks of familiarity, the kind of look you give someone that you know will be incensed by it. "I didn't count on us having an audience, but I guess I should've known."

"Can't a man watch his own death?" Elias' lips curve upwards like the edge of the blade in Martin's hand. "Also, you must admit it's much more.... poetic, this way, Peter."

"I'll concede on that." Peter turns towards Martin again. "What's keeping you?"

"This is you, isn't it?" It's not that big of a leap, the Panopticon, Jonah Magnus, and the Eye's biggest servant. Elias' widening grin is answer enough. "Will the others survive?"

"I'm surprised you care." Peter says, and Martin rolls his eyes.

"I-"

"He doesn't. But he knows he should. Again, impressive." Elias shrugs, and for all that Martin stands over his body with a knife, he couldn't look less bothered. "But in the interest of truth-"

"Oh, you care about that now?" Peter cackles in the background.

"The answer is, I'm not sure." Elias raises his voice a little. "But making an educated guess, most of the ones you used to care about should fare just fine. Tim and Melanie are well out of my reach. Your new allegiance should protect you from the worst of it, like the Hunt should miss Tonner, if she wasn't so keen on starving herself. I'm not sure about the Detective, ever the rogue variant, but thanks to our patron's little present, Jon is powerful enough that he should survive as well-"

"Don't call him that," Martin mutters quietly to himself. He doubts Elias is listening, anyways; he's much too fond of his own voice.

"-egular workers of the Institute will be affected of course, though there is no telling just how grave the damage will be. But I know you don't care about that, and you know that too, don't you Martin?"

He's... really irritating, Martin decides.

"I do." Whether he means he does care or he merely knows he doesn't, Martin isn't too sure himself.

"Always very self-aware, yes." Elias has the gall to nod like a proud mentor, and Martin rolls his eyes. "I would say then that the only variable to factor in is whether or not you want to kill me."

"I really do." And for so many reasons, too.

"Then go ahead, Martin." Peter steps forward, and Martin sees Elias watching him from the back like a snake about to strike. It's actually pretty funny, that they're both so sure they've cornered the other. "Kill him, and help me save the world."

"I don't think I will, actually." Martin shrugs, tossing the knife aside with a careless flick. The delight he feels at Peter's confused frown is muted, but it's definitely there.

"I- what?" Peter stutters. Elias' grin grows even sharper behind him. "Martin, this is not the time for games, the world is at stake here, and-"

"See, that's where you messed up. All those details that didn't add up, the insistence that I was some sort of- of world savior? Far too grand for me." Elias breaks down in cackles, and Martin covers his flinching by crossing his arms over his chest. "It really wasn't that hard to see through all the bull you were trying to serve me."

"Serve- Martin, I never lied to you. The Extinction is coming and-"

"I don't doubt it." He waves the matter away. "But this is not about the Extinction, is it? It's just whatever pases for a game between you two, using people as your betting chips, and I don't want any part in it. I'm out."

"But you said-"

"What you wanted to hear, mostly." Martin shrugs again; the feeling of perverse delight growing more and more alive in his chest. Who knew that pettiness was an emotion just as effective against the Lonely?

"You projected too hard on dear Martin, it seems," Elias says after his laughter has subsided. Peter looks fit to boil, his pale face sporting ugly red blotches as he rounds up on Elias.

"This is your doing," he says. Elias' carefully knotted tie crumples in Peter's clenched fist. "How-"

"It wasn't him." Martin interrupts again, feeling more tangible by the second out of sheer indignation. "It was me, always me. I came to you because Jon was dead and it seemed like the most useful thing I could do for the others was letting you do your thing. I thought it would even be a good way to get killed, but you lost any hold you might've had the moment Jon woke up." It's almost cathartic to let everything out after so much lying. It certainly is rewarding to watch Peter's face lose more and more color with each word. "Suddenly I had a reason again, and it was very easy to pretend I was going along with your schemes, if it meant keeping him safe. You had me for a while when you started dropping hints about the Extinction, but it was just too much, you know? I'm not exactly a- a 'chosen one', or a hero, but it was the best way to figure out what your end game was."

"But- I can feel the Lonely around you, it's-"

"Sure, it's there. Always has been, maybe. But if this is the final test, then- then I guess failed." The silence that blankets over the Panopticon after his words is so dense Martin can almost taste it. He wonders if the other two can hear the frantic beating of his heart.

"You- no." Peter shakes his head. "This- you have no idea what you've done, you've doomed-"

"I did warn you, Peter." Elias speaks, sweet and cloying like festering rot. "Now, sore loser is a terrible look on you, so get on with it."

"Get on with what?" Martin scowls, trying to ignore the shiver that bleeds down his spine when Elias' amused smile turns towards him. "I thought he couldn't use the Panopticon."

"That ship has sailed, I'm afraid." Elias shakes his head, tutting under his breath. "Really, one way or another you shouldn't have anything to fear, Martin. If your allegiance to the Lonely's strong enough, you should be able to walk right back out. If it's not... then you just have to hope Jon's allegiance to you is strong enough."

"I'm- what?" Martin frowns. Why would Elias want Jon to go get him from- oh. Oh, crap, how could he have been so stupid?! He steps back, when a tendril of fog begins to wrap itself around his ankle. "Wait, I-"

"I'll do it." Martin feels his blood freeze in his veins, when he whips around and finds Gerry standing by the entrance to the Panopticon, his hand wrapped around the knife Martin discarded just a few minutes ago.

"What on earth are you doing here?" Peter asks, his hand still extended towards Martin, but the fog momentarily at ease. Martin takes a few more steps back, trying to get his thoughts into some semblance of order because this is not good. Gerry shouldn't be here, he can handle the Lonely, but he can't leave Gerry alone with these two-

"If you want him dead so badly, I'll kill him, and use the damned thing for you." Gerry steps towards the body with knife in hand, and Martin has a split second to appreciate that Elias no longer seems so amused, even getting closer to the body himself. "Let Martin go."

"You don't have any bonds with the Lonely." Peter arches an eyebrow, but he's starting to lower his hand. Fuck, this- this isn't good.

"Does that really matter? I could hardly be more marked by the Eye. I'll use it for you, just let Martin-"

"Are you crazy?" Martin snaps, whipping around to face him again. "Get out of here, I-"

"Peter." Elias hisses in the background, and Peter grunts.

"As much as it'd please me to use the Eye's own gifts against it-" Peter starts, every word sounding like a forced pleasantry. The edges of Martin's vision blur with thick, white fog that pulls at his core almost as much as his mind reels from it. "-I am a man of my word."

"What- wait-" Gerry takes a step towards him, reaching a hand to grab at Martin's shoulder.

"Say, Gerard," Elias' voice cuts in, loud and laced with static as he steps between Gerry and his body. "Have you ever wondered how your father died?"

Gerry's face goes contorts in pain as the memories are forced in, and Martin flinches in sympathy.

"Go away!" Martin snaps, before whipping around to face Elias. "Cut it out, I'll go in-"

"The marks, Martin-" Gerry grunts. "Stay-"

"You were sleeping while she butchered his body. A spirited woman, your mother, but not the finest planner-"

Gerry shakes his head like trying to shake the foreign thoughts loose, a thin stream of ink running down his philtrum, staining his lips black.

"Like you'd fucking know- Martin? Martin, look at me!" He orders, like Martin isn't already doing so, like he isn't actively trying to give in to the pull of the Lonely -if he goes, they'll leave him alone, they have no other reason to keep him-

"She did love him, you know? Or she loved his devotion for her at least. It's quite funny, actually. Good old Eric fought so hard to break free of our patron, and he never once stopped to wonder if he wasn't running into something worse. His end was quite gruesome, even for one of Gertrude's assistants." Elias' eyes gleam with dark amusement when they meet Martin's, and the threat in them is clear. "He thought her steps sounded different that afternoon, but he was only starting to get used to getting by on his remaining senses, and she'd been so gentle and caring to him lately-"

"Stop..." Gerry snarls "I don't care, I never knew him, you can't-"

"Oh, but you could have. If he hadn't been so arrogant, if he hadn't tried to plan so much smarter than he was. You should be careful which of your parents' footsteps you want to follow, though I suppose both trails are marked in blood."

"Elias, stop!" Martin shuts his eyes tight to not see Gerry's pained expression, focusing on the cold, slimy feeling of the fog that resides within his core, but he can't- the Lonely's refusing to come to his call, and Martin wants to scream, because when Gerry warned him so many months ago that he'd ruin his plan, Martin wasn't expecting it to be by making himcare so much for him. "Peter, just- do it already!"

The man's face is veiled in satisfaction, and Martin has no doubt that he too knows Martin won't survive the Lonely like this, and the act is as much a fulfillment of the wager with Elias as it is his revenge for Martin unraveling his plans.

"Martin!" Gerry throws himself forward, and Martin feels his hand pass straight through his front.

The last hint of color he sees before the grey takes it away is that heart-wrenching mix of green and blue.

-----------------------------------

Martin's trail is a soft green against the dirty stone floor of the tunnels. Not as easy to follow as Daisy's, and mingled with a sickly grey one that smells of salt and absence.

"These tunnels don't make sense," she grunts after taking a left turn for the sixth time in a row.

"They change." Jon sniffles behind her, his footsteps light and hurried in contrast with Daisy's heavier, determined ones. "I feel a sort of- a pull, towards the center. I'm guessing that's where Martin is?"

Basira doesn't respond, sure, Jon could've come down here himself, but then Daisy would've given up, would've died in her arms without the interruption, without the goal.

"Do you feel Gerry?" Daisy asks. There's a light growl to her voice that wasn't there before, and it makes Basira stop a little. "Is he alright?"

"He's- I think he found Martin. It's like the two mirrors thing, whenever I try to See any of them." Jon wipes a hand across his brow, letting out a soft, sheepish chuckle. "I'm- I feel blind."

"We're being followed," Daisy says calmly, and Basira spins around on her heel. The Hunt doesn't manifest with light, there is no eerie glow to her warm brown eyes, but Basira sees her fingers curled in the shape of claws, and the stiff line of her back just as clearly, the blood simmering under her skin, not yet boiling but very much threatening to. "Are you going to come out, or will you keep hiding like rats?"

Basira's gun is on her hand in an instant, and she pulls Jon behind her, a rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins at the familiarity of falling into step with Daisy.

"Must admit- I'd been hopin' you'd be dead by now." She doesn't know the old man that comes from behind the corner they just turned, but she can guess who it is just by the distortion to his features, his too-wide grin full of too-sharp teeth, his eyes that reflect the light of their torches in the way no human could. "We wanted to have Jonny boy for ourselves for a bit."

"We got a few statements we'd like to give." And if that's Trevor Herbert, then this must be Julia Montauk, of course.

"You didn't dare go against Daisy and me last time," Jon pipes in from behind Basira, and she contemplates turning around and strangling him herself, because of course Jon will hear danger ask for him by name and be a smartass about it. "Now there's three of us. Doesn't sound too smart."

"But see, we're well out of your dear Archives now, Jon dear." Julia takes a step to the side that Daisy mimics, keeping herself between the groups. "And your guard dog here looks like a famished mutt. I like our chances, actually."

"Brought this on yourself, really." The old hunter cracks his neck, running a red tongue over his teeth. "We'd have let you live, you were going around stopping rituals even, but you just had to go and take that page out."

Basira feels more than she sees Jon's patience dwindling. There's static in the air sure, but there's something in her connection to the Eye that reacts to him getting ready for a fight.

"Easy, Jon," she mutters, her gun trained on the old man's forehead.

"We're wasting time. I need-"

"Go, just follow your call," says Daisy, without moving an inch from where she's facing the other woman down. Basira can See the blood rising hotter and angrier inside her, and Daisy's almost back to looking like herself, the light back in her eyes, the steel in her spine, the slightest hint of a smirk as she stares Julia down. "We'll take care of this."

Jon hesitates for a moment; Basira can see the struggle in his eyes, going from Daisy to the hunters to her-

"Just go!" Basira snaps. "You know what's going on here, go find out what's happening there!"

And well, maybe it is underhanded, to use his worry for those two against him, but if it gets him to leave...

"I'll come back," Jon says hurriedly.

Basira nods. "Or I'll find you. Go!"

He rushes down the tunnel; Basira wonders, daring a look over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of his awkward race around a corner, is this the last she sees of Jonathan Sims?

"That's cute!" Julia snarls, calling her back to attention. The faint orange glow behind her is easy to miss, but Basira recognizes it easily enough. "You're getting very high and mighty there."

"This one is not even a full avatar," Trevor gestures at Basira with a chuckle, and it feels both relieving and insulting. "You can't take the two of us alone, not in your state."

"I don't know. What was it you said a moment ago?" Tim speaks from behind them, causing the two hunters to whip around to face him. His eyes glow like two angry embers; Basira remembers this Tim not from the night before the Unknowing, but from the warehouse up North. "I like our chances."

-----------------------------------

The pull at his chest is not foreign to Jon, though it feels as different as day and night from the one he followed to find Gerry when the hunters came the first time.

It's something built into him from the moment he opened his eyes as the Archivist, something that ties him to the Archives, to whatever it is that lays at the middle of this labyrinth, and Jon despises it.

Still he follows it, heading to whatever fate awaits him willingly, for them.

The chamber he finds himself in is enormous, the walls made up entirely of cells with thick bars covered in rust. At the center, stands a tower made up of blackened stone, the very top domed in clouded glass, and the Beholding drops a word in his mind with all the ceremony of an artist revealing their Magnum Opus.

The Panopticon.

"So good you could join us, Jonathan." Elias's voice hits him like a hammer to the chest, and only then does Jon notice him standing at the base of the turret, his arms crossed behind his back and smiling beatifically in his direction. "Was it hard, finding the place?"

"Not- not too much." Jon steps closer carefully. He still can't See Martin or Gerry, but Elias being here -how did he get out of jail? Was he ever really trapped there?- is not a great signal.

"Because I called you." Elias nods. "I thought you might want to pick up what you lost."

Shit.

"Where are they? Elias, if you-" Jon's rather pathetic attempt at a threat is cut off by Elias' gleeful cackle.

"Calm down, Jon. Gerard's merely a bit... lost in thought. As for Martin, the door is open, if you want him back."

"What door? Elias, what did you do?" Jon snarls, pouring the compulsion thick into the question.

"I cashed in a favor. Or rather, a wager." Elias smiles. "You've grown fairly powerful, haven't you?"

"Elias-"

"You'll find Martin right where you put him." Elias' eyes gleam dangerously, his smile still sharp on his face. "In the Lonely."

"W-"

"As much as I'd enjoy a chat, I'd advise against dallying. He was in a bit of a state when he went in. Not too suited to survive in there, even after all these months." Elias takes a step aside, clearing the way to the stone stairs that curl up around the body of the tower. "Good luck, Jonathan. I'll be seeing-"

Whatever he was going to say next, Jon doesn't care to know. He rushes past him, climbing the stairs as quickly and as carefully as he can, keeping away from the edge because he wouldn't put it past himself to simply trip and snap his neck.

The interior of the turret is mostly empty, but his eyes pick up on three details immediately. The first is the dessicated body sitting at the center of the eye carved on the stone floor. He Knows who he is, and who the man outside isn't, but right at this moment, he couldn't care less.

The second thing he notices is the door to the Lonely, like a tear on dark fabric leaking out a soft silvery light and heavy wisps of fog that drift down to the floor.

Gerry's crumbled next to the body like a puppet whose strings were cut off. His arm stretched out towards the rift, and he's bleeding, a puddle of acrid-smelling ink under his head.

Jon rushes to his side, falling to his knees beside him and turning his head as carefully as he can.

"Gerr- I- can you hear me?" he asks, his heart beating so hard he's worried it'll punch a hole right through his chest. Gerry's eyes are wide and glassy and Beholding green, and his papery white lips move around words Jon cannot hear, but he's alive, and that means they have a shot still.

"I need- Gerry, I- you have to wake up now. I'm-" This is- he's so bad at this. How do you call a person back? I'm sorry but I love you, please don't go? "I need you, please."

-----------------------------------

"Told ya!" The old man smirks, his sharp teeth painted red with the blood flowing from his nose after Tim's headbutt. His claw-like nails sink into the flesh of Basira's neck, and the whirlpool of activity in the tunnel comes to a screeching halt. "This one is not quite done yet. Let's see if she bleeds like a monster or like a human."

If one thinks about it objectively, Tim's cockiness wasn't necessarily unjustified. He merely failed to factor in the part where he technically doesn't want to blow up the entirety of London to get rid of two hunters, or turn Daisy and Basira into a pile of ashes.

"That's enough," Daisy growls, loosening her grip around Julia's neck. The woman slashes at her face as soon as she's free, the knife leaving an angry red gash across her cheekbone and nose.

It makes something hot an angry burn at his chest, that even with all this power, he's still useless to stop this.

"How sweet." Julia shoves her off, climbing to her feet with a slight limp in her step. Tim feels a dark pang of pride at the angry red burn on the side of her face. "You're not the monsters we wanted, but it's okay, we don't discriminate. Let's see that throat, old man."

"Basira?" Daisy calls out. She's still on her knees, still watching her own blood drip down to the dirty floor of the tunnels.

"Yes?" Basira asks, then chokes a little when Trevor presses his nails a bit harder.

"Will you find me?" Daisy's starting to shake, and Tim takes a step back even as the Desolation in him beckons him forward, because the sheer amount of sorrow and rage coming from her is intoxicating.

Another wave of loss, of suffering hits him just as hard. Tim darts a glance at her, but there's nothing in Basira's face that betrays the pain simmering inside her.

"Anywhere."

Daisy's form splits open.

It's like watching a flower blossom in a timelapse video, or a moth emerge from its cocoon. The creature that comes out is long-limbed and sharp-fanged, and its fur shimmers with a faint coat of blood as it leaves behind the useless skin of Daisy Tonner. They watch it in stunned silence as it raises to its full height, its hunched back grazing against the roof of the tunnel, a cavernous growl squeezing out from between jaws where the hide is stretched too thin, pierced here and there by sharp yellowed fangs, its eyes like two pinpricks of light at the end of a cavernous tunnel fixed on the hunters before it.

"...Fuck," Julia mutters. Tim is inclined to agree.

Then the thing that was Daisy takes a step towards her, and the room explodes in activity again. Basira is shoved to the side as Trevor rushes to step between them, and it's all Tim can do to throw himself over her, as two and then three beasts slam each other against the walls of the tunnel, raining down dirt and debris that digs into Tim's waxy flesh.

It feels like hours before the howling fades away, before the tearing of flesh under claws and fangs leaves behind a silence so haunting it very nearly drowns the roar of the Desolation inside him.

"G- get off," Basira orders, pushing a hand against his chest. Tim scrambles to his feet and offers a hand that she ignores, her eyes focused on the soggy skins left behind in crumpled lumps by the beasts. "I- shit."

"Eloquent." She's looking down one of the tunnels, the one that reeks of hatred and pain, and Tim knows very well the sort of debate brewing in her mind. "Are you going after them?"

"Are you?" she snaps, whipping around to face him. Her face is carefully blank, and Tim doesn't point out the red rims of her eyes, or the pain emanating from her in waves. It doesn't take a genius to understand she's pinning her own hesitation on him. He doesn't know much about Basira, but he might understand that it's easier for her to handle weak people than to be weak herself.

Is he going after them?

He could probably find them, following the claw marks and the rage. If they make it far enough from anyone that could get caught in the crossfire-

"Why were you down here?" he asks, though he thinks he might know the answer already. Jon is many things, but he wouldn't abandon them so easily.

"Jon was still holding on to you when they found you, you know?" Sasha -no, not her, not anymore- had said, and Tim had believed her immediately, just as he believes it now.

"Martin and- they're missing. We think they're at the center of this- this mess." Basira's voice is almost frail as she continues to look down the corridor the monsters disappeared in.

"Can you find them?"

"Yes." The word comes immediately, mournful and without hesitation.

"Well- let's- let's get to it. Somehow I doubt Daisy needs us that much right now."

-----------------------------------

"You're making a right mess of me," he says. He's standing next to the table, watching the proceedings with something that almost feels like interest. "I thought you had more experience at this."

"I was feeling experimental." She shrugs. Her arms are covered in blood to the elbow, and her chest and face are also splattered red. "I felt like it had to be special."

"Very romantic," he says dryly. "What's going to happen to Gerry?"

"Gerard will be fine." She enunciates the name clearly and firmly. They never did settle that argument, but she pretty much just won, he guesses. "He's got the potential."

"He's two years old."

"He's my son." She saws angrily, until the bone finally breaks. "You brought this on yourself, you know?What were you thinking, pulling your eyes out?"

"I suppose I did. I thought you'd be happy that I was free." He shrugs again, before extending a translucent hand to push a lock of blood-soaked blonde hair behind her ear. It passes right through. "It's nice to see you again."

She pauses on her work, her eyes -he always did love that perfect mix of green and blue- fixed on the carnage dripping down to the kitchen floor.

"You knew how I was," she says finally. "I never hid that from you."

"You didn't."

That's not an apology. It's not an excuse. It's not enough for this man who sees himself dead on a table and asks about his son first, why do they both look so satisfied with it?!

The saw is heavy in his hand, and slippery with the blood that stinks the whole room of iron. Gerry tries to drop it, tries to step back, this is not him, up to his elbows in the blood of the one he loves-

"Gerry?" Jon's voice washes over him like cool water over a burn; Gerry thinks he might cry, when he blinks away the image of his parents and Jon is there, looking down at him in concern. "I'm- you're- how do you feel?"

"Like shit." Gerry lets out a dry cackle that's just this side of hysterical, before the gravity of the situation catches up to him, and he sits up so abruptly Jon has to throw himself back to avoid getting head-butted. "Fuck. Jon, we- Martin-"

"I know, I- Elias told me." Jon bites at his bottom lip. "I'm- it looks like we're completing the card after all."

"...Looks like it," Gerry says. It leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, but there's no other way to go about it. Jon's not going to leave Martin in the Lonely, and Gerry's not going to ask him to. He climbs to his feet with a groan -he definitely bruised something- and Jon follows suit. "I'm- I don't know how well it'll go, Jon. You were able to use me as an anchor in the Dark, but I don't know if you can just- just pull Martin out. The person has to want to come back, usually."

"Let's find out." Jon takes a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the rift to the Lonely for a moment. He looks over his shoulder at him, and there's an odd intensity to his eyes, not the eerie power of the Archivist, but merely the one befitting a man in love. "Are you ready?"

"I- what?" Gerry blinks a couple times, before his own words come back to him from so long ago, whispered against Jon's lips with more devotion than any prayer he's ever uttered, the threat of an apocalypse looming over their heads and in his heart the firm intention of walking into the Dark for this man. "Oh."

"...I don't mean to force you to-" the little yelp Jon gives when he leans in to kiss him might just be enough to turn him immune to the Lonely, Gerry thinks.

"Let's go get your Martin back, then."

[dykesforcyclops]

maxanor + 54) things you always meant to say but never got the chance

54. things you always meant to say but never got the chance.

what remains of eleanor guthrie never left nassau. when max returns, victorious, at last, to the shores of this place that has caused them all such grief, she finds her lover’s body laid out in the governor’s manor, as cold and white as marble. she has been cleaned, prepared for burial - and, in the confusion, left there, attended only by her dutiful coroner.

he has been waiting for her husband to return. he calls her mrs. rogers, when he asks what is to be done with her, and addresses the question to featherstone, and max wants to strike him.

marion guthrie would have her ferried to philadelphia, to be entombed in some family crypt - in the cold, in the marble, far from salt water. max pens a very polite letter to inform her, unequivocally, that this will not occur.

there is no funeral. there are many still on this island who would gladly piss on her grave if they knew where to find it. jack laughs into his glass when max requests his attendance - still hates her, she supposes, on behalf of that man. max wonders if jack ever thinks of what was done to her at the word of the man he holds such reverence for. she wonders whether he is aware at all that for all the loyalty anne bore him to the end, she has never respected him since. she wonders only idly, and then puts the thoughts to bed. they are not useful.

there is a garden behind the governor’s house where eleanor’s mother is interred. max knows of this place. she thinks she may be among the last living people to know of this place, the only person save scott who eleanor ever permitted to accompany her to lay flowers here. this, she thinks, is where she would want to be - not encased in stone in philadelphia, but here where the sand mingles with the soil, here where the air tastes of salt, here where she laid her life long before she laid it down. she shrouds herself in black, and employs two men to carry the coffin and two more to dig. she is sure idelle and featherstone would attend, had she asked, but she did not. anne stands at her side. she did not need to be asked.

the name carved in the headstone is guthrie.

as peace settles again over nassau, max finds the time to walk down to the garden, to sit amid the foliage, to shut her eyes and let the warm wind stir her hair, and to think of eleanor’s fingers.

“i wish that you could see what this place has become,” she says quietly to the wind. “all the things you always believed possible that have at last come to pass.”

she finds, among what is left of eleanor’s things, the little pendant of a honeybee she had worn so often in those last months. a gift from her husband. such a pretty and delicate thing, but when eleanor had fiddled it between her fingers, tugged at it, it had always resembled a shackle. 

“i threw it from the docks,” she confesses to the breeze. “i am sorry. i have... no idea if you would be angry or relieved. but i hated the damn thing.”

summer comes, and she traces shapes in the dirt with her pointer finger, and thinks of the circles she would draw on eleanor’s bare back.

“i did forgive you,” she says.

summer goes. “does it help?” anne asks her, eventually, after she has watched in silence god knows how many times as max left with bundled flowers in her arms, returned emptyhanded with eyes red and gaze lowered. she has stopped to lean in the doorway as max passes back and forth to fill the tub.

max sprinkles crushed lavender into the hot water. she shrugs off her robe, and anne is there to take it from her. she does not have to glance over her shoulder before she lets go her grasp on the thin fabric, but knows anne will be there to take it.

��not especially,” she admits. anne’s hand is there for her to take, to steady herself as she steps into the tub. she does not have to lift her eyes to look for it, but knows anne will be there to steady her.

“then why d’you go?” anne lowers herself to the floor as max lowers herself into the water. she rests her arm on the side of the tub. “you don’t owe it to her.”

this, max thinks, is both true and untrue, but she does not say it. anne would argue. 

“it is hard to put in words,” she says, and draws her fingertips through the surface of the water, and thinks of the softness of eleanor’s hair. “there are things which need to be said.”

“she can’t hear you,” anne says.

max smiles sadly. “no,” she agrees. “but i can.”

send me a prompt and i'll write a short fic

[kitty-kat-crevan]

Flowers & Coffins (Undertaker, Black Butler) His Butler and Maid, Able Pt.2

(Prologue), (Chapter 1)

Sebastian explained that we were going to turn the ruined garden into a stone garden. A traditional feature in Japan.

We all headed outside and cleaned up all the dead plants and flowers.

I sighed as I picked up a dead rose from the ground. "My favorite and they're all gone." I frowned, throwing it over into the clean up pile.

Before long we had all the dead flowers and plants all cleaned up. While Sebastian, Finny and Bald worked on the garden, Mey and I headed back inside to go and clean up the turned over cabinet and broken dishes that still lay in the floor.

It didn't take too long before we had that cleaned up. Just as I had finished throwing away the last of the broken glass, Sebastian came walking in.

"Our guest is about to arrive. Let us go and welcome him." Mey and I followed him outside.

I looked around as I fixed my sleeves back right, straightening my vest as well. They had finished up the garden and had done a wonderful job with making the stone garden. It was very impressive.

I stopped and stood at the top of the steps while Bald, Mey, Finny and Tanaka all stood over on the newly built wooden walkway. I looked up to see a carriage coming down the drive. I straightened up, holding my hands behind my back as Sebastian went and stopped at the bottom of the steps, waiting for the carriage to stop. Once it was, he walked over and opened the carriage door for Mr. Damiano.

He stepped out and walked forward some. He gasped as he looked up. "How Impressive," he said.

"Welcome!" I said, bowing.

"Ello! Welcome sir!!" The others all said as they bowed.

Sebastian stepped forward some. "This is called a stone garden. It is a traditional feature in Japan," he explained, smiling.

Mr. Damiano spread his arms out on both sides. "Ahh prodigiso! Wonderful! Truly an elegant garden." He grinned.

"We thought it appropriate to serve dinner outside this evening. Allow me to escort you inside until the meal is ready." Sebastian offered to take his coat and hat before leading him up the steps and by me. Tanaka came over and took over leading him then.

He started laughing. " I should have expected this from a Phantomhive. I cannot wait to see what else is in store," he said as he followed Tanaka inside. Tanaka closed the door behind them.

Finny, Mey and Bald came over to Sebastian and I then. They all let out a breath of air.

"We actually did it," Bald said, wiping his arm across his forehead.

"Who'd have thought a dozen bags of gravel could turn into an amazing garden?" Finny said, grinning as they all stood looking out at the new garden.

I started walking towards the door with Sebastian following me. "It looks beautiful. You all did really well," I said, grinning as they all blushed.

Sebastian stopped and looked at them over his shoulder, grinning. "Naturally we were able to handle this. We serve the Phantomhive family after all. There's still work to be done. Let's take care of it while the master is talking business with his guest. Look sharp now."

"Right!" They all replied, grinning.

We all headed back inside. Sebastian told Bald how he wanted the meat cut and then left to go and see what else needed to be done.

I went and helped setup the dining room table and chairs out in the garden for dinner tonight. I then went and helped Mey get the boxes that Sebastian wanted. As we were headed back towards the kitchen, I looked up to see Sebastian step out into the hallway. Mey then decided it would be a good idea to take off running towards him with boxes stacked up in her arms that all had fragile written on them.

"Mey, no!" I yelled.

"Sebastian! We found 'em!" She yelled, giggling as she ran, but then as always, she tripped.

The boxes went flying up in the air. Sebastian quickly caught them all and Mey ran in to his chest, gasping. He looked down at her. "Oh honestly. How many times have we told you not to run in the manor, Mey-Rin." She gasped again, quickly scattering backwards towards the wall as she held her bright red face. I sidestepped so she wouldn't knock the boxes I held in the floor.

"I'm so sorry, sir! My glasses cracked and I can't see a thing!" She yelled out. I noticed the crack on the left lens of her glasses then.

I walked over, gently taking the box Sebastian was balancing on his shoe. "Mey, please be more careful. We'll have to see about you a new pair of glasses, sweetheart, hm?" I said, smiling at her. She turned red again, nodding.

"Y-yes, Miss Kat!"

"These are all the last items we needed for dinner," Sebastian said as Finny and Bald stepped out into the hall then. "Splendid work everyone and now I believe you can leave the rest of it to Kat and I and relax for a bit, but we need you to do well. Very well during dinner tonight," he  said with a closed eye smile.

"He said it twice," Bald said.

"Ohhh, that's serious," Finny said as Mey stood over against the wall with a red face still.

Once dinner was ready, Sebastian went up to the drawing room to inform the Young Master and Mr. Damiano.

I helped Bald finish up in the kitchen and set the food on a cart. I headed out to the garden with Mey to wait for the Young Master and Mr. Damiano. A moment later Sebastian came outside, leading them over to the table.

Once they were both seated, Sebastian stepped back and stood next to Mey and I.

"On tonight's menu is a dish of finely-sliced raw beef donburi, courtesy of our chef Baldroy," he said.

Young Master and Mr. Damiano both held shocked faces.

I headed inside with Sebastian and grabbed the cart with the food on it, bringing it out to the garden.

Sebastian and I took the silverware and napkins, him going to the Young Master and I over to Mr. Damiano. Next we set the tea cups out, then the wine glasses and finally the food. I stepped back and stood next to the Young Master, holding my hands behind my back.

"A pile of raw beef...and this is dinner?" Mr. Damiano asked, staring at his bowl in shock.

"Yes, but surely you have heard of it," Sebastian said, smirking down at him.

Mr. Damiano stuttered, not knowing what to say.

"This, good sir, is a traditional Japanese delicacy. A dish offered as a sign of gratitude to someone who has accomplished important work. That is the wonder of donburi!!" Sebastian explained, being quite dramatic. I sweat-dropped as everyone else looked amazed.

Sebastian stood straight again as Mr. Damiano slowly slide down in his chair in shock. "This is a token from our master to show his thanks for all of your hard work on the companies behalf. He wanted you to know that it's much appreciated," Sebastian said.

I glanced over to see Finny, Bald and Tanaka all hiding out in the grass with headbands on with pieces of grass stuck in them.

"Now that's our Sebastian for you!" Finny whispered, grinning.

"He and Kat saved the day!" Bald said, grinning as well.

"Ho ho ho," Tanaka laughed as he held a cup of tea.

Mr. Damiano perked up then, throwing his arms out. "Excellent! What an inspired idea! The legendary Phantomhive hospitality in action!" He grinned.

Sebastian and I both walked back over to where Mey was. I stayed next to Mey while Sebastian took the cart and went back inside to get the wine. He came back out a moment later. He stopped the cart in front of us and held his arm out towards it. "The vintage we are pouring tonight was specially selected to compliment the flavor of soy sauce, Mey-Rin.'' He looked at her.

After a moment of standing there still, I glanced at her. "Mey!" I whispered, trying to get her attention.

"Now, Mey-Rin," Sebastian said, his eyes closed as he held his arm out towards the cart still, his other arm behind his back.

She jumped slightly. "Y-yes, sir!" She tensed up as Sebastian leaned down next to her ear.

I hummed, smiling. 'It seems Mey has a crush.'

"Why are you just standing there? Pour the man a glass of wine," he whispered.

She started turning red and shaking. "O' course, yes, sir!" She grabbed the wine and walked over to the table. Sebastian grabbed the other wine and went over to the Young Master to pour him some. I looked over to see Mey swaying back and forth as she walked. She was muttering to herself as she held out the wine, shaking violently.

I gasped as she started pouring the wine on the tablecloth. A big red stain quickly started spreading, running down towards Mr. Damiano. I quickly went over and grabbed the wine from her just as Sebastian luckily acted fast and yanked the tablecloth from the table without disturbing anything on the table.

Mr. Damiano stopped eating, looking down at the table in confusion. "Huh? Where did the tablecloth-a go?" He asked.

I glanced over as Bald and Finny came rushing over and grabbed Mey, dragging her away.

"A speck of dirt, most unsightly. I had the cloth removed so it wouldn't distract us. Think nothing of it," Young Master replied, before going back to eating.

I stepped forward, pouring Mr. Damiano some wine, bowing as I stepped back from the table. He looked up at me. "My, what a beautiful one you are!" He grinned.

I smiled, bowing again. "Thank you, sir."

Sebastian bowed. "Please accept my apologies, sir. Do continue. Enjoy the meal at your leisure."

Mr. Damiano laughed. "Oh, oh my. Lord Phantomhive, once again you have truly impressed me. What an able butler and maid you've acquired."

"Pay them no mind. They merely acted as befits my servants."

Sebastian looked at the Young Master. "My master is quite correct about that. Naturally, you see, I am simply one hell of a butler." He smirked.

Young Master looked up at him then looked away. "Humph."

After dinner, the Young Master and Mr. Damiano headed back up to the drawing room to finish their game.

"Our guest doesn't seem too excited about finishing their game," I remarked as I dried the dishes and silverware while Sebastian washed them. I shared a look with Sebastian while the others looked at us with confusion.

Once everything was cleaned up from dinner, Sebastian started making some Italian tea to bring up to the drawing room.

"You should know he's not going to like that weak stuff," I said as I walked past him.

He simply gave me a look, but didn't reply.

[chiseler]

Great Zilches of History

Film is light. There are times, though, when that light may take on a Stygian cast, burning with a flamme noire severity, a weird and otherworldly keenness. Or it may burn lurid and loud — especially if it’s a very old film, acting like a séance that summons the unruly dead. The darkness in cinema best typified by that form we call film noir is in its essence an extension of the peculiarly American darkness of Edgar Allan Poe.

Early, nitrate-based film stock, with its twinkling mineral core, gives Poe's crepuscular light its time to shine and thereby illuminate the world. No longer held in the solitary confinement of a page of reproduced text or an image, frozen, rendered in paint or ink. Poe's singularly tormented vision is finally written alchemically, in cinematographic rays beamed through silver salts; into moving images of such aggressive vitality as to blast every rational thing from one's mind. A Black & White image flipped into negative makes black fire, or black sunlight such as illumines Nosferatu’s Transylvanian forests, through which a box-like carriage rattles at Mack Sennett speed. But with the slightest underexposure, a little dupey degradation of the print, or even a little imagination (such collaboration is not discouraged), this liquid blackness will spread everywhere and anywhere, the most luminous pestilence known to creation.  Be it in the laughing nightmare of Fleischer cartoons of old (Out of the Inkwell, indeed) or John Alton’s vision of the night, we are left to wonder: is daylight burning out the corner of a building, or is it the blackness of the building which is eating into the sky? 

As with many such questions, film permits us no easy answer. We are simply to watch as the characters smudge. As their shadows pulsate and flicker, emanate out beyond themselves. But if Poe represents the loss of control over one’s existence and the ensuing panic, then cinema, consciously or not, takes existential dread as a given.

God, a vague and unseen deity, died at the moment cinema was born, replaced by a new celestial order. Saints and prophets made poor film characters, giving off the feeling of having stepped out of a stained glass window, flat, Day-Glo icons moving uncomfortably through three-dimensional space. Movies rather rejoiced in dirt and rags, texture and imperfection, so that the most lacklustre clown easily outperformed all the icon messiahs. At 45 minutes, Fernand Zecca’s The Life and Passion of Christ (1903) is one of the earliest feature films, but compared to the same filmmaker’s less ambitious, more playful shorts, it’s a beautiful snooze. A different execution climaxes his Story of a Crime (1901), in which we get to see, by brutal jump cut, a guillotine decapitation before our very eyes. This, as Maxim Gorky prophesied, is what the public wants. Or maybe the events of 1901, cinematic and otherwise, allow “the public” to define itself in ways heretofore unthinkable. The year brings Victoria Regina’s propitious death. And with her passing, Edgar Allan Poe’s pronunciamento on celebrity, “the ludicrous heightened into the grotesque," comes to new and anarchic fruition as an incendiary schnook, one of history’s finest.

When he shot President William McKinley at the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo on September 6th, 1901, the currents of fear and vengeance unleashed by Leon Czolgosz would carry him on a journey from reflexive beatings at the hands of police and a post-Victorian mob – ladies in bustles shedding all restraint, transformed from well-honed symbols of middle-class decorum into yowling banshees, screaming “GIVE HIM TO US!” – straight to the electric chair, from whence his corpse would be taken for additional punishment, a process where ghoulish prison authorities at Auburn separated the head from the body, and then poured sulfuric acid on what remained, before secreting the sorry residue of America’s anarchist son into an unmarked grave.

Despite attempts to erase Czoglosz from history, a visual document survives, oozing with pathos and bitter recrimination. It is impossible, looking into those eyes, not to feel unnerved and, yes, sympathetic with him – his desperate act, after all, was as critical a part of America’s greed-engorged industrial fantasia as the near daily spectacle of peaceful strikers, his friends among them, being slaughtered in the name of profit. 

Cinema’s misspent childhood years in late-Victorian fairgrounds are followed by a grimy adolescence in Edwardian nickelodeon parlours. The medium, which finally comes of age amid gaudy palaces built in its honor, morphs many times. However, All Talking Pictures are the final death knell for the Victorian standard, belching from the screen a thousand inbred tongues that invade the ear willy-nilly. They remind us that when Queen Victoria breaths her last Naturalism sheds decorum, taste, breeding, good table manners.

Edgar Allan Poe essentially owns motion pictures via ongoing necrophilic obsession, since celluloid preserves the dead better than any embalming fluid. Like amber preserved holograms, they flit in and out of its parameters, reciting their own epitaphs in pantomime; revenant moths trapped in perpetual motion. Film is bona fide illumination — as opposed to religion’s metaphorical kind – representing the supremacy of alchemy and necromancy over sackcloth and ashes. The inmates, emboldened under the spell of Klieg lights, were not only running the asylum, but re-shaping the world in their own image.  Both Church and State with their blunt instruments of repression proved impotent against the anarchy of this freshly liberated ghetto.

Holy men were unceremoniously defrocked, their doctrine of abject compliance to class-based norms re-written into storylines enriched by grease-painted floozies, costumed villains, and snooty dowagers brought down a notch by the drunk hobo in her drawing room. Amidst widespread labour unrest and mass poverty, followed soon by the Great Depression, filmgoers of the silent era had a front row view of the plutocracy’s helplessness against a swelling tide of restless humanity. Charlie Chaplin’s itinerant laborer may have accidentally thwarted a plutocrat’s plan for world domination and/or a house renovation, just as Groucho Marx seemed to have spontaneously derailed a social climbing matron’s equally fierce ambitions.

All hail the magic mirrors! Celestial mandalas! Giant eggs and butterfly women! Segundo de Chomón’s The Red Spectre (1907) ruthlessly assaults our eyes with a wraith-magician dissolving through his coffin lid in a red, hand-tinted, flame-flickering hell. His presence, caped, skull-masked, was to herald a new thespic truth, that from this moment forward the art of acting would be reduced to how you respond to light, and how light responds to you. The Specter of Chomon’s dark bauble is in every element Poe’s Red Death — japing and performing tricks for us, his adoring fans and welcome guests, before announcing our doom — literary metaphor slammed against a literal backdrop of amber stalactites, pellucid as an ossuary.

That was a long time ago, in the first decades of the 20th century, before artifice and studios and the commercial paradigm of stardom finally swallowed cinema in one ravenous bite. It was a period when one could see, if one paid close attention, the dreariness of ordinary life at the centre and around the edges of every motion picture brought forth. It lived onscreen in film’s early days, exposing the pretense, however fitful, of opulence or period as simply that: pretense, a fundamental desire to escape reality. But this “escapism” had always been erroneously attributed to the audience’s needs, when in fact it was rather those bankrolling the nascent medium not yet sufficiently in control of itself to impose any order.

The censors were on to something, even if they could never fully articulate what precise blasphemies were being committed. 

Take Hitchcock’s Vertigo, for instance, which isn’t pure noir but is pure Poe: what would the surgical excision of an influence look like? Granted, the noir genre seems an unlikely Poe derivative, but what of Laura — fatalism, romance and necro-fantasy (with Lydecker as Usher)? DOA is the kind of concept Poe might have dreamed up; one of the great noir scribes, Cornell Woolrich is channeling Poe through an all-thumbs pulp sensibility. And how hard would it be to cast Val Lewton as the horror noir hybrid, with premature burials, ancestral disease, lunatics taking over bedlam? Jean Epstein, who adapted The Fall of the House of Usher in 1928, complained that Baudelaire’s translations fundamentally mistook Poe’s innocence for ghastliness. 

The dead in Poe, writes Epstein, are “only slightly dead.”  

To the extent that Epstein was correct, the whimsy that Poe bequeaths to cinema finds itself absorbed in almost material terms — not as sensibility but as a texture whose particular nap or weave is never granted names. In Mesmeric Revelations a voluntary subject is quite near physical death and under the ministrations of his mesmerist, answering precise questions about the nature of God. Before dying, he says God is “ultimate or unparticled” matter: “What men attempt to embody in the word ‘thought,’ is this matter in motion”. The same unnamable textures apparently survive on television, a case of Poe resonating inside our minds, a collective consciousness replaced by cathode rays. 

Deep within the 18 hours of David Lynch’s Twin Peaks: The Return, there is a moment that, on its incandescent surface, could have been lifted weightless from the great post-war dream of material deliverance; as if the zeitgeist of the mid 20th century had somehow got lost and ended up in this one: Daytime, the top on the convertible is down, the radio tuned, The Paris Sisters singing I Love How You Love Me as a reincarnated Laura Palmer lifts her face to a cloudless sky.  Within this tapestry of an early Phil Spector production — his trademark reverb eternally evocative of Romance and Death (two conditions Spector knows well) — the voice of Priscilla Paris could be a siren sound from the American Beyond, or a dream goddess lullaby from the whispering gallery, or sweet nothings from the crypt.  We don’t know.  We’ll never know.

In this oneiric echo chamber, Poe smiles down upon American blondness, muscle cars soaked in sunlight, candy for eye and ear; the terrible ecstasy of unending motion and immortality.

If Lynch’s Return means going back home, then home is that Lemon Popsicle/Strawberry Milkshake species of innocence proffered by America's music industry between 1957 and 1964. The horror genre always has to have some component of innocence to devastate, be it the existential kind which inspires the malevolence everyone paid the price of a ticket to have vicarious transit with; or the mere victimisation of the unsuspecting. Either way, there was no other period in American popular culture when innocence, of any variety, was so lavishly examined, toyed with, killed.  The free floating chord that opens The Everly Brothers song, All I Have To Do is Dream, remains a lamentation in sound: the sudden recrudescence of Poe’s beating, tell-tale heart.  Adoring such guilt-free teenage odes to sleep, death and sexual desire, David Lynch finds a muse in Amanda Seyfried. Specifically her visionary eyes melting Phil Spector’s dark edifice of sugar in a deathless, Sternbergian close-up — iridescent search lights, ever more urgently scanning the sky above, waiting for the sun to swallow her whole. We can only bear witness, and internalize this shimmering ingenue, this angel in a red convertible, trading places with Old Sol; as if whatever she just snorted has entered our system through hers.  But in that ephemeral instant she achieves oneness with all things; the transcendence of stardom — true, temporal stardom  — shorn of fame and the imperatives of show-business.

To this day David Lynch’s favorite film remains Otto e Mezzo, directed by Federico Fellini: Western Europe’s sorcerer of confectionary delights and unending motion; the man who put the “dolce” in La Dolce Vita. Fellini, he states, "manages to accomplish with film what mostly abstract painters do; namely, to communicate an emotion without ever saying or showing anything in a direct manner." Even if one were to take him at his word — and we must, of course, for no filmmaker has ever been known to misrepresent themselves to us — this seems a strange instance of gravitational pull, particularly in the light of the formal strategies of both men as they developed through time. Lynch has always favored a blunt pictorialism that, in its bluntness, borders on the language of Imagism: the studied simplicity of the language used to complex, powerful effect. Fellini, in 8 1/2 and throughout much of his career, by contrast, unleashes upon the viewer an insanely fluid, brutally precise camera ballet. Any good cinephile might be tempted to resolve the disparities and move toward a brighter, less subterranean comprehension. But, ultimately, such understanding would be a didactic burden no moviegoer needs. For here, in these conflicting dialects, you have a fleeting taste of ideologies swirled together like ribbon candy: a blur of four-wheeled luxury from the New World zooming past regional splendor into that fraternity of man: the socio-economic nirvana imagined by Karl Marx in the Old.

Careening from one via to another at harrowing, white-knuckle speed, Fellini was once heard to lament that “Some of the neo-realists seem to think that they cannot make a film unless they have a man in old clothes in front of the camera.” George Bluestone, recording these words for the pages of Film Culture in 1957, was sitting in the literal passenger seat of that ideal metaphor for post-war ebullience in action: expert, 20th century precision hurtling them through Roman streets with graffiti-scrawled churches proudly bearing the hammer and sickle; that famous Black Chevy skirting the Italian Scylla (the Vatican) and its equally dogmatic Charybdis (the Party). At that velocity, anything could make sense.

“Appearances aside" Bluestone wrote, "the Chevrolet is at every moment under Fellini’s control. He weaves in and out of traffic, misses pedestrians by inches, swerves away from Nomentana’s interminable monuments, dodging yellow traffic blinkers as if he were trying out a darkened slalom.” It is every bit a performance. Rome, after all, is the land of Bernini’s The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, Apollo and Daphne — marble-cum-flesh, even as flesh itself gives way to forms that leave the viewer in terrified awe. While reliving his own mythic, carbureted experience, Bluestone does some weaving of his own, quoting Genevieve Agel’s one-line pronunciamento (and, in the process, defining what would soon be labelled 'Felliniesque'), “Fellini is a visionary of the real”, as the passenger positions his driver somewhere between corporeal reality and ecstatic truth while the big man (no old clothes for this maestro) drives and drives. “As one hand lightly guides the wheel, the other gestures — it acts.”

Spirits of the Dead is one of those compendium films, with voguish directors (Malle, Vadim, Fellini) entrusted with bringing to the screen a Poe story each. Only the Fellini episode, Toby Dammit, is notable, but it's very notable, a hallucinatory yarn owing as much to Mario Bava's Kill, Baby, Kill! as to Poe's Never Bet the Devil Your Head, its ostensible source. The title character, played by Terence Stamp with white-blond hair and dark roots and constant beads of witch hazel perspiration, is in Rome to attend an awards ceremony and to play Christ in a western, but he's fatally distracted by his new sports car and a vision of the devil in the form of a little girl. Toby's ride through a hellscape of nocturnal Rome seems lifted from Jules Dassin’s 10.30 p.m. Summer (1966), but works even better for Fellini than it did in the Duras adaptation. An oppressively subjective film, Toby Dammit narrows down to the view in the Ferrari's headlights, a ghastly floodlit interzone where human forms are gradually replaced with mannequins and cut-outs, as the city becomes unreal, an elaborate movie set, an uncanny valley laid out for the staging of an epic stunt/snuff film.

Fellini and Lynch celebrate bodily extremes in intriguing if differing ways, which should, in our time, naturally gallop beyond the pale, but nevertheless become wholly, weirdly digestible. It is perhaps the innocent glee of these artists, their wonderment at the vast variety of shapes the human body can assume; an innocence which suspends toward erasure our awareness the way physical representation functions in the 21st century. Lynch presents the disabled as childlike, mysterious, magical beings without ever worrying about lending them agency (The Elephant Man’s John Merrick functions both as passive whipping boy and chic spectacle for the whole of Victorian London), or the mendacity of adult sophistication (the latest Twin Peaks iteration includes a pint-sized hitman who whines like a puppy when his icepick is broken). Is it any wonder Lynch evolved a style which placed them front and center in unmoving shots, without irony or pity? 

Poe, while certainly a pioneer of fake news, also had a way of vindicating the lumpen masses of humanity (to the middle-brow’s abiding chagrin).  

The Mystery of Marie Roget, a Parisian murder mystery, presented as a fictional sequel to The Murders in the Rue Morgue, was simultaneously trumpeted as a correct solution to the real-life murder of Mary Cecilia Rogers in New York. When a news article presented fresh evidence while the story was still being serialised, Poe made minor changes to the final instalment to keep his fiction in line with the facts.

He later published a story about an Atlantic crossing by balloon, accomplished in three days, in The New York Sun in 1844. "Signal Triumph of Mr. Monck Mason's Flying Machine!!!"  The piece was presented as truth, and only revealed as "The Great Balloon Hoax" a couple of days later. “The more intelligent believed," wrote Poe, "while the rabble, for the most part, rejected the whole with disdain.” He saw this as a new development: “20 years ago credulity was the characteristic trait of the mob, incredulity the distinctive feature of the philosophic.” 

What had changed? Perhaps the acceleration of scientific and social progress meant that the more literate and scientifically-minded had become inured to startling new developments, so the most surprising events now seemed credible. And since these same technological leaps were always presented as social benefits, the working class was growing skeptical, since they rarely saw any improvement in their condition.

by Daniel Riccuito, R.J. Lambert and David Cairns

Special thanks to Richard Chetwynd

[poptod]

Latibule (Ahkmenrah x Reader)

Description: Ahk’s time at Cambridge.

Notes: Takes place in 1942. Can be read as Male!Reader or F!Reader disguised as a male (40’s wasn’t the best time for female students.) Either way, gender neutral!

Professor Wilkins’ record collection is filled to the brim with classics, you note, filing through them for the perfect music. Rain patters outside, and the dusty library is alight with a nearby fireplace. Two student sit opposite each other, reading their own separate books and sparing glances at each other every now and then, the fire casting dancing shadows along their faces. You, on the other hand, are still looking through Wilkins’ collection, ranging from Beethoven to Glenn Miller and Ella Fitzgerald. The worn corners of the cases are soft against your calloused fingers, and at last you pull a random vinyl out, setting it on the old phonograph you’d been allowed to use for the evening. Copland comes on, an orchestral piece - not one you know, surprisingly. With that the rain outside mutes under the tones of the vinyl and the crackling of the fire, and you set out in search of books covering your study topic.

You’d come to Cambridge for exactly one reason: to study Egyptology. But, with Egyptology comes a massive range of other historical components, including Greece, Rome, and a good amount of the Middle East in general, as well as India and China. They all connect, like an old world trade, and though all that interests you is Egypt, the other subjects are ones you are required to learn. Much like your technique with the records your fingers skim along the binds of the many books, dust falling off them to coat your fingertips a duller shade. From the phonograph a woman begins to sing, and it draws you deeper into your search - through sections D to F, till you reach the author you’re looking for.

It’s a decent sized book, about as thick as your arm, and bigger than your face. This one, however, is recently used, the bindings flimsy and worn but mostly clean. When you open it, the cover slams down on the table with a crack, striking you for a moment as odd before you dig out your own notebook from your leather satchel. Pencil in hand, you take notes as the sun sets invisibly behind the amassing clouds, and the rain grows heavy with thunder striking its’ occasional beat. It isn’t long till you’re flipping the record over, and the students previously reading in front of the fire tap your shoulder, and helpfully inform you that the library is closing soon. Blearily, you nod, half hearing their words - university brings a level of exhaustion unknown to any other student or worker.

Reading over the inventions of Rome and their connection to Egypt, you don’t notice when the fire dies away, and you don’t notice the needle slipping off the record while it still spins. This specific library, in this specific wing of the building, is filled with artifacts from the various cultures you study - perhaps it’s a show of achievement, or a weak attempt to make students feel closer to their classes and studies, but all it does is unsettle you. Unopened mummies stare blankly ahead, golden skin reflecting in the dimming light, jewelry shining and various weapons hanging in their simplistic design.

There was one exhibit, however, that held a very special place in your heart purely because of how much it terrified you. Comparably it’s recently discovered, around five years ago - you can’t remember the exact date, but it’s set in the introductory plate in front if it. Glass protects it from being stolen, and dust gathers on the golden tablet; dubbed the Tablet of Ahkmenrah. Not very much is known about Ahkmenrah, not even his age, nor if Ahkmenrah is his real name, and no one can quite pinpoint the era either. If the name is correct, that places him more around the twelfth dynasty of the Middle Kingdom, but the wrappings and tomb design place him in the era of the Old Kingdom. Names aren’t everything, you know that, and you’re one of the believers that place him in the Old Kingdom, though which dynasty exactly is unknown.

The library closes as evening approaches, but you don’t notice, enraptured in the history of Rome’s invasion of Egypt. A light shines behind you, the only thing to bring you out of your reading. Turning around, you see the tablet glow - you squint your eyes, wondering if you’re hallucinating, or if there’s a play on your eyes, but no. It’s definitely glowing, humming almost, an ethereal tone so unearthly you’d never be able to recall it without hearing it again. In one final burst of light that fills the whole of the small library there’s a sudden breath in the air - fresh, and living, and a deep discomfort settles low in your stomach.

From the corner of the library you hear a moan, sounding pained and confused, which only makes you panic more. On instinct you go to the doors, your heart racing at a dangerously fast pace when you find them locked. The moaning gets louder, accompanied by a dull thudding, and the explorer in you takes hold of your nerves. There’s something there, something undiscovered, you just know it - all you need to do is step forward.

Easier said than done - a fight or flight response has decided to opt out, and what you’re left is a petrified, tense stance, which you’re fully aware is a reaction of prey. Like a deer in headlights. An especially loud thump breaks you out of the trance, which you’re half thankful for, but the noise increases and you’re left with more fear. Your steps are slow, cautious, and unbalanced - all the necessary things for a growing student. You make it to the exhibit without trouble, and somehow unsurprisingly, it’s Ahkmenrah’s casket, locked away in a glass case.

Twice you knock on the glass, gentle, and the rattling of the coffin stops. Then, two knocks, mimicking you. Your breath catches as you realize there’s something in there, some thing alive and well enough to recognize patterns, enough to recognize that you’re there without seeing you.

This is a cruel trick, you think to yourself. You’re not exactly important enough to be bullied at this school, but it’s not too far of a reach to say some math students could pull this off. All of it is too good to be true; a pathway into history, a skeleton come to life. Fumbling to your pockets you search for a paper clip, anything you could open the glass case with, and you come up empty. Once more you knock on the glass, the same pattern, and it is returned. With a calming breath, you go in search of paper clips.

There’s one on your desk, keeping some of your loose paper together, and faster than you can think you whip it off and put old skills to use. The illegality of it all doesn’t hit you, not even as your fingers trace over the gold plated sarcophagus, over the lapis design and black outlining. Twice you knock, and the thing inside responds in kind. One more shaky breath, you fiddle with the different knobs at the side, and with a click it opens.

Slowly, the door opens, and half what you expected and half what you were afraid of comes out - a man covered entirely in centuries old wrappings. His hands, fingers forced together, paw at the back of his head as he attempts to undo the restricting cloth. A million thoughts cross your mind, including that this has to be dangerous, and that he won’t understand you, and that he might kill you if your professor doesn’t.

“Uh…” you try to speak, but he’s still very clearly busy trying to unwrap himself. Hesitantly you move forward, reaching to help him, but he’s finally got it. Like a gift he pulls his mask away from his face, and what you see is nothing within the realm of what you expected.

“Oh my. You look surprisingly normal,” you blurt out, knowing full well he won’t know what you’re saying. He narrows his eyes, confused and more innocent than you expected - this boy can’t be older than 18, which is only a year younger than you. He says something in his own language, a dead one you’ve never heard before.

“Do…” you try to think of a word he knows, something he’ll recognize, when it comes to you - “You’re from Kemet… right?”

To your knowledge and your teachers’ knowledge Kemet is what they call their home, Egypt, and you pray to God he understands you. A spark shines in his eyes as he smiles, pointing at you when you say the word.

“Kemet!” He says in a joyously childish tone, grinning brightly with teeth much cleaner than what you expected. For another moment you stare at each other, him trying to decipher who you are, why you look the way you do, and what clothes you’re wearing, while you try to think of a way to tell him where he is.

“Kemet,” you say, pointing at him, “England,” you say, pointing at yourself.

“Enlan,” he replies, trying to mimic you. Giggling, you shake your head.

“England,” you say again, over pronouncing it. He nods, furrowing his brows in concentration.

“Enngland.”

Enthusiastically you nod, smiling just as bright as he is. Stuttering you take his hand, leading him to one of the cushy chairs in front of the fire place, which is now barely glowing red, the remaining embers buried in ash.

“Ahkmenrah?” You ask, gesturing to him. His mouth opens slightly - he’s confused, but he nods. He says something odd, but it ends in his name, so you assume that historians are correct; his name is Ahkmenrah.

“I,” you point to yourself, “am (Y/N).”

Once again he tries to repeat you, and it sounds like a bastardization of your name, which you quickly correct. Second time around he gets it, and the two of you smile. As he looks around the room, marveling at the number of books and the architecture, you sit staring at him, wondering how it’s possible. The golden tablet catches his eye and he stands, his hand still bandaged drags across your arm as he walks in a trance towards it. You follow close behind, gauging his reaction.

His fingers drag across the glass, leaving no imprint in their wrapped state. Again he says something to you, a breath barely coming out of him as the words are whispered.

“It’s yours, isn’t it?” You murmur, glancing at the tablet still half glowing, then back to him.

“Ahasu bey,” he whispers, going over every hieroglyph carved into its surface. It doesn’t sound quite right, but you studied Arabic for a time, which as close to the Egyptian language as it gets - it sounds like an odd version of ‘mine.’ So you repeat the word, in the version of the language that you know.

“Alkhasu bi?”

He turns to you, clearly surprised. For a moment he goes quiet, contemplating his words, a frown apparent on his face. He says something, something even you can’t understand, unlike Arabic or English.

“I can’t understand,” you say, feeling more lost than ever.

He sighs, forlorn as his fingers once more trace over the glass. Throat tight you attempt to swallow, reaching for his hands - someone has to untie them, and the only person is you. At first he jumps, startled by your touch, but he soon realizes what you’re trying to do. Slowly, you unravel the ages old cloth, careful not to tear anything.

The first thing you notice is how soft his hands are, unmarred from the labor his subjects faced. Your own fingers trace along the lines of his palm, reaching the tips of his fingers, holding them and curling them into his palm. You do the same with his other hand, and he pats your hand thankfully. Nervously he looks into your eyes and says something, something you can’t understand, but you take it to be a thank you, and you smile in return.

To pass the time locked away in the library, the both of you barred from leaving (though, he’d be a suspicion, wrapped up in all that cloth), you go over textbooks filled with different items. You point at an image of the night sky, and you say ‘night,’ while he says what you assume is night in his own language. Several things happen that night - you realize a lot of titles of things in Egypt aren’t the actual titles, they’re just the general name for something. The Great Nile is really called the Aur; Nile means river in their language. Even though you know you’d never be able to share the information without being accused of either witchcraft or stupidity, you revel in his guidance, and quietly adore the sound of his voice.

When the first light of dawn strikes a shadow down the book the two of you are examining he inhales sharply, turns without a word, and stands in front of his sarcophagus. Confused you turn to him, watching as he wraps his hands once more.

He says something, something you know is important information, but you still can’t do anything about it. Something relating to night, and life, and as you help him back into his wrappings entirely confused as to why, it hits you. Struggling to put the mask back on you assist, muttering to yourself, “you only live at night, how convenient,” while wondering when anything had been less convenient. You hold his hand as long as you can, till the first rays of sunlight settle into the library, and before you can see his form you close the coffin, seal it shut, and lock him away in the glass case.

Every evening you come back, even though you really can’t afford to spend time talking to him. For the most part he understands, you point at your books and your studies and try to communicate that it’s important. As you stay under the green table lamp, pen in hand and a dozen sheets of questions out in front of you, he sits beside you, and tries to decipher your language. Sometimes he asks questions, and it’s not long at all till he begins to understand basic phrases, items, and gestures. Over Christmas Break, you only have one essay to write (granted, it is supposed to be 4,000 words long), thus allowing for a bit more time to spend with the young King.

“You call Kemet, Egypt?” He asks one day, looking at the map spread out on your unofficial desk. A typewriter sits to the side, half your essay written, lit by the glow of the fire.

“Yes. It’s here,” you say, and as always, you attempt to use simple phrasing, even if he’s learning English at an alarming rate. Pointing at the upper are in which Egypt rests his eyes follow, and he frowns.

“It’s… small,” he murmurs, his own fingers tracing the path of the Nile, barely visible on your map.

“No, not really. The world is big,” you say with a soft giggle, watching him as his eyes dart around the map - there’s more land than he can fathom.

“Lots of world,” he says with a nod, straightening his back from the bent down position. With a smile you nod, and he takes a seat. From the desk beside your own you pull another chair, and sit close to him.

“We are here,” you tell him, pointing to the little island of Great Britain.

“Also small,” he notes with a giggle.

“Yes… but powerful. Like Kemet.”

In understanding he nods, almost enthusiastically; there’s little you know about him statistics wise, such as birthdays or number of wives or children, but you know he’s curious, a fast learner, and almost… excitable. It seems, all around, an odd word to refer to an ancient Egyptian Pharaoh as, but it suits him well - when he learns he smiles a brilliant smile, and his eyes light up, crinkling at the edges in delight. His lips pout in a soft confusion when he’s still learning a topic, and they part just slightly, dimples appearing when he frowns. There’s a lot you know about him - nothing informational, but you know him, and he knows you just as well.

You’re just as joyful as he is when he learns something. The linguistics of a dead language is hard for you to understand, which is fair enough he thinks, but you get it anyway, every now and then. However, you do have an advantage, which is knowing a language similar to his own; he doesn’t have anything like that in his arsenal of learning. Still he manages to bond with you, over the knowledge of the stars, the shared mystery of the universe, and the marvel of life on Earth.

“Do… your work, is it done?” He asks, gesturing to the typewriter in the desk corner. No, it’s not - you’ve got a ways to go.

“Yes,” is what you tell him instead. Time with him is such a precious thing, so precious you’d begun debating on getting a job at Cambridge University once you graduated. At your lie he smiles, soft and barely there, and takes your hand, leading you to the fireplace.

The two red velvet chairs that sit in front of the fire have been getting slowly closer to one another during your visits, to the point where he can now hold your hand, notice each pattern in your fingertips while you both sit in separate seats. He does this exact thing - the fire heats your cheeks as he stares at your knuckles, his thumb brushing over them as he notes the smoothness of your skin. Your heart races painfully when you stare at where your hands meet, so instead you watch his face, and admire the cold glow of his eyes in the firelight.

For a while he continues doing this, examining every bit of your hand, and for some reason you let him. Even if it’s not a newfangled invention that he’s doting over it’s a sign of affection, which is only further proved when he breaks the silence to speak.

“Mrr i Twn,” he says, the words as odd on his tongue as any other - you’re not sure if you’ll ever get used to hearing a language so starkly different from your own. Despite how strange it sounds, you actually know what he’s saying, though by the expression on his face, he doesn’t think you do. Your mouth falls open, your heart thundering in your chest, and a deep need sparks within you to touch him.

“Say that again,” you breathe out, unable to break the eye contact he’s made. Hesitantly he does so, saying the words quieter and faster. Gingerly you trace your fingers across his palm, till they’re wrapped around his wrist - he holds your wrist just as firm and gentle.

“You… know, don’t you,” he mumbles, his face darkening in a strong blush.

“I know,” you say, a smile cracking across your face, warmth fluttering in your chest. “In English it’s ‘I love you.’”

“I lub you,” he tries, and again you correct him, till it comes out clear as day - “I love you.”

He tries to speak, takes a breath to do so, but nothing comes out - he stares at your intertwined hands, the way you stroke over his veins, the love that warms your touch, before looking back up at you - and only then you notice the tears glistening in his eyes. You hold him tighter and lean in.

“Are you alright?”

“I am… bad,” he answers, and it’s clear his limited vocabulary is hindering him from expressing himself. So you lean in closer yet, till your noses nearly touch.

“I adore you,” you say, your tone a melodic dream that closes his eyes in a rapt sigh.

“I don’t know what that means,” he says.

“Sorry. I love you,” you clarified with a smile, one that he copies, leaning into you till your foreheads press together.

When the giggles recede he smiles, spellbound by your closeness as he leans in closer. It only feels natural to follow, revering his love as a deep fondness settles in your stomach, admiring till the last moment comes and your lips meet. You haven’t ever kissed anyone before - which has always been a source of shame for you - and it’s what you expected; a golden glow courses through you, and there’s a strong desire to deepen the kiss. What you don’t expect, and what you could’ve never expected, was how safe it all felt, and the warm comfort that tingles at your fingertips. You move on what feels right, using your free arm to tangle your hand into his hair, tugging gently on it as you press yourself closer to him. With a weak hum he pushes nearer to you, and somehow you end up in his lap.

How, exactly, you got here escapes you for a moment, and the oddity of it all doesn’t ever occur to you, even years later. In truth, the circumstances are very strange - you happened, by chance, to stay too late in a library, then a magic tablet brought a dead Egyptian King to life, and now you’re kissing him with more fervor than you’ve felt for anything or anybody. He goes as far as to slip his hands underneath your coat, shirking it off your back and pulling at your suspenders till they fall off your shoulders. Every stroke he makes on you, skin or cloth, electrifies you and you half expect him to be leaving a glowing path where his touch strays.

While he drags his hands anywhere you’ll let him touch, over your shoulders, down your chest to settle on your hips, you keep yours in place - one on his shoulder and the other on his cheek. Desperately he searches for your touch, longs for you to make a move but your techniques of love and worship are far different. He moves consistently, constantly, moving deeper into your kiss, tugging at your hair and pulling at the buttons at your shirt - you stay in place, too enraptured in each and every touch that his method nearly sends you into overload. Yet, even as your shirt is thrown to the ground, you can’t find yourself able to part from him. Sensory overload or no, there’s nothing more heavenly than his touch, and there’s no greater show of reverence and exaltation in any life, in any time than there is that night.

You stay with him as long as you can, as long as you dare. Love is a newfangled wonder, not one you easily let go of, and you thank God and His angels that Ahkmenrah loves you dearer than anything - just as you love him.