#i had no reason to render this. had the devils voice speaking into my ear telling me to render it and that it wouldnt take long

[reallilystuff]

love this creature. the snea bnuuy. 💜🤍

ref below cut

[ceilingfan5]

for james @monogramsalarm (sorry this is not a headcanons)

Taako feels like chunky volcano vomit. Taako has never had a hangover so bad, has never been so ill, has never felt so wrong. He’s ice cold and heavy and floaty at the same time, like his head is a balloon on a desperate mission to get away from a yanky cranky toddler. He sits up and regrets it. He opens his eyes and regrets that worse.

“Am I fucking dead?” he groans, vision wobbly at best and delusional at present. The most handsome man he has ever fucking witnessed gives him a little smirk.

“Got it one, my friend. Most people don’t quite have the hops to jump to that particular conclusion.”

“Oh,” Taako says, and he lays back down. He’s on the ground, for some reason, and there are other bodies all around him. He tries to remember what happened and his vision goes white and his ears ring like a church with the hiccups at a jingle bell eating contest. “Can I double die, cause I would love for this, uh, for all this to be over.”

“‘Fraid not,” Mr. Gorgeous says, in his incredible voice that wraps around Taako’s better senses and renders them fully null and nude. “Not for you, at least. You-” He consults a foreboding tome, and raises his eyebrows. “You have died nine times. You’ve also been part of a mass-murder, but this takes precedent.”

“Bwuh?” Taako asks intelligently. He wants to lay down, but he’s already laying down. Is there a more down down he can down? Asking for his nuclear fucking brainpan. “Gwah.”

“It’s a bit disorienting, isn’t it, dying?” The reaper offers him a beautifully manicured hand, and he takes it, even if that means being up, which his body and head are both violently opposed to. That much, they can agree upon. His hand is ice cold, but it’s grounding, somehow. “I thought you might be used to it, on number nine.”

“My man, what the everloving fuck are you talking about?” Taako squints at him. “Also, who the fuck, I mean, I get-” he waves his hands. “I get what you do. I can guess your title. Am I supposed to call you Grim?”

“Kravitz will do.” He laughs, and it’s incredibly charming. It’s funny, Taako’s cheeks don’t heat up like they probably ought to.

“Neat. Taako, that’s me. But I guess your dumb book might’ve told you that.”

“That, and much more, although I find myself entirely lacking in cohesive answers. What exactly have you been up to, Taako?”

Taako thinks for a moment, and surveys the carnage around them. “Just cooking. Being famous. No big.” This nets him another eyebrow raise.

“Just cooking? But when- where- Hold on, we’re being summoned.” And that they are, not that Taako understands it a bit. A rift opens up in space and Kravitz helps him to his feet--being in his arms is delicious, and yet would be much more appreciated if Taako felt less like dogshit--and they disappear from dumb old Glamor Springs into a dark, cold, very serious place Taako immediately bristles at.

“My Queen,” Kravitz says, and he bows. Taako might bow too, but he’s not the type, and also he might fully fall over about it. “How can I serve you?”

“Interesting, you’ve found him,” she intones, a bizarre voice made of a thousand voices, raspy and sweet and warm and ice cold. It makes Taako’s head pound like he’s beating the nails in his own coffin with his fucking forehead. “Istus won’t like this, won’t like this at all.”

Kravitz frowns.

“I was just about to book him, My Queen. Then just the remaining-”

“No, that won’t be necessary. He’s special, I think you understand that.”

Kravitz’s grip gets a little warmer for some reason.

“I’d like you to make him your apprentice, for now,” she says, and both Taako and Kravitz are floored.

“What the-” Kravitz stamps on his foot, and Taako elbows him right back. “What the fuck?” he asks, with full conviction, and she laughs, a horrible, wonderful sound like blood and bone and sunshine.

“It’ll come back to you,” she says cryptically. “And that will serve us well.”

“What will-” but, speak of the devil and the devil knows you’re talking shit. Something hits Taako square on, like a train made out of the ground, and he fucking crumples in Kravitz’s arms. Disconnected memories and lives lived and lost flood back to him, and something important, something so fucking important, but just out of reach, and he cries out weakly, which happens to be pretty pathetic in front of hotboy here, but he’s not exactly thinking about wooing. He’s not thinking of much at all.

It stops, after a moment, leaving him with a splitting headache and wide eyes. Kravitz is holding him tightly to keep him off the polished obsidian floor. He grasps at the memories, but they leave him just as they came, with a hearty choo choo, and a headache it’ll take him nine more lifetimes to sleep off.

“So you’ll train him to work alongside you,” the Raven Queen elaborates. Kravitz sputters.

“I- but- he’s-”

And she laughs again, and the space around them folds and disappears in a flap of otherworldly wings, and they’re back in Glamor Springs, and Kravitz is staring at him like a fish that tried to swim in apple cider, and Taako throws up on his shiny black shoes.

So much for first impressions.

[purplehairedwonder]

Hearts With(out) Chains Chapter 15

Fandom: One Piece Rating: PG-13 Pairings: Gen (eventual Lawlu) Words: 4,006 Characters: Trafalgar Law, Bepo, Shachi, Penguin, Ikkaku, Jean Bart, Clione, Monkey D. Luffy Notes: I’m taking my turn at the Corazon!Law AU because my brain won’t leave me alone until this is written down. Tags will be updated as the chapters come out.

Summary: Law is reclaimed by the Family when he's 17 and, with Doflamingo holding the lives of his crew as collateral for his good behavior, eventually becomes the third Corazon. Years later, trapped by his impossible situation, Law finds a strange connection to Monkey D. Luffy, which offers a glimpse of something he's repeatedly had ripped away from him: hope.

Previous chapters: Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14

Read also at AO3 / FF.N

Bepo started when the door at the top of the dungeon stairs banged open and was followed by an ugly thumping sound that made his ears twitch. After a moment, he placed the sound as that of a body being dragged down the stairs. His eyes widened in alarm. Had one of the others been caught?

Or—

“What—” Penguin started from the cell next to Bepo, but he fell silent just as Bepo’s stomach dropped.

A familiar pair of spotted jeans was dragged past Bepo’s cell door and into the cell across from his and next to Shachi’s. The dungeon was dimly lit by torches, and even Bepo’s mink vision couldn’t make out much as Trebol and Diamante dragged a limp form into the cell. There was a rattling of shackles before the two executives exited the cell with some choice words for the prisoner before slamming the door shut. They thumped up the stairs, and, a few moments later, the door banged shut. The dungeon was quiet once again.

Bepo could hear a light rustling coming from the newly occupied cell, so he called hesitantly, “Captain?”

“Bepo,” Law’s familiar voice rasped out after a painfully long moment.

Bepo swallowed, relief at war with worry in his chest. The last he’d heard from Law was two days earlier when he’d called in from his mission with a warning that Vergo had followed him. The crew had gone into high alert, but there had been no further news from their captain. They’d all heard he’d returned to Dressrosa earlier today—and Bepo had been admittedly disappointed Law hadn’t immediately come to see them, though he had been relieved to find the note Law had left on his desk—but all the Hearts had known was that Law was in some kind of trouble, which, by extension, put them in danger. They’d expected to find out what was going on when Law came to see them after dinner, but that was before…

Bepo swallowed, cutting off his own thought and turning his attention back to Law.

“Are you okay, Captain?” he asked. If Law was being forcibly dragged into the dungeon, he must have been overcome by Trebol and Diamante—and was now undoubtedly shackled with Seastone, considering the danger his Fruit posed.

“I’m…” Law started but trailed off as though he didn’t quite know how to respond. After a moment, Bepo heard him clear his throat before asking, “What happened?”

“Shouldn’t we be asking you that, Captain?”

“Penguin,” Law breathed worriedly. “Who else is in here?”

“Me.”

“Shachi. Anyone else?”

“We were the only ones captured,” Bepo said.

A brief hesitation then, “Where is everyone else?”

“Escaped,” Shachi said.

Law let out a relieved breath as Bepo belatedly realized Law had probably taken his words to mean the others had been killed. He tamped down on the urge to apologize, instead rubbing his face through his paws in embarrassment, glad none of his lesser mink friends could see him in the dimness.

“What’s going on, Law?” Penguin pressed. “We haven’t heard from you since you called Bepo, and then we’re being thrown in the dungeon.”

Law’s cell was silent for several moments, and Bepo wished he could make out more than the outline of Law’s shape across from him. Finally, Law said, “I’ll tell you everything. Just… First, I need to know. What happened here?”

He sounded more tired than Bepo had heard him in a long time, and it was that, more than anything, that caused Bepo to take pity on his best friend. “After reading your note, I got word to the others to meet up after dinner,” he explained. “We were gathering in the common area when…” Bepo swallowed.

“Pica and Machvise showed up,” Penguin picked up as Bepo faltered. Law cursed quietly. “They said Doflamingo wanted to see us.”

“After your call, we knew something was up,” Shachi added. “Other executives don’t just come to our wing of the palace.”

“So, we told them his royal featherness could come to us,” Penguin said, the smirk evident in his voice.

“They didn’t like that,” Shachi added.

“Idiots,” Law said, fond despite himself.

“They attacked then,” Bepo said, remembering the uncanny feeling of the world shaking as Pica had merged with the walls. It had reminded him of Zunesha’s daily showers for the briefest of moments before it had turned into a horror show. “Penguin, Shachi, and I tried to hold them off while the others got away.”

“Jean Bart wanted to stay behind,” Shachi said. “But we told him to take the others and get out.”

“We fought them off as long as we could,” Bepo said quietly, grimacing as he shifted. Even with his fortified mink body, he was still sporting bruises and probably some cracked ribs. Shachi and Penguin weren’t any better, fragile humans that they were.

They’d fought with everything they had—which was quite a bit, since, as the crew of Doflamingo’s second, there were high expectations of their capabilities—but none of them were Devil Fruit users, so they’d been taken down eventually. Neither Pica nor Machvise had been particularly gentle with their capture and imprisonment.

Bepo still hoped they’d done their captain proud.

“They must have all gotten out because we haven’t seen anyone but you,” Penguin said. “Hopefully, they’ve gone to ground.”

Doflamingo had eyes all over the city, but the Hearts had been in Dressrosa long enough to know it like the back of their own hands—or paws—in their own right; they’d made connections and were owed favors they could now call in.

“Good.”

“So, are you going to tell us what happened out there?” Shachi asked when it was clear Law wasn’t going to say anything else.

“Okay,” Law said at length. His shackles clanked as he shifted, and he let out a breath. “Doflamingo sent me to Punk Hazard to take out some intruders. It should have been a quick in and out.”

Bepo remembered meeting Law at the palace gates before he’d left, Law deflecting their attempts at joining him by claiming the mission was easy—the type he’d done countless times before with no complication. Briefly, Bepo felt a wave of frustration flow under his skin; if Law had taken them with him on this mission, maybe whatever had happened with Vergo wouldn’t have. They could have helped.

But that surge was as gone as quickly as it had arrived. What good did it do to worry about the past now? Plus, Law was opening up to them again, something he hadn’t done in two years.

“What went wrong?” Shachi asked quietly.

Law snorted, a hollow sound that made Bepo’s hackles raise. “Everything.”

“Captain?” Bepo prompted when Law fell silent once more. Law got like this sometimes, stuck in his own head as he turned his thoughts over endlessly, creating a spiral it sometimes took days to pull him from.

“There were two groups of intruders,” Law finally said. ��Smoker was leading a group of hapless Marines from G-5.”

“And the other group?” Penguin asked. They all knew a group of Marines, even led by a vice admiral like Smoker, shouldn’t pose much of a threat to Law.

“Straw Hat-ya and his merry band of misfits.”

Bepo’s eyes widened. The Straw Hats were active again? And Law had been sent to kill the very person he’d risked everything to save two years earlier?

Of course he had. That was absolutely something Doflamingo would revel in. Law had taken a major risk by defying Doflamingo when he’d saved Straw Hat Luffy, and Shachi had lost his arm in the aftermath, causing Law to shut down completely in his guilt. Doflamingo would love pushing Law to see how he’d react to such an order after everything he and the Hearts had sacrificed in the wake of Marineford. The idea of rendering those sacrifices moot would amuse the bastard to no end. And to erase the living reminder of Law’s rebellion would only further cement his hold over his second.

If Law had gone through with it, Bepo could only wonder at what version of his friend would have returned from Punk Hazard.

“Captain,” Bepo said, nearly whining in a show of sympathy. He wished he could see his friend’s face, could offer more than just words of comfort.

With a heavy exhale, Law told them about fighting but losing when Smoker and the Straw Hats joined forces and being taken captive by the Straw Hats. Something warmed in Bepo’s chest as Law haltingly, disbelievingly, described Luffy’s unwavering determination that Law was a good person for no other reason than he felt it.

Something Law hadn’t understood had pushed him to save the boy that day—something Bepo, as a mink, considered a sign from the Earth herself, though he knew Law, man of science that he was, didn’t agree—and perhaps Luffy was similarly driven toward their captain. Bepo knew what it felt like to be drawn to Law, so nothing about the situation surprised him.

There were things even science couldn’t explain, after all.

That warmth in Bepo’s chest turned cold as Law described Vergo’s arrival on the Straw Hats’ ship with a fake accusation of Law’s treachery. So, that was what Law had meant by Vergo turning on him.

“What?!” Penguin demanded as Law continued speaking about the Straw Hats, clearly unable to believe what he’d just heard.

Law sighed and repeated himself. “We agreed to work together.”

“Like an alliance?” Shachi asked, tone rising slightly in disbelief. Bepo couldn’t blame him; Law didn’t typically play well with others, especially in his position as Corazon.

“I suppose,” Law allowed. Bepo knew by the tone of his voice that, had his hands been free, Law would have scrubbed a hand over his face—a frustrated gesture Bepo had seen countless times over the years. “I didn’t have much choice in the moment but to accept the help.”

“But Captain,” Bepo interrupted, “that’s great!”

After Law had saved Straw Hat Luffy for no other reason than a feeling, Bepo, Shachi, and Penguin had done some digging into the Straw Hat pirates and been astonished by the string of miracles they’d left in their wake, from Alabasta to Enies Lobby. If there was anyone the Hearts could want on their side in a confrontation with Doflamingo, it was a crew like that.

“Great?” Penguin echoed.

“It means we aren’t alone,” Bepo said, hope rising in his chest.

After Law had called with his warning about Vergo, Bepo couldn’t help but run the worst-case scenarios over and over in his mind, with Law not returning from his mission at the forefront. But when his captain had returned, those scenarios had turned into the crew facing Doflamingo’s wrath alone, perhaps even being forced to hurt and kill one another. Those scenarios had not seemed far-fetched once Bepo, Shachi, and Penguin had been locked in irons and thrown into separate cells in the dungeon. And when Law himself had arrived as a captive…

Well, having allies seemed a lot better than the alternative.

“What happened with Vergo?” Shachi asked, interrupting Bepo’s reverie.

“He’s dead,” Law said flatly.

“Good,” Bepo said without thinking.

“Bepo?”

Bepo pulled at his snout, a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

Penguin snorted. “No, you’re not.”

Bepo blushed. “No, I’m not. It’s good that he’s dead,” he said firmly.

“He was a bastard,” Shachi agreed.

“Fuck that guy,” Penguin added.

Law huffed tiredly. It was small, but Bepo had heard enough of Law’s laughs over the years to know it was genuine. “Right. But he was always Doffy’s favorite.”

“Ah hell,” Shachi muttered.

“Exactly. And Doffy has more spies than just Vergo in the Marines, so at some point today he heard that Vergo was dead and Caesar-ya and Monet were arrested.”

“And that’s when…” Penguin said, trailing off as if he lacked an adequate way to refer to everything happening now.

Law grunted in response.

“Where are the Straw Hats now?” Bepo asked after a moment. Would it be possible for their free crewmates to find their allies and get their help?

“They should be on the Tang,” Law said, his tone implying that where the Straw Hats should be was not necessarily the same as where they actually were. “Waiting for me to check in.” (The irony, of course, was that Law currently wasn’t where he was supposed to be, though Bepo doubted his friend would appreciate him mentioning it, so he just suppressed a laugh.)

“Which you obviously can’t do from the dungeon,” Shachi noted.

“Indeed.”

-----

Ikkaku glanced at Jean Bart and raised a questioning eyebrow.

Jean Bart peered out of the window into the quiet night, clearly looking for any sign of pursuit, before turning back to Ikkaku and Clione. He nodded but put a finger to his lips. The streets might appear quiet, but that did not mean Doflamingo’s spies weren’t still looking for them. Ikkaku and Clione nodded.

Ikkaku turned back toward the storage room, where their hosts were watching them. Mateo, the shopkeeper, and his wife, Isabella, stood in the doorway. She approached them.

“We’ll be leaving now,” Ikkaku whispered, voice only loud enough to carry to them. “Thank you for hiding us.”

“Gladly, Miss Ikkaku. We are forever in your debt,” Mateo replied, voice equally quiet. The citizens of Dressrosa knew full well some walls had ears, after all.

After they’d fled the palace—Bepo, Shachi, and Penguin stupidly (bravely) staying behind to give them a chance—the Hearts had split into smaller groups before going to ground. When considering where to take cover, Ikkaku had decided to call in a favor owed to her by Mateo and Isabella, the owners of a textile shop.

Three years earlier, Ikkaku, who had been on a routine patrol around the city with Iruka, had found their toddler son, Alexander, wandering around the streets, lost and crying. Apparently, there had been a break-in at their shop, and his parents had been seriously injured. The boy had run off during the attack in fear. Ikkaku and Iruka had managed to make enough sense of the boy’s sob-stricken words to wind their way back to the shop, where they found his parents. Using medical care they’d learned from Law, they were able to stabilize them before summoning proper medics, who took them to the hospital.

Meanwhile, they’d gathered the Hearts to investigate, asking questions around the city until they found out who had attacked the shop and bringing them to justice—or Dressrosa’s version of justice, anyway; all three attackers would face the colosseum. Ikkaku had visited Mateo and Isabella in the hospital to tell them the news, and they had claimed they were in Ikkaku and her crew’s debt. Though Ikkaku had waved the debt off then, she took advantage of it now.

She, Jean Bart, and Clione had hid in their storeroom until night had fallen. Once the store closed, they gladly accepted food from Isabella and waited, plotting their next move. They’d decided that in the early hours of the morning, they would head for the Polar Tang when the watch was likely to be paying the least amount of attention. On the Tang, they could wait for the others and figure out what to do now that they were apparently wanted by the king.

That was something else they needed to figure out—what had happened with Law’s mission to cause this? Why were the Hearts—and presumably their captain—public enemy number one?

One problem at a time, Ikkaku reminded herself.

“Stay safe,” she told the shopkeepers.

“We have no worries,” Isabella replied. “After all, we haven’t seen any criminals tonight.” She turned back to the storeroom and grabbed some dark cloth. “Cloaks,” she said, offering them to Ikkaku.

Ikkaku gratefully accepted the proffered items—they’d been wearing light-colored clothing when they’d fled—and saluted before turning back to her crewmates. “Let’s go.”

The trio donned the cloaks then carefully exited the shop and, staying in the shadows, made for the harbor. Jean Bart took point, leaving Ikkaku and Clione in his shadow. As they moved through the quiet streets, the city’s clock rang out two o’clock. The bars would be closing, so they would need to keep an eye out for late-night patrons who might recognize them. There would also be parties going on for hours more in some areas of the city, but they avoided the more populous parts of the city.

As they approached the harbor entrance, Jean Bart paused, raising a hand in warning. Ikkaku and Clione came to a halt just behind him. The larger man nodded toward the watchtower. There was a single light in the small room at the top, meaning there was at least one guard watching over the harbor, as expected.

Ikkaku pointed to herself. She was the smallest so would be the quietest. Clione raised an eyebrow—Are you sure?—and Ikkaku nodded. Jean Bart and Clione stepped aside, and Ikkaku slid past them. She hadn’t been a fighter when she joined Law’s crew, but she was a quick study, and in the intervening years, she liked to think she’d picked up enough to hold her own against any of the others—except her captain, not that she’d admit it to his face. They hadn’t had a chance to grab any weapons when they’d fled from Pica and Machvise back at the palace, but Ikkaku didn’t need her staff to take on some low-level harbor guards.

Light on her feet, she soundlessly climbed the stairs that rounded the watchtower before coming to a stop just outside the door. It was cracked open, and inside, she could see two figures sitting at a table. They seemed to be playing cards. Assessing the situation quickly, Ikkaku knocked on the door then pressed her back against the wall and melted back into the shadows. A moment later, the door opened all the way and a head stuck out of the doorway.

“Hello?” the guard asked, looking around in confusion.

Ikkaku inched further back into the darkness, and the guard stepped out into the night. Ikkaku knocked lightly against the wall behind her, drawing the guard’s attention in her direction, though he couldn’t see her.

“Who’s there?”

The guard stepped toward the noise, and once he was out of sight of the doorway, Ikkaku struck—an elbow to the solar plexus had the man doubled over before he knew what hit him. She swept a foot at his ankles, knocking him off balance, then struck him in the back of the head twice more, once with her elbow and once with her balled hands. He went down in a heap, never making a sound other than a surprised gasp at the first strike.

Ikkaku then turned and rounded the tower, coming to a stop on the other side of the doorway, fading back into the darkness as she waited for the other guard to appear.

“Jax?” the other guard called, stepping out of the doorway after several moments. “What the hell?” he yelped when he saw his fallen friend. He hurried over to the other guard’s side and knelt next to him.

Ikkaku crept up behind him and took him out with two quick blows as he checked his companion’s vitals. She then pulled the limp forms into the watchtower (fine, she could have used Jean Bart or Clione for this part) and shoved them in the small closet, blocking the door handle with a chair.

Satisfied, Ikkaku headed back down the stairs to her crewmates.

“Well?” Clione asked quietly as she sauntered up.

Ikkaku put a hand to her breast. “I’m wounded you’d even ask me that.”

Clione snorted, and Jean Bart shook his head fondly before leading them toward the Polar Tang. Jean Bart kept an eye out as Ikkaku and Clione boarded the Tang before following them up the ladder and across the deck.

“Wait,” Jean Bart said as Clione reached for the door handle.

“What?” Clione asked.

“It sounds like someone is inside.”

“Doflamingo’s?” Clione asked, tensing.

“Or nakama?” Ikkaku suggested. Though there hadn’t been time to set a rendezvous point when they’d run, it would make sense for the crew to meet at the ship.

But the Family would know that as well.

“Only one way to find out,” Jean Bart said, sliding past Clione to take point once more. He opened the door lightly and moved inside with a quietness that belied his size. Clione nodded for Ikkaku to go next, and he followed her inside, lightly shutting the door behind them.

Now that they were inside, Ikkaku could hear the unfamiliar sounds—footsteps, metal clanking, voices she didn’t recognize. Definitely not nakama then. Ikkaku swallowed. Dressrosans, even criminals, would know better than to mess with Corazon’s ship, so it had to be the Family.

“Should we get out?” Clione asked quietly, clearly thinking the same thing.

Ikkaku shook her head. “The Tang is ours,” she said fiercely, a rush of anger flooding through her at the thought. The Tang had brought her from her old, shitty life to the Hearts. It wasn’t a perfect life, but it was hers—the people in it were hers—and that was what mattered. “We can’t let them have her too.”

Jean Bart and Clione nodded in response; they understood exactly how she felt.

“So, what do we do?” Clione whispered.

“The noises seem to be coming from the mess,” Jean Bart replied, considering.

The mess had two doors, plus access to the kitchen, and the kitchen had a separate door of its own. That was three doors for three pirates.

“Split up?” she asked. “One of us for each door?”

“Is that a good idea?” Clione replied, looking between her and Jean Bart. Depending on which Family members were in there, spreading their fighting power out might be a big mistake. But at the same time…

“If we leave any doors uncovered, someone could get out and report our location back to the palace,” Jean Bart said. “Ikkaku’s right. We need to block all the exits.”

Clione chewed on his lip for a moment before nodding. “We can’t go in unarmed, though.”

Ikkaku nodded. Taking out two harbor guards barehanded one thing; fighting Donquixote Pirates was another. “Training room?”

Clione nodded. “I’ll go.”’

He disappeared back into the hallways toward the small training room that should have some weapons in storage. The Hearts usually took their favored weapons with them when they returned from missions, but they had additional arms on the ship. Ikkaku and Jean Bart waited, keeping an ear on the voices they didn’t recognize coming from the heart of their ship. The longer she waited, the angrier Ikkaku got at the invasion of her home—of her namaka’s home.

Clione eventually returned, a blade in hand. He handed a set of brass knuckles to Jean Bart and a bo staff to Ikkaku. Ikkaku immediately felt better, more able to defend the Tang, with the familiar weight of the staff in her hands.

“I’ll take the kitchen,” Clione murmured.

“I’ll take the back mess door,” Ikkaku said.

Jean Bart nodded. That left the front mess door for him. “I’ll give you five minutes to get into place. Then we go in together.”

Clione and Ikkaku nodded and turned in opposite directions, heading for their respective doors. Ikkaku found her place by the back door within three minutes, leaving two minutes to wait for Jean Bart’s signal. She could feel her heartrate speeding up as she thought about the impending fight. She took a few calming breaths. This was her home. This was her nakama’s home. She would fight for her home and her nakama.

She was in the middle of a steady exhale when the door in front of her slammed open. She yelped in surprise.

“Sanji, more mea— Huh?”

Ikkaku gaped as she came face to face with Straw Hat Luffy.

[dreamonhunters]

give me one last kiss while we’re far too young to die

tw // blood, guns, mafia dynamics, character injury

mafia au race & romeo for @heytheywascoronas​ ! happy birthday luce, i hope you have an amazing day ♡

read it here on ao3!

Suddenly, he’s awake.

There’s a burn in his lungs, the type you get from being deprived of oxygen just a little too long. Romeo gasps for air, one hand clutching at his chest and the other balled into a tight fist by his side. He can still taste gunpowder. Blunt fingernails dig into his bloodied palm. It’s almost grounding. Not enough to offset the pain, however.

His eyes take a few moments to refocus. Above him, a few clouds crawl lazily across a cornflower blue sky. It’s too bright. Romeo squints. Everything seemed a little hazy round the edges, not quite real. That makes his head hurt.

A tacky red liquid coats his hands, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what that is. The tip of his tongue swipes over his swollen bottom lip. Drying blood cakes the sensitive flesh, broken and sore. There’s a metallic taste that fills his mouth. Floods his senses for just a moment. His nose throbs.

At least he’s alive, Romeo thinks to himself. That’s definitely a positive.

“Romeo,” a feeble voice calls. It should’ve been a question, but the inflection to suggest that much is completely absent. It’s a voice brimming with the pain Romeo feels lancing through his own body.

“Tha’s me,” he manages, turning his head in the direction of the voice. Fuck, he sounds rough. He’s barely said a sentence, and already he can feel the way vocalising makes his throat burn. His cheek scratches against the concrete, but the pain barely registers. He’s got bigger issues right now. “You good, Tony?”

The boy in question, Tony, simply groans again. No, he’s not good. Romeo saw him go down. The horrible sound of a bullet pinging off the wall, and Tony dodges narrowly, and then there’s someone kicking him in the stomach. A wave of nausea hits Romeo. He’s powerless. Tony’s arm is yanked sharply backwards, and Romeo hears the sickening crack. That’s a sound he won’t forget.

Now he lays a few feet away from Romeo, curled in on himself. Just slightly out of reach. There’s an almost ghostly pallor to his skin. The sole source of his bleeding seems to be a deep gash high up on his cheekbone. The blood caking his hair and clothing isn’t his own. A dark bruise forming above his left eyebrow. Shoulder twisted at an unnatural angle.

It takes Romeo a several minutes to sit up properly. Well, maybe it’s minutes. His sense of time is a little warped right now. However long it takes to let the nausea die down enough to allow movement. Aching muscles scream in protest as he pushes himself up, elbows shoved beneath him to support his bodyweight. Spits out a mixture of blood and saliva, unable to get rid of that smoky taste that makes his teeth hurt, makes his gums burn. The ache in his chest returns promptly, earning a hiss of pain from Romeo.

“We fucked up, didn’t we?”

It’s not a question, but he asks it like one anyway. Maybe Tony will entertain him. Months of begging and pleading and bargaining can’t end like this. Romeo doesn’t make mistakes, not anymore. Neither does Tony. Neither does Jack.

“Shut your stupid mouth,” Tony snaps, although the usual venomous sting in his tone is missing. It’s actually a little weak. Probably too much effort right now.

They’re not friends, not by any stretch of the imagination. Partners, in a business sense exclusively. He likes to think they’re getting somewhere. Volatility is Tony’s middle name, however, and that makes it rather difficult to gauge where he stands. Romeo isn’t sure how Tony defines the word ‘friendship’, anyway.

Romeo rolls his eyes anyway, face screwing up when he’s reminded of the pain in his chest. Broken ribs, easily. When he pulls his shirt up to inspect the damage, there’s black and blue blooming across his flesh already. Ouch.

Vaguely, there’s the memory of taking a crowbar to the chest. Feels distant, almost like he watched it happen to somebody else. It’s a little jarring to consider this happened to him. Suddenly the bruises don’t feel all that strange. A few broken ribs is a small price to pay.

“You want some help?” he asked, letting the thin fabric drop back down.

Tony shakes his head defiantly, of course he does. He’ll die before he accepts Romeo’s assistance.

So Romeo doesn’t make it optional. He takes a few deep breaths and forces himself up, teeth gritting. The taste of blood is stronger now, and it’s almost dizzying. He stumbles, grasps for something to keep him upright, leans against the wall heavily. The pain is nauseating. Just that small movement has a thin sheen of sweat covering his forehead, mixing with the blood and sticking to his skin uncomfortably.

“Idiota,” he hisses, glaring sharply at Tony. The blond is motionless, hair matted with blood and sweat and dirt. “You shoulda kept your mouth shut.”

“Oh, this is my problem now?” Tony shoots back, eyes narrowing. There’s an edge of ice in his voice, a familiar one. Romeo knows that tone all too well.

Any other time, he wouldn’t push it. Arguing with Tony is pointless and stupid and gets neither of them anywhere, but there’s an anger flaring up in Romeo’s chest that’s more than a little difficult to force back down.

“If you let me do my job, we’d be outta here, and not bleeding to death in the fucking dirt.” Romeo seethes. “I was doing the talking, Tony. This shit is basic.”

“Badly,” the blond retorts. “You needed me to cover because you couldn’t get your fuckin’ words out properly.”

“I was doing just fine.”

Tony doesn’t bother responding, grunting unintelligibly instead.

Does he really blame Tony? No. The guilt is overwhelming, actually, because Romeo knows it’s on him. He shouldn’t push it further.

“This is why Jack doesn’t fucking trust you.”

Tony’s expression darkens immediately, eyes flashing dangerously. Romeo regrets it already.

“Jack trusts me a whole lot more than you. Because he knows you might just run off the second he lets you out.”

Romeo opens his mouth, ready to shoot off some spiteful retort, but he catches himself. He doesn’t hate Tony anymore. They’re not rivals, they’re not friends, but they’re somewhere between those two points.

He relents, kneeling down beside Tony. It’s such a simple movement, and yet every contraction of his muscles is fucking agony. He bites down on the inside of his cheek. Hard. The taste of blood is there again, but for a completely different reason now. Sharp pieces of gravel dig into his knees.

“Just let me help you,” he requests. Tony grunts, but he doesn’t bother trying to fight it this time.

“I don’t need your help,” he spits. At this point, that suggestion is almost laughable. If Romeo liked him any less, he’d maybe laugh.

“I think you’ll find you do,” Romeo defends easily, placing one hand on Tony’s shoulder. It’s a feather-light touch, barely there, but it’s a reminder. Tony can work out what that means for himself.

He scowls at Romeo, eyes dark. Juxtaposes their brightness. They’d be so pretty if he smiled more often, although Romeo never voices those thoughts. Tony would murder him the moment he opened his mouth. Such angelic features, constantly contorted with rage and irritation. Jarring.

Tony doesn’t verbally respond again, although he hisses in pain when he slowly tries to stretch out his aching limbs. Honestly, the silence is nice. Unusual.

There’s the silent acknowledgment between them that, had this happened months prior, Tony would be left for dead. Romeo would leave without a second glance. Tony holds this flawed ideology of needing help equalling weakness, and Romeo could never quite fathom why.

But now he feels responsibility. Guilt tugs at him, sour. It weighs heavy on his shoulders. The anger dies away, still smouldering somewhere deep within him, but now it’s easy to ignore. He watches the way blood trickle down the side of Tony’s face with an almost sick fascination. It’s mesmerising, the way it soaks into the fine creases and stains his skin crimson.

Romeo is slow to accept his own faults. Doesn’t like to be the one at fault. It’s a vice he's always known about, but his ego has a tendency to get in the way of any real self-improvement there. He has many virtues, anyway, and he’ll say it with that trademark bright smile. But no, it’s not really Tony’s fault. If he’s completely truthful, their failure is more indicative of their joint weaknesses. Romeo is too quick to react, pushes too hard for little gain. Tony is abrasive and snappy, immediately rubbing people up the wrong way. It’s really no wonder why Jack didn’t want them out in the field just yet.

“Jack’s gonna kill us,” Tony murmurs. Speak of the devil. He sounds agitated, maybe. Difficult to tell when he’s speaking through gritted teeth, biting down hard in an attempt to suppress his groans of pain. “He’s gonna fuckin’ murder me.”

Romeo shakes his head, and maybe there’s just a little hint of introspectiveness there. “It’s not just your fault, Tony, I’m sorry. I fucked up, y’know?”

Of course, Tony argues back. His voice reminds Romeo of glass crunching beneath his feet. Scratchy. “You’re the one who said it. I fucked up. Jack wanted me to prove myself. All this did was prove I couldn’t do it.”

“Yeah, well, can’t do much about that now,” Romeo concludes. He’s too tired to fight.

Acknowledging failure makes Romeo’s skin crawl, the sudden urge to scratch becoming almost overwhelming. Mistakes like this are for other people. Rookies. It’s been a long time since he was last considered a rookie.

He sets about his work in silence. The rush of blood in his ears serves as a nice way to tune out his thoughts. White noise. His stomach roils as he moves, nausea threatening to render him useless for a little while longer. Tony lays limp beneath his fingertips, letting Romeo do what he must. There’s still a scowl twisting his face up. The fight died from his eyes moments before.

Fortunately, nothing looks too bad. The shoulder is nasty. It’s not career-ending. Now Romeo’s good, but he’s not that good. Wouldn’t dare to try resetting that on his own. It’s a job for someone else, someone a lot more qualified. That gash on Tony’s cheek is slowly scabbing over. Romeo winces, secondhand pain. Someone is gonna rip that back open to clean it later. Everything else seems like superficial damage.

“Can you sit up?” he asks, taking one of Tony’s hands in his own. It’s calloused and sticky with blood. The warmth is oddly familiar. Again, Tony doesn’t dignify that with anything more than a grunt. Shoves his good arm back, wincing at the jolt in his bad one. Uses his elbows to gain a little leverage. It’s not quite sitting up, but it’s a start.

Romeo chews at his lip. By now the taste of copper in his mouth is practically second nature. He’s guilty. It gnaws at his stomach and he hates the way it burns. “Better than nothing,” he muses quietly, rocking back to rest his weight on his haunches. Tony pulls his hand away. The muscles in Romeo’s legs throb.

“You got any smart ideas to get us outta here?” Tony snarks, and Romeo doesn’t miss the bite in his voice. Clearly, he’s feeling a little better already. It’s not got that malicious ring to it, though. Not like usual. He could put money on Tony being more pissed at himself than Romeo.

“Pick-up point isn’t far away,” he muses, using his hand to shield his eyes from the bright sun overhead. “If you can walk that far, we—“

“I can.”

Tony doesn’t wait for Romeo to argue, and he doesn’t ask for help. Instead, he uses his good arm to push him up, just enough to sit. Even then, he’s panting, slightly breathless. Romeo doesn’t miss the way he winces.

“Let me carry you,” Romeo suggests.

The blond’s face twists into an ugly scowl. “No.”

He sighs, lips pressing into a tight line. “So you gonna walk? ‘Cause it’s not gonna be the shortest walk.”

Tony’s answer isn’t so immediate this time. He’s thinking about it, considering his options. Romeo can tell by the way his eyes cloud with an uncharacteristic thoughtfulness. Tony always tends to shoot first, ask questions later.

Finally, he answers. “Fine. But I swear to God, if you tell anyone about this,” Tony snarls, weakly jabbing a finger at Romeo’s chest. “I swear I’ll kill you myself.”

Romeo just shrugs. They both know the only person he talks to is Tony. He has nobody to tell, even if he wanted to. Telling people would only bring about questions, and Romeo feels far too guilty to answer those. Or think about them. Even something as simple as reporting to Jack would be a struggle.

Silently, he shifts, one arm scooping underneath Tony’s legs and the other supporting his back. Avoids his bad shoulder. They both know Romeo isn’t strong enough to manage this, but at least he can walk. He stumbles to his feet, sways a little, fingernails digging into Tony’s flesh. Not enough to hurt, but more than enough to feel.

“Careful,” Tony mutters. It’s the most concern Romeo’s ever heard in his voice. Almost unsettling.

He manages to straighten up, though, remaining still for just long enough to catch his balance. Tony is long and lanky, but he’s also light. The height difference makes it a little awkward, but Romeo’s too determined and too proud to forfeit now. Can’t. He’s made enough mistakes to get them both to this point.

“I’m good,” he assures, adjusting his grip on Tony’s lithe body. For just a second, their eyes meet, and Romeo swears he’ll never see a prettier shade of blue than the colour of Tony’s eyes. Blond curls frame his face, tangled and stained with blood. That trademark scowl has melted away, and it’s one of the rare occasions where Romeo sees his face completely relaxed. He looks up at Romeo with something akin to childlike innocence.

If he were somebody else, and they were in a different time, Romeo might call him beautiful.

He pushes that thought down. Locks it away for another time, preferably when he’s alone, not staring into Tony’s crystalline eyes. Starts walking, instead, because pain is a surefire way to distract him from his own internal monologue.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. If Tony wasn’t listening closely, he’d miss it. Romeo’s eyes are fixed firmly on the horizon. Barely audible above the incessant background noise of cars and people and city life. Even on the outskirts, it’s noisy.

“Shut up,” Tony mutters. “This ain’t your fault.”

For Tony to admit fault so easily is wrong. Leaves a strange taste in Romeo’s mouth, and it’s not the taste of blood.

“Maybe if I did my job properly, we wouldn’t be like this, y’know?” Romeo persists, although there’s a lightness to his tone. Jovial, maybe. Doesn’t want to get too serious, not when he’s holding Tony’s broken body in his arms and trying to ignore the way his knees threaten to buckle with every step.

“I said shut up,” Tony warns. There’s a brief flash of irritation in his eyes, but it’s gone before Romeo truly registers it. “I jumped down your fuckin’ throat. Didn’t give you enough chance.”

“And I could’ve reacted better,” is Romeo’s immediate response. “Seriously, Tony, this isn’t your damn fault. An’ when we report to Jack, I swear if you don’t keep your mouth shut—“

Tony scoffs. “Why? So Jack can refuse you fieldwork for the next three years? Because he will.”

“I don’t really care,” Romeo lies.

Being refused fieldwork is getting off lightly. Jack doesn’t make mistakes.

“Yeah, you do.” Tony informs. “‘Cause you’re the one who spent fuckin’ months trying to get us this job, an’ then I went and fucked it up.”

Romeo lets out a small sigh through his nose. “It’s not even that bad.”

“You gonna tell Jack that? ‘It’s not even that bad, Tony just fucked up everything you asked’?” he snarls. “That’ll go down well. I’m sure he’ll love that.”

“Why the fuck do you want me to blame you so bad?” Romeo asks. The irritation melts away, replaced with nothing but a genuine curiosity. “You’re his favourite. You could say anything, an’ he’d probably believe it.”

Tony huffs, turns his face away. He’s staring at nothing.

“Because it’s weird when you get hurt. When Jack screams at you, I don’t…” he trails off, shaking his head. “Forget it.”

“To—“

“I said forget it.”

And like that, Romeo drops it. Has to, because Tony has made it pretty damn clear he’s not talking about this anymore.

“Just let me take the fall for this one, okay?” Tony asks, and now his voice is softer. There’s a finely veiled edge of authority, and Romeo has to laugh. Tony barely outranks him, and he’s only ever seen them as equal in that regard.

“No,” Romeo murmurs. Soft, but not without the urgency of a demand. “This ain’t your battle, Tony...”

“I was here, wasn’t I?” he scowls. “I’ll do what I fuckin’ please.”

“What if we don’t blame anyone, and let Jack decide who’s guilty?”

Because they both know it’ll be Romeo. Jack thinks highly of Tony, always has. He’s the favourite. Romeo doesn’t have to take the fall to be blamed, and he came to terms with that a while ago.

“What if he kicks you out?” Tony asks, voice real quiet. Finally betrays the terror running through his head. It’s a much more realistic expectation.

“Then I pack my shit and go,” Romeo answers. There’s a rueful smile on his face. The only way he’ll be leaving is with a bullet through his brain. Ditched in an unmarked grave somewhere. No need to do any packing. “Wasn’t cut out for a place like this, clearly.”

“You can’t—“ he begins, but those words seem to catch in his throat. Can’t say what he wants to. Tony never loses his words like that.

“That’s up to Jack. His call.”

“You can’t just back down like that, asshole! What happened to not goin’ down without a fuckin’ fight?” Tony demands. He’s not covering the upset in his voice well.

“Jack would just have me killed, Tony.”

Those words are heavy. They hang in the air unpleasantly. Romeo isn’t wrong, and he’s pretty sure that’s what makes that sentence so disquieting.

“I wouldn’t let him,” Tony mutters defiantly. It’s a pathetic suggestion, because Tony doesn’t control Jack, nobody does, and even his status as favourite wouldn’t hold much weight there.

Romeo sighs, holds Tony a little tighter.

“No point getting worked up ‘bout what he might say,” Romeo points out. They’re close now, he can see the getaway vehicle across the street. The outskirts of town are quiet. The gun on Romeo’s hip has most people looking the opposite way anyway, golden metal glinting in the light.

Tony meets his eyes again, and there’s an undeniable anxiety there. There’s tension in his jaw. “Let me take the fall,” he demands.

“I can’t do that, Tony,” he sighs.

“Please.”

“No. Let’s not argue, Tony, yeah?”

Tony is quiet. There’s another voice now, and suddenly the weight of another person is lifted from Romeo’s arms. He blinks. A dark-haired woman is talking, commenting on their injuries, asking questions. He can’t focus for long enough to answer. An overwhelming exhaustion hits him, and he slides into the backseat without a fight. Tony is beside him a few moments later. There’s that familiar hum of an engine beneath him, and Romeo swears he could pass out here and now.

Tony doesn’t speak again until they’re in the back of the car, fingertips brushing against each others’. He’s still tense, particularly in the face, although he can’t hold much tension in his bad shoulder. Romeo is less so, because he’s already come to terms with what could happen. He’ll do what it takes to keep Tony out of harm’s way. That kid’s been through enough.

“Don’t go,” Tony whispers. Only Romeo could possibly have picked that up. Their driver doesn’t even flinch.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” Romeo assures. He’s lying, and they both know it, but it’s a bittersweet reassurance.

His eyes flicker to the outside, and suddenly Romeo isn’t Romeo anymore. He has a freedom he never had, snatched away from him as a child, crushed by the crippling need for money. It’s another time, another world, and it’s one his fingertips brush over occasionally. The way his brush against the rough skin of Tony’s hands. Just out of reach. Something he can never have.

Something he will never have.

[cloudphillips]

One

Seungwan should've known better than to wager against Sooyoung.

  Considering the Slytherin girl's penchant for mischief and deception, it should've been enough incentive for Seungwan to know that something fishy was going on. But even her long history of pure bad luck and gullible tendencies didn't prevent her from taking the bait. Now she had to sneak around the halls of Hogwarts in the middle of the night concealed under the invisibility cloak to search of the fabled Room of Requirement.

  She could've been lounging in the Ravenclaw common room right now writing her essay in Transfiguration and or sneaking into the kitchens to teach the art of Muggle baking to the house elves she befriended but no, she just had to lose a stupid bet.

  And now, she had to pay for the price. 

She descended from the winding steps of the Grand Staircase and followed the directions leading to the castle grounds. The rational part of her brain screamed at her to Turn back! You're breaking school rules! Retreat before you get expelled! But the other side of her, the small, miniscule and barely-there prideful side of her refused to be cowed. She will not back down from this. Seungwan didn't want to give Sooyoung the satisfaction of knowing that she was a coward all along.

  By the end of the corridor, the young Ravenclaw stopped dead in her tracks when the Gray Lady fluttered pass the solid walls. Their gazes met and those lifeless eyes seemed to see past the magic veil of her invisibility cloak. Seungwan briefly wandered if ghosts were immune to its enchantments. Thankfully, the Gray Lady ignored her existence and continued haunting the halls of Hogwarts. Once the coast was clear, Seungwan resumed her task.

  Any normal person could pretend and claim about finding the Room of Requirement but Seungwan was such a bad liar so there was no way she could've successfully pulled a deception of this magnitude from Sooyoung. The girl was an experienced bullshit detector and any attempts of manipulation from Seungwan would be for nought.

  Besides, Kim Yerim, a young Gryffindor and Sooyoung's evil partner in crime, threatened to jinx Seungwan's flying broom and burn all the books she owned if she ever chickened out. In the end, the Ravenclaw decided that she couldn't risk it.

  Lurking behind the statue of a grotesque gargoyle, Seungwan blew off whisps of her blonde hair that obscured her vision as she studied the intricate patterns carved on the walls in the hopes of revealing a concealed passageway. Hogwarts was full of hidden rooms and other enchantments. Many of its secrets remained undiscovered and it would take her centuries to uncover all of them.

  There was an unmistakable sound of footsteps echoing along the halls and she hastened her pace. "Nox!" After extinguishing the light from her wand and ensuring that her entire body was hidden underneath the cloak, Seungwan waited with bated breath when she saw the hunched figure of Filch emerge from the Great Hall. His beady eyes scanned the empty corridor, searching for anything suspiciously out of the ordinary. He entirely missed the young Ravenclaw's silhouette standing beside a knight statue and decided to make a quick stop to his office. He found it pointless to patrol the school and catch rule-breaking students without the aid of his precious shackles.

  Seungwan released a sign of relief. She was not getting caught today. No sir!

  She poked her head out from the cloak, checking to see if he really left the vicinity and cheering internally when he did. Seungwan was really pushing it now. The number of school rules she was breaking must be horrendous and her best friend Joohyun would be so disappointed, especially when she finds out that the invisibility cloak she lent to Seungwan had been used for illegal purposes.

  Seungwan knew that she was a bad friend, taking advantage of Joohyun's kindness and lying just to achieve her ends, but a lot was at stake here and she couldn't let the devil duo win. She couldn't let them taint Ravenclaw's immaculate reputation by allowing the spread of rumors regarding her cowardice. Seungwan would rather die than bring shame to her house.

  The young Ravenclaw sucked in a deep breath and steadied her resolve. She needed to find this Room of Requirement as soon as possible so she could return to her common room and be done with it. She still needed to read Gilderoy Lockhart's Voyages with Vampires goddamnit!

  "The light drives away the void that has long blinded my eyes upon your arrival." Seungwan nearly jumped in surprise when the portrait of a dark-haired woman, wearing a white Grecian dress and resting casually on a rustic bench then holding a cluster of grapes within the palm of her hands, called her attention. The title Embodiment of Love and Beauty: Aphrodite was carved on the base of the portrait's golden frame and it sparked a recent memory of the Greek Mythology book Seungwan was reading a few days ago. "Come yonder and whisper the melody into my ears-" Aphrodite leaned closer to get a better look at the blonde girl. "-the reason why a darling rose like you lurks in the darkness of the night."

  Wow. The Ravenclaw was amazed. Who knew that Aphrodite could be so poetic? All the books she read never mentioned how the goddess had a way with words. She could give Apollo a run for his money.

  "Uhmm.." Seungwan was bewildered because she thought she was doing a great job of hiding. Apparently not, because she was clearly caught by someone, even if it was just a mere painting. "I was hoping to find the Room of Requirement." The greek goddess ruefully shook her head, tendrils of raven black locks swaying with every movement, and made such a simple act look so elegant.

  Aphrodite seemed refined and ethereal and for some reason, Seungwan noted an akin likeness between the goddess and Joohyun.

  Huh.

  "My lovely rose. Forget such trivialities and allow me to bask in your sweet presence." Aphrodite purred as she batted her eyelashes coquettishly at the innocent girl. The goddess seemed to have taken a liking towards the young Ravenclaw. "You wield the brilliance of the sun within you. Are you, perchance, an offspring of Apollo?" And when Seungwan shook her head no, the deity continued singing her praises. "No matter. I will not let such things hinder us. For I will pluck all stars in the sky and weave them into garments only befitting of your radiance."

  The blonde girl didn't know what to do with the sudden attention. She was flattered, really, that the Goddess of Love and Beauty found her worthy of her affections but Aphrodite was a portrait and Seungwan was just not into her.

  Seungwan thought of ways on how to gently turn the goddess' advances down without offending her. Sure, Aphrodite was a portrait and held no real power over her but all deities, even ones immortalized in paintings, had enormous pride and easily get injured at the smallest of things.

  "I wish to fulfill your wishes O lovely Aphrodite! But my heart is torn and I simply cannot." Seungwan decided to lay it thick and flatter the goddess. The sooner she escapes this predicament, the sooner she can continue her task of finding the elusive room. "For I am a mere mortal unworthy of your affections. Our becoming is never destined and the Sisters of Fate would drive us apart." At times like these, her greasiness was put to good use. All those instances of playfully flirting at Joohyun was paying off.

  "We simply cannot be." She whispered brokenly to elicit a dramatic effect and successfully rendered Aphrodite into tears. Who knew that Seungwan had a knack for theatrics?

  A part of her was guilty for pulling this cunning move and manipulating someone, even if that someone was just a portrait, but she couldn't deny the rush of excitement it gave her. She was starting to know what it felt like being a Slytherin.

  "Alas! You speak of the truth, my darling rose, and my heart has come to accept this. Forgive me for forcing my unwanted affections upon you." The goddess wiped away the last of her tears and gathered her resolve. "Allow me to amend my offenses and aid you in your endeavors." Aphrodite bestowed her godly blessings upon the blonde, which was completely unnecessary because the deity was a painting and she wielded no real power, and Seungwan just obeyed because she wasn't raised to be rude. "You seek of a place which is hard to find. A room that comes and goes."

  That piqued the young Ravenclaw's interest and she leaned closer, eager to learn what the deity has to say. Aphrodite smiled fondly at Seungwan before stating a cryptic message. "It only ever appears in times of great need."

  Their little chat was interrupted when familiar voices sounded down the corridor. "I think someone's down here!" One of them said and their footsteps quickened. The young Ravenclaw panicked and spurred into action by hiding behind a marble pillar and covering herself with the invisibility cloak. She waited with bated breath and clutched her wand tightly as she prepared herself for an unwanted confrontation.

  Seungwan thought she heard the distinct sound of a cat purring and upon glancing down, she was caught paralyzed by the sight of Mrs. Norris glaring at her nastily. The feline's beady yellow eyes sent tendrils of fear to her spine. For a moment, she wondered how the animal could see her through the veil of the enchanted cloak. Did felines have a heightened sense of sight that they acquired the ability to detect invisible objects? "Shoo! Please go away." Seungwan tried her best to treat the cat with as much courtesy as possible because even though Mrs. Norris wasn't the most well-liked among the students, considering she was Filch's pet, but she was still a cat and Seungwan respected all animals, no matter how evil.

  Mrs. Norris had other intentions because her hackles rised and lunged to attack the young Ravenclaw. Those razor-sharp claws sank deep into her leg, slightly drew some blood, and effectively tore her trousers. The blonde was unable to stop the groan that escaped from her lips when she felt the stinging sensation.

  Crap!

  The voices became louder and the young Ravenclaw barely had time to control her agonized breathing when two figures emerged from the dark hall. Upon getting a clearer look on their features, Seungwan stifled a groan and cursed the universe for playing a sick game on her.

  It was her friends. Seulgi and Joohyun.

  Both of which were Prefects.

  Prefects who were patrolling the halls of Hogwarts late at night.

  Prefects who, if they somehow caught wind of Seungwan's rule-breaking, had the authority to take away house points and report the said girl to the Head of the Ravenclaw House.

  Just her luck.

  "There's nothing down here Joohyun." Seulgi directed the tip of her wand to cast a beam of light upon the dark corridor. Joohyun told her earlier that she heard some noises in the vicinity and accompanied her friend to investigate. "It's just Mrs. Norris hissing at nothing in particular." Seulgi nodded at the said feline, who was busy glaring at an empty spot behind a marbled pillar, then turned to regard her friend skeptically.

  "That's odd." A minute ago, she thought she heard someone whimpering as if they were in pain. Thinking that a person was injured, she hurried over to check it out, only to find nothing. Did I miss something? Joohyun thought as she squinted her eyes to thoroughly examine the dark hall. She found the cat's actions quite unusual, hissing at the wall and clawing at the empty space as if provoked by the air, but she chalked it up to weird animal behavior. She shook her head and acquiesced. "It must have been my imagination."

  "Do you want to rest? I could finish patrolling if you want. We've already checked most of the castle anyway." Seulgi asked her friend in concern. Being a kind person that she was, it's quite expected of her to ensure her friend's well-being, even if it meant sacrificing her own. Maybe her good-nature just comes with being a Hufflepuff.

  "No, I'm fine." Joohyun declined her offer and adjusted the green scarf wrapped around her neck. The cold air felt like freezing shards that bit her skin but she shrugged her uneasiness off and remained impassive because she didn't want to inconvenience Seulgi. "Let's finish this."

  She gritted her teeth when another blast of the chilly night air hit her face. Joohyun longed for a personal heater, probably in the form of a blonde Ravenclaw Muggleborn whose bright smile put the sun to shame.

  "Last stop, the Dungeons." Seulgi shivered anxiously when she uttered the word. She aimed the light down the spiralling staircase that led to their intended destination and huddled close to Joohyun partly for warmth and mostly for reassurance. The taller girl felt uncomfortable with dark and creepy places. She had gotten used to the warm and comfy atmosphere of the Hufflepuff common room and stifling areas like the Dungeons made her quite nervous. It was a good thing she had her Slytherin friend to accompany her.

  Joohyun furrowed her brows, took one last look at the dark halls, before reluctantly following Seulgi to continue with their patrol.

  As soon as the Prefects were out of sight, the blonde released the breath she'd been holding and quickly shrugged off her cloak to check the damage that evil cat had inflicted.

  Sure enough, her trousers were torn and there was a trail of blood that stained the rainbow-colored socks she borrowed from Seulgi. Crap! The socks were ruined and no amount of Scourgify could remove those bloodstains. Seungwan used to stock her luggage with numerous bottles of bleach for cleaning purposes but her supplies dwindled after that one particular incident which involved diving under the black lake for some experimental research in Care of Magical Creatures and trying to befriend a Giant Squid for extra credit.

  How was the blonde supposed to know that the Giant Squid’s way of showing its trust and getting its stamp of approval was to squirt stinky black ink all over her body?

  How was she supposed to know that, by that simple and disgusting gesture alone, she was already adopted into the squid community?

  Squid ink was difficult to remove, mind you, and it left Seungwan smelling like seafood the whole week.

  And that was the story of how she used up all her bleach.

  If only there was some magical equivalent of the 7/11 convenient store in the wizarding world so she could restock her supplies.

  Oh well, can’t have everything, can we?

  Mrs. Norris poised for another attack and that was enough incentive for Seungwan to run for her life. It was quite ridiculous that she was being terrorized by a cat but in her defense, Mrs. Norris was a demon incarnate. No amount of reasoning would work around that feline so with the influence of her self-preservation, the young Ravenclaw took off. If she were to die, she didn’t want it to be caused by something stupid like being clawed to death by a cat. That’s just ridiculous. She’d be rolling over her grave if that were to happen.

  Seungwan dashed along the winding halls of Hogwarts and ignored the burning sensation on her wound. Adrenaline was the only thing keeping her sane now and she tried to remain composed while a murderous cat followed her wake. She took a series of twist and turns and ran until she could no longer hear the sound of screeching and purring.

  The Ravenclaw stopped short to catch her breath and shrugged off her cloak to wipe the sweat off her face. She had never been more exhausted in her entire life and that was a great indicator that Seungwan needed to do more cardio. It made her wonder if this dare was worth risking her life for. She contemplated of backing out but the mocking laugh of Sooyoung and the sinister grin of Yeri, along with the images of broken brooms and burning books, flashed into her mind and her resolve was back full force.

  She’d come this far. Might as well get this over with.

  She will not live like a coward. Not today Satan!

  But as soon as Seungwan regained some courage, it quickly dwindled when she realized that she was lost, like, really lost. It seemed like she stumbled upon an old abandoned classroom by chance.

  Scrolls of spare parchment and splinters littered the floors, unused desks and chairs were stacked haphazardly behind the dust-covered blackboard and marbled statues were blasted into pieces. The windows were smashed and the walls were scorched. It’s as if someone lit the whole room on fire and left it burning for centuries. A few Dementor dummies were broken beyond repair and some of its parts fell to ashes.

  Then something caught her attention.

  Standing far back into the room and partially covered by a worn red tapestry, there was an ornate and fairly ancient-looking mirror. The base had a clawed foot that served as a support and the gold borders that framed its edges were inscribed with a foreign and probably dead language.

  Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi

  Due to the fact that she was a Ravenclaw and she had a natural tendency to be curious, Seungwan walked close to inspect the object. She tried to decipher the hidden meaning behind the carvings and moved until her silhouette was reflected in the mirror.

  She looked like a hobo.

  Due to all the running she had to do, her short blonde locks clung to her neck in sticky waves and sweat dampened her skin. Her robes were askew and trousers were torn. She looked like she took a jolly night stroll at the Forbidden Forest but got attacked by an Acromantula.

  Her disheveled appearance reminded her of the time Ravenclaw had a Quidditch match against Gryffindor. It was a pitch-black stormy day and she strayed off the pitch trying to catch the Golden Snitch. She was struck by lightning and landed on the Whomping Willow really badly. Ravenclaw won the match but her broom was pretty wrecked and she was out of commission for nearly three months.

  Seungwan tried to smooth out the unruly bangs that covered her eyes when the image shimmered and her appearance changed. Suddenly, she wasn't the only person reflected in the mirror anymore.

  Standing before her were her friends and all sported cheery expressions on their faces. They looked older and more refined. Gone was the childlike naivety in their eyes and it was replaced with such wisdom that only comes after long years of being exposed to the world and meeting different people.

  Each of them portrayed their dream job. Sooyoung was now a fierce Auror. There was a certain fire in her eyes as she casually draped an arm over a Yerim, who appeared to be the youngest Head of the Ministry of Magic. The Gryffindor girl sported the same mischievous smile and it seemed like she still retained her penchant for troublemaking. Seulgi clutched her latest edition Comet 2500 and posed elegantly like the famous Quidditch player that she is. Joohyun was staring at all of them fondly. A small contented smile graced her lips as she stood as the new Headmistress of Hogwarts. Meanwhile, Seungwan had the professional badge of a Mediwitch and cradled in her arms an award from St. Mungo's hospital for her tireless efforts in curing magical maladies.

  There she was together with the people she held dearly to her heart, looking happy and contented, serving as pillars of support for each other and carrying with them an unbreakable bond formed by long years of friendship.

  Everything she desired and all she had been dreaming about were right before her.

  "What are you doing here?"

  Seungwan jumped in surprise when she heard the familiar bone-chilling voice that could only belong to one person.

  Joohyun.

  Judging from the stern expression she was sporting, the Slytherin Prefect was in her no-nonsense mode and she didn't look quite happy catching Seungwan red handed. "Sneaking around the castle at night is forbidden." Her tone sounded accusatory and the Ravenclaw fought hard not to squirm under her intense gaze. If glares could kill, the blonde would be dead right now.

  So much for not getting caught.

  "Sorry." She offered a lame apology, suddenly finding her shoes very interesting. Oh look! There’s a drop of blood staining the laces! She really needed to get some bleach.

  When Joohyun's left eye twitched in annoyance, it didn't take long for Seungwan to break like a dam and quickly spun a tale of how she got into this predicament. "I lost a bet to Sooyoung! I really didn't want to break the rules but Yerim threatened to jinx my broom and burn my books if I chickened out!"

  Joohyun remained indifferent the whole time the blonde Ravenclaw pleaded her defense. Her gaze landed on the invisibility cloak that was discarded to the ground. The one she lent to Seungwan. “Is this why you borrowed my cloak? To use it for illicit purposes?”

  “No! I mean- Yes!” Seungwan slapped her forehead. She was running out of excuses to tell. It seems like she can’t bullshit her way out of this situation. “I just wanted to find the Room of Requirement and Sooyoung said it can only be found at night.” The blonde sighed in defeat. Even she sounded crazy to herself.

  “Didn’t anyone warn you not to play Sooyoung’s games? Anyone in their right minds wouldn’t fall for her tricks.” Joohyun furrowed her brows. How could anyone be that gullible?

  “I know! I can be pretty stupid at times!” The Ravenclaw was ready to rip out her hair and throw herself out the window. There would be fewer stupid people in the world and she would  be doing the universe a favor. She groaned and stared helplessly at her amused friend. It’s good to know that the Slytherin found entertainment in her misery. “Why do I always make bad life decisions?”

  “Honestly? I also ask myself that question.” Then Joohyun noticed the blood gushing on Seungwan’s feet and rushed to her aid immediately. “What happened? Who did this to you?” She forced the blonde to sit down on the floor while she inspected the wounds. Thankfully, it wasn’t that deep and didn’t require a complicated healing spell for it to mend.

  “It’s nothing really, just a scratch.” Seungwan tried to shrug it off but Joohyun remained persistent and vigilantly scanned her from head to toe to check if she’d been hurt anywhere else. Once the Prefect was certain that the blonde was relatively unharmed, except for her bloody feet, she proceeded to softly blow air upon the wound in an attempt to soothe the pain. Seungwan blinked twice. Her heart hammering against the cages of her ribs and she had difficulty swallowing the lump in her throat.

  There was something about the way Joohyun tenderly cradled her injured leg and traced featherlight strokes on her skin. Her hands were gentle, reverent… cautious. It’s as if she was taking great care not to break Seungwan with her touch. Their gazes met and Seungwan somehow stopped breathing. Something shimmered in Joohyun’s eyes, a message held secret deep within her soul, and the young Ravenclaw couldn’t quite decipher it.

  Without taking her stare off the injured girl, the Slytherin Prefect took out her wand and cast a healing spell. “Episkey.” Joohyun whispered under her breath, eyes transfixed on those soft lips, itching to get close…closer.

  Seungwan could barely feel the wound closing nor the pain waning. Joohyun was looking at her intensely and she didn’t know how to handle it so she asked a rather dumb query. “Is there something on my face?”

  That effectively broke Joohyun out of whatever trance she was in. The Slytherin girl cleared her throat and stood up. She helped the blonde girl to her feet but refused to meet her eyes so she looked everywhere until she gazed upon the ancient looking mirror. Her curiosity was piqued. "What's this?" Noticing the foreign language carved on its golden frame, Joohyun moved closer to examine it. She wondered aloud.

  "Erised?"

  "Okay, this might sound crazy but I have a theory. Hogwarts is a magical school whose mysteries are still left unsolved. This might be one of those mysteries. You do know that the school never runs out questionable objects." Seungwan voiced out her ideas and it didn't take long for her to start pacing. Her hands making wild gestures in the air as she tried to put into words the thousands of possibilities her brain concocted.

  "I think this mirror shows the future." The Ravenclaw declared with such certainty and paused, eyes narrowing as millions of other thoughts swam into her head. "But how far into the future does it show? Maybe not too far." She shook her head and continued pacing.

  The Slytherin Prefect stood back and watched the blonde mutter a thousand things per minute. It's like her mouth couldn't keep up with her brain so she compensates by rambling about nothing and everything at once. It was only during times like this that Joohyun would get a glimpse inside Seungwan's mind. The younger girl was usually insecure about being a chatterbox, always carefully watching her words and actions around people. If it were up to her, she'd listen to Seungwan all day. Her thoughts were like lyrics Joohyun would gladly spend her life composing into a song.

  "What do you see?" Her internal musing was interrupted when the Ravenclaw stopped pacing and regarded her with an inquiry. Solving mysteries had always been Seungwan's obsession and the Prefect could tell that she was in her element. Joohyun could see it. The way the flames of curiosity burned in those brown orbs and the eagerness to discover the unknown transformed her, giving her an aura of confidence that rarely showed itself.

  Seungwan was glowing and it took her breath away.

  It took Joohyun a few moments to gather her thoughts. The effort to calm her pounding heart was futile for the blonde proved to be quite distracting so she focused all her attention to both their reflection in the mirror instead.

  "I don't see anything." Joohyun furrowed her brows and regarded the blonde in confusion. What was so special about this mirror? It certainly didn’t look so magical to her. Maybe Seungwan was mistaken?

  "Are you sure?" Seungwan was bewildered. If her theory was correct and this mirror showed the future then why couldn't Joohyun see anything? She gestured for Joohyun to try again since she was desperate to prove her point. “Can you please look again?”

  Joohyun was unamused. It was pointless really. It was just a regular mirror. There was nothing magical about it. Why can’t the blonde Ravenclaw see that? She crossed her arms and glared hard at the reflections on the mirror, particularly at herself for always giving into Seungwan’s wishes. “Have you forgotten how mirrors work?” A minute has passed and she still found nothing in particular.

  "I only see us."

  The dejected look on Seungwan's features tugged at Joohyun’s heartstrings and the Slytherin Prefect volunteered to stare back into the useless mirror for an hour. Yes, Joohyun was a mess. She was a HUGE mess. She could barely make rational decisions when it came to Seungwan.

  The blonde shook her head and declined the Prefect’s offer. "Maybe it's just my imagination."

  Seungwan grabbed the abandoned invisibility cloak on the floor and dusted off the dirt before wrapping it snugly around Joohyun to keep her warm. Then she grabbed the raven-haired girl’s hand and guided her out of the room. Her mind running a thousand miles per minute, still trying to make sense of the mystery she witnessed.

  Meanwhile, Slytherin girl kept glancing at their intertwined hands, wondering why their fingers fit so perfectly with each other and thinking about how she didn't want to let go.

  Not now, not ever.

  And deep down Joohyun knew, that she wouldn't mind being cold if it meant that Seungwan would always keep her warm.

  ***

  Seungwan never did find the Room of Requirement and the following day, she had to face the music in the form of Sooyoung's offhanded Honestly? I'm even not surprised. I've heard rumors that the Room of Requirement only ever shows itself to people of worth and, no offense, you are not such person. What surprised me more was that you decided to go along with the dare. I was expecting you to back out since I knew that you could be a chicken at times.

  Or Yerim’s cutting What the heck? You're the top of the class! The smartest witch of our age! Out of all the people, you had the best chances of finding it. But I guess we really do cannot have it all. Seungwan didn't know if she should be flattered by the fact that Gryffindor held her with such a high regard or be insulted at the insinuation that she was a failure.

  Anyways, the blonde Ravenclaw retreated to the library to lick her wounds and pass the time by doing some light reading. She came across an interesting passage in the book that left her reeling with questions.

  The Mirror of Erised

  An ancient magical mirror made before the end of the nineteenth century by an unknown creator. It shows the deepest, most desperate desire of one's heart, a vision that has been known to drive men mad.

  Below the paragraph was a portrait of a familiar ornate mirror. Seungwan squinted to examine it closer and gasped in shock. It was the exact same one she found last night; the same mirror that appeared in her dreams countless of times. There was no mistaking it. The foreign carvings along its golden frame were identical. She read the passage again and again and stared at the portrait until her vision blurred with images of the reflections she saw.

  Joohyun being the Hogwarts Headmistress.

  Seulgi became a Professional Quidditch player.

  Her own self was a lauded Mediwitch.

  Sooyoung training as an Auror.

  And Yerim as the youngest Head of the Ministry of Magic.

  It made sense now. The young Ravenclaw already putting together the pieces of the puzzle. Seungwan was close to solving everything but there was still one thing that remained a mystery to her.

  How come Joohyun only saw them both?

[solcheeky]

unwind

summary: jung jaehyun has the hands of a god and kisses like the devil. and you’re all but subject to him. (3k)

genre: college!au, fluff, smut? warnings: mature content, suggestive, language a/n: idk how to categorize this since its not technically a smut. honestly it’s just a nonexistent plot-line with make-outs and insinuations of sex

“What are you doing here?” Your face contorts at the sight of your boyfriend standing—uninvited—at your door.

“A little birdie told me you were still working,” Jaehyun gives you a squishy cheeked smile. His notorious dimples and fluffy bed-head hair effortlessly stirring a gentle flutter in your chest.

“And it’s midnight,” Jaehyun breaks eye contact with you, his gaze falling on whatever seemed to be on your face, “so I came round to.. check up on you...” And for a second, you worry about his distracted stare and tilt of his head, wondering whether you’ve embarrassed yourself with crumbs on your face or dried toothpaste. But like always, Jaehyun reads your mind and laughs a little at your cute puzzling stare.

“No, you got pen here.” Thoughts stumbling past his pretty lips as he quickly swipes his thumb over his tongue before carefully rubbing the mark off your cheek.

Jaehyun had always been like this you know, his ways of showing how much he was so absolutely in love with you always so subtle yet sophisticated. It was the reason why you were so absolutely in love with him.

Jaehyun gently pushes your hair behind your ears with his pretty fingers then draws his palm back to your cheek, thumb delicately stroking the reddening apples of your cheeks.

You hate that he has the ability to make your heart swell over such trivial things.

“Thanks. But you can tell Yuta, your little birdie, to stop worrying about me.” You push his wrist to the side knowing all too well you’d melt into a puddle if he held your face any longer. “Especially since he likes to act as if he doesn’t care at all.”

“You know what Yuta’s like.”

“And you. I know what you’re like.”

Jaehyun quirks a brow at you as if he has no clue what you’re talking about. Which is an overt lie. You both know what ends up happening when he insists on helping you with work.

“I really just want to finish up some work tonight. For real this time.” The distressed knot between your eyebrows telling him how serious you were. “You can come and distract me tomorrow.”

Jaehyun’s bottom lip pokes out in a pout, “So you’re not going to let me in?”

You give a him dry look.

“I won’t say anything,” his words incredibly unconvincing, “I promise I’ll just stay on your bed. Then he pretends to zip up his lips, lock them with a fake key and throw it into thin air. You try to hide a giggle at his sweet, humble smile with an eye-roll.

“First of all, I’m on my bed.” You fold your arms over your chest, “if I’m on my bed you can’t be on my bed.” 

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

Jaehyun breathes a laugh into your hair as he briefly kisses your temple, clearly not taking your response seriously at all. He knew you were going to let him in the moment you opened the door, your silly eye-rolls and crossed arms were never enough to cover up the truth bared by your rosy cheeks.

“Says me Jaehyun,” you repeat, “the one aware of your nonexistent self-control.” But your words never seem to reach his ears because before you know it, he’s already brushed past the barrier of your body and strolled into your dimly lit room.

There’s paper splayed all over your bed, scattered like confetti around your laptop that’s sunk into the middle of the mattress. At the sore sight, your boyfriend peers over his shoulder at you disapprovingly.

“What?” Your tone challenging the shake of his head. “You don’t get to judge me for actually doing work.”

You watch as he moves some sheets to the side and places some closed textbooks on top the pile you had already accumulated on the floor. Then he grins up at you once he’s made himself comfy amongst your mess, back leaning against the wall with his legs spread open.

“Come here.” He pats the space between his legs. “Let me keep you company.”

At first, you’re reluctant, but when his lips press together in that soft dimpled smile, you can’t help but give in. And soon enough, Jaehyun’s arms are loosely guiding you from around your waist to help you settle snugly between his thighs as you pull your laptop onto your lap. He waits till you’re content before he pulls you closer into his arms in a brief hug, chest flushing against your back and nose nuzzling into your hair. You fall drunk at his sinfully sweet fragrance all over again.

That was all you needed, a simple hug from the one who made your heart sore; it was all that it took to release the tension in your shoulders and clear your mind.

You feel Jaehyun grin against your neck. “Told you.”

“Fine.” You consider yourself lucky that he couldn’t see the stupid enamored smile you had plastered on your face. “Now let me work.”

And just like he had promised, Jaehyun stayed quiet, letting you type away for little longer and stay focused on whatever you needed to do. He had given you the space you needed with his arms now loosely draped around your hips and chest no longer flushed into yours.

Until— “Jaehyun.” The tone of your voice is stern. 

“Yes?” He whispers ever so innocently against your hot skin as if he hadn’t just kissed the back of your neck.

“I’m not done yet.”

“I know. But you’re overworking yourself.”

A sigh is your only response. Because you know he’s right. You just hate to admit it. But undeniably, you were exhausted. The frequent sighs that had left your lips every time you rolled your neck around in stress was just the beginning of the display of fatigue manifesting across your body.

“It’s been long enough,” Jaehyun slips one arm away from your waist to brush your hair away from the nape of your neck so he could press his soft lips against your bare skin. “You need to take a break.”

However, as much you wanted to say yes, a small part of you wasn’t ready to give up. You were so close to the end. Your day full of research after research after research, and nose deep in dusted books wouldn’t be worth it if you couldn’t end it fully accomplished. You had worked through so much! Drinking endless coffees to stop your heavy eyelids from closing after every boring sentence in every boring book you had used—the campus librarian probably thinks you work in the library since you’re there so much.

Yet, that was all the more reason why Jaehyun knew you deserved this.

Your breath hitches when he seals his lips over another spot on the column of your neck.

“Jaehyun you were so good for the past few hours.” You try to refocus on the screen of your laptop. “Just a little longer please?” But contrary to your pleads, your words fall thin and are hiccuped by weightless sighs. 

“And so were you,” Jaehyun’s words are like honey, spilling over your skin and sweetly unraveling every little part of you. “You were so good baby, so good.” He plants a soft kiss onto your nape. “You deserve a break.”

Powerless, your eyes flutter closed when you feel his lips latch back onto the side of your neck, your head lulling back onto his shoulder when he sucks a little harder, his tongue doing wonders in the one spot he knows makes you weak.

His name can’t leave your lips without an airy sigh. “My.. My laptop Jae...”

“I got you baby.” He pulls the laptop off your thighs and pushes some paper away to make just enough room for you to lie down flat on your stomach.

Jaehyun knees straddle either side of your hips and his pretty fingers wander up under the hem of your top to press into your lower back.

A stammering sigh tumbles past your lips when his thumbs push harder into the dimples of your back massaging circles across your skin in attempt to rid the knots tied in your tensed muscles.

“Jaehyun…” You don’t mean for his name to come out so prurient.

A hum rumbles from his throat in response.

“What… are you.. What are you doing?”

“Helping you relax.” He says adding more pressure into your back again, a sigh escaping your throat when he rubs circles higher up your waist.

It was unexpected to say the least; his skillful hands finding their way to every knot under your skin in a stress relieving massage. Just like the smooth tug of a ribbon bow slipping free from its shape, each rounding circle of Jaehyun’s thumbs effortlessly pulled you into a dazed state of mind.

“Can I take this off?” You feel Jaehyun tug at your top. So you nod eagerly, unable to speak without stammering from the dizzying high of his fingers rendering you into a pool of molten heat.

“Okay, arms up.”

And you obey.

Carefully, Jaehyun pulls your top upwards, the desire in his heart to mark every little part of your exposed back bursting like a flame at the tip of his ears.

“God you’re so pretty.” He thinks out loud at the pleasant surprise of your bare back, your choice of wearing no bra stirring thoughts of how many ways he could make you feel so good. If only he could stop time and cherish this moment of you forever. Where you lay await for him, and for him only; your breath fumbling ungodly whispers of his name and cheeks flushing at his every touch. Only you could create this perfect storm of emotions burning in Jaehyun’s chest, every single bit of him wanting to devour you and give you the love he knew you deserved.

Jaehyun slips your top higher till it reaches the end of your arms and pulls your wrists together, the stretch in position allowing his wet lips to find their way back onto the nape of your neck. One of his hands holds your bare waist, gripping fingers guiding the back of your hips into his, the other is in a fist, bunching up the fabric of the shirt that clung around your wrists. All the while his lips heavenly mark the side of your neck.

Your heart stumbles in your chest at the blossoming bruises Jaehyun litters all over your skin. He knew how to work your body like the back of his hand. With such ease, your body dissolves at the tickling brush of the tip of his nose against the space under your jaw and you know there was no turning back now. 

The sheets under your gripping fingers crease heavily as he flitters entrancing kisses down the dip of your shoulders, and when he sinks his teeth into your skin, a muffled groan erupts from the back of your throat and drowns into the depth your mattress.

His hands still fixed, Jaehyun lifts his mouth away from your bruised shoulder to press a small peck onto your shoulder-blade beneath. Fingers at your shirt finally unclasp the wrinkled fabric and leave it slack around your wrists in order to affectionately interlock fingers with yours through the back of your hand.

“Let me take care of you.” His lips linger over your tasteful skin as he gives the back of your hand an assuring squeeze. “Just relax.”

You comply so easily, humming in agreement as you let his honey-like words take over every atom in your body.

For a moment, Jaehyun’s nose stays buried in your back, his heart filled with a desire to savor the heavy ocean of your heated aroma. If he couldn’t stop time he could at least slow down and take a moment to revel in you. 

And that was completely fine because it was almost embarrassing how hard your heart was thumping your chest. He had descended you into pleasure so quickly that boring essay of yours had slipped from your mind as a whole and was replaced with a storm of indecent thoughts.

Likewise, Jaehyun was absolutely hooked. As with every hot contact, his body grew more reluctant to listen to his brain; he could barely seem to pull away from your heated glamor at all. You were like a pool on a hot summer day he had only taken a dip into—just the tiniest taste—and every part of him ached to drown in the rest of your physical indulgence.

You were so tempting, so delicious, he had to force himself to tear apart from you. 

His panting breath lingered down the pebbles of your spine and the tip of his nose left a glimmering trail of goosebumps as he took all the time in the world to sit himself up again. Through his lashes, Jaehyun gazes down at you, heart overwhelmed at the sight of your flushed body.

Christ, how did he get so lucky?

Jaehyun loved you so so much. And he would give you the whole world if he could. He wanted to show you how much you meant to him, how much you deserved and how much he knew you needed this. So he took it slow; thumbs kneading into the dimples of your back massaging higher and higher till he reached the dip between your shoulder-blades.

God, it felt so good.

So good, you don’t even know how much time passed from when Jaehyun first started his massage. Time simply slips through your fingers fleetingly as you plummet into the abyss that was Jung Jaehyun. 

Another low moan slips from the back of your throat before you can stop it. Honestly, you don’t intend to sound so lewd, but the work his hands lay over every knot under your skin was sinfully transcendent.

“You good?”

You don’t have to open your eyes to know that Jaehyun had a smug grin on his face.

“Oh shut up.” Your lazy chuckle gets muffled by the duvet your cheek is squashed into.

“Tell that to yourself,” Jaehyun leans down to press a sweet kiss on the top if your spine, “I’m not the one making all that noise.”

Your jaw goes slack. Wow. The fucking audacity. You pretend to inch away from another kiss he tries to plant onto your back feigning annoyance. “I swear to god Jaehyun—“

“Okay,” Jaehyun chuckles into your skin, “Okay, okay.” He fails to peck your shoulder-blade without smiling, “It’s okay.” Another kiss. “I like it.”

Your body jolts when he squeezes his thumbs into the dips of your waist.

“Especially when you..” He starts to pepper more up the slope of your shoulder until his nose burrows into the warmth of your throat.

You jaw clenches when the peppers turn into slow, open-mouthed kisses. “Ah— Jaehyun!” His lips leave no spot untouched, sucking your skin raw while his fingers unbind every coil tethered across your back.

“..Say my name.” He pulls away to look at your fucked out face, biting his bottom lip to hold back a smug grin. Jaehyun was the type to take pride in himself for making you whimper under his lips and writhe against his frame, god knows what he would’ve done to you if you weren’t so exhausted.

“Wait.” Jaehyun hands reach up to your shirt, pulling it down from your wrists and back over your torso before he flips you over.

With your hands finally free, you hook your arms around his shoulders. A shaky exhale escapes your mouth as you wait for him to continue. But he doesn’t.

Instead, Jaehyun marvels at your unblemished front, your creamy skin untouched and as empty as a blank slate—the complete opposite to the kisses that brand your back and the nape of your neck—before his eyes flitter up to your supple lips.

His stare makes your face burn.

“What?” You ask blinking up at him.

“Your lips. I want your lips.”

Then without a second more to waste, Jaehyun lewdly bites down onto your bottom lip before you can say anything else, pulling at it till he’s reeling you into passionate kiss. Tingles explode across your skin at the fresh feeling of his bruised lips on your virgin ones. A wave of heat runs down your pulse and ignites at the pit of your stomach. Profanities turn over in your mind, capsizing your every thought as he pushes and pulls at the soft flesh of your lips with want.

He was so good to you. So fucking good.

Jaehyun’s arms slips under the back of your knees allowing his body to mesh perfectly into yours. You fall breathless when he tilts his head to the side a little more to coax your lips open further, a dizzying heat of emotion whirling in your chest as his plump lips slide wetly against yours. As usual, you were a mess under his touch. It was the result of his intoxicating self you indulged in so generously.

Jaehyun finally pulls away from you, his chest heaving as he breathes a light smile. Your heart trips over itself when his hand comes up to hold your face to guide his lips to your forehead. Momentarily, you bask in his affection, eyes fluttering closed and lips turning up in a giddy smile.

“Still want to finish that essay?” Jaehyun teases as he rolls over onto his back beside you and tucks you under his chin.

Your smile trades in for an eye roll, “I hate you.” You muffle into his chest.

Jaehyun snorts at your cute retaliation. “Yeah.” He hums into the top of your head. “Sure.”

A conversation your tired selves found no reason to continue any longer.

A quietude washes over the both of you, calming your hearts and hushing your surroundings into a quiet haze as though you were slipping in and out of slumber.

Time distorts when you lay in Jaehyun’s arms. His hand gently strokes your hair for what feels like both forever and never, until the slow rhythm of his breathing and warm embrace lulls you to sleep.

There was nothing more you could ask for.

[fractempyreal]

@stylunt​ said ‘ Fuck Whitney in particular ’ :  " I couldn't have done it, y'know. " It comes out of nowhere; an admission Vergil likely didn't ask for but Dante offers anyway. ( I couldn't have killed you, brother. / Like I couldn't kill Urizen? Dante pushes the thought aside. ) " Or maybe I could've -- probably after cussin' you to hell and back. But I'd killed you twice already by that point. Figured I'd at least let you even the score, y'know? "

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐈𝐒  𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐇𝐄  𝐇𝐀𝐃  𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 ,  𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐍’𝐓  𝐈𝐓 ?        Blood   splattering   over   Yamato’s   hilt    &    coating   his   hand   as   blade   shoves   further   into   the   younger   twin .   MUSCLES   SPASMING ,   TWIN’S   FEATURES   CONTORTING   HORRIBLY .  

                                   Just   like   old   times .

𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄  𝐎𝐅𝐓  𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃  𝐌𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐘 ,  𝐓𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐘 ,  𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇  𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐓  𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐄  𝐈𝐍  𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃 .        This   time   is   different   than   the   ones   before .   Words   readily   set   to   lash   in   typical   taunt ,   dying   before   it   can   even   reach   the   end   of   his   tongue .   A RIPPING   OF   MUSCLE ,   SICKENING   SQUELCH   OF   BLOOD   POOLING ,   SPURTING ,   whereas   before   there   lacked   any   sort   of   weight ,   here   instead   he   feels   it   crashing   down   upon   him   (   THREATENING   TO   CRUSH   HIM BENEATH   ) .   His   features   remain   blank in spite of it all ,   inhaling   deeply   at   the   silent   grunt released by twin ,   CARRYING   WEIGHT   THAT   HEAVILY   SLOUCHES   AGAINST   HIM .   It’s   different   this   time .

                                            It’s   different .

𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄  𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐒  𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇  𝐀  𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐍  𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃 ,  𝐀 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓  𝐎𝐅  𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐑 ,  𝐂𝐎𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆  𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐄 .        Easily   could   he   tear   Yamato   from   her   place   embedded   into   twin ,   but   something   keeps   him   from   following   through   (   INSTINCTIVELY KNOWING   THE   RESULT   THAT   WOULD  SUCCEED THE ACT   ) .  The   hollowness   within   his   chest   only   seem   to   gape   open   in   the   following   seconds .   Similar   times   in   the   past ,   he’s   known   the   little   impact   that   such   a   strike   could   cause   on   the   another   (   LOVINGLY   IMPALED ,   TO   AWAKEN   DEVIL   WITHIN   ) .   Their   powers   evenly   matched   only   with   each   other ,   THUS   THEY   COULD   ONLY   EVER   WHITTLE   DOWN   AT   ONE   ANOTHER’S   STAMINA   &   STRENGTH   UNTIL   ONE   FELL .   Piece   by   piece ,   year   after   year ,   they   found   each   other ,   &   one   always   came   out   on   top .   Boiling   rage ,   rushing   through   his   veins   upon   each   &   every   defeat ,   SERVING   TO   FUEL   FURTHER   THE   ALL -   CONSUMING   CONFLAGRATION   BURNING   WITHIN   HIM .   If   there   had   ever   been   hope   to   revive   the   shadow   of   humanity   within   him ,   then   it   was   lost   the   moment   when   obsession   overshadowed   it .  

𝐈𝐒   𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒   𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐇   𝐀   𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐄 ,   𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄   𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐘   𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆   𝐁𝐎𝐖𝐒   𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃   𝐈𝐍   𝐃𝐄𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄   𝐓𝐎   𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐄   𝐏𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑 ?        Where   wrath   &   fury   long   stamps   out   the   possibility   of   human   compassion ?   It   would   seem   so ,   where   iridescent   gaze   stares   out   into   the   darkening   stratosphere ,   VACANT ,   BURNING   FIRE   WITHIN   THEM   SHOCKINGLY   QUENCHED .   All   he   feels   is   the   twitching   muscle ,   hears   the   labored   breathes   gradually   devolving   into   watery   struggling ,   body   further   slumping   against   the   elder   for   support .

               IS   THIS   WHAT   IT’S   SUPPOSED   TO   FEEL   LIKE   ?

𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒   𝐘𝐀𝐖𝐍𝐒   𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑   𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍   𝐇𝐈𝐒   𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓 ,   𝐒𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆   𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍   𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎   𝐀   𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐌𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒   𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐒𝐌 .        Heavy   clatter   of   sword   against   the   rocky   surface   of   the   demonic   tree   loudly   ringing   within   his   ears   &   returning   him   to   the   present .   PICK   IT   UP .   PICK   IT   UP .  

                        ❛   Pick   it   up  .    ❜

𝐎𝐖𝐍   𝐕𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄   𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐒   𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐍   𝐀𝐒   𝐈𝐓   𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐒   𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎   𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍 ,   𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐃   𝐀𝐈𝐑 ,        the   spilled   ink   of   ever   blooming   regret   staining   the   pages   of   their   history .   It   seeps   between   the   words ,   STAINING   &   DESTROYING   WHAT   ONCE   WAS .   Perhaps   it   can   be   saved   (   THERE   HAS   TO   BE   A   WAY   TO   SAVE   IT .   THERE   MUST   ) .   A   hair’s   breadth   longer ,   before   he   tries   to   pull   away   with   Yamato ,   only   to   find   himself   anchored   in   place   BY   THE   ARMS   WRAPPING   AROUND   HIM .   Prying   them   off   wouldn’t   have   proved   difficult ,   he’s   blatantly   aware   of   this   fact ,   but   something   keeps   him   rooted   in   that   very   position ,   FROZEN   ENTIRELY .  

                                            ❛    I   couldn’t   have   done   it ,   y’know .   ❜

𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐏   𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆 ,   𝐖𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓   𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆   &   𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆   𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍   𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐒 .        Yamato’s   end   lowering   to   the   ground ,   releasing   her   target   with   what   Vergil   could   only   imagine   to   be   hesitancy   on   her   part .   SHE   SINGS ,   THE   MOURNFUL   DIRGE   HUMMING   IN   THE   AIR   as   boiling   blood   cools   upon   once   pristine   surface .   Setting   his   jaw ,   Vergil   finds   himself   faced   with   a   growing   fury   within   his   chest   instead   (   HIS   HAND   IS   RIGHT   THERE ,   IT’S   RIGHT   BESIDE   HIS   SWORD .   HE   COULD   PICK   IT   UP   AGAIN ,   STAND   &   FIGHT   AGAIN   ) ,   This   is   what   he’s   always   wanted ,   wasn't   it   ?   TO   PROVE   HIS   WORTH ,   TO   DEFEAT   HIS   YOUNGER   BROTHER   .   This   is   where   he   would   gain   all   that   he’s   ever   wanted .

                                 THEN   WHY   DOESN’T   IT   FEEL   THAT   WAY ?

𝐀𝐒   𝐀   𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄   𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒   𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎   𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊   𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 ,   𝐒𝐎   𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒   𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍   𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐊   𝐈𝐍   𝐇𝐈𝐒   𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐇 .        Waves   of   uncertainty   washing   over   him ,   MEMORIES   FRACTURING   FLOODGATE ,   SPILLING   INTO   MEGALOMANIC   THOUGHTS .   What   was   before   a   brief   recollection   of   memories   &   precious   moments   locked   away ,   now   floods   entire   thoughts .   HE’S   A   LITTLE   BOY   AGAIN ,   telling   his   brother   to   get   on   his   feet   &   try   again .   He’s   the   little   boy   that   reaches   out   towards   twin   (   INSEPARABLE ,   THEY   ONCE   HAD   ALWAYS   BEEN   INSEPARABLE   ) ,   to   help   him   back   onto   his   feet   in   order   for   them   to   continue ,   up   until   frantic   cry   put   a   stop   to   their   mock   battles   in   preventative   measure . 

                        ❛    Get   back   on   your   feet .    ❜

𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄  𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 ,  𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇  𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆  𝐀  𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆  𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐘 .        He   watches   as   younger   remains   unresponsive   to   him ,   as   if   he   hadn’t   heard   him .   He   watches   as   the   blood   flows   freely   from   where   Yamato   was   once   embedded   (   MORE   THAN   IT’S   EVER   BLED   BEFORE   ) ,   slicking   hands   in   dark   crimson   .   He   watches   as   form   struggles   to   remain   upright ,   FOREARMS   LIMPLY   RESTING   UPON   THIGHS   &   HEAD   BOWED .   He   can’t   tell   if   he   even   hears   him ,   if   he   even   knows   what’s   happening   anymore .   Body   swaying   with   the   soft   wind ,   blood   pooling   on   the   ground   between   his   legs .   WHY   HASN’T   IT   HEALED   YET ?  

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒  𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 ,  𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐋𝐘  𝐃𝐑𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆  𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍  𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋   𝐎𝐅  𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐇        as   Dante   continues ,   form   further   hunched   over   in   pain .   Even   in   finding   himself   faced   with   his   words ,   HIS   WILL   OF   EXPLANATION ,   shadows   valley   across   the   bridge   of   his   nose ,   before   instantaneously   smoothing   out .   Brows   slanting   downwards   as   he   stares   at   his   younger   brother   (   THE   ONE   HE   HAD   SOUGHT   TO   PROTECT   AT   ONE   POINT   ) ,   life   blood   steadily   bleeding   through   &   saturating   the   front   of   shirt .   Is   this   truly   what   he   had   wanted   all   along ?   To   put   an   end   to   their   constant   battles   (   THOUGH   THIS   WENT   FAR   BEYOND   A   PETTY   SQUABBLE   NOW   ) .   Taking   a   step   backwards ,   heel   of   boot   sending   a   pebble   skittering   across   the   ground   to   be   as   quickly   forgotten   as   much   as   his   ability   to   speak .

𝐇𝐄  𝐇𝐀𝐃  𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍  𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐃  𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐂𝐄 .  𝐇𝐄  𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐒   𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇  𝐎𝐍𝐄  𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐃𝐋𝐘 ,        the   mind   painting   each   one   as   a   masterpiece   of   ultimate   defeat .   YET   UNBEKNOWNST   TO   THE   TWIN ,   HE   HAD   DIED   MORE   TIMES   THAN   HE   THOUGHT .   Rise ,   O   Lazarus ,   more   powerful   each   &   every   time ,   with   only   one   objective   on   the   forefront   of   his   mind .   HE   HAD   TO   PROVE   HIS   WORTH .   TO   HIMSELF .   TO   HIS   BROTHER .   TO   THEIR   FATHER .

                              TO   THEIR   MOTHER .

                        ❛    Dante——————     ❜        𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐝 ,  𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡  𝐢𝐬  𝐡𝐢𝐬  𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 ,  𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡  𝐢𝐬  𝐡𝐢𝐬   𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐟 .        The   wretched   twist   of   fates   setting   him   upon   that   treacherous   path ,   STEELING   RESOLVE   &   WILL ,   TENFOLD .   Hours ,   days ,   YEARS ,   spent   imagining   the   swelling   sense   of   victory   upon   younger’s   defeat .   To   come   out   victor ,   like   he   once   so   often   did   when   they   were   younger .   IT   ALL   FALLS   GUT - WRENCHINGLY   FLAT   WITHIN   THE   NEXT   FEW   SECONDS .   In   the   back   of   his   mind ,   he   hears   that   despairing   plea   for   them   to   stop ,   rendered   to   complete   silence .  

𝐉𝐀𝐖  𝐒𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 ,  𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑  𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆  𝐀𝐒  𝐊𝐍𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐋𝐄𝐒  𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐍  𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍  𝐓𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆  𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐏  𝐎𝐍  𝐘𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐎 ,        he   begins   to   wonder   here   if   he   should   have   allowed   it   to   end   here .        ❛    You   are   just   as   naive   as   when   we   were   children .    ❜        His   own   voice   echoes   in   his   ears ,   staring   at   the   failing   body   before   him .   THIS   IS   WHAT   HUMANITY   LED   TO ,   DIDN’T   IT ?        ❛    But   I   will   not   allow   it   to   end   here .   Retrieve   your   sword ,   Dante .   Stand    &    fight .    ❜        It   cannot   be   ended   here .   Not   with   that   confession .        ❛    DON’T   TELL   ME   YOU   HELD   BACK   ON   MY   ACCOUNT .    ❜

                   BUT   HE   KNOWS   HIS   LITTLE   BROTHER .

𝐍𝐎𝐓  𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍  𝐀  𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆  𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄  𝐎𝐅  𝐃𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐓 ,  𝐅𝐎𝐑  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍  𝐈𝐒  𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐃  𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐄  𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄  𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘  𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 .        He   had   known   from   the   beginning ,    &    had   long   since   accepted   it .   A   TRUE   FOOL ,   RISKING   ALL   OF   HUMANITY   IN   HOPES   OF   SAVING   HIS   BROTHER .   Who   was   to   save   him   now ?   Who   was   to   save   the   crooked   grin   that   finds   itself   stretching   across   dirt - stained   face ?   Who   was   to   save   that   mischievous   chuckle    &    gleeful   glitter   winking   up   from   pale   blue   eyes   NOW   DULLING   AS   THEY   TURN   TOWARDS   THE   SKY ?   Who   was   to   save   that   final   breath   from   rattling   within   his   chest   with   burning   stars   twinkling   down   upon   him   from   the   dark   velvet   sky ?   WHO   WOULD   SAVE   THE   SAVIOR ?

        Following   silence   pervades ,   &   as   such ,   the   question   would   remain   unanswered .

𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐄 .  𝐀𝐍  𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄  𝐇𝐄  𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑  𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐄   𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐃  𝐓𝐎  𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄  𝐓𝐎  𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐑 .        This   is   all   they   knew ,   now   to   stand   above   him ,   STARING   DOWN   AT   THE   BODY ,   HIS   BROTHER’S   BODY ,   he   feels   that   cold   dread   set   within   his   bones .   It   feels   nothing   as   he   had   imagined ,   for   whatever   sense   of   victory   he   could   have   felt ,   IS   NOW   INSTEAD   TAINTED   WITH   BURGEONING   REMORSE .   He   could   have   further   goaded   Dante ,   mocking   him   for   failing   to   rise   to   his   feet ,   BUT   THEY   WOULD   HAVE   FELT   EMPTY .   He’s   no   fool ,   he   knows   what   death   looks   like .   It   looks   like   the   fading   of   memories ,   the   absence   of   laughter   (   THE   EMPTINESS   OF   A   VAST   SILENCE   AS   RESPONSE   TO   TAUNTS   ) .   It   is   the   souring   of   purpose ,   the   loss   of   reason   through   some   twist   of   fate’s   string ,   PROMPTLY   SEVERED .   He   knows   what   death   is ,   FOR   HE   IS   DEATH ,   HE   IS   THE   JUDGE ,   HOLDING    &    MANIPULATING   LIFE   WITHIN   HIS   THE   PALM   OF   HIS   HAND .  

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐈𝐒  𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐇𝐄  𝐇𝐀𝐃  𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓  𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 .  𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐖𝐀𝐒  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃  𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐍  𝐑𝐄𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐃 .        What   more   is   left   now ,   if   testament   of   his   weakness   (   IN   TANDEM   WITH   HIS   HUMANITY   ) ,   now   lays   at   his   feet ?   He   finds   himself   questioning   where   to   go   from   here ,   as   opalescent   frost   drifts   from   a   familiar   face ,   to   the   gleam   of   crimson   at   the   pommel   of   sword   nearby .   Breath   catching   in   his   throat ,   fist   curling   inwards   before   lifting   a   mournful   blade   to   rip   the   blood   from   her   surface ,   HER   HOLLOW   CLICK   RESOUNDING   IN   THE   PALPABLE   SILENCE .   Staring   at   the   familiar   stone   embedded   within   fiery   clutches .   He   staring   at   it ,   &   the   longer   he   does ,   the   more   he   realizes   what   he’s   done .   Form   lowering ,   hand   extending   with   fingers   brushing   over   its   smooth   surface   (   IT’S   AS   BEAUTIFUL   AS   HE   REMEMBERS   IT   ) .   Her   voice   pushes   into   his   mind ,   lovingly   warm ,   bestowing   upon   them   the   one   item   symbolizing   that   they   were   to   always   be   two   halves   of   one   whole .   POWERFUL   ON   THEIR   OWN ,   UNSTOPPABLE   WHEN   ONE .  

𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐓  𝐓𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 ,  𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐑  𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍  𝐁𝐎𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆 .        Breath   coming   in   a   little   more   than   a   shudder ,   realizing   the   irreversible ,   reprehensible   mistake   committed .   What   more   is   there ,   now   that   one   of   the   flames   has   been   snuffed   out ?   MONSTER ,   HE’S   BEEN   CALLED .   BEFITTING   OF   HIS   TRANSGRESSIONS   AGAINST   HUMANITY .   Even   now ,   as   he   drags   his   hand   away   from   that   precious   stone   (   UNWORTHY   .   HE’S   UNWORTHY   OF   POSSESSING   IT   ) ,   he   accepts   that   there   is   no   turning   back ,   that   he’s   far   past   the   point   of   no   return .   Deep   rumblings   of   the   Qliphoth   drawing   him   from   his   thoughts ,   reminding   him   of   what   he   had   set   about   to   do ,    &    THAT   NOW   THERE   STANDS   NOTHING   BETWEEN   HIM    &   ———————-  

𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐍  𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄  𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 ,  𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌  𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄   &   𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 .        But   pieces   of   him   lost   each   time ,   further    &    further   straying   from   what   he   was ,   MORE   DEVIL ,   MORE   MONSTER   THAN   HUMAN   NOW .   Death   to   his   humanity ,   wrought   by   his   own   hands    &    blind   ambitions   (   DESPITE   ALL   THAT   ONCE   WAS   PRECIOUS ,   WHAT   STILL   WAS   PRECIOUS ,   ONCE   STOOD   BEFORE   HIM   ) .   Ironic ,   that   where   once   it   was   crumbling   body ,   it   now   infiltrates   beyond   surface ,   spreading   within   (   PIECES   OF   HIM   FALLING   AWAY ,   SCATTERING   ACROSS   GROUND   WITH   EVERY   PROGRESSING   STEP   HE   TAKES .   ASHES   TO   ASHES    &    DUST   TO   DUST   ) .   Approaching   what   once   had   served   as   his   tether   to   this   world ,   NOW   RESTING   PEACEFULLY   AS   EMPTY   GAZE   STARES   TOWARDS   THE   HEAVENS .   He   stands   above   him   for   a   time ,   slowly   lowering   himself   to   take   in   the   face   of   a   twin   he   viciously   sought   to   defeat .   Slowly ,   slowly   do   his   fingers   glide   over   his   brow ,   sliding   down   over   his   eyes   to   lay   him   to   rest .   IS   THIS   WHAT   DANTE   HIMSELF   HAD   WANTED ?   Something   about   the   faint   smile   touching   upon   his   lips   tells   him   so .   Perhaps   there   is   some   measure   of   comfort   to   be   found   in   that .

𝐒𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐋𝐘  𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒  𝐇𝐄  𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄  𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐓  𝐇𝐈𝐌  𝐍𝐎𝐖 ,  𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐒  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄  𝐎𝐅  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 .   Dante   had   followed   him   to   where   he   could ,   but   where   he   goes   now ,   HE   COULD   NO   LONGER   FOLLOW .   Weighted   sigh   coming   more   of   a   hiss   from   his   lips ,   briefly   turning   head   as   if   to   look   back   at   where   he   lay ,   BUT   THOUGHT   BETTER   OF   IT .   Opting   instead   for   softer   words   (   DESPONDENT   IN   THEIR   NATURE ,   DEVOID   OF   USUAL   CRUELTY   ) ,   serving   as   a   bitter   farewell   to   his   dear   brother ,   along   with   the   humanity   lain   to   rest   beside   him .  

                        ❛    ———————-   Farewell ,   little   brother .    ❜

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃  𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃  𝐓𝐎  𝐁𝐄  𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑  𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋  𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 ,        along   with   being   the   final   resting   place   of   one .   The   other   will   forge   onward   in   divergent   path ,   set   in   his   resolve    &   renouncing   heart   in   doing   so .   May   the   savior   find   peace ,   FOR   THE   REST   OF   THE   WORLD ,   WOULD   NOT .

                FOR   HE   IS   THE   ALPHA    &    THE   OMEGA .

                             HE   IS   THE   BEGINNING    &    THE   END .

          &   THE BEGINNING OF THE END HAS ONLY JUST BEGUN .

[darealbellabelleoftheball]

Phantom Rambles

Chapter Twenty One - Interesting and Instructive Vicissitudes of a  Persian in the Cellars of the Opera

(Vicissitudes Definition -  a change of circumstances or fortune, typically one that is unwelcome or unpleasant.)

(This is the room in which Raoul and the Persian found themselves.Art by the amazing TalviEnkeli   on deviantart.)

The Persian's narrative. (Heck i’mma just dump the whole chapter in here and comment where I will!)

It was the first time that I entered the house on the lake. I had often begged the “trap-door lover,” as we used to call Erik in my country, to open its mysterious doors to me. He always refused. I made very many attempts, but in vain, to obtain admittance. Watch him as I might, after I first learned that he had taken up his permanent abode at the Opera, the darkness was always too thick to enable me to see how he worked the door in the wall on the lake. One day, when I thought myself alone, I stepped into the boat and rowed toward that part of the wall through which I had seen Erik disappear. It was then that I came into contact with the siren who guarded the approach and whose charm was very nearly fatal to me.

I had no sooner put off from the bank than the silence amid which I floated on the water was disturbed by a sort of whispered singing that hovered all around me. It was half breath, half music; it rose softly from the waters of the lake; and I was surrounded by it through I knew not what artifice. It followed me, moved with me and was so soft that it did not alarm me. On the contrary, in my longing to approach the source of that sweet and enticing harmony, I leaned out of my little boat over the water, for there was no doubt in my mind that the singing came from the water itself. By this time, I was alone in the boat in the middle of the lake; the voice — for it was now distinctly a voice — was beside me, on the water. I leaned over, leaned still farther. The lake was perfectly calm, and a moonbeam that passed through the air hole in the Rue Scribe showed me absolutely nothing on its surface, which was smooth and black as ink. I shook my ears to get rid of a possible humming; but I soon had to accept the fact that there was no humming in the ears so harmonious as the singing whisper that followed and now attracted me.

Had I been inclined to superstition, I should have certainly thought that I had to do with some siren whose business it was to confound the traveler who should venture on the waters of the house on the lake. Fortunately, I come from a country where we are too fond of fantastic things not to know them through and through; and I had no doubt but that I was face to face with some new invention of Erik’s. But this invention was so perfect that, as I leaned out of the boat, I was impelled less by a desire to discover its trick than to enjoy its charm; and I leaned out, leaned out until I almost overturned the boat.

Suddenly, two monstrous arms issued from the bosom of the waters and seized me by the neck, dragging me down to the depths with irresistible force. I should certainly have been lost, if I had not had time to give a cry by which Erik knew me. For it was he; and, instead of drowning me, as was certainly his first intention, he swam with me and laid me gently on the bank:

“How imprudent you are!” he said, as he stood before me, dripping with water. “Why try to enter my house? I never invited you! I don’t want you there,(LOL) nor anybody!(What a mood Erik) Did you save my life only to make it unbearable to me? However great the service you rendered him, Erik may end by forgetting it; and you know that nothing can restrain Erik, not even Erik himself.” (I adore how Erik talks in third person.) 

He spoke, but I had now no other wish than to know what I already called the trick of the siren. He satisfied my curiosity, for Erik, who is a real monster( Bit RUDE) — I have seen him at work in Persia, alas — is also, in certain respects, a regular child, vain and self-conceited, and there is nothing he loves so much, after astonishing people, as to prove all the really miraculous ingenuity of his mind.(SEE EVEN THE DAROGA AGREES WITH ME PEOPLE!!!)

He laughed and showed me a long reed.

“It’s the silliest trick you ever saw,” he said, “but it’s very useful for breathing and singing in the water. I learned it from the Tonkin pirates, who are able to remain hidden for hours in the beds of the rivers.”

I spoke to him severely.

“It’s a trick that nearly killed me!” I said. “And it may have been fatal to others! You know what you promised me, Erik? No more murders!”

“Have I really committed murders?” he asked, putting on his most amiable air.

“Wretched man!” I cried. “Have you forgotten the ‘rosy hours of Mazenderan’?”

“Yes,” he replied, in a sadder tone, “I prefer to forget them. I used to make the little sultana laugh, though!” (OH BABY NO JUST NO)

“All that belongs to the past,” I declared; “but there is the present . . . and you are responsible to me for the present, because, if I had wished, there would have been none at all for you. Remember that, Erik: I saved your life!” (I’M YOUR FATHER AND YOU WILL LISTEN TO ME DAMN IT!!!)

And I took advantage of the turn of conversation to speak to him of something that had long been on my mind:

“Erik,” I asked, “Erik, swear that . . . ”

“What?” he retorted. “You know I never keep my oaths. Oaths are made to catch gulls with.”

“Tell me . . . you can tell me, at any rate . . . ”

“Well?”

“Well, the chandelier . . . the chandelier, Erik? . . . ”

“What about the chandelier?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Oh,” he sniggered, “I don’t mind telling you about the chandelier! . . . IT WASN’T I! . . . The chandelier was very old and worn.”

When Erik laughed, he was more terrible than ever. He jumped into the boat, chuckling so horribly that I could not help trembling.

“Very old and worn, my dear daroga! Very old and worn, the chandelier! . . . It fell of itself! . . . It came down with a smash! . . . And now, daroga, take my advice and go and dry yourself, or you’ll catch a cold in the head! . . . And never get into my boat again . . . And, whatever you do, don’t try to enter my house: I’m not always there . . . daroga! And I should be sorry to have to dedicate my Requiem Mass to you!”

So saying, swinging to and fro, like a monkey, and still chuckling, he pushed off and soon disappeared in the darkness of the lake. (hOW CAN YOU NOT LOVE THIS FLAMING DUMPSTER CHILD?!)

From that day, I gave up all thought of penetrating into his house by the lake. That entrance was obviously too well guarded, especially since he had learned that I knew about it. But I felt that there must be another entrance, for I had often seen Erik disappear in the third cellar, when I was watching him, though I could not imagine how.

Ever since I had discovered Erik installed in the Opera, I lived in a perpetual terror of his horrible fancies, not in so far as I was concerned, but I dreaded everything for others.

And whenever some accident, some fatal event happened, I always thought to myself, “I should not be surprised if that were Erik,” even as others used to say, “It’s the ghost!” How often have I not heard people utter that phrase with a smile! Poor devils! If they had known that the ghost existed in the flesh, I swear they would not have laughed!

Although Erik announced to me very solemnly that he had changed and that he had become the most virtuous of men SINCE HE WAS LOVED FOR HIMSELF— a sentence that, at first, perplexed me most terribly — I could not help shuddering when I thought of the monster. His horrible, unparalleled and repulsive ugliness put him without the pale of humanity; and it often seemed to me that, for this reason, he no longer believed that he had any duty toward the human race. The way in which he spoke of his love affairs only increased my alarm, for I foresaw the cause of fresh and more hideous tragedies in this event to which he alluded so boastfully. (Yeah how do you tell your psychotic friend that he may not be loved in return???)

On the other hand, I soon discovered the curious moral traffic established between the monster and Christine Daae. Hiding in the lumber-room next to the young prima donna’s dressing-room, I listened to wonderful musical displays that evidently flung Christine into marvelous ecstasy; but, all the same, I would never have thought that Erik’s voice — which was loud as thunder or soft as angels’ voices, at will — could have made her forget his ugliness. I understood all when I learned that Christine had not yet seen him! I had occasion to go to the dressing-room and, remembering the lessons he had once given me, I had no difficulty in discovering the trick that made the wall with the mirror swing round and I ascertained the means of hollow bricks and so on — by which he made his voice carry to Christine as though she heard it close beside her. In this way also I discovered the road that led to the well and the dungeon — the Communists’ dungeon — and also the trap-door that enabled Erik to go straight to the cellars below the stage. (The Daroga is a smarticle particle) 

A few days later, what was not my amazement to learn by my own eyes and ears that Erik and Christine Daae saw each other and to catch the monster stooping over the little well, in the Communists’ road and sprinkling the forehead of Christine Daae, who had fainted. A white horse, the horse out of the PROFETA, which had disappeared from the stables under the Opera, was standing quietly beside them. I showed myself. It was terrible. I saw sparks fly from those yellow eyes and, before I had time to say a word, I received a blow on the head that stunned me. (Rude ERik!) 

When I came to myself, Erik, Christine and the white horse had disappeared. I felt sure that the poor girl was a prisoner in the house on the lake. Without hesitation, I resolved to return to the bank, notwithstanding the attendant danger. For twenty-four hours, I lay in wait for the monster to appear; for I felt that he must go out, driven by the need of obtaining provisions. And, in this connection, I may say, that, when he went out in the streets or ventured to show himself in public, he wore a pasteboard nose, with a mustache attached to it, 

(This is always what I picture ^) 

instead of his own horrible hole of a nose. This did not quite take away his corpse-like air, but it made him almost, I say almost, endurable to look at.

I therefore watched on the bank of the lake and, weary of long waiting, was beginning to think that he had gone through the other door, the door in the third cellar, when I heard a slight splashing in the dark, I saw the two yellow eyes shining like candles and soon the boat touched shore. Erik jumped out and walked up to me:

“You’ve been here for twenty-four hours,” he said, “and you’re annoying me. I tell you, all this will end very badly. And you will have brought it upon yourself; for I have been extraordinarily patient with you. You think you are following me, you great booby, (*Snorts*)whereas it’s I who am following you; and I know all that you know about me, here. I spared you yesterday, in MY COMMUNISTS’ ROAD; but I warn you, seriously, don’t let me catch you there again! Upon my word, you don’t seem able to take a hint!” (SAYS THE DUDE WHO IS KEEPING A GIRL IN HIS HOUSE UNWILLINGLY!!!)

He was so furious that I did not think, for the moment, of interrupting him. After puffing and blowing like a walrus, he put his horrible thought into words:

“Yes, you must learn, once and for all — once and for all, I say — to take a hint! I tell you that, with your recklessness — for you have already been twice arrested by the shade in the felt hat, who did not know what you were doing in the cellars and took you to the managers, who looked upon you as an eccentric Persian interested in stage mechanism and life behind the scenes: I know all about it, I was there, in the office; you know I am everywhere — well, I tell you that, with your recklessness, they will end by wondering what you are after here . . . and they will end by knowing that you are after Erik . . . and then they will be after Erik themselves and they will discover the house on the lake . . . If they do, it will be a bad lookout for you, old chap, a bad lookout! . . . I won’t answer for anything.”

Again he puffed and blew like a walrus.

“I won’t answer for anything! . . . If Erik’s secrets cease to be Erik’s secrets, IT WILL BE A BAD LOOKOUT FOR A GOODLY NUMBER OF THE HUMAN RACE! That’s all I have to tell you, and unless you are a great booby, it ought to be enough for you . . . except that you don’t know how to take a hint.” (Erik you c h i l d)

He had sat down on the stern of his boat and was kicking his heels against the planks, waiting to hear what I had to answer. I simply said:

“It’s not Erik that I’m after here!”

“Who then?”

“You know as well as I do: it’s Christine Daae,” I answered.

He retorted: “I have every right to see her in my own house. I am loved for my own sake.” (Uh huh sure you are bb)

“That’s not true,” I said. “You have carried her off and are keeping her locked up.”

“Listen,” he said. “Will you promise never to meddle with my affairs again, if I prove to you that I am loved for my own sake?”

“Yes, I promise you,” I replied, without hesitation, for I felt convinced that for such a monster the proof was impossible.

“Well, then, it’s quite simple . . . Christine Daae shall leave this as she pleases and come back again! . . . Yes, come back again, because she wishes . . . come back of herself, because she loves me for myself! . . . ”

“Oh, I doubt if she will come back! . . . But it is your duty to let her go.” “My duty, you great booby! . . . It is my wish . . . my wish to let her go; and she will come back again . . . for she loves me! . . . All this will end in a marriage . . . a marriage at the Madeleine, you great booby! Do you believe me now? When I tell you that my nuptial mass is written . . . wait till you hear the KYRIE . . . ”

He beat time with his heels on the planks of the boat and sang:

“KYRIE! . . . KYRIE! . . . KYRIE ELEISON! . . . Wait till you hear, wait till you hear that mass.” (awe he wrote a wedding song for her *Screeches*)

“Look here,” I said. “I shall believe you if I see Christine Daae come out of the house on the lake and go back to it of her own accord.”

“And you won’t meddle any more in my affairs?”

“No.”

“Very well, you shall see that to-night. Come to the masked ball. Christine and I will go and have a look round. Then you can hide in the lumber-room and you shall see Christine, who will have gone to her dressing-room, delighted to come back by the Communists’ road . . . And, now, be off, for I must go and do some shopping!” (LOL)

To my intense astonishment, things happened as he had announced. Christine Daae left the house on the lake and returned to it several times, without, apparently, being forced to do so. It was very difficult for me to clear my mind of Erik. However, I resolved to be extremely prudent, and did not make the mistake of returning to the shore of the lake, or of going by the Communists’ road. But the idea of the secret entrance in the third cellar haunted me, and I repeatedly went and waited for hours behind a scene from the Roi de Lahore, which had been left there for some reason or other. At last my patience was rewarded. One day, I saw the monster come toward me, on his knees. I was certain that he could not see me. He passed between the scene behind which I stood and a set piece, went to the wall and pressed on a spring that moved a stone and afforded him an ingress. He passed through this, and the stone closed behind him.

(Ah Daroga you sneaky sneak!) 

I waited for at least thirty minutes and then pressed the spring in my turn. Everything happened as with Erik. But I was careful not to go through the hole myself, for I knew that Erik was inside. On the other hand, the idea that I might be caught by Erik suddenly made me think of the death of Joseph Buquet. I did not wish to jeopardize the advantages of so great a discovery which might be useful to many people, “to a goodly number of the human race,” in Erik’s words; and I left the cellars of the Opera after carefully replacing the stone. (He just noped out of there) 

I continued to be greatly interested in the relations between Erik and Christine Daae, not from any morbid curiosity, but because of the terrible thought which obsessed my mind that Erik was capable of anything, if he once discovered that he was not loved for his own sake, as he imagined. I continued to wander, very cautiously, about the Opera and soon learned the truth about the monster’s dreary love-affair.

He filled Christine’s mind, through the terror with which he inspired her, but the dear child’s heart belonged wholly to the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny. While they played about, like an innocent engaged couple, on the upper floors of the Opera, to avoid the monster, they little suspected that some one was watching over them. I was prepared to do anything: to kill the monster, if necessary, and explain to the police afterward. But Erik did not show himself; and I felt none the more comfortable for that.

I must explain my whole plan. I thought that the monster, being driven from his house by jealousy, would thus enable me to enter it, without danger, through the passage in the third cellar. It was important, for everybody’s sake, that I should know exactly what was inside. One day, tired of waiting for an opportunity, I moved the stone and at once heard an astounding music: the monster was working at his Don Juan Triumphant, with every door in his house wide open. I knew that this was the work of his life. I was careful not to stir and remained prudently in my dark hole.

He stopped playing, for a moment, and began walking about his place, like a madman. And he said aloud, at the top of his voice:

“It must be finished FIRST! Quite finished!” (The life of a writer)

This speech was not calculated to reassure me and, when the music recommenced, I closed the stone very softly.

On the day of the abduction of Christine Daae, I did not come to the theater until rather late in the evening, trembling lest I should hear bad news. I had spent a horrible day, for, after reading in a morning paper the announcement of a forthcoming marriage between Christine and the Vicomte de Chagny, I wondered whether, after all, I should not do better to denounce the monster. But reason returned to me, and I was persuaded that this action could only precipitate a possible catastrophe.

When, my cab set me down before the Opera, I was really almost astonished to see it still standing! But I am something of a fatalist, like all good Orientals, and I entered ready, for anything. (LOL I love you Daroga)

Christine Daae’s abduction in the Prison Act, which naturally surprised everybody, found me prepared. I was quite certain that she had been juggled away by Erik, that prince of conjurers. And I thought positively that this was the end of Christine and perhaps of everybody, so much so that I thought of advising all these people who were staying on at the theater to make good their escape. I felt, however, that they would be sure to look upon me as mad and I refrained. (Good call)

On the other hand, I resolved to act without further delay, as far as I was concerned. The chances were in my favor that Erik, at that moment, was thinking only of his captive. This was the moment to enter his house through the third cellar; and I resolved to take with me that poor little desperate viscount, who, at the first suggestion, accepted, with an amount of confidence in myself that touched me profoundly. I had sent my servant for my pistols. I gave one to the viscount and advised him to hold himself ready to fire, for, after all, Erik might be waiting for us behind the wall. We were to go by the Communists’ road and through the trap-door.

Seeing my pistols, the little viscount asked me if we were going to fight a duel. I said:

“Yes; and what a duel!” But, of course, I had no time to explain anything to him. The little viscount is a brave fellow, but he knew hardly anything about his adversary; and it was so much the better. My great fear was that he was already somewhere near us, preparing the Punjab lasso. No one knows better than he how to throw the Punjab lasso, for he is the king of stranglers even as he is the prince of conjurors. When he had finished making the little sultana laugh, at the time of the “rosy hours of Mazenderan,” she herself used to ask him to amuse her by giving her a thrill. It was then that he introduced the sport of the Punjab lasso. (Smarty)

He had lived in India and acquired an incredible skill in the art of strangulation. He would make them lock him into a courtyard to which they brought a warrior — usually, a man condemned to death — armed with a long pike and broadsword. Erik had only his lasso; and it was always just when the warrior thought that he was going to fell Erik with a tremendous blow that we heard the lasso whistle through the air. With a turn of the wrist, Erik tightened the noose round his adversary’s neck and, in this fashion, dragged him before the little sultana and her women, who sat looking from a window and applauding. The little sultana herself learned to wield the Punjab lasso and killed several of her women and even of the friends who visited her. But I prefer to drop this terrible subject of the rosy hours of Mazenderan. I have mentioned it only to explain why, on arriving with the Vicomte de Chagny in the cellars of the Opera, I was bound to protect my companion against the ever-threatening danger of death by strangling. My pistols could serve no purpose, for Erik was not likely to show himself; but Erik could always strangle us. I had no time to explain all this to the viscount; besides, there was nothing to be gained by complicating the position. I simply told M. de Chagny to keep his hand at the level of his eyes, with the arm bent, as though waiting for the command to fire. With his victim in this attitude, it is impossible even for the most expert strangler to throw the lasso with advantage. It catches you not only round the neck, but also round the arm or hand. This enables you easily to unloose the lasso, which then becomes harmless. (He’s so smart)

After avoiding the commissary of police, a number of door-shutters and the firemen, after meeting the rat-catcher and passing the man in the felt hat unperceived, the viscount and I arrived without obstacle in the third cellar, between the set piece and the scene from the Roi de Lahore. I worked the stone, and we jumped into the house which Erik had built himself in the double case of the foundation-walls of the Opera. And this was the easiest thing in the world for him to do, because Erik was one of the chief contractors under Philippe Garnier, the architect of the Opera, and continued to work by himself when the works were officially suspended, during the war, the siege of Paris and the Commune.

I knew my Erik too well to feel at all comfortable on jumping into his house. I knew what he had made of a certain palace at Mazenderan. From being the most honest building conceivable, he soon turned it into a house of the very devil, where you could not utter a word but it was overheard or repeated by an echo. With his trap-doors the monster was responsible for endless tragedies of all kinds. He hit upon astonishing inventions. Of these, the most curious, horrible and dangerous was the so-called torture-chamber. Except in special cases, when the little sultana amused herself by inflicting suffering upon some unoffending citizen, no one was let into it but wretches condemned to death. And, even then, when these had “had enough,” they were always at liberty to put an end to themselves with a Punjab lasso or bowstring, left for their use at the foot of an iron tree.

My alarm, therefore, was great when I saw that the room into which M. le Vicomte de Chagny and I had dropped was an exact copy of the torture-chamber of the rosy hours of Mazenderan. At our feet, I found the Punjab lasso which I had been dreading all the evening. I was convinced that this rope had already done duty for Joseph Buquet, who, like myself, must have caught Erik one evening working the stone in the third cellar. He probably tried it in his turn, fell into the torture-chamber and only left it hanged. I can well imagine Erik dragging the body, in order to get rid of it, to the scene from the Roi de Lahore, and hanging it there as an example, or to increase the superstitious terror that was to help him in guarding the approaches to his lair! Then, upon reflection, Erik went back to fetch the Punjab lasso, which is very curiously made out of catgut, and which might have set an examining magistrate thinking. This explains the disappearance of the rope.

And now I discovered the lasso, at our feet, in the torture-chamber! . . . I am no coward, but a cold sweat covered my forehead as I moved the little red disk of my lantern over the walls.

M. de Chagny noticed it and asked:

“What is the matter, sir?”

I made him a violent sign to be silent.

sorry this one was so long but since the chapter was heavily dialogued...Is that even a word???

Since the WHOLE chapter was the Daroga talking it just seemed right to include it. I may continue this format??? Ok bye. 

tag

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@summerb4jc

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@phantomgraphicnovel

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@quill-of-doom

[pyropsychiccollector]

            - A short time ago… -

            Brandish clenched her fists and she stared down at the all-out chaos going down below… Fairy Tail was making great progress in making their way back to their Guildhall, but they had a ways to go still. She didn’t know if she had it in her to go down there and… annihilate them. Invel had ordered it… But her heart could not be swayed. These people were the least deserving of genocide, and Invel still wanted to destroy them out of a misguided sense of vengeance.

            “Brandish.” … Speak of the devil. “Why have you not yet stepped in? With your power, we would quite easily crush them underfoot… So why do you hesitate? Well?”

            At the ice mage’s prodding, Brandish could only shake in a mixture of anger and grief, tears spilling from her eyes.

            “… I can’t. No matter how much you order me to, I… can’t…” The green-haired woman sobbed. Invel narrowed his eyes.

            “You… can’t?” His voice grew frigid and his face hardened. “Neinhart’s Historias are nearly eliminated. Jacob has fallen a second time, and Ajeel is soon to join him. August only watches. Irene is obtaining the Fairy Heart. It falls to you, Dimaria, Neinhart, and myself to stop the bleeding in our once healthy ranks. I shall not tolerate insubordination from you or August… And I do believe I have found a way to spur him into action.”

            Brandish gasped as she felt Invel’s enslavement collar appear around her neck once more. She stared at him wide-eyed and tearfully, even as her mind slowed to a crawl and she became but another of his puppets.

            “Since your mind is telling you to defy your orders as a soldier, I have taken the liberty of relieving you of your free will. You will go down there… and you will kill the mages of Fairy Tail and their allies without fail. Even if you kill our own soldiers in the process… you will do your duty to exterminate the enemy! Now go!”

            Compelled to obey, Brandish leaped down the hill and into the fray. Invel stared after her dispassionately. A few moments later, Dimaria stepped out of the shadows and glared angrily at Invel.

            “Subjugating Randi… I should kill you where you stand.” Dimaria hissed.

            Invel kept his back facing her.

            “But you won’t… Because you know I can remotely order her to kill herself. You wouldn’t risk her life, even with your time-based Magic…”

            Dimaria’s body twitched with rage, but she knew he was right.

            “This isn’t over…” She vowed.

            “It is.” Invel brushed off her warning. “With the Country Demolisher released from her shackles, this war is all but finished. However, you and I should step in as well. We need to ensure not a single Fairy will escape execution…”

            A cold wind followed Invel as he strode down the hill without another word to the Valkyrie. Tears blurred Dimaria’s vision and burned her cheeks as she wiped them away. As bad as it was to enslave Randi like that… She had to agree that it was probably for the best. Brandish was not acting like herself… And she was going to figure out which of the suicidal Fairies had brainwashed her Randi.

            She would make them suffer because making their death slow and agonizingly painful.

            ~*~

            - Present… -

            Erza knew something was wrong when people started exploding… At first, it was just a few Alvarez soldiers; the scarlet knight had assumed the soldiers were trying to use a Spell that had gone awry for them. However, when it started happening to some of her lesser known Guildmates… That’s when she knew for certain that they were no accidents or botched Spells. She could tell from a glance that bones and other internal organs had been enlarged way past the norm. That those poor, hapless souls had been killed off intentionally… perhaps even maliciously.

            It all came together when the Country Demolisher entered her field of vision,

            “B-Brandish…!?” Lucy gasped as she saw the buxom woman kill one person right after the other, not even pausing to take a breath. ‘Cold and efficient’ captured the essence of Brandish’s swift movements.

            Erza narrowed her eyes before whipping her head around to address as many Guildmates as she could.

            “Everybody fall back…! Do not engage that green-haired woman! She is Brandish Mu of the Spriggan 12!”

            Macao and Wakaba’s eyes widened as they turned to each other.

            “That hottie we were guarding?” Wakaba muttered.

            “That Brandish?!” Macao exclaimed, horrified.

            Kagura held out her blade in front of her as she trained her eyes on Brandish.

            “She’s one of the Spriggan 12 we haven’t encountered yet… We should take her down as quickly as possible. There are five more of the Spriggan 12 we haven’t located yet…”

            Lucy shook her head wildly and tried to obstruct Kagura’s path.

            “N-No, no, no! Cobra and I got her to negotiate with August earlier…!”

            Seeing that Brandish was still mercilessly killing in the background, Erza lightly, yet firmly pushed Lucy aside.

            “I’m sorry, Lucy, but you need to withdraw with the others. Allow me and Kagura to handle her;”

            “Just let me talk with her, please!” Lucy pleaded desperately, only for her words to fall on deaf ears.

            “She is single-minded in her movements, Lucy…” Kagura explained. “I do not know what transpired, but you will not be able to reason with her in this state. You’ll only get yourself killed.”

            When Lucy still didn’t budge, Erza’s voice grew harsh, even while she kept her gaze locked on Brandish.

            “Go, Lucy! We will do our best not to kill her!”

            Lucy remained rooted in place, stuck between her desire to trust in her teammate and fret over Brandish, who wasn’t acting like herself.

            And then another voice snapped her out of her stupor.

            “Droy…!” Jet screamed.

            Lucy and Erza gasped, while Kagura watched in silent horror as the portly member of Team Shadow Gear exploded from the inside… There was no doubt he was dead. And he wouldn’t be the only one…

            “D-DAD!!!” Romeo wailed even louder than Jet as his father met the same gruesome end as Droy; Wakaba and Laki followed in quick succession.

            Erza’s eyes hardened as far too many dear friends had lost their lives in the span of mere seconds.

            “Kagura!” She called out as she began to move. Kagura nodded rigorously before running in tandem with her.

            “Right…!”

            Lucy covered her mouth in a muffled scream and sob as she sank to her knees helplessly. All she could do was stare at the empty, bloodied, mangled husks that were once her friends… All gone. She wanted to hug Romeo desperately, but she didn’t have it in her to tear the boy away from his father’s lifeless body.

            Cana did, apparently. Of course Romeo struggled within her grip, as he wailed and sobbed for Cana to let him go, but the woman’s grip was like iron. The other members of Fairy Tail nearby were retreating far back to give Erza and Kagura a wide berth to fight Brandish… But no one looked happy about it. Lucy herself, though… she was frozen in place. And that painted a bright red target on her back…

            “So, you’re the one that tainted my Randi…!” Dimaria hissed as she appeared behind a shell-shocked Lucy. She clutched her fellow blonde by her ponytail. “You’re coming with me…”

            And before anyone could interfere, Dimaria whisked Lucy away in the blink of an eye. Cana, her hands full with Romeo, could only scream out hysterically. There was no sight of where that Spriggan 12 member had taken the Celestial mage…

            “LUCY!!!”

            ~*~

            “Water Slicer!!!” Juvia screeched, wiping out another squad of soldiers. Gray, Lyon, and Meredy were fighting alongside her. As the Water mage prepared her next attack, she was shocked when all the water froze up. Turning to the other Ice mage in the group, Juvia glared heatedly at him. “Lyon!! Juvia does not appreciate your interference…!”

            Lyon held up his hands peacefully.

            “I-It wasn’t me, my love! I swear!” He wept tears as Juvia continued to glare at him disbelievingly.

            Gray narrowed his eyes as all of them felt a severe chill flood the area.

            “Come to think of it, this cold…”

            Meredy rubbed her arms as she hugged herself.

            “B-Brr… I’m freezing…”

            Juvia couldn’t help chuckle at Meredy’s words.

            “Th-That’s what you g-get for wearing a skimpy outfit like that…” She grinned even as Meredy pouted at her.

            The chill got so bad, the girls could feel their bodies begin to stiffen. And soon enough, their whole bodies did freeze over with a layer of ice, rendering them incapable of moving.

            “Meredy! Juvia!” Gray and Lyon called out in shock, whipping their heads between the two girls in shock and horror.

            A new figure approached the two Ice mages. He was unaffected by the cold that froze Fairy Tail mage and Alvarez soldier alike.

            “Oh? You two seem to be immune to this cold. Fascinating…” Invel mused as he stared down his remaining opponents.

            Gray growled, forming an Ice Make attack.

            “So, it’s you…!” However, before he could complete his attack, Invel struck Gray with his own variation of Ice Magic that proceeded to smash Gray into a wall. Gray attempted to get back up, but was pelted by large balls of hail that kept him pinned down. ‘This feeling…’

            “Gray…!” Lyon called out, getting into his own stance for Ice Make Magic, but Invel struck him down with Ice Magic as well. With the two Ishgar mages reeling from Invel’s swift onslaught, the Spriggan Shield spoke up once again.

            “You two may address me as Invel Yura. I am he who brings winter’s wrath to all! Your paltry chill is naught before my winter…”

            Lyon and Gray both winced as they glared down their enemy. Both of them were shivering as the temperature in the air dipped even more.

            ‘This man…!’ Lyon trailed off in disbelief.

            Gray gritted his teeth.

            ‘Me, of all people… He’s actually making me shiver from the cold… My body is… freezing solid…!’

            “Lyon…!” Gray called out in good faith as he stood up and ran forward. Lyon nodded stiffly and followed after him.

            Invel attempted to impede their progress, but Lyon managed to block the attack.

            “Ice Make: Shield!!!” A shield in the form of flower petals formed in front of the two of them, taking all the impact of Invel’s attack.

            Gray raised his fist high and brought it down on his open palm.

            “Ice Make… Ice Impact!!!”

            A giant ice formation was brought down on Invel, but the man was able to raise his arm in the air and stop its descent, freezing the whole construct. Gray and Lyon were shocked by this.

            “I see, Ice Molding Magic… No wonder you were able to withstand my cold…” The ice above him then began to crack.

            “My Molding Magic…!” Gray said with dismay. His attack then crumbled apart. “He froze and then shattered it?!”

            “I am the purest of Ice mages…” Invel revealed with a cold gaze. “I do not simply make toys out of ice. I use the very essence of ice itself to freeze all. Your derivative flailings could never hold a candle to me! I will break them as easily as I would a child’s plaything.”

            Gray narrowed his eyes as he raised his arm, showing off the black markings that soon overtook it.

            “Then how about this stuff? I inherited this power from my Old Man! The power to slay Devils… A power for defeating END itself…”

            Invel’s eyes widened as Gray surged forward, cutting through him with some ice blade.

            “Ice Devil’s Zeroth Long Sword!!!” Gray roared, generating an explosion from his single strike.

            Invel gnashed his teeth as he clutched his wound. Lyon looked on in wonder and respect.

            “This… This power… Devil Slayer Magic?!” Invel took deep, steady breaths. ‘He uses this power to mold ice weapons?! This power eats away at the soul. Those who hunt devils cannot long retain their sanity.’

            Invel scowled sternly, eyes narrowed into slits.

            “… You have my attention.” He approached Gray and touched the large sword Gray crafted, freezing it over and shattering it. Though this time, by shattering Gray’s attack, he conjured a blizzard that overtook a very large area of the battlefield.

            From within the Guildhall, Irene looked in the general direction of the explosion of Magic she felt go off outside.

            “I see you’re starting to finally take things seriously, Invel…” Irene hummed, not letting the battles outside distract her from extracting Fairy Heart.

            Outside, atop Kardia Cathedral, August narrowed his eyes as he observed the blizzard that had suddenly appeared. His eyes also panned over to Brandish, who had grown to the size of a giant in order to overwhelm two opponents – two swordswomen. As he feared, Invel’s ice collar had grown along with Brandish… He could not step in yet.

            From their respective places on the battlefield, Dimaria and Neinhart also observed the sudden blizzard with a cruel indifference.

            The worst of the blizzard was at the heart of it, where Gray and Lyon were confronting Invel.

            ‘It’s cold! Cold enough to freeze!’ Gray hissed as he thought to himself. ‘But…’

            “At one time, you would have had what it takes to stand beside me as a comrade…” Invel sighed, causing Gray to widen his eyes. “I fear you are unaware of it yourself, but… Your heart is slowly being tainted by darkness.”

            “Eh?!” Gray exclaimed.

            “What are you blathering on about?” Lyon demanded.

            “The powers of darkness are the seeds of Black Magic itself. Proof of the reality of the powers of the Emperor himself.” Invel explained. Gray did a double-take.

            “What the…? So you’re basically telling me you know that you’re the bad guys?”

            “Darkness is a fearsome power that resides in the hearts of all. Darkness is neither good nor evil.” Invel refuted. “Your darkness is on the brink of releasing itself into the world.”

            “You’re starting to make my ears bleed…” Gray growled, clenching his fists. “I ain’t trying to play Mr. Superhero over here either, you know. If it’s my family on the line, I’ll be as dark and black a villain as I need to in order to protect ‘em!”

            Invel’s face darkened at this heartfelt declaration.

            “Even if that is your opinion… I did say that at one time you could have stood at my side as a comrade… You lost that opportunity when you allowed END to kill His Majesty. The only fate that awaits you now is the grave…”

            Gray narrowed his eyes at the implications of Invel’s statements.

            “That so? Well, if you did your homework, the guy that killed Zeref was Natsu, not END. I figure you were there to see it yourself.”

            Invel glared back at Gray unyieldingly.

            “You are a fool. Etherious Natsu Dragneel is END. His Majesty created END for the sole purpose of killing him… If you had just snubbed that Dragon Slayer out of existence, your Guild would not have made this war so personal. Your deaths could have been quick and painless… But now I will make you feel every inch of agony as I tear the flesh from your bones…”

            Gray’s eyes widened at the revelation that Natsu was END, as did Lyon’s. They didn’t even have an inkling… But before that revelation could hit them with its full weight, Invel made a flourish with his arm, snapping two collars onto Gray and Lyon; the collars were connected to each other by an icy chain.

            “Gray…!” Lyon exclaimed, looking to him in alarm. ‘My body… won’t do what I tell it...!’

            “Lyon?!” Gray returned his distressed look. ‘What the…?! Everything’s going dark…’

            “Ice Lock.” Invel revealed. “A Magic that seals a person’s heart and makes them my willing puppets. You two will now fight to the death. You have zero say in the matter.”

            Gray trembled with rage.

            “What’d you just say?!”

            “This chain cannot be removed until one of you lies lifeless.” Invel stated coldly, not caring about the predicament he set them in.

            “There’s no way this crap could ever…!” Lyon hissed as he felt his mind going numb.

            “My head…!” Gray exclaimed.

            Invel clasped his hands behind his back as he observed the soon-to-be gladiators. His gaze was cruelly indifferent.

            ‘As I see it, the Devil Slayer will emerge victorious… The moment he kills his friend and ally, his darkness will fully awaken…’ Invel suddenly smirked. ‘Of course… I don’t care to make an ally out of him anymore. I just want to see his face of anguish before I slay him myself. To avenge Zeref… killing and traumatizing this man is absolutely critical.’

            Gray and Lyon’s feet slid along the ground as they unwillingly turned to face each other, preparing Ice Make attacks…

            ~*~

            “This is… much harder than I thought it would be…!” Kagura hissed as she clutched her bruised side. She and Erza had attacked Brandish to keep her from killing anyone else, but… in response to getting attacked, the woman had increased her size significantly.

            Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. Bigger size meant a bigger target, especially when that target wasn’t wearing armor… However, Brandish could control the mass of objects. That meant any injuries they inflicted could be shrunken down to the size of pinpricks…

            To put it in blunter terms. They were mosquitoes, trying to suck blood before getting squished… That was how much effect they were having.

            Erza slid down Brandish’s left arm, using a sword to slow her momentum and leave a big gash in her wake. Much to her dismay, though, the large slash shrunk in on itself like all other previous injuries on the Spriggan 12 member.

            “How about this, then…?!” Erza brought forth her Sea Empress Armor and swung her blade right at Brandish’s face, generating a large whirlpool that circled up toward her opponent. Mid-attack, Erza transitioned to her Lightning Empress Armor and channeled lightning into the whirlpool, aiming to hit Brandish in the face with a collaboration attack.

            Seeing Erza concentrate on the head, Kagura decided to aim for the stomach. Drawing Archenemy from its sheathe, Kagura made a broad swiping motion once she got close enough. The slashing attack unleashed the full cutting force of her blade, and it did indeed manage to leave a deep gash as a massive amount of blood leaked from Brandish’s stomach and guts. As a result of the pair of attacks, Brandish hacked up blood and stumbled backward, taking the full force of Erza’s combination attack without doing anything to counter it. As a result, there was an explosion around her head, and the giantess fell backward, crashing to the ground unceremoniously. Erza flew back to the ground with the aid of her Flight Armor, and together with Kagura glared down their fallen foe.

            “Nice hit, but she’s not going to stay down…” Kagura observed warily, holding up Archenemy again.

            “No, she’s not… She holds more Magic power than Master Makarov, so she’s not going to be taken down by just a few hits. We have to aim to kill, or she’s going to make a lot more people suffer…”

            Kagura tensed as she detected movement from the giantess. She was starting to get up again.

            “Lucy won’t be happy if we do end up killing her…”

            Erza adopted a stern expression, holding her sword out in front of her in a battle stance.

            “I won’t sugarcoat it… But we may have to kill her, to prevent any more senseless deaths. It would be a tragedy if she died… But it would be even worse if she lived to be a monster that slaughtered all of Fairy Tail. I know that would devastate Lucy even more.”

            Kagura couldn’t help nodding in agreement.

            “You’re right, of course…” She trailed off, unsure of what else to say. Erza smiled with a grim reassurance at her as Brandish used her arm to steadily raise her upper body into a sitting position.

            “Still, I’m sure it won’t come to that. We’ll find some way to bring Brandish to her senses, if something has indeed happened to her.”

            Kagura nodded again.

            “Right…” She blinked as she and Erza heard someone tossing off their cloak. Turning in the general direction of the noise, they spotted Makarov slowly walking toward Brandish.

            “You have shed the blood of my children, and that will not be forgiven… I will not allow you to lay a finger on them anymore…!” Makarov bellowed as he used his Titan Magic to grow in size to rival Brandish.

            “Master…!” Erza called out distressfully, seeing the giantess narrow her eyes at Makarov.

            “We should back him up. Between the three of us, we might be able to take her down!” Kagura advised. Erza clenched her sword tighter.

            “Right…!” With a burst of speed from the Flight Armor, Erza took off. Kagura trailing just behind her.

            She would not let Master Makarov die.

            “I don’t think so, Lady Erza…!” Neinhart exclaimed, blasting the scarlet knight off-course with some kind of strange power.

            “Erza!!” Kagura cried out distressfully. Erza shook her head and regained her bearings, glaring down the new foe in their way.

            “Kagura, you go assist Master Makarov! I can handle this one!”

            Kagura tensed. The more she looked at Neinhart, the more she got a bad feeling from that man…

            “I don’t like this…” Kagura made her opinion known. But Erza shook her head again.

            “Brandish is the bigger threat! Don’t let Master die…!” Erza yelled as she flew straight at the cackling Spriggan member. Kagura squeezed her eyes tight before she nodded begrudgingly, changing her course back to assisting Makarov.

            She would believe in Erza… She would. If Jellal could take out that man with one hit, Erza could manage the same!

            ~*~

            “Problem after problem today…!” Dimaria hissed, deactivating her separate space. The speeding man before her smirked as he paused for the briefest of moments.

            Racer smirked at the frustrated woman.

            “Ya don’t got much of an advantage if I can slow you down, huh?”

            Dimaria growled at the man’s impudence, bearing her dagger threateningly.

            “You won’t be saying that when I carve the skin off your flesh…!” The Time mage spat. “I had just wanted to kill off that woman that tainted Randi… But I guess I’ll have to end your life first!!!”

            Racer scratched under his chin thoughtfully.

            “Uh-huh… Well, I’m sorry to break it to ya, but you might wanna duck now.”

            Dimaria narrowed her eyes.

            “What…?” No sooner did she say that lone word than did the wall behind her crack and crumble apart, Jellal flying through the opening with Meteor fueling his movements. The blonde’s eyes widened right before he smashed into her, sending her flying through the next wall, where Cobra was waiting on the other side. Cobra brought his scaly arm down on the woman’s head, instantly stopping her momentum and smashing her into the ground, Poison Dragon Slaying Magic channeled into his hand.

            “You get it now?!” Cobra grinned as he pinned her down with his foot. “Just take a nap, and it’ll all be over…!”

            Dimaria moved to resist, but Cobra performed a backflip before crashing down on her face with his scaly fist, again channeling his Magic. He held the fist down for a few seconds, transferring poison into her body that would knock her out cold. Once Jellal confirmed with his own eyes that Dimaria was unconscious, Jellal moved to free Lucy from the chair she was tied to.

            “H-How’d you beat her…?!” The bewildered girl asked. Jellal just smiled grimly.

            “We’re using the full powers of Crime Sorciere… Erik can hear the enemy’s thoughts, learns their secrets, and we strategize from there. Sawyer was perfect for getting her to drop whatever Magic she had activated; the rest was up to us.”

            “Too bad she was beaten already…” Cobra lamented, getting off of Dimaria after tying her up. “The remaining Spriggan Shields ain’t gonna be a cakewalk like this one.”

            “At least we can count on those Fairies to take some of ‘em down, right?” Racer grunted.

            Lucy looked down in worry. Some of her Guildmates were dead because of Brandish, and she was concerned that her friends would want to kill Brandish in retribution. All she could hope for… was that whatever was afflicting Brandish got dealt with.

            Because she knew Brandish wouldn’t just kill her Guildmates… Not when she’d been willing to negotiate with August for them. Brandish had a good heart, Lucy knew she did. Brandish was loyal to her country, but she wasn’t blind to the damage they did to Ishgar.

            … So why did Lucy have a very bad feeling that events were going to get worse from here?

            ~*~

            Gray staggered away from Lyon as the chain link between them broke. The ice sword he’d most recently created… Lyon had sliced it in two with the spear he chose to create, and then… and then…

            “Why…? Why would you do that, Lyon?!” Gray whispered at first, before his voice rose into a desperate, shrill scream that only Invel heard. The dark-haired young man clutched both sides of his head, yanking out his hair as his friend’s… his brother’s… last words rang through his head.

            “If I had to choose which one of us lived, Gray… it would be you. That’s why, before my mind fades away completely, I’m going to end my life! With my own hands!” Cutting Gray’s sword clean in two, he smiled bitterly. “Ur wished for both of us to live… to not throw ourselves away… But that was rather hypocritical of her, don’t you think? She threw her life away because she could see no other solutions… And… I will be following in her footsteps. Just like I promised I would. All those years ago.”

            “LYON!!!!!” Gray cried out in anguish as Lyon drove the spear through himself. The silver-haired ice mage gave a bloody grin as he coughed up blood, his chest caked in it.

            “You’d better live a long, happy life, Gray… I’m… going on ahead to see Master Ur… and I don’t want you joining us just yet…” Having spoken his peace, Lyon lost his balance and fell forward, whispering but one more word. “Goodbye…”

            Landing on the ground, the spear was driven in further, ending Lyon’s live for certain. Gray’s anguished screams rent the air…

            Gray shook his head vigorously, still pulling at his hair. He didn’t want to believe it, but no matter how many times he blinked, Lyon did not rise again. He breathed heavily as memories of Ur resurfaced again. He almost didn’t register Invel’s cold, condescending voice.

            “Now you know a fraction of what it felt like to lose His Majesty… It was quite a shock that you almost attempted suicide yourself, but it seems your friend was looking out for you to the very end. But it’s of no consequence… I shall end you here and now, as you wallow in despair.”

            As he half-listened to those cruel words, something in Gray snapped. Rage bubbled up inside, and all he could think about was how much he wanted to see Invel dead on the ground, a mutilated corpse…

            Whipping around too fast for the blue-haired man to counter, Gray slugged him in the face hard enough to smash his glasses and send him flying back several meters into a wall. Invel looked up in shock at seeing the look of utter hatred pasted on Gray’s face. Shock melted away into grim understanding.

            ‘I see… He seems intent on forcing me to unleash that…’ Invel thought to himself. Focusing in on himself, he conjured an intricate armor of ice around himself. “True-Ice Kamui…!”

            Gray roared as he rushed Invel again, fist poised to deliver another brutal strike. Invel stood his ground without a shred of fear.

            “This is ice from the depths of the underworld itself… All things unlucky enough to graze it shall freeze instantly!” Gray’s fist collided with him, full force. “Even the likes of you… and your body’s immunity to ice… it matters not!! This unholy armor freezes anything and everything without fail!

            As Gray continued to mindlessly scream, even as his arm did indeed develop a layer of ice around it, Invel spoke in a condescending tone.

            “Be forever frozen in time… shatter to pieces!!!” However, Gray’s fist did, in fact, inflict massive damage to his armor as he was punched back several feet. Part of his face was now exposed, as was his whole right arm. Invel looked back at him, stunned. “Wha… This cannot be!! You’re… utilizing ice of the same property… and molding it?!”

            Gray held his fist up as he began casting another Spell.

            “You stole away Lyon’s future! And that’s unforgivable!!!” Gray charged Invel again, channeling more of the same Magic, albeit in a higher amount of concentration. “You’re the one who’s going to shatter to pieces, you son of a bitch! Ice Devil’s Zeroth Destruction Fist!!!!!”

            The punch this time was hard enough to shatter all of Invel’s armor, as well as a good number of bones and organs in his body. Invel hacked up blood midair before unceremoniously crumpling to the ground in a boneless heap. Instantly, the blizzard around them died down, and the people around them began to thaw. Gray walked up to him as he was sprawled out, defeated. Invel’s regal clothes were torn and shredded.

            “I can stand here… and pound away at you all day and night… It won’t bring Lyon back! He’s… never coming back…” Tears pricked at his eyes again, hands balling into fists.

            Invel could only stare up at the sky, feeling an immense emptiness within himself. He did not sympathize with Gray, nor did he regret a single action taken against Ishgar… What he did regret… was being unable to take revenge for Zeref’s death with his own two hands. He was defeated. Beaten within an inch of his life. His purpose was to destroy Ishgar… But now even that was slipping away from him. At this point, only Alvarez’s mightiest mages could fulfill his purpose, and he’d already alienated himself from one while the other was busy with extracting Fairy Heart…

            He could only hope… that they’d bought Irene enough time to finish her job. There was no telling what Brandish and August would do now that his coercion was at an end.

[pamphletstoinspire]

Gospel Reading and Commentary for Wednesday, January 2, 2019 - Roman Catholic - Matthew: 23: 8 -12

8. But be not ye called Rabbi: for one is your Master, even Christ; and all ye are brethren.

9. And call no man your father upon the earth for one is your Father, which is in heaven. [p. 771]

10. Neither be ye called masters: for one is your Master, even Christ.

11. But he that is greatest among you shall be your servant.

12. And whosoever shall exalt himself shall be abased; and he that shall humble himself shall be exalted.

Chrys.: The Lord bad charged the Scribes and Pharisees with harshness and neglect; He now brings forward their vain-glory, which made them depart from God.

Pseudo-Chrys.: Every substance breeds in itself that which destroys it, as wood the worm, and garments the moth so the Devil strives to corrupt the ministry of the Priests, who are ordained for the edification of holiness, endeavouring that this good, while it is done to be seen of men, should be turned into evil. Take away this fault from the clergy, and you will have no further labour in their reform, for of this it comes that a clergyman who has sinned can hardly perform penance.

Also the Lord here points out the cause why they could not believe in Christ, because nearly all they did was in order to be seen of men; for he whose desire is for earthly glory from men, cannot believe on Christ who preaches things heavenly.

I have read one who interprets this place thus. “In Moses’ seat,” that is, in the rank and degree instituted by Moses, the Scribes and Pharisees are seated unworthily, forasmuch as they preached to others the Law which foretold Christ’s coming, but themselves did not receive Him when come. For this cause He exhorts the people to hear the Law which they preached, that is, to believe in Christ who was preached by the Law, but not to follow the Scribes and Pharisees in their disbelief of Him. And He shews the reason why they preached the coming of Christ out of the Law, yet did not believe on Him; namely, because they did not preach that Christ should come through any desire of His coming, but that they might be seen by men to be doctors of the Law.

Origen: And their works likewise they do to be seen of men, using outward circumcision, taking away actual leaven out of their houses, [p. 772] and doing such like things. But Christ’s disciples fulfil the Law in things secret, being Jews inwardly, as the Apostle speaks. [marg. note: Rom 2:29]

Chrys.: Note the intensive force of the words of His reproofs. He says not merely that they do their works to be seen of men, but added, “all their works.” And not only in great things but in some things trivial they were vainglorious, “They make broad their phylacteries and enlarge the borders of their garments.”

Jerome: For the Lord, when He had given the commandments of the Law through Moses, added at the end, “And thou shalt bind them for a sign upon thine hand, and they shall be ever before thine eyes;” [Deut. 6:8] the meaning of which is, Let my precepts be in thine hand so as to be fulfilled in thy works; let them be before thine eyes so as that thou shalt meditate upon them day and night.

This the Pharisees misinterpreting, wrote on parchments the Decalogue of Moses, that is, the Ten Commandments, and folding them up, tied them on their forehead, so making them a crown for their head, that they should be always before their eyes. Moses had in another place given command that they should make fringes of blue in the borders of their garments, [marg. note: Num 15:39] to distinguish the people of Israel; that as in their bodies circumcision, so in their garments the fringe, might discriminate the Jewish nation.

But these superstitious teachers, catching at popular favour, and making gain of silly women, made broad hems, and fastened them with sharp pins, that as they walked or sat they might be pricked, and by such monitors be recalled to the duties of God’s ministry. This embroidery then of the Decalogue they called phylacteries, that is, conservatories, because those who wore them, wore them for their own protection and security. So little did the Pharisees understand that they were to be worn on the heart and not on the body; for in equal degree may cases and chests be said to have books, which assuredly have not the knowledge of God.

Pseudo-Chrys.: But after their example do many invent Hebrew names of Angels, and write them, and bind them on themselves, and they seem dreadful to such as are without understanding. Others again wear round their neck a portion of the Gospel written out. But is not the Gospel read every day in the Church, and heard by all? Those therefore who receive no profit from the Gospel [p. 773] sounded in their ears, how shall the having them hung about their neck save them? Further, wherein is the virtue of the Gospel? in the shape of its letters, or in the understanding its meaning? If in the characters, you do well to hang them round your neck; if in their meaning, they are of more profit when laid up in the heart, than hung round the neck.

But others explain this place thus, That they made broad their teachings concerning special observances, as phylacteries, or preservatives of salvation, preaching them continually to the people. And the broad fringes of their garments they explain of the same undue stress upon such commandments.

Jerome: Seeing they thus make broad their phylacteries, and make them broad fringes, desiring to have glory of men, they are convicted also in other things; “For they love the uppermost rooms at feasts, and the chief seats in the synagogues.”

Raban.: It should be noted, that He does not forbid those to whom this belongs by right of rank to be saluted in the forum, or to sit or recline in the highest room; but those who unduly desire these things, whether they obtain them or not, these He enjoins the believers to shun as wicked.

Pseudo-Chrys.: For He rebukes not those who recline in the highest place, but those who love such places, blaming the will not the deed. For to no purpose does he humble himself in place who exalts himself in heart. For some vain men bearing that it was a commendable thing to seat himself in the lowest place, chooses so to do; and thus not only does not put away the vanity of his heart, but adds this additional vain ostentation of his humility, as one who would be thought righteous and humble. For many proud men take the lowest place in their bodies, but in haughtiness of heart think themselves to be seated among the highest; and there are many humble men who, placed among the highest, are inwardly in their own esteem among the lowest.

Chrys.: Observe where vain glory governed them, to wit, in the synagogues, whither they entered to guide others. It had been tolerable to have felt thus at feasts, notwithstanding that a doctor ought to be had in honour in all places alike, and not in the Churches only. But if it be blameworthy to love such things, how wrong is it to seek to attain them?

Pseudo-Chrys.: They love the first [p. 774] salutations, first, that is, not in time only, before others; but in tone, that we should say with a loud voice, Hail, Rabbi; and in body that we should bow low our bead; and in place, that the salutation should be in public.

Raban.: And herein they are not without fault, that the same men should be concerned in the litigations of the forum, who in the synagogue in Moses’ seat, seek to be called Rabbi by men.

Pseudo-Chrys.: That is, they wish to be called, not to be such; they desire the name, and neglect the duties.

Origen: And in the Church of Christ are found some who take to themselves the uppermost places, that is, become deacons; next they aspire to the chief seats of those that are called presbyters; and some intrigue to be styled among men Bishop, that is, to be called Rabbi. But Christ’s disciple loves the uppermost place indeed, but at the spiritual banquet, where he may feed on the choicer morsels of spiritual food, for, with the Apostles who sit upon twelve thrones, he loves the chief seats, and hastes by his good works to render himself worthy of such seats; and he also loves salutations made in the heavenly marketplace, that is, in the heavenly congregations of the primitive.

But the righteous man would be called Rabbi, neither by man, nor by any other, because there is One Master of all men.

Chrys.: Or otherwise; Of the foregoing things with which He had charged the Pharisees, He now passes over many as of no weight, and such as His disciples needed not to be instructed in; but that which was the cause of all evils, namely, ambition of the master’s seat, that He insists upon to instruct His disciples.

Pseudo-Chrys.: “Be not ye called Rabbi,” that ye take not to yourselves what belongs to God. And call not others Rabbi, that ye pay not to men a divine honour. For One is the Master of all, who instructs all men by nature. For if man were taught by man, all men would learn that have teachers; but seeing it is not man that teaches, but God, many are taught, but few learn. Man cannot by teaching impart an understanding to man, but that understanding which is given by God man calls forth by schooling.

Hilary: And that the disciples may ever remember that they are the children of one parent, and that by their new birth they have passed the limits of their earthly origin.

Jerome, Hieron. cont., Helvid. 15: [p. 775] All men may be called brethren in affection, which is of two kinds, general and particular. Particular, by which all Christians are brethren; general, by which all men being born of one Father are bound together by like tie of kindred.

Pseudo-Chrys.: “And call no man your Father upon earth;” because in this world though man begets man, yet there is one Father who created all men. For we have not beginning of life from our parents, but we have our life transmitted through them.

[ed. note: The Catholic doctrine is, that “the man” is born from his parents, by propagation, but that the soul is immediately created by God, the human agency being but a certain disposition of matter - such that according to God’s good pleasure, by a law which He has appointed, the gift of a soul is accorded to it. And thus, though a man’s soul cannot be called the son of his parents, yet that compound nature of which the soul forms part, is such.

That the soul is immediately from God by creation is the Catholic doctrine. St. Leo speaks of the Catholic faith consistently and truly, preaching that the souls of men, before they were breathed into their bodies, were not, nor are incorporated by any other but by God the Framer, Who is Creator of them as well as the bodies. Ep. 15, ad Turrib. 10. And so St. Hilary, “Every soul is the work of God, but the generation of the flesh is come from the flesh.” De Trin. x.20. Vide also Greg. Nyss. deAnim. p.934. Ambros, de Noe. 4. Hieron. in Eccles. xii. 7.]

Origen: But who calls no man father upon earth? He who in every action done as before God, says, “Our Father, which art in Heaven.”

Gloss., non. occ: Because it was clear who was the Father of all, by this which was said, “Which art in Heaven,” He would teach them who was the Master of all, and therefore repeats the same command concerning a master, “Neither be ye called masters; for one is your Master, even Christ.”

Chrys.: Not that when Christ is here said to be our Master, the Father is excluded, as neither when God is said to be our Father, is Christ excluded, Who is the Father of men.

Jerome: It is a difficulty that the Apostle against this command calls himself the teacher of the Gentiles; and that in monasteries in their common conversation, they call one another, Father. It is to be cleared thus. It is one thing to be father or master by nature, another by sufferance. Thus when we call any man our father, we do it to shew respect to his age, not as regarding him as the author of our being. We also call men ‘Master,’ from resemblance to a real master; and, not to use tedious repetition, as the One God and One Son, who are by nature, do not preclude us from calling others gods and sons by adoption, so the One Father and One Master, do not preclude us from speaking of [p. 776] other fathers and masters by an abuse of the terms.

Chrys.: Not only does the Lord forbid us to seek supremacy, but would lead His hearer to the very opposite; “He that is greatest among you shall be your servant.”

Origen: Or otherwise; And if one minister the divine word, knowing that it is Christ that makes it to be fruitful, such a one professes himself a minister and not a master; whence it follows, “He that is greatest among you, let him be your servant.” As Christ Himself, who was in truth our Master, professed Himself a minister, saying, “I am in the midst of you as one that ministers.” [Luke 22:27] And well does He conclude this prohibition of all vain-glory with the words, “And whosoever shall exalt himself shall be abased; and he that shall humble himself shall be exalted.”

Remig.: Which means that every one who thinks highly of his own deserts, shall be humbled before God; and every one who humbles himself concerning his good deeds, shall be exalted with God.

[fifteenleads]

hearts for sale

In another time, Otabek was an angry boy, his gaze piercing and his words scathing.

In another time, Otabek wore his heart on his sleeve, his skates leaving deep cuts on thin ice.

In another time, Otabek was fire on ice, impassioned, impatient and infectious.

Then came a time when Otabek ceased to be all those.

This is how it happens.

 ❄ 

They had placed his mother on a table and stuck a needle near her heart. She screamed and screamed until she could scream no more. Bright yellow fluid containing years and years of tears, laughter and tempered emotion; was sealed in a bottle and taken away. After the procedure, they received bundles of cash in a black, bloodstained briefcase. The money had been enough to keep them alive for six months.

The first month after was the worst. His mother never spoke, never left her room, never played with them, never helped with homework. And just as well, his father said; he was very afraid of her white, lifeless eyes.

They thought she was as good as dead.

Little by little, though, she got better. She tried her best, but it wasn't enough.

And soon, the money, too, was not enough.

 ❄

 Otabek comes home to a small apartment with thin walls and a leaking ceiling. He does not like the way his father is shouting tonight; it's getting worse day by day. His sister is crying in the corner; his brother has not come home since yesterday.

So he keeps to himself in his room. In the drawer are his three medals, one won from a competition and two "consolation" prizes. The stuffed teddy bear from his sister is on his bed; he has taken to hugging it tightly while he sleeps, a blanket and two pillows blocking out the noise from downstairs.

Oh, careful not to drop the skates - the right boot could fall apart.

He sets himself down beside the bed with a thud. He is tired, tired, tired. He knows better than to say so, however, lest he gets yet another bruise on his thigh. His coach - oh, poor Miss Anna - bears the brunt of all his frustrations, as do his worn skates. Someone said he needs anger management - they do not understand him, what he is going through.

His father's voice keeps getting louder and louder - no food, no tuition, no money. And somewhere in his long, angry tirade, Otabek hears his name.

His mother does not answer back, still a far cry from what she used to be. Give it a few months, the doctor had told them. She'll be back to normal soon.

But not in time, he added. They can't operate on her again until after another six months.

And they badly need the money.

His father calls his mother a useless bitch.

So Otabek steps in and rams his father into the wall, hard enough to render him unconscious. He takes the operation form from his mother's trembling hands and walks away despite her tears and weak protests.

 ❄

 Psychocentesis

– the medical procedure of evacuating arduous humor, a compartment of the cardiovascular system that is said to contain human emotions.

Indications:

(Psychiatric) Therapeutic evacuation of arduous humor in cases of massive effusion, manifesting as extremely heightened emotion approaching manic levels

(Medical) Pleural congestion, general fluid overload or non-diuresis, manifesting as increased intracranial pressure, edema of internal organs and extremities

Relative Contraindications:

Uncorrected bleeding diathesis

Cellulitis at site of puncture

Complications:

Loss of emotion, flattened affect

Altered sensorium

Pneumothorax and/or hemothorax

Major vessel rupture and massive blood loss

Technique:

Ultrasonography is performed to confirm the location of the effusion. Standard aseptic technique is performed, and the patient is prepared for the procedure. Local anesthesia is infiltrated around the puncture site, and a large-bore needle is used to puncture the site at a depth of 3 cm. Gentle aspiration of the desired volume of arduous humor is done, and the needle is removed. Standard wound care is then rendered.

The fluid is collected in a sterile bottle and stored at 5°C, or sent to the laboratory for analysis.

  The medical encyclopedia does not say anything about the illegal arduous humor trade.

There are relatively few known cases of successful arduous humor transfusion worldwide. It is said that the risks outweigh the benefits by a huge margin, and has fallen out of practice since. Those who need the transfusion instead turn to the black market, which has soon grown into an industry of exploitation for the less fortunate.

Clearly, Otabek knows what he is getting into.

He knows for a fact that this shady clinic located in an even shadier back-alley is not to be trusted. He knows that he is endangering his life and his career, subjecting himself to a dangerous, unnecessary procedure without compelling reason. He knows he is being reckless and stupid, as he is placed under sterile drapes and he is slowly put under, under, under.

He also knows how much money they are paying him after this.

It's the only way.

 ❄

 The first month after is the hardest. Otabek is confined to his room, unable - no, unwilling to move from his bed. His mother tries - and fails - to get him to eat. She had sobbed for days when he came home with white eyes, hurt, limping and practically lifeless.

The second month, he is able to walk, and the first place he visits is the rink. The others shower him with hugs, yet he doesn't feel a thing. Miss Anna tries to probe him, ask him what happened, why he didn't ask for help. But he cannot summon the strength to speak.

Skating proves to be more difficult than he’d thought he remembered. He wills himself to jump - and he does, but the fire in his eyes is gone. The rage in his heart has been silenced, and he has no story to tell. And a skater with no story to tell is no skater at all.

Later, Otabek bangs his fist into his locker - or he thinks he does. What really happens is that a piece of a skater slumps against the cold, metal door, thinking he can be better - he should be better. His small hiccups do not make tears, and he is left even more frustrated than before.

He knows - he knows what he got into.

But he cannot bear it anymore.

 ❄

 Give yourself time, the doctor tells him. You'll be back to normal before you know it.

The words ring in Otabek's ears, loud and true and disturbing. The fourth month sees him no better than the second, but at least he is able to shop for groceries again. It'll be okay, his mother says, with tears in her eyes and salt in her lips. I love you, son. No matter what.

She really does understand him.

A single tear (finally) falls down his cheek.

"You're holding the line, Mister," he hears an annoyed drawl from behind. Otabek is momentarily brought back to his senses, and he quickly shuffles away with his two, large paper bags. As he turns away, he is met with bright, green eyes, flickering with impatience.

It sticks with him forever, and he is filled with purpose once more.

 ❄

 The Miracle Child, they call Yuri Plisetsky. Beyond his unadulterated skating genius and masterful storytelling on ice, he is known as the only survivor of the Emerald Tower Tragedy from six months ago, when some past miscalculation during its construction caused it to crumble years later, leaving its thousands of residents dead.

Images of Yuri confined to a wheelchair made major news websites, his eyes white and lifeless and dead. He disappeared from the limelight for a short two months, his coach Yakov Feltsman citing intensive training and therapy as the reason for his absence.

This leaves Otabek confused as to what the same Yuri is doing on his feet, in his rink, skating quite differently from how he used to. Miss Anna says the accident has sparked a fire of determination in his eyes, bringing his skating to new and glorious heights.

But all Otabek sees right now is pure, unadulterated rage. Passion. An inferno.

Himself.

 ❄

 Yuri is as secretive in real life as he is emotive on ice. But he does consider Otabek a friend, and friends tell each other things.

"I'm tired of the media hounding me at every turn," he whines. "Asking me what happened there, when they saw it happen for themselves."

"You don't have to answer them if you don't want to," Otabek assures him, because it's the only thing he can do. He wishes he could do more - hold him tight, stroke his hair, tell him... no, he can't. He mustn't.

"But that's not all," Yuri continues. "They've started... suspecting. How I quickly recovered. Why I'm in Almaty instead of in St. Petersburg. Where Yakov is."

Otabek has seen more than enough news articles. In the weeks he has known Yuri, he, too, has had his own suspicions, some leaning on the impossible.

"Some say I made a deal with the devil. They might as well be correct."

Otabek's breath hitches all of a sudden, and he realizes the truth all at once.

"The black m--"

"Don't say it!" Yuri cuts him off, clamping his thin hands over Otabek's lips. Green eyes meet gray ones, and they see anger, emptiness, loneliness -- themselves -- in each other. And Yuri finally realizes it, too.

"No... Otabek... Why..."

A deal with the devil, huh. Otabek never thought of it that way, but Yuri might as well be correct. Suddenly the clothes on his back and the shoes on his feet feel heavy all of a sudden, like he doesn't deserve them.

Perhaps the past six months were the price he paid.

It doesn't sound as bad anymore.

As long as it saved Yuri.

Yuri knows this, too. Otabek finds himself enveloped in a tight hug, Yuri's tears staining the front of his shirt. "I... don't know what to say... I-I can't believe..."

"Me, neither." And he means it in the gentlest of ways, for all the things they have gone through to lead to this moment has become a blessing for them both. "For what it's worth, it has led me to you."

Yuri puts their foreheads together, his warm breath a healing salve to Otabek's soul. “You’re not alone, Otabek,” he says. “You and I - we’re both the same. I’m glad we met.”

His smile is beautiful, Otabek thinks.

“Stay close to me,” Yuri asks. “You saved my life; I’ll help you find yours.”

So Otabek does.

[sagexbrush]

This is a playlist of songs that goes along with the six of crows book, pretending that six of crows is a TV show and what songs they’d play to what parts.

so I saw this done somewhere with the foxhole court and wanted to give it a go! If you were the creator of that post (I can’t for the life of me find it) just send me a message and I’ll totally give you credit for the inspiration. I just really couldn’t help myself from doing this with Six of Crows. Enjoy!

intro. railroad track by willy moon. yeah ‘cause i’ma go down on a railroad track and i ain’t going back and no i ain’t going back.

 kaz defeats geels. wires by the neighborhood. “you’ll get what’s coming to you one day brekker.”/ “i will,” said kaz, “if there’s any justice in the world. and we all know how likely that is.”( page 32) the wires got the best of him all that he invested in goes straight to hell.

 kaz accepts the deal. wicked ones by dorothy. “you’ve seen what this drug can do. i can assure you it is just the beginning. if jurda parem is unleashed on the world, war is inevitable. our trade lines will be destroyed, and our markets will collapse. kerch will not survive it. our hopes rest with you mr.brekker. if you fail, all the world will suffer for it.” / “oh it’s worse that that, van eck. if i fail, i don’t get paid.”(page 57) ain’t no sleep when the wicked play

 kaz walks through the barrel. lone digger by caravan palace. “the buildings of the barrel were different from anywhere else in ketterdam, bigger, wider, painted in every garish color, clamoring for attention from passerby – “ (page 69) your head has no right to say no, tonight it’s ‘ready set go!’

 matthias fights the wolves. stronger than ever by  raleigh ritchie. “but kaz hadn’t lied: matthias was much changed. the boy who looked back the crowd with fury in his eyes was a stranger.” (page 90) ‘cause i’m a big boy an adult now, well nearly, if i pull the wool back from my eyes i can see clearly.

 nina and matthias reunite. do i wanna know?by  artic monkeys. “her eyes filled with tears. ‘shhhh matthias. we’re here to get you out.” before she could blink he had hold of her shoulders and had pinned her to the ground. / “nina,” he growled. then his hands closed over her throat. (page 99) crawling back to you. ever thought of calling when you’ve had a few? cause i always do.

 jesper and wylan team up. panic station by muse. “close your eyes!”/ “you can’t kiss me from down there, wylan.”/ “just do it!”/ “this better be good!”/ he shut his eyes. “are they closed?/ “damn it wylan yes they’re – “ there was a shirll shrieking howl, and then bright light bloomed behind jesper’s lids. when it faded, he opened his eyes. below, he saw men blundering around, rendered blilnd by the flash bomb wylan had set off. but jesper could see perfectly. not bad for a mercher’s kid. (page 147) ooo 1 2 3 4 fire’s in your eyes, and this chaos it defies imagination.

 inej is stabbed. cold arms by mumford and sons. one night, as he’d passed her in the parlor, she’d done a foolish thing, a reckless thing. “i can help you,” she’d whispered. he’d glanced at her, then proceeded on his way as if she’d said nothing at all. the next morning, she’d been called to tante heleen’s parlor. she’d been sure another beating was coming or worse, but instead kaz brekker had been standing there, leaning on his crow-head cane, waiting to change her life. / “i can help you,” she said now. / “help me with what?” (page 153) but i know what’s on your mind, god knows i put it there.

 kaz kills oomen. beast by nico vega. kaz leaned in so that no one else could hear when he said, “my wraith would counsel mercy. but thanks to you, she’s not here to plead your case.” without another word, he tipped oomen into the sea. (page 159) stand tall for the beast of america, lay down like a naked dead body.

 matthias gives nina the cup. blood bank by bon iver. “but a short while later the druskelle returned with a tin cup and bucket of clean water. he’d set it down inside the cell and slammed the bars shut without another word. (page 171) well i met you at the blood bank, we were looking at the bags, wondering if any of the colors matched any of the names we knew on the tags.

 inej is sold to tante heleen. killer by phoebe bridgers. “she’d turned away to barter with the sailers as inej stood there, clutching her bound hands over her chest, her blouse still open, her skirt still hiked around her waist. jump she’d thought. whatever waits at the bottom of the side is better than where this woman is taking you. (page 190) can the killer in me tame the fire in you?

 kaz tells inej about his brother. long way down by tom odell “what do you want then?”/ the old answers came easily to mind. money. vengeance. jordie’s voice silenced in my head forever. but a new reply roared to life inside him, loud, insistent, and unwelcome. you, inej. you.(page 205) she stands on a ledge says, it looks so high. you know, it’s a long way down.

 nina and matthias begin to trust each other. first day of my life by bright eyes. “there was a long pause and then he said, ‘i thought about it. just for a second.’ nina laughed./ ‘it’s okay,’ she said at last, ‘i would’ve thought about it too.’. he got to his feet and offered her his hand. /‘i’m matthias.’/ ‘nina,” she said, taking it. ‘nice to meet your acquaintance.’ (page 241) this is the first day of my life. swear i was born right in the doorway.

 jordie dies and dirtyhands is born. a rush of blood to the head by coldplay he’d heard there were sharks in these waters, but he knew they wouldn’t touch him. he was a monster now too. (page 276) because i’m gonna buy this place and see it burn, do back the things it did to you in return.

 inej climbs up the incinerator shaft. shake it out by florence + the machine. she wanted a storm – thunder, wind, a deluge. she wanted it to crash through ketterdam’s pleasure houses, lifting roofs and tearing doors off their hinges. she wanted it to raise the seas, take hold of every slaving ship, shatter their masts, and smash their hulls against unforgiving shores. i want to call that storm, she thought. (page 311) and i am done with my graceless heart, so tonight i’m going to cut it out and then restart.

 inej and kaz on the roof. run by daughter. “if we don’t survive the night, i will die unafraid kaz. can you say the same?” his eyes were nearly black, the pupils dilated. she could see it took every last bit of his terrible will for him to remain still beneath her touch. and yet, he did not pull away. she knew it was the best he could offer. it was not enough. (page 334) and if i try to get close, he is already gone.

 jesper fights the grisha. human by rag’n’bone man. he wasn’t a good fabrikator, but they didn’t expect him to be a fabrikator at all. he thrust his hands forward, and bits of metal flew from his uniform, a gleaming cloud that hung in the air for the briefest second then shot toward the tidemakers. (page 388) i’m only human after all, don’t put the blame on me.

 matthias opens the door to nina’s cell. i want to love you by lenachka. she ran to him, and he swept her up into his arms. he buried his face in her hair. she felt his lips move against her ear when he said, “i never want to see you like this again. / “do you mean the dress of the cell? / a laugh shook him. “definitally the cell.” (page 389) i want to love you, the corner’s of your heart no one’s been to.

 kaz rescues nina and matthias. immigrant song by led zeppelin “this is going to sting a bit,” said the druskelle holding the whip. his voice was rasping, familiar. his hands were gloved. “but if we live, you’ll thank me later.” his hood slid off, and kaz brekker looked back at them. (page 397) we come from the land of ice and snow from the midnight sun

 kaz is drowning. open your eyes by andrew belle “but all he could think of was inej. she had to live. she had to to have made it out of the ice court. and if she hadn’t, then he had to live to rescue her. the ache in his lungs was unbearable. he needed to tell her… what? that she was lovely and brave and better than anything he deserved. that he was twisted, crooked, wrong, but not so broken that he couldn’t pull himself together into some semblance of a man for her. (page 403) she’ll be a star now, i will follow her lead. she’ll be a scar now, i will still let her bleed all over me.

 jesper wylan and inej acquire a tank. legendary by welshly arms. wylan clutched his middle, still snorting lafter. trailing behind them was a banner, caught in the tank’s treads. despite the smears of mud and gunpowder burns, inej could still make out the words: strymakt fjerdan. fjerdan might. (page 414) cause we’re gonna be legends, gonna get their attention.

 nina takes parem. believer by imagine dragons. nina flexed her fingers, and the druskelle dropped their rifles, hands going to their heads, screaming in pain. “for my country,” she said. “for my people. for every child you put to the pyre. reap what you’ve sown, jarl brum.” (page 426) and it rained down, it rained down like – pain.

 kaz asks inej to stay. million reasons by lady gaga “i will have you without armor, kaz brekker. or i will not have you at all.” speak, she begged silently. give me a reason to stay. for all his selfishness and cruelty, kaz was still the boy who had saved her. she wanted to believe he was worth saving too. the sails creaked. the clouds parted for the moon and then gathered back around her. inej left kaz with the wind howling and dawn still a long while away. (page 434) i’ve got a hundred million reasons to walk away, but i just need one good one to stay.

 nina starts to go through withdrawals. 5am by amber run. “stay,” she panted. tears leaked from her eyes. “stay til the end.” / “and after,” he said. “and always.” and you don’t know how to feel until the moment’s passed. i wish you’d live like you’re made of glass.

 van eck goes back on his deal/kaz goes to pekka rollins for help. seven devils by florence + the machine. “none of you will leave this island, mister brekker. all of you will vanish, and nobody will care.” (page 446) seven devils all around you, seven devils in my house.

[kvetchlandia]

Étienne Carat     Victor Hugo, Paris     1876

Letters to the rich and to the poor, c.1884

I am asked what has been the lesson of my life, which I have learned in my years of living to bequeath as my most precious legacy to humanity. I reply that my soul has two messages of council, of promise and of threat to deliver. One to the rich and the other to the poor. The two contain the sum of human wisdom.

TO THE RICH.

The poor cry out to the wealthy. The slaves implore the rulers. And as much now as in the days of Spartan Helots. I am one of them and I add my voice to that multitude that it may reach the ears of the rich. Who am I? One of the people. From whence come I? From the bottomless pit. How am I named? I am Wretchedness. My lords, I have something to say to you.

My lords, you are placed high. You have power, opulence, pleasure, the sun immovable at your zenith, unlimited authority, enjoyment undivided, a total forgetfulness of others. So be it. But there is something below you. Above you, perhaps. My lords I impart to you a novelty. The human race exists.

I am he who comes from the depths. My lords, you are the great and the rich. That is perilous. You take advantage of the night. But have a care; there is a great power, the morning. The dawn cannot be vanquished. It will come. It comes, it has within it the outbreak of irresistible day.

You, you are the dark clouds of privilege. Be afraid. The true master is about to knock at the door.

What is the father of privilege? Chance. What is his son? Abuse. Neither chance nor abuse is enduring. They have, both of them, an evil to-morrow.

I come to warn you. I come to denounce you in your own bliss. It is made out of the ills of the others. Your paradise is made out of the hell of the poor. I come to open before you, the wealthy, the grand assizes of the poor-that sovereign who is the slave, that convict who is the judge. I am bowed down under what I have to say. Where to begin? I know not. I have picked up in the cruel experience of suffering, my vast though struggling pleas. Now what shall I do with them? They overwhelm me and I throw them forth pell mell before me.

I am a diver and I bring up from the depths a pearl, the Truth. 1 speak because I know. I have experienced. I have seen. Suffering? No, the word is weak, O masters in bliss ! Poverty-I have grown up in it; winter-I have shivered in it; famine-I have tasted it; scorn-I have undergone it; the plague-I have had it; shame-I have drunk of it.

I felt it requisite that I should come among you. Why, because of my yesterday's rags. It was in order that my voice might be raised among the satiated, that God commingled me with the hungered. Oh! have pity! Oh, you know not this fatal world, whereunto you believe that you belong. So high, you are outside of it. I will tell you what it is.

Abandoned an orphan, alone in boundless creation, I made my entry into this gloom you call society. The first thing I saw was law, under the form of a gibbet; the second was wealth- your wealth-under the form of a woman dead of cold and hunger; the third was luxury under the shape of a hunted man chained to prison walls; the fourth was your palaces beneath the shadow of which cowered the tramp.

The human race has been made by you slaves and convicts, you have made of this earth a dungeon. Light is wanting, air is wanting, virtue is wanting.

The workers of this world whose fruits you enjoy live in death. There are little girls who begin at eight by prostitution, and who end at twenty by old age. Who among you nave been to Newcastle-on-Tyne? There are men in the mines who chew coal, to fill their stomach and cheat hunger. Look you in Lancashire. Misery everywhere. Are you aware that the Harlech fishermen eat grass when the fishery fails? Are you aware that at Burton- Lazers there are still certain lepers driven into the woods, who are fired at if they come out of their dens? In Peckridge there are no beds in the hovels, and holes are dug in the ground for little children to sleep in; so that, in place of beginning with the cradle, they begin with the tomb.

Mercy, have mercy for the poor! Oh, I conjure you, have pity ! But no, you will not. I know ye all. Devils bred in hell, and dogs with hearts of stone. Upward to your golden throne for ages has gone the cry of misery, the groan of hunger, and the sob of despair, and ye heeded it not. What mercy hast thou given shall be meted out to you in turn.

Bear in mind that a series of kings armed with swords were interrupted by Cromwell and the axe.

Tremble! The incorruptible dissolutions draw near; the clipped talons push out again; the torn-out tongues take to flight, become tongues of flame scattered to the winds of darkness, and they howl in the Infinite. They who are hungry show their idle teeth, Paradises built over hells totter. There is suffering and that which is above leans over, and that which is below gapes open. The shadow asks to become light. The damned discuss the elect. It is the people who are oncoming. I tell you it is Man who ascends. It is the end that is beginning. It is the red dawning on Catastrophe. Ah! This society is false. One day, a true society must come. Then there will be no more lords; there will be free, living men. There will be no more wealth, there will be an abundance for the poor. There will be no more masters, but there will be brothers. They that toil shall have. This is the future. No more prostration, no more abasement, no more ignorance, no more wealth, no more beasts of burden, no more courtiers-but LIGHT.

To The Poor,

Shall I now speak to the poor after having in vain implored the rich? Yes, it is fitting. This then have I to say to the disinherited. Keep a watch upon your abominable jaw. There is one rule for the rich-to do nothing, and one for the poor- to say nothing. The poor have but one friend, silence. They should use but one monosyllable: yes. To confess and to concede-these are all the "rights" they have. " Yes" to the judge. "Yes" to the king. The great if it so pleases them give us blows with a stick; I have had them; it is their prerogative, and they lose nothing of their greatness in cracking our bones. Let us worship the king’s scepter which is the first among sticks.

If a poor man is happy he is the pickpocket of happiness. Only the rich and noble are happy by right. The rich man is he who being young has the rights of old age; being old, the lucky chances of youth; vicious, the respect of good people; a coward, the command of the stout-hearted; doing nothing, the fruits of labor.

Carriages, poor slaves, exist. The lord is inside; the people are under the wheel; the wise man makes room.

The people fight. Whose is the glory? They pay. Whose is the magnificence? The king's. And the people like to be rich in this fashion. Our ruler, King or Croesus, receives from the poor a crown piece and renders back to the poor a farthing. How generous he is! The colossal looks up to the pygmy superstructure. How tall the manikin is! He is on my back. A dwarf has an excellent method of being higher than a giant; it is to perch himself upon the other's shoulders. But that the giant should let him do it, there's the odd part of it; and that he should admire the baseness of the dwarf, there's the stupidity. Human ingenuousness.

The equestrian statue reserved for kings alone is an excellent type of royalty. Let us be frank with words. The capitalist who steals the reward of labor is a king as well as the man of blood. The king mounts himself on the horse. The horse is the people. Sometimes this horse transfigures himself by degrees. At the beginning he is an ass; at the end he is a lion. Then he throws his rider to the ground and we have 1643 in England and 1789 in France; and sometimes devours him, in which case we have in England 1649 and in France 1793.

That the lion can again become a jackass, this is surprising but a fact.

What happiness to be again ridden and beaten and starved. What happiness to work forever for bread and water ! What happiness to be free from the delusions that cake is good and life other than misery! Was there anything more crazy than those ideas? Where should we be if every vagabond had his rights? Imagine everybody governing! Can you imagine a city governed by the men who built it? They are the team, not the coachman. What a godsend is a rich man who takes charge of everything. Surely he is generous to take the trouble for us! And then, he was brought up to it; he knows what it is; it is his business. A guide is necessary for us. Being poor we are ignorant; being ignorant we are blind; we need a guide. But why are we ignorant? Because it must be so. Ignorance is the guardian of Virtue! He who is ignorant is innocent! It is not our duty to think, complain or reason. These truths are uncontestable. SOCIETY reposes on them. What is "society"? Misery for you if you support it. Be reasonable, poor man. you were made to be a slave.

Not to be a slave is to DARE to Do.

Victor Hugo

[noxian-rose]

 | EMPRESS LEBLANC BACKSTORY | WRITTEN WITH @the-ravenous-flock

"Evaine...?" The world goes quiet in moments. Her eyes betray a moment of apology. Everything resumes in a cacophony of noise, how men dying at his feet.  But his eyes cannot leave her frame, her staff raised to fight.  To take everything.  His age weighs him down as surely as his heart.  His staff falls from numb fingers.  The Grand General falls into his seat moments later.

"Kill any attempting resistance, we will rendezvous in the meeting room when the dust settles" She states to a group of her magi in the midst of pulling signature ethereal chains around the neck of a former commander.

LeBlanc merely observes the color wash from his pleading eyes without much of another word; her fingers letting go of the illusionary chain, only to turn around and find Jericho's eyes cemented to figure. Unblinking, still as the most stagnant waters as if frozen in the singular moment that had taken place before the sounds and people surrounding him had come to a halt in his eyes. Emilia shook her head and settled her attentions on the matter at hand, continuing forth with the rest of the others.

A stronger man would have fought back.  A wiser would have escaped to fight another day.  Jericho feels neither of these can apply anymore.  All his plans, all the sacrifices he'd made.  All for naught.  They had gone up in smoke, much like the flames sprouting from High Command itself.  His bones felt stiff, his muscles burned.  He'd not sustained any damage whatsoever, but he could not move.  Once more, his voice barely broke through the carnage, still disbelieving.  "Evaine...?".

His eyes could not pull away from the woman he'd loved.  The woman who had listened to him, in the dark of the night.

The woman who had stabbed him in the heart.

Despite the voice of reason that was her better self, she turned back to him; still not having moved in the heat of the moment. For a moment she thought she had hallucinated the voice that came from within the man slumped in his seat, utterly defeated by the vulnerability that was her presence.

How long had it been since she had last heard him utter her name so defeatedly? Certainly not the night before.

Emilia approached him once more, standing before her dearest raven with her porcelain visage and ever so smug smirk. Victory; the taste of the purest honey that she had long served him through the years without even the slightest sample. "Jericho, darling why must you look so terribly downtrodden? Is this not the victory we both yearned for so desperately since our youth?"

The voice before him taunted him, trying to get a rise out of him.  A younger Swain might have taken the bait. Swain was not a young man anymore.

The wine they had drank the night before, the way her laugh lit the night.  The way the moonlight played off her porcelain skin.  All this and more danced through his mind unbidden.  He could taste nothing but ash upon his lips.  Where she'd kissed him tenderly the night before, promising her live to him.

Despite priding himself as a tactician without equal, Swain could barely breathe, let alone think.  His eyes watched the remains of his men die by the score, falling to flame and spell and blade.  Yet, his eyes never left the spectre of the woman before him.

"I know better than to think Emilia would share any sort of power." The words echo to him, barely recognizing the words as his own.  The world flickers and warps, and he barely manages to stay conscious.  "Even in my wildest dreams, I would never have expected this.  Never would have believed it possible."

"But Evaine died years ago.  I now see that clearly.  I've merely been following the shadow of a ghost."

The mere spectacle of his crimson hues sitting still before her only served as a reminder of their actions the night before; his silence only magnifying the ache that lingered within her like venom, corroding away at the walls she had fortified Evaine in for years. She needed to leave, follow her army the way he had led the men and women of Noxus for decades without as much as a stutter in his stride. But her feet refused to comply with her desire, walking forward than backwards as she had so wished. Emilia knelt on the floor, her hands cupping his cheek the same way she had done when they shared a tender kiss, nevermore. "Jericho." She whispered "Is this not what you wanted?"

He barely manages to sit straight in his chair.  We're he to die now, he'd do it with his back straight.  And, even though he knows the woman he loved may as well have not existed, he still cannot bring himself to harm her face.  His eyes glaze over, a coldness setting in his chest.

"So then, Matron.  Make your final move."

He utters the challenge as a token.  He has no fight left.  He can't even tell, numb as he is that tears stream down his face.

Beatrice swoops in from the rafters, blood coating her once pristine feathers.  Most of is not hers.  She screams all the way, talons extended.  She cries for her master, fury incarnate.  Blood flows freely from anyone fool enough to fight her.  And then her many eyes catch Swain, and then her rage is tenfold.  A word of power is uttered "Harlot!"

Unholy flame streams forth from the devil bird, a mighty conflagration that shames the kindling produced by the Rose.  She dives for LeBlanc, harpy-like screeches issuing forth.

She is stopped by the hand of her master.

"No, Beatrice."

The flames die as quickly as they grew. Her hatred, however, still burns.  Six crimson eyes turn to the Deceiver.  They promise torment without end, and death a blessing. However, the Grand General awaits his own judgement all the same, tired old eyes barely registering the flowing tears.

"Play your final move, LeBlanc."

Tears. Tears that she had once remembered long before the game had truly begun. Tears that didn't even make their presence strong even when she had killed her own blood prior to becoming Matron. Glassy amber eyes shifting to the horrific sight that was Beatrice lurching for her without a hint of remorse evident; then Swain's hand halting the creature; a drop of blood from the bird's talons falling unto untouched cheek. LeBlanc draws away from him, ever unfeeling and composed  as her official title dropped from his lips like bile.

She stands from the ground silkily and continues "We do not fall short on deals as an organization, as you know. What you desire from us will be yours, your master will be kept well treated.  What say you?"

By this point, Swain has lost consciousness.  The  shock renders him cold, and dead to the world.

However, the bird scorched the wood it stands upon, protecting her master.  Words spill into the aether, a terrible sound.  Lesser men fall to the ground, bleeding from their ears.

"A gilded cage, then.  So be it.  Know this, Deceiver.  You will die alone in the dark, forgotten to the annals of time.  And my master will be the one to burn your Rose to ashes black as your namesake.  And, as you die, I will be there." As she speaks, Beatrice conjures a vision for LeBlanc.  An ebony throne.  A Rose in bloom. A war.  A child.  Then fire.  Pain.  Six burning eyes.  A field of corpses.  A golden staff shattering.  Screams.  Jericho walking away into the night.  As quickly as the images fly by, it ends in moments.

"You may hold onto Jericho for now, doll.  But he is mine.". With that, the bird disappears out the window, leaving a comatose old man behind.

She listened to Beatrice's words wordlessly and let the vision wash over her without as much as a blink of her eye; rather, a smirk took it's rightful place across her lips. The creature's words did nothing to unsettle her despite the intentions set. It would take more than a mere bird to bring her Rose to ashes, and she would make sure to secure the position of authority her organization had slid into before the inevitable death of her physical vessel.

Beatrice proposed a fitting challenge for a woman of her stature; and LeBlanc was not a woman to ignore such trials. If this was the way she wanted to play the game, so be it. She conjured her clone and ordered the duplicate to walk to Swain's unmoving body. LeBlanc grasped his  shoulders, moving him away from the chair while her clone took charge of his lower body. "We need to move him elsewhere. The Black Rose's sanctuary" Evaine stated. Her clone nodded and followed in her footsteps as they both moved out towards the underground headquarters.