#it wasn’t hubris that brought him down though

[sleepyfortress]

A study of “Lament For Icarus” by Herbert Draper but make it ORV

[paybackraid]

Hubris

Summary: Wes had only wanted Fenton captured on film! Transforming! He had wanted the truth out there; for people to stop acting like he was insane, like he was in the wrong, like he was a freak. He hadn’t wanted Fenton captured by his parents. He hadn’t wanted Fenton captured in a government-sanctioned search and seizure. He hadn’t wanted Fenton captured kicking and screaming for his life, begging anyone around him to help, to understand. He hadn’t wanted this at all.

Words: 4,471

Trigger warnings for electrocution and torture of a teenager/child

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Janice Pumstone was having a perfectly, very normal day at work. The kids were being good, if a little goofy. Principal Ishiyama announced an entirely too peppy string of announcements in second period. Danny Fenton was late to two classes, left early from another, and missed one entirely. All normal. Completely normal. 

And then the Fentons came in. 

Jack and Maddie were frequent visitors of the high school. Their daughter Jazz was a senior and was well on her way to a 5.0 GPA, and one didn’t have a child like that by being totally absent parents. Their son Danny—yes, the one mentioned before—was a constant behavior case and had several marks on his record that the parents had to come down to talk about—although the school had stopped calling about all the absences and tardies last year. Even if their children weren’t the reason the Fenton parents came to the school, Casper High was a frequent setting for ghost fights, and they were always on the scene, even if they arrived long after Phantom put the ghost in question in his little thermos. 

But, there was no ghost. Janice hadn’t heard a thing about a ghost, the ghost alarm hadn’t gone off. Not even Phantom, who sometimes flitted around before and after school, had been spotted according to the students. Why were they here?

They looked… dressed up. Different. Jack and Maddie both wore large metal belts around their waists. There were pistols in their belts, but the green on them told Janice exactly what they were for. With the frequency of ghost attacks, even some of the kids brought ectoguns to school, in case Phantom wasn’t quite fast enough to stop whichever one was attacking before someone was put in the line of danger. They were precautions, not necessities, but it made the kids feel safer. 

Something different, though. Jack normally wore a huge smile on his face, even when he was coming to actually hunt a dangerous ghost. He didn’t. He looked mad. Maddie’s face was similar to how she normally looked, set and determined, but there was an anger in her face, too, that was different from usual. 

“Hi,” Maddie said with a fake, cookie cutter smile. “Can you tell me where my son might be?” Her eyelid twitched after she said the word son, but Janice decided she didn’t notice that.

“I. Uh. He,” Janice said intelligently. She took a moment, then pulled up the kids’ schedules. Daniel James. Fenton. F. F. “Well, class just let out. He might be at his locker, but he is between history and English. Both are on the third floor, west wing.”

“Excellent!” chirped Maddie. She turned out of the office. Jack didn’t say anything. Just nodded and followed.

Even further to her surprise, ten men in pure white suits followed them without even stopping into the office. A chill went up and down Janice’s spine. This wasn’t right. Something was off.

So Janice did the right thing, she thought, and called her boss. Danny’s next class was with him anyway. 

“…Hey, Bill? Something weird just happened. The Fentons are here. No, I know. That’s why… I don’t know. Something’s off. Please just keep an eye out.”

Graphic violence under the cut vvv

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Wes was feeling particularly smug today. He felt confident, he felt good. The whole school was days away from knowing the truth. The whole world was. Danny Fenton-Phantom would get what was coming to him, and Wes would rub it in his stupid face afterward. He’d make Fenton say it to the whole entire school. That Fenton was Phantom, not Wes. That Wes Weston was not a creep, was not crazy. That Wes Weston had been right all along. 

That was all Wes wanted. To be right, and for people to know it.

So he’d sent his evidence in to some scary people. It had only been a few things, but it was proof! And Fenton was human, too, so it wasn’t like they’d do anything. They wouldn’t be that callous.

He never heard back, but he knew they’d received it. He knew in his gut.

And Kyle was gonna eat his words. 

Between classes, Wes glanced over his shoulder to see Fenton standing around chatting with his friends. He had no idea, did he? He’d been fucking around with Wes for far too long—going intangible in plain sight just because he knew Wes could see him, flashing his glowy green eyes just because he was a little unhappy, unnatural bouts of inhuman strength especially for his scrawny body. Wes had seen it all, and now the world would. 

And Wes only wanted a little recognition out of it. He didn’t want to be, like, world-famous about it or anything. Statewide, maybe even nationwide would be cool, but not the whole world. 

A door at the end of the hallway suddenly opened up. Wes glanced over to see a pair of eerily recognizable adults, even if they seemed… different today.

The Fentons strode in. They had something strapped around their waists and another something strapped around their shoulders. Wes could see green glowing weapons holstered around their waists—ectoguns.

They looked mad.

What… were they doing here, dressed to the nines in ghost hunting gear? There had been no ghost alarms, and they didn’t go off around Fenton, since no one but him, Manson, and Foley knew yet. 

Fenton didn’t notice them right away, but then Foley hit him and nodded at them. The Fentons looked around, and their eyes locked on Danny, and suddenly Wes’ stomach was in his toes. Something felt wrong. 

“Hey, guys,” said Fenton, hand in his hair. “Haha, what are you doing here?” 

Neither parent answered, nearing. Mr. Fenton looked angry. 

“Did I forget something?” wondered Fenton. Beside him, Manson and Foley said, “hey, Mr. and Mrs. F.”

The air of the whole exchange changed when Mr. Fenton reached Fenton. The entire hallway came to a frozen halt when he reached out and slammed Fenton into the locker behind him so hard his head snapped back.  

And then, in stormed ten men in pure white suits. All of them were also armed with ghost hunting gear.

Fenton recovered quickly (more proof) and looked up at his father, grabbing his hand, fingers inching toward the inner pulsepoint to squeeze. Mr. Fenton’s hand squeezed, and Wes thought for a second that he’d choke the afterlife out of him right there.

And then, an accusatory breath said “Phantom”. 

Fenton’s pupils were pinpricks in his massive eyes. His response was as breathy as his father’s. 

“How’d you find out?”

Mr. Fenton did not answer.

With Fenton and Mr. Fenton occupied with one another—one obviously threatening, the other squirming to get away—Mrs. Fenton took out another belt, one that matched the metal one around their waists. She moved forward, the belt going for Fenton’s waist.

Manson, who had been watching the scene play out with horror in her eyes, shouted “Wait!! Don’t!! You’re gonna kill him!!”

Mrs. Fenton looked at her. Wes couldn’t see the look, but he could read the increasing horror on Manson and Foley. She… didn’t care. She didn’t care that that was her kid, and she didn’t care that whatever she was trying to put on him was going to kill more than just his social life (was going to kill him even more than he already had been).

Mrs. Fenton moved back to Fenton. Manson lunged for her, Foley not far behind, but one of the guys in white—wait, one of the Guys in White—grabbed both of them and held them back. 

Fenton’s eyes flickered around and landed on his mother and the belt, and he started kicking and squirming. He choked when Mr. Fenton shoved on his solar plexus somehow harder. 

“Quit squirming.”

Fenton didn’t. Still, Mrs. Fenton moved around and clipped the belt around Fenton’s waist.

The hall was lit up in a magnificent, horrifying display of dancing yellow and white lights. Fenton’s scream echoed through the hallways and came back toward them with a vengeance. His father dropped him, but Fenton didn’t stop screaming and the lights didn’t stop dancing. A white ring that Wes had seen once and only once, way back when, appeared around his waist, and then vanished with an inaudible pop.

“Danny!” Manson and Foley both sobbed. They were still in the agents’ arms, watching as everyone did with horror.  Similarly, Wes stood with his hands clapped over his gaping mouth, disbelieving. 

What

The actual fuck

Was happening?

Only when the scent of burnt hair and flesh permeated the hallway did the electricity pulsing through Fenton’s skin apparently stop. He slumped there on the floor, fully laid out in front of his folks who stood just… watching him. Wes didn’t even see his back moving with breath. God. Was he dead? All the way dead? Had the Fentons just killed their son, right in the middle of the school, right in front of government agents? 

“DANNY!!” yelped a voice Wes knew well. Long ginger hair chased a tall girl in a black sweater. Jazz—Fenton’s older sister—tore down the hallway from the Senior wing and came to a stop, staring at her brother. She was probably thinking the same thing that anyone watching this was. Surely, this wasn’t real?

Then, she lunged. Unlike Manson and Foley, she was not so easily stopped. She bunched her fists and met her father head on, pounding them on his back. Mr. Fenton didn’t even seem to notice them—he was a big man, her punches were probably little more than mosquito bites. Annoying, but not so much that he stopped in his quest. Whatever that quest was. 

Torture, it had to be. Wes didn’t know what else it could be. He had never thought… that it would come to this. 

He’d just wanted people to know. 

The body—because surely after all that it was just a body—moved. Slowly. But it did. Its shoulders started picking it up achingly slow. Wes thought a lot of things about Phantom, very few of them truly good, but prior to this, he had had to hand it to it: Phantom always got back up. 

Now, with a mix of red and green—blood and ectoplasm—dripping from his face as his nose and ears bled sluggishly, Wes was parsing together that that, maybe, wasn’t such a good thing. 

The body—Fenton, he was still a human even if it was only half—picked himself all the way up. His elbows locked as he worked his knees beneath him. He was going to try getting to his feet next, Wes just knew it, but he didn’t want to see Fenton stumble and collapse into a puddle of his own bodily fluids. 

But he didn’t. He just stopped there, quaking. Of course he was. 

And then, words.

“You don’t… understand,” Fenton said. He coughed hard, and a bubble of blood and ectoplasm burst somewhere in his throat and splattered on the ground under him. “You don’t understand,” he said again, a little steadier, as if the words brought him conviction rather than dread. “You don’t understand. You don’t understand. You don’t understand.”

It was a mantra. Maybe he was getting strength from it. Maybe it was one of his ghostly abilities. Wes had heard him yell “I’m going ghost!” to the whole world; maybe those words gave him strength, too? Or maybe Wes was just reaching. 

“Danny!” Jazz called on the other side of her father, who was holding her back now, keeping her from Fenton. Maybe he thought he was protecting her. Or maybe he cared more about obtaining his specimen than preserving their relationship? They’d apparently already lost one, what was one more?

Fenton looked at her. Wes thought he might vomit.

“You have to Wail!” Jazz cried loudly. “We’ll be okay, but you have to get out of here! Wail!”

Wes was pale; even if they didn’t see it often, Wes had been cataloging Phantom’s actions and abilities for the better part of a year now. He knew what the Wail was. It was devastating.

Fenton pathetically got to his feet, a hand braced on the wall. His mother took out her ectogun and pointed it at him. One hand still braced, the other bunched in a fist, Fenton squared his feet and sucked in a huge breath. Wes braced himself for destruction.

Before the spectral attack came forth, though, Mr. Fenton moved forward. Wes saw something in his hands he’d never seen before—a slightly rounded something like a mask with a short structure protruding from the concave side. He took the thing and shoved it towards Fenton’s face, sunk the protruding structure into his mouth, forcing the sonic attack to stop before it even began.

When the man pulled away, Danny Fenton was muzzled like an animal. 

Mr. Fenton seized the front of Fenton’s shirt, now that he was safely muzzled and subdued. He lifted him right off his feet and shoved him back into the wall, again smacking his head on the wall. It occurred to Wes too late—could ghosts or half-ghosts get concussions?

“How dare you,” snarled Mr. Fenton. “You would have killed anyone in this school. They’re children, but I suppose you don’t care about that. They’re just a cover story for you.”

Fenton shook his head. Wes could see it now—tears fell freely down his face as he tried to fight Mr. Fenton’s grasp unsuccessfully. His hands were back on Mr. Fenton’s hammy fist, trying to get him to back off but probably too weak, now, to do it properly. 

“I’m through with all this. All your games, all your lies,” Mr. Fenton continued, voice so low Wes almost couldn’t hear it. “Whatever the truth is, we’re going to get it out of you.” He leaned in close, so close their noses nearly touched. Fenton squirmed uselessly. “Molecule. By. Molecule.”

“NO!” Jazz yelled.

“Saved by the Light, people, what is going on here?”

Mr. Lancer made a gracious entrance from a different hallway. He looked a little frazzled—maybe a student had managed to tear their eyes away long enough to fetch him. 

“This doesn’t concern you,” one of the agents said, moving in front of Lancer. 

Lancer glanced around, looked at the Fenton adults, saw the way Mr. Fenton had his son pinned to the wall and muzzled. “Like hell it doesn’t! That’s my student!” He turned to a nearby student and hissed to call the police. 

“That won’t be necessary,” one of the agents said. “The government has already wiped Daniel Fenton off the record. As far as anyone knows, he doesn’t exist. Any calls made on behalf of Fenton will be rerouted to the Ghost Investigation Ward.”

They’d removed Fenton from government existence? But he was human! Even if he had some… spooky qualities, surely they couldn’t just—

But they had. There was a terrifying truth in their statement. They had. Because they were sitting back and watching as a pair of parents tortured their half-ghost son.

“He’s right there, he clearly exists!” Lancer snarled. 

“That’s an ecto-entity with impressive manipulative powers. Nothing more. Back off, Lancer,” the agent said, like he just knew who he was. 

“Help!” Jazz sobbed, having a hard time staying on her feet with the force of her emotions. “P-please, help, h-he’s good…!”

Manson and Foley were still fighting with their captors. It had waned while Fenton was muzzled, but they fought with renewed strength at Jazz’s plea. Wes thought he saw teeth flash, but he couldn’t tell. 

This was all wrong. He hoped one of them bit them.

Lancer moved forward toward the fracturing family, but one of the agents put his arm out to stop him. Lancer turned burning eyes on him. Lancer was good at many things, one of which was taking care of his students. He was always the first in and last out before and after ghost attacks, and frequently tucked stray students behind him if he felt it necessary. Wes was pretty sure he could remember Lancer trying to deck a ghost once, and briefly succeeding, too. So Wes wasn’t that surprised when the agent whose arm was in his way suddenly got a swift punch in the face.

Unfortunately, though the intention was good, that agent and two others near him tackled Lancer and pinned him to the floor, accusing him of being uncooperative, and he was lucky they were there dealing with a certain violent ecto-entity and didn’t have the time for small fry like him.

“Enough!” Mrs. Fenton this time snapped, looking up at Fenton. “You’ve manipulated enough people; my family least of all, but can’t you see that you’re getting innocent people hurt?” She gestured back towards Lancer.

Fenton was shaking his head, eyes closed. Probably trying to chase away… everything that was happening today. Wes always had a lot of Things to say about Fenton, but he couldn’t fault him for that.

“You just don’t care,” Mrs. Fenton concluded. “That’s what I thought.”

If Fenton nodded, it would look like he agreed. If he shook his head, it could just as easily be interpreted as agreement. The only chance Fenton had was talking his way out of this, but the muzzle prevented that. Wes wanted to do something, put a stop to this, but he didn’t know what to do. These were adults around him, adults who were supposed to know better. How was Wes meant to contend with that? 

Suddenly, there was a loud beep from the Fentons. Mr. Fenton dropped Fenton at his feet and—god, again electricity arched up and down his body. Why?! Wes hadn’t seen Fenton do anything that would require payback! But Fenton’s screams, even hidden behind a muzzle, echoed through the walls of Casper High. That stench—burnt hair, burnt flesh, burnt ozone—thickened the hallway again. Wes fought down the need to gag. 

The white ring appeared again around Fenton’s waist as he writhed. This time it didn’t flicker on and off, rather split and moved up and down. This was a moment Wes had been looking forward to, but not like this, not at all like this. A familiar black jumpsuit slowly revealed itself, until that familiar DP insignia was visible and solidified what, exactly, was happening to anyone unlike Wes, anyone who didn’t strictly know. 

“Stop!” a few students called. Not just Jazz, some of the onlookers, too. Wes thought his own voice may have been added in there. The Fentons didn’t stop, but Fenton wrangled the rings back down his body, not triggering the full transformation. The rings vanished and he was in his normal human clothes. 

“God, stop this!” cried a different voice. Was that Dash? It sounded like it. 

The body slumped again as the belt (?) shut off and electricity stopped pumping into him. He twitched and jerked and spasmed, whatever energy was leftover from the attack rocketing through and out of him. This time, Fenton did not try to get up. Maybe he really was fully dead now. Maybe… maybe that would be better. 

After everything they had just witnessed, Wes hardly thought anything of it when Mr. Fenton crouched and gathered Fenton up, slinging him over his shoulder like a sack of flour. There really was no other logical conclusion, but the position, with Fenton’s head flopped over his shoulder, face toward Wes, made the muzzle even more obvious to the wandering eye. It glinted charcoal gray at him, but with that eerie green ghostly F dead in the center claiming it as FentonWorks tech. Worse than that was the streams of mixed red and green that spilled from his nose, his eyes, his ears. 

Worse still, even though Fenton was fully unconscious if there was any life in him at all, eight of the Guys in White operatives aimed their ecto-weaponry at the body. Eight red dots lit on his back and head made it clear who, exactly, every single one of them was aiming for. 

And… that was it. Without even an apology to the students for the horror show they had all been forced to watch unprompted, without even a glance to their daughter, to Mr. Lancer, to Manson or Foley, Mrs. Fenton led the way to the stairwell with Mr. Fenton close behind and their son slung over his shoulder. The eight agents with weapons drawn followed, those red dots never leaving Fenton’s prone, near-lifeless body. 

“WAIT!!” Jazz cried once she collected her bearings. Like her parents, she ignored everyone around her, brushed off offers to help her to her feet and questions if she was alright and what the hell just happened. Instead, Jazz jumped to her feet on her own and chased the Guys in White out of the hallway. “You don’t understand! You have to listen to me!” Her voice echoed through the hallways, almost as eerily as her brother’s tortured screams. 

Lancer, once he got back on his feet, chased after her calling “Miss Fenton! Miss Fenton!” And then he and his calls were gone, and the hallway and what felt like the entire school fell into an eerie silence. 

Then, Manson collapsed. She fell into broken sobs, and Foley fell into equally broken cries on top of her, holding one another. Gray approached them from… somewhere and put her hands on their backs, and the three of them sat together. Motion in the hallway started up again, and Wes was sure he saw several people move towards the bathrooms. 

Wes didn’t. He couldn’t make himself move. Instead, he stared at the spot burnt black on the ground where Fenton had been tortured. His hands quaked. Vomit was broiling at the base of his throat but wasn’t coming up yet, thank god. Whenever it did push up, Wes wasn’t sure he would be able to swallow it. 

Because this hadn’t happened. It couldn’t have happened. Right? Not even the worst parents in the world could storm into a high school, torture their son, and carry him out more-than-half dead and muzzled, and they certainly couldn’t do that in front of at least three teachers, most of the student body, and no less than ten government agents. It had to be some horrible, awful dream. When Wes woke up, he would never have sent the evidence in. Or he did, but everyone acted normal about his evidence. A little shocked, but not… not… not like that. 

A voice, sharp commanding and hard, was the only thing that was able to break Wes from his spiraling thoughts. 

“Wesley Weston?”

Wes flinched at the use of his full name. Only his mom was allowed to use his full government name. He looked up to see two of the Guys in White—or, Ghost Investigation Ward, whatever they were calling themselves now. They watched, their hands tucked neatly behind their backs. 

“Uh… yeah,” Wes said, wishing very much in that moment that he was not Wesley Weston. He glanced side to side, saw Manson and Foley watching him with fire burning in their eyes, and then looked away. This had to be a prank. It was a prank. Someone—maybe the real Fenton, or one of his duplicates or something—was going to jump out of a locker and shout “you’ve been Punk’d!”

No one did, though. And if they were going to do that, they needed to hurry up and do it soon, before it became impossible to pretend it was fake anymore. 

The man with the handlebar mustache, the one who looked the most important, stretched out his hand for a shake. Wes looked at him, looked at his hand, looked at him and then extended his own, much smaller hand to shake back. He tried not to be offended when the Guy in White immediately took out a bottle of spray sanitizer and spritzed his hands clean. 

“Well done, son,” said the Guy in White. He took something out of his back pocket, something leather (or, pleather, but Wes wouldn’t know the difference) and a pen. He wrote something in his little book and, much to Wes’ surprise, he cut him a check. 

The Guy in White gave Wes a smile. Or something that passed for a smile anyway, in the glare of the fluorescent lights. He handed the check to Wes with no preamble. When Wes took it and looked it over, he noted the zeroes. There were too many. Each one made Wes’ stomach clench with guilt. 

“This should cover everything,” the agent said plainly. “Plus the thanks of the US government. We will need to confiscate all evidence you have on Phantom.”

It wasn’t a question. Wes didn’t say no. He had a feeling he couldn’t. 

He wanted to tear the check in his hands into a million billion little pieces. Scatter them all on the agent’s feet. But that wouldn’t stop Fenton from being gone. That wouldn’t stop them from taking his stuff, anyway. So, he thought, college. He could pay for college. 

Immediately after, he thought, Fenton. 

“But he’s human,” Wes said in a tiny voice, still staring at the check, at all the zeroes. There were four of them. Six, counting the cents. Had he sold Phantom—sold Fenton for five figures?

“It’s a powerful spectral entity,” said the Guy in White simply.

Wes looked up at him, looked at his fellow agent. Looked around at the hallway. Eyes were on him. “He’s their son.”

“It’s a monster,” the Guy in White continued. He sighed, cradled his head in one hand, mumbled something about not working with kids. “Look. You’ve done your part. You helped take a dangerous ecto-entity out of the skies. You should be proud.”

Hadn’t Wes thought that same thing, just a few days ago? When he gathered everything he had, all of his evidence, and decided that it was, actually, his business to tell the whole world that Danny Fenton and Danny Phantom were one and the same? 

If he was supposed to feel proud, why did he feel so revolting?

On the other side of the blackened stain that would forever mar Casper High even if they got it chemically clean, Paulina Sanchez stirred from her baffled trance and looked between the weeping trio, the stain, the conversation. “...Wait,” she said. Wes looked up at her. She looked pale as… well, pale as death. “I don’t understand. Danny Fenton is Danny… Phantom? Wes was right?”

Those were the very words that Wes had longed to hear since the moment he’d pieced together Fenton’s secret last year. Now, though, they didn’t feel like he had imagined they would feel. No, they didn’t feel good at all. 

[deathmimedream]

::::Ad Astra, Per Inferi::::

(Warnings: blood, torture, decapitation, non-consensual drug use, gore, trauma, character death)

@alastors-radioshow

He had felt safe. He was simply playing cards with his brothers, omega in the infirmary, Alastor home, catching up on work.

He hadn’t expected this.

The last thing he remembered hearing was Imperator declaring they were all going back on the road.

He was not so foolish as to believe her, and swallowed the last of his herbal tea as the other papas voiced confusion, and elation.

He was certain something wasn’t right.

Not since he’d been dragged off stage in the middle of a ritual, had things been right.

Terzo had NEVER trusted Imperator.

NEVER.

He understood what she meant when he was roughly grabbed from behind, and felt the needle in his throat.

He felt his limbs grow heavy, everything slowing to a crawl, vision going gray and dim.

The burning sensation that accompanied the sudden lethargy and numbness told his mind what this was.

Not what his brothers were receiving.

They were poisoned, murdered.

He.

He was being paralyzed, but the years of his practice in the dark arts had given his body strength. His careful work conditioning himself through herbology and infernal rituals had seen to that. The protective efforts of Alastor and Omega had turned misfortune aside.

He numbly watched, willing himself into sluggish action.

Secondo roared, fighting against the ministry ghouls that had killed him, managing to banish one, and wound another before he fell.

Primo had fired off a spell and hit a third ghoul, but age was against him, as was the quick actions of the cyanide and holy water cocktail he and Secondo had been injected with.

He, himself, didn’t go fully limp, but they were trying to pin him down and restrain him.

He bit, clawed, punched, kicked, even fired off a few minor infernal spells…but in the end, the drugs won, and he blacked out.

Though his body had ceased functioning properly, his mind continued to, and he realized what Imperator had initially been planning.

On the road, yes.

But not alive.

They were all going to be exhibited in those damn glass coffins that he’d seen brought in.

They had set him on edge, and he’d been so very careful to watch for tainted food or drink, especially after Cici had brought evidence to Alastor about holy water and drugs being slipped into their food.

He’d been aware, and warned the others, of the drugs in their food, but Primo and Secondo had waved him off.

They were papas, and imperator wouldn’t dare harm them!

Their hubris signed their death certificates.

He had only survived because he had been so careful.

But it hadn’t mattered.

He was still drugged, paralyzed by it, and unable to move or communicate.

When he COULD move, and think again, mind less hazy, he was stripped to his waist and strapped down to an autopsy table.

Imperator stood over him, grinning like a lunatic.

He was aware he’d been gagged, (Lucifer only knew what had been shoved into his mouth and tied in place with…again, who knew what, but he was incapable of sound) so he was more than aware that this…bitch of a woman, didn’t want to talk this over.

Nor did she wish to allow his charming voice a chance to spit out some rather effective curses and spells, or use that charm natural to his bloodline to sway her will.

Clever bitch.

He had no idea how long he’d been out, but imperator had cruelly planned for him to live.

He gave a muffled growl at her, struggling with the bindings until he unhappily realized he could not escape this fate.

The high dose of holy water in the drugs he’d been given had sapped his magic, all he managed was a dirty fizzle of sparks from his hands.

She let him wear himself out before stepping closer.

A small tilt of his head to either side gave him nightmarish images of both his brothers, already cut open, and their bodies being embalmed.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to not let his last sight of them be so brutal.

Imperator leaned closer, a scalpel in her hands.

“You are too dangerous and disgusting to deserve a seat beside Lucifer. You’re going to suffer, and you will die…but you will never see our dark lord’s face. You will never see hell! “

He braced himself, and thought of other things as she slowly began to cut into him. He knew what she was doing and he had no way to fight it.

She cut, not enough to kill, but enough to leave scars, if he had time to heal, and shed blood.

His mind, instead, wandered to Alastor. Roses.

Music.

And back to his Beloved Diavolo once more.

Similar tricks to how he used to make it through the scourgings she inflicted on him when he was younger.

Time bled away as he, too, bled away.

There was barely enough blood left in his body to fight, let alone stay conscious.

His arms burned from the bloody, inverted crosses cut into each them, a parody of a catholic saint’s suffering.

He must have passed out, but he had no idea how long.

A tired, dizzying glance at the clock showed him the time, but not day.

Everything had just bled together since that bitch had taken him down.

Tired eyes slid open, to an unwelcome sight.

Sister stood over him once more, and he all but sobbed, knowing what was about to happen.

She held the ritual dagger, and his face paints.

She had to paint over the gag in his mouth crudely, but didn’t care.

Once he was in near-full regalia, well, still shirtless, she began carving the ritual symbols over his heart.

She then drew on her magics, and began the ritual, speaking loudly, shrill, angry, voice echoing in the room.

“Io, Sorella Imperator, nel nome di Lucifero e della chiesa empia del suo nome, ti scaccio. Papa Emerito terzo, tu hai mangiato con la presente SCOMUNICATO da questa religione, e dannato per sempre alle sofferenze eterne del Purgatorio!”

(“I, Sister Imperator, in the name of Lucifer and the unholy church of his name, cast you out. Papa Emeritus Terzo, you are hereby EXCOMMUNICATED from this religion, and damned forever to the eternal suffering of Purgatory!”)

He felt omega’s panic as their bond was torn to shreds, at least somewhat thankful the ghoul had been spared the dragon’s wrath, but only slightly.

This time, when the syringe of drugs went in, everything faded to black.

This time, amidst tears, and soft, distressed cries, he welcomed it.

He wasn’t going to hell.

Never to see his sweet, beautiful, kind Diavolo ever again.

Excommunication meant no hell. No reward in death, no Alastor.

This broke him more than anything else. The thought of, even in death, being denied his beloved.

When he came too, he was too weak to do more than open his eyes, or twitch a finger.

They had stitched the cuts and slashes closed, washed him up…removed the gag, then fully painted his face for Ritual.

He was in his chasuble, papal hat tugged onto his head, staring up at glass, drugged into near full paralysis.

Staring foggily up at fans, Worshippers, and the ghouls and Cardinal that replaced the emeritus line.

He bore no ill will toward Copia, he was simply another pawn in Imperator’s game.

Copia was imperator’s child, so he had that insurance from her.

He was young, childish at times, naive, and sadly, under her thumb.

He drifted for who knew how long, in and out of consciousness, until he awoke enough to realize he wasn’t in the coffin.

But back on the autopsy table, strapped down, and gagged once again.

He attempted a spell against her, but he was too weak, and the curse fizzled away once more on his gloved fingertips.

Imperator had finally grown bored of him, it seemed. But he still had a purpose left, as a symbol of martyrdom, proof his reign was ended, clearing the path for Cardi.

He barely reacted as the thin bone saw started its slow journey through his neck.

He managed a gurgling snarl, before there was just, too much blood.

By then his mouth was full of blood, Chin and chest painted in crimson.

He was choking to death on his own blood, exsanguineated long before she would finish her grisly act.

His last earthly thoughts were of his beloved Diavolo, and how he would never see, or hold him again.

Then, the blade sliced too deeply, and he knew nothing more.

He choked, tears smearing his paints, his blood on Imperator’s hands, literally.

It felt like forever, but was over in a heartbeat.

Papa Terzo Emeritus was dead.

Long live Emeritus the fourth.

[bythenineshards]

Suffering Fools (Chapter Two)

Summary: Impatient Buggy returns to Doc Syre.

Warnings: NSFW, Minors DNI, Syre fixes a broken arm. It's brief, but I thought it should be mentioned.

A/N: Sorry it took so long! This chapter isn't exactly NSFW, but the fic as a whole is, so I'm gonna label it as such. Enjoy my cringe!

Buggy needed to choose his fights more carefully. He had to find the balance of getting to see the doctor and not being able to enjoy the interaction. Could he have waited a few days to get the stitches out? Sure. But why would he? His potentially broken ribs were the penalty for his hubris as the jailers dragged him between them. It was bad enough that he had to hide his abilities or risk worse conditions, but on top of that, she wasn’t even alone today.

The guards brought him in much the same as they had two or so days before. Syre glanced back from the table she was working at. Buggy got to see her do a double take before looking to the guards and asking, “Again?”

“Hasn’t learned his lesson yet?” Another woman’s voice asked, a touch amused. The woman, Domino, was leaning on the cupboards and watching as Syre tended to another inmate. Her arms were crossed, but her general demeanor was more relaxed than Buggy was used to seeing one from the jailers. Despite the dark sunglasses and blonde hair covering her eyes, Buggy knew she was looking at him.

“I’ll get you fixed up after I’m done with him,” Syre assured Buggy, her voice more professional than their previous interaction would suggest.

“No problem, Dollf-” He caught himself and coughed, his ribs protesting this heavily, “Doc.”

Domino slid her gaze from Buggy to Syre, and the pink haired doctor gave a shrug, the pair deciding it was nothing, “So what happened next?”

Syre brightened, “Right! So Marie and I, livid that they wouldn’t let us go to the party, convinced Avery to sneak in and get us some of the desserts.”

“Why weren’t you allowed to go?” Domino asked with something almost adjacent to a smile.

“I was twelve, Marie nine and Avery six,” Syre explained, then paused, “Could you help me with this?”

Domino uncrossed her arms and allowed Syre to instruct her as she prepared to reset the broken arm of an inmate Buggy didn’t recognize. She had the jailer hold a strip of thick leather in his mouth. Syre was unwavering in her movements. Snapping the bone back into place with precision and stern confidence. The man screamed out in agony and continued to cry as she put his arm in a cast. Even the two men that had brought Buggy in looked away uncomfortably. Once it was all done, she washed his face of sweat. “There we are. You were very brave.”

“Thank you…” The inmate sobbed, clearly a mess from the pain but trying in vain to appear more manly.

She gave him a warm smile as the two guards went to take the inmate back to whatever level he was housed on. She told them with a steely voice how to prevent the arm from getting worse. There was a thinness to her voice though, the cruelty was wearing on her and she knew her words were falling on deaf ears.

Buggy noticed immediately that Syre wasn’t referring to the inmate by the foreign nicknames. He settled into the cold metallic table, smug as can be. The thought that Domino’s presence was the more likely reason didn't cross his mind. He was special to the Doctor.

“So what next?” The blonde jailer hadn’t left yet. Buggy had hoped she would accompany the inmate that was just removed but no such luck. She came to sit at the foot of the table Buggy was strapped to. He wasn’t exactly complaining but he’d hoped for some alone time with the Doc.

“We were much too young to attend such a gathering. Even one thrown by my own family.” Syre explained, as she fetched Buggy’s file and realized the guards hadn’t told her anything. She hastily walked to the door and called down the hall, “WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM?”

There was a distant, muffled response that didn’t seem to please her. She began a slew of words in that oddly lyrical language Buggy assumed was her native tongue.

Domino smiled just a little with Syre’s frustration, “Idiots. The lot of them.”

Syre sighed, “It’s like they all share a single brain cell.”

Domino nodded in agreement, “So what happened?”

“Oh they said he got into another fight and wanted me to look him over. Something about his chest looking bad.” Syre explained, clearly annoyed by their lack of details, “I hope his ribs are not broken…”

She lifted the hem of his shirt to start her examination, concern soaking into her eyes before they widened at the sight of the blue hair that sat low on his stomach. It was almost enough for her to completely forget about the bruising.

“I meant the party.”

“Oh!” Syre laughed brightly. Dropping the shirt and continuing her story, as she took his vitals and jotted them down, “Marie and I convinced Avery to sneak down into the party. She was the smallest, therefore not easily spotted and if she was caught, she could burst into tears. She was quite talented with that. Boo Hoo! Papa, I had a nightmare! You understand.”

“Cute.”

“We thought so too,” Syre smiled, looking proud of her past self, “We told her to go down and get some of the cakes for us to share.”

“She got caught and couldn’t cry?” Domino predicted.

“No, worse.” Syre said, getting her stethoscope and warming it with her hands. It was then that Buggy noticed she wasn’t wearing the gloves from before. One was in his pocket at present. It smelled of her perfume and may have had a new smearing of red paint.

“We weren’t specific enough with her and she, somehow, got a three tier cake out of the party without being caught.”

“What?! How?”

Syre gestured vaguely, “Not a clue! We meant for her to get maybe a plate with some of the cookies and little cakes. Something easy to hide but nooooo. Avery said go big because she was already at home.”

Syre sat on the edge of the table, half considering cutting away his entire shirt or asking Domino to help her remove it. She felt something caress her thigh. It was just the slightest of touches, hardly a caress but it caused her to stammer, “W-we panicked of course. We tossed around the idea of sneaking it back into the party but it was lucky she wasn’t caught taking it. We didn’t want to risk it. So we did what any young girls would do.”

“Tried to eat it all yourselves?”

Syre gave a grave nod. She was trying hard to disregard the suggestive caresses to her thigh.

Domino chuckled, “How did that go?”

“We still feel nauseous at the smell of coconut cake,” Syre shuddered.

Domino’s chuckling ended in a sigh, “I should probably get back.” She didn’t sound like she wanted to. It seemed like everyone grew tired of the cold, militaristic atmosphere at Impel Down and enjoyed just feeling like people in a more normal workplace. Syre already missed being able to talk with her sisters and mother. Talking with Domino had sort of filled that void but it was different. She’d tried to do the same with Sadi but it hadn’t gone as well. The woman frightened her, if she was being honest.

Buggy stifled the urge to nod vigorously. He was growing impatient. Touching Syre's leg and getting her flustered was fun but the man wanted to flirt and make her blush.

“Actually,” Syre began, “Could you help me again?”

NO! Buggy thought and it reached his face before he shoved it back down.

Domino nodded, “Sure. What do you need?”

“I want to get a good look at his chest and back, and check his lungs but in order to do that, I need to unstrap him.” Syre explained while focusing on keeping herself calm. She was a professional. This patient was no different than her last. Plenty of patients, especially here, made eyes at her. They made comments about her appearance. She was being ridiculous. Their last interaction had been a momentary lapse in judgment. Her life had been fairly sheltered before. It was new and exciting to have a pirate get so desperate for her touch. It wouldn’t happen again.

Domino had caught Syre’s meaning and readied her weapon. Syre looked down at Buggy, warning him, “I don’t want to have to take care of a gunshot wound with nothing for the pain.”

Buggy’s curiosity was piqued by how she kept her voice so level and firm when her eyes were brimming with compassion. He nodded his own understanding, getting shot didn’t sound like fun to him either.

He could see Syre inwardly debating how best to unstrap him from the table. She shrugged and started with his head then worked her way down. He grunted as he slowly got in a sitting position.

“Could you please remove your shirt?” Syre asked, mentally patting herself on the back. So far, so good. Her face wasn’t warm. She was cool as a cucumber. Buggy peeled off his shirt and Syre swallowed hard, hoping Domino was too focused on Buggy to notice. Her eyes ran over his bare torso and she felt her cucumber coolness melting away. She didn’t know why it hadn’t quite sunk in that he would be sculpted like this. He was a pirate captain. That meant he did work on a ship and likely had been doing so since he was a boy. Why wouldn’t he be covered in hardened muscle? Maybe it was the fact that he looked like a clown that threw her off of the trail. Speaking of trails… the blue hair was on full display and Syre had to shake her head to dislodge the urge to gawk. Cool as a cucumber.

To begin her examination, she took in the quantity of the bruises around his stomach and chest. Circling the table to see how bad they were on his back. There were a few that gave her pause and she had to stop herself from appearing too soft about it. Once she was at his front again, she stepped closer. Not quite between his legs, though the thought did cross her mind. It didn’t seem like a bright idea even with a gun trained on him. She finally took the stethoscope and pressed it to his heart. She listened for a long moment before nodding in approval. Moving it over she said, “Alright, Mon-,” She caught herself but didn’t cover it well, “Um… could you give me a deep breath?”

Buggy did as she asked. He glanced over at her briefly as he did so. She was stone faced and listening intently. “Did that hurt?”

“Not much.”

“Another, slower this time.”

As before he did as she requested, twice more after. She moved the stethoscope to his back, placing a hand on his shoulder and asking him for more deep breathing. Each time she inquired about pain but his answers were negative except the final breath that came with a tight grimace. Her eyes went soft with that and searched his face. The look he gave her in return was overwhelmingly filled with hunger. It made her mouth go dry with its promise of all it wanted to do with her. Completely unabashed, his eyes told her that he didn’t care that he was at gunpoint. His eyes wanted her to know that if Domino wasn’t there, he’d mark her body with red paint. It made her legs feel like jelly.

She avoided looking at Domino as she removed the stethoscope, “Your lungs seem fine. Why don’t you lie down?’

With Domino’s help, he was strapped back down. Syre had to stifle a squeak as he took the chance while laying down to run the backs of his fingers down her thigh. Syre stopped Domino from binding his chest as she was going to check his ribs. With Buggy secured, Domino clicked her tongue.

“Now I should really get back…” Domino sighed, “See you tonight?”

Syre looked up from Buggy’s exposed chest. She hoped Domino thought she was merely doing an examination rather than the blatant ogling she had been indulging in. “Yes. I will be there.”

“Great.”

The shutting of the door echoed in Syre’s mind. She was alone with Buggy now. He was resting his eyes but his painted lips were smirking. There was a long moment for the both of them where Syre searched for something to say but words were frightfully lost in her dry mouth. One of Buggy’s eyes cracked open as Syre was wringing her hands.

“So no coconut cake?” He asked, making her jump a little.

Once she realized what he’d said, she laughed, “No, I can’t stand the stuff.”

“What do you like?”

Syre cocked a brow, “For dessert or…?”

He shrugged as best as he could, “Surprise me.”

Syre thought for a moment while starting to gently poke and prod at his ribs. “I really like Lemon

Meringue.”

“Never heard of it.” He said with a grunt as one of the bruises disagreed with Syre’s prodding.

“Sorry, Mon Chér,” She cooed. “It’s a pie that has lemon curd topped with whipped egg whites and sugar. It was the only thing my mother insisted on making herself. She said the cook never got it quite right.”

Buggy’s brows shot up, “Cook? Sounds like you were a silver spoon kinda girl.”

“Eh,” Syre replied, “What about you? What do you like?”

“Besides Doctors with cotton candy hair?”

Syre’s resolve crumbled. Her face bent to the temptation and she blushed full and hot to the tips of her ears. “I meant to eat, silly.”

“I said what I said, Sweetcheeks.” He grinned at her, large, toothy and deeply immodest.

The frightening yet tantalizing look made her push a little too hard. The seduction cracked as he yowled in pain.

"I'm sorry!" She cried, withdrawing her hands like he was on fire. "You need to stop looking at me like that!"

"Like what, Sweetness?" He feigned innocence but his eyes still held the dark, sensual playfulness.

She flicked his nose, "Like that! It's full of sin and very distracting."

"Oh? Is that so?" He asked, cocking his head to the side, blinking his long eyelashes at her.

She looked at him, thoroughly devoid of humor yet still blushing mildly, "I have scalpels."

“Is that a promise, Sweets? Slice me up and serve me like your lemon pie?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively but the effect was more comical than carnal.

Syre let herself laugh, which seemed to please him. Once the laughs had run out, she pulled up a chair and sat as face to face with him as she could. She didn’t loom over him. Smoothing her jacket, the last of her amusement lingered in her eyes. “Mon Chér… I need to check your ribs and I can’t do that when you’re being a scoundrel, and making my head fuzzy.”

Her face was so filled with concern that it struck Buggy. She actually cared. Not because it was her job, not because she would get anything for it, not even deep down. The sincere air to her face was an open book.

“Fine. But only until you’re done with my ribs. I can’t make any promises after that.”

Her face lit up, “Thank you.”

“Yeah yeah, don’t tell anyone I follow orders from you, Toots.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

Syre stood, gingerly checking each rib then the cartilage closer to the center. Her touch was delicate, like he was a priceless work of art and she was appraising him. Warm brown eyes like cognac flitted between his chest and face. Searching for the pain he might conceal behind bravado. Her bare fingers caused goosebumps to raise and more than once she had to stop her eyes from traveling further down. She wondered if her touch was giving him a similar reaction as their previous encounter. Would she do much the same if it was? Would she push further?

“You didn’t answer my question from a bit ago,” Syre said, softly. Her voice was distant, not uninterested but focused on what she was doing. The need to make polite small talk warring with her methods as a physician. It lended more credence to Buggy’s theory that she came from a more well to do upbringing. What he didn’t consider was she was trying desperately to cool her fantasies.

“About what? I was distracted by a pretty doctor.”

A smile flashed across her face, “What do you like? Foodwise.”

“Nothing as fancy as lemon meringue. Hotdogs, I love hotdogs.”

“I’ve never had one,” Syre admitted.

“Of course you didn’t, your cook had better things to make,” He teased.

Syre rolled her eyes. “Out of curiosity, what things would you do if I said the examination is over?”

She’d lost the war with modesty in her head.

A devilish smirk spread across his face, equal parts dark and jovial, “You like when I’m… what was the word you used? Sinful?”

She held her face as neutral as she could muster. This was the third time she was going over his ribs. He couldn’t tell if she was just being extra sure or enjoyed touching his chest with her bare hands. It could be both. He wouldn’t complain about both.

“I have a favor to repay, Doll. I gave you options and I know which one I’d take to repay it.” He said, licking his lips.

“If your ribs were broken or even cracked, I wouldn’t risk making them worse,” Syre straightened and placed her hands on her hips.

“My face ain’t my ribs.” He smirked, “You’re avoiding what I asked. You like this, don’t you?”

Syre went to answer but the words caught in her throat. She looked down at him. Her eyes only briefly lingering on his lips before holding his gaze. She replied honestly. "I shouldn't but..."

“You do.” He finished for her and she nodded making her curls bounce.

“I ain’t complaining,” he said in an odd effort to comfort her that was still drenched in smugness.

Syre collapsed back in the chair and bit her lip. Buggy watched her do it and saw the conundrum in her mind. She was a Marine and a Doctor in a prison full of some of the worst scum imaginable. Yet she was enjoying attention from said scum. She was indulging in something wrong in its own right. Did this make her a bad doctor? Most likely.

“No no Sweets, you really ought to let me do that biting for you…” Buggy purred, pulling her away from her semi-spiral.

She blinked at him and a single laugh burst out before she could stop it, “I thought you were going to stop being rakish until the exam was over?”

“I did my best.” He tried to shrug but was still woefully tied down.

Running a hand through her hair, Syre took a deep breath. “Alright… so… the good news, I don’t think any of your ribs are broken. Nor do I think any of them are cracked. You got lucky.”

“Lucky would be you on top of me,” Buggy retorted.

Syre tried to give him an unamused look but he only winked at her. She stood, folding his shirt neatly and preparing to go for the door.

Buggy cleared his throat to stop her, “Before you call the guards to take me back to hell, you hurt me Sweetcheeks. Flicking my nose and all. I think by your own policy, you owe me a kiss.”

Syre lifted a brow with a smirk of her own, “You’re quite right.”

Without hesitation, Syre leaned down and kissed his nose.

Buggy laid there in shock. It happened so fast he had little time to process it, much less the ease in which she had done it. Like she’d been thinking about doing so for days. He saw it happen, felt the tenderness then saw her pleased smile. As he stared, she strode to the door and called for the guards.

“No more fights, Mon Chér,” She commanded as the guards filed in to take him back to level one. His shirt was handed to the guard and in turn thrown in Buggy’s face. She held his gaze as he scrambled to pull it on, soft blush warming her cheeks as she got a good last look at his exposed chest and with just the barest bite to her lower lip.

Buggy was about to get into another fight.

[mt-musings]

The Last Silverboughs

Halsin struggles to put his past to rest, but it's haunting him in more ways than he realizes. He'd thought his time in the Underdark was long behind him, an unpleasant pitfall of youthful hubris, but remnants of his captivity remain, the youngest of which unwittingly stumbles to his rescue.

Lythra can't stop running from her past--hasn't, since she managed to make it out of the Underdark. She has no love for Menzoberranzan, or her House, or anything she left behind in the dark. Or nearly anything.

Still, she'd rather die than return--a prospect all the more likely with a tadpole jammed behind her eye. But perhaps, with the help of a renown druidic healer, she can go back to what remains of her half-life in the sun.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13

Read on AO3

Lythra got up before the rest, treading silently out of camp and went back to the lake. She still felt shaky from the residue of the magic in her veins, but not half-dead, as she had in the wake of its use. 

She’d lost herself, out in the forest, become the beast of the tunnels again. She didn’t remember much of the battle, just flashes. Judging by how the others had looked at her, she wasn’t sure she she wanted to. 

At least she hadn’t hurt anyone accidentally—or worse. 

She’d never been good at controlling the magic. It just exploded out of her, or took over, no matter how much she’d practiced as a child. Her mother had forgone all the other studies that had been entrusted to her—and it still hadn’t helped. While her brothers had learned literature and history and mathematics and even Elven, she’d drilled her exercises with her mother, never getting any better. 

Her only respite was her weapons training and she was only allowed it because the Matron insisted. 

And now—Would it take her over again the moment she stepped out of the Moonshield? If it did, could she be sure she wouldn’t hurt anyone else? 

She took a deep breath and stared at the sword she’d brought with her, the one she’d pulled from the stone in the Underdark. Something about it felt…comforting. Perhaps it was the way it softly sang in her hands. It would, she knew, until she stopped it with a simple command. She didn’t though, pondering for a moment why the tune sounded almost familiar. Maybe something she’d heard in a tavern, or in the rafters of the Symphony Hall.

It must have belonged to a bard, before. 

She ran her palm along its edge, easily drawing blood. 

It barely even hurt. 

She stood, sheathing it on her back without stopping its song. Yes, that would do. The smell of blood always drew in nasty things. She nodded at the pair of Harpers before grabbing a torch and setting off, out of the Moonshield. She picked a direction at random and started walking, waiting for something to jump out and try to kill her, or the shadows to overwhelm her. She set the torch down in a rusted brazier along the path and kept watching, feeling nothing but a pleasant chill as the Curse swirled around her, harmlessly, whispering its dark promises.

She’d wanted it to hurt her. It would have meant she was less of a monster than she thought. 

Instead she kept walking, until the light was swallowed and there was only misty darkness. She should have been afraid—she was alone and she’d told no one of her plan, nor did she even really know where she was. But she kept walking, pushing away the cloying voices of the Shadows, keeping her mind her own. Her hands shook with the effort and her stomach roiled, but she did it.

Perhaps it could be managed, even surrounded by the Shadowfell’s rot, she thought, sweat dripping from her brow. 

She ended up at a dead end, the path ending at a small, dilapidated cottage. She stopped, eyeing a dead githyanki in the yard—they hadn’t been long dead, a week, maybe. She looked around, straining her ears. She could feel something in the cottage ahead. She took a few careful steps forward, her footsteps light, eyes peeled for movement. 

“Someone’s coming. Someone new. Maybe they want to play,” came a small voice—a child’s voice. She stepped cautiously into the cottage, looking about at the destruction inside. 

“Boo! I scared you!” Cried the voice from behind her. She turned to see a little tiefling boy with one red eye and one green, the Shadow Rot taken over one half of his face. He wasn’t a little boy though—wasn't just a little boy. The Shadows sang about him too, like old, old friends, but he wasn’t of them, not entirely. 

Whatever he was, he was powerful.

“You’re bleeding. I could smell it,” he said, peering at her. She showed him the cut to her palm.

“It’s nothing, really.” He furrowed his brow, but then seemed to lose interest.

“Will you play with me?” He asked, cocking his head to the side. Was he some sort of warped fey or something else, something darker? Either way, it wouldn’t be smart to upset him.

“Alright. What did you want to play?”

“I’ll hide and you seek. Find me, and you win.”

She just nodded, thinking of all the terrible ways in which this would most likely go wrong.

“I’m a very good hider hider,” he said, and disappeared, invisible. She sighed, closing her eyes, listening for the pattering of little feet. She’d gotten good at listening in the tunnels, good at gaging speed and direction, even with the echos. She crossed to the yard, following the sound of crunching sand. She paused when it fell silent once more, except for the rustling of the breeze. Then there was the sound of shifting weight and leather shoes on pebbles and dirt. She rounded the broken cart in the yard, tracking the slight, small footprints until they stopped in the moss. She reached out, trusting her instincts and he reappeared, scowling.

“You weren’t suppose to find me!” He pouted.

“Did you want to hide behind the cart all day?”

“Play again. You won’t find me this time. Tell me you’ll play again.”

“I can play one more time.”

“You’re going to lose. I always win.”

He disappeared again, and she could hear his little feet pattering towards the cottage once more, as if he wasn’t even trying to be quiet. And maybe he wasn’t, because half a beat later three enormous shadow specters rose from the ground, looking about malevolently. 

She ducked behind the cart before they could catch sight, reaching up to silence her blade, heart hammering.

Now she knew how the githyanki had died. 

She felt her magic pulling on her more insistently, begging to be used, to rip the specters apart as easily as she had done with the ones that had attacked them on the road. The voice became so loud, making her ears ring with the force of it. 

It would be easy. It would be fun. Wasn’t that why she’d come out anyway? To find a reason to use them without the others around?

No—she’d come out to prove to herself she could keep them leashed, even in peril. She glanced around the cart to where they roamed, looking for her. There was a path through them, in their blindspot, if she was fast. 

But why, when you could rend them so easily? You are in your domain, your element. 

She ignored the voice, digging her nails into her palms. She was used to going unseen, sneaking past enemies without drawing their ire. She didn’t need the magic, didn’t need to invite it in. 

She took the blindspot at a near sprint, on the balls of her feet to minimize the crunching of her footsteps and slipped back into the cottage before they turned. The boy was waiting, no longer invisible, though he faced away from her. She crept up behind him, tapping him on the shoulder.

He made a face, clearly upset. He hadn’t expected her to catch him, had fully expected his shadows to rip her to shreds. Then he sighed, outrage being replaced by something else, something resigned and lonely.

“I guess you win then. Here’s your prize,” he said, holding out a ring set with a black stone. It hummed with some sort of magic. She thanked him before she took it and slipped it into her pocket.

“Will you come back?” He asked, almost sadly.

“Do you want me to?”

“It would be okay if you did.”

“Then I’ll come back, if I can.”

He nodded, jaw clenched. “I supposed I’ll wait for you, then.”

She dug into her bag and pulled out the apple she’d intended to eat for breakfast, holding it out to him. 

“For being such a good sport.”

He stared at her a moment before darting to grab it, clutching it with both his hands. Then he disappeared again with a laugh. 

She turned back towards the path she’d followed, back to the inn with an ache in her chest. She knew he wasn’t really a little boy, that he could be very dangerous, but—

It felt wrong to leave him. 

Maybe it was because she was also a dangerous not-child in the dark, not too long ago. She reached up on to start the sword’s song again. It relieved some of the constriction in her chest.

She retrieved her torch for appearances before making her way back to the inn. Perhaps—perhaps she could control it, if she tried very hard. She’d wanted so very much to lash out at those shadows, but she’d resisted, even though they were dangerous and she was alone. 

Maybe there was hope, after all. 

She crossed the bridge back into the inn, wondering where on earth they’d start. They should scout out Moonrise, but the others—the Harpers had warned her of the more hungry shadows in the old town—would they be able to pass with just their torches? Or would they tear into them, like that poor Harper that stepped out of the light—

“Where on earth have you been?” Astarion spat, catching her at the bridge. She extinguished her lantern, putting it back into one of the bins. It was still an ungodly hour—she could only wonder why he’d chosen to be up.

“Good morning to you too,” she replied, breezing past him with hardly a look. He grabbed her arm, spinning her to face him. 

“Where were you?”

“Taking a walk.”

“In the Shadow Curse? By yourself? Before we’ve even gotten the Moon Blessing, or whatever? Are you stupid?”

“I’m sure you could make a case, unless law school was wasted entirely on that pretty head of yours.”

“You know, you’re always so—Shut that damn thing up!” He said jabbing a finger at her sword. 

She sighed, and quieted it. He glared at her, then wrinkled his nose. “You know, at the very least—are you bleeding?”

He glanced down, grabbing her wrist to hold up her bloody palm. He examined it a moment before bringing it to his nose and sniffing it. She yanked it away.

“You absolute freak—“

“It smells wrong. It has to do with that little display yesterday, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know. You’re the blood expert.”

“And you, my darling, are pathological in your secret-keeping. You might have warned us all that you might turn into a black-eyed monster the moment we stepped into the Shadow Cursed lands.”

She flinched back at the word monster, even though she knew it was true. She was a monster, and she was dangerous and unnatural. She turned away without answering, a lump in her throat. He called her name, but she kept walking, unwilling to show him how the words stung. 

~~~

Astarion stared after her, pushing down his irritation. After all, he’d come after her this time, not the druid. The druid hadn’t even noticed she was gone, but he had and he’d wasted an hour tramping about the inn’s grounds before the two Harpers on watch had told him she’d gone out aloneinto the Curse. 

He thought her many things, but brainless was not one of them. 

He didn’t know why it made him so angry—why should he care, if she wanted to walk out into the dark and get herself killed? Sure, it would make his plans regarding Cazador more complicated, but in the end, she was just a means to an ends. 

Wasn’t she?

He turned back to the bit of her blood still smudged on his hand. He could tell it was hers, faintly smell that delicious edge of night he so enjoyed, but it smelled nearly rancid, as if it was starting to rot in her veins. It was no wonder she still looked sickly and grey, but she shouldn’t surely, not after all the magic the Druid had sunk into her. 

What could have been done to her, to cause magic to make her to rot from the inside? He thought back to the scars he’d seen covering her body—did that have something to do with it? He’d never asked her about them, never even commented on the fact that she’d been carved up like some sort of holiday goose. 

She’d asked him about his scars, as soon as she’d seen them, asked why they were in infernal. No one had ever asked about them, not in all his years of taking his clothes off to lure things back for Cazador. 

They’d all been pleased enough with a good lay. 

He returned to camp, feeling unsettled. He didn’t like the way he found himself so frequently thinking of her. He’d actually gone to check the far side of camp where she’d bedded down after returning with the druid when he woke from his trance, just to see if she’d gotten any color back in her face. 

He still didn’t understand why he cared. He didn’t like caring, didn’t like her. He missed the attention she used to give him, missed having someone to talk to that wasn’t a total drip, even if she irritated him on purpose. That was fun at least, and she had…moments. 

And she still kept looking out for him, even without him bedding her. She hadn’t turned into—whatever that had been—until he’d been injured, surrounded by shades.

But then again, they’d also surrounded the druid. 

He’d need to deal with him, sooner, rather than later.

~~~

Lythra’s eyes still stung from the blood and ichor that dripped from them.  She’d nearly kept the whole thing on a tether, nearly, until Isobel’s room flooded with winged horrors and she took a bone-crushing blow from the traitor Fist Marcus and the Moonshield flickered above them. 

In that moment all she’d felt was fear and horror at the thought of it falling, of the  shadows tearing apart the scattered survivors, and of the rush of night as it gleefully pushed past Isobel’s flickering defenses.

She lost herself then, surging between the cleric and the monstrosities, throwing them back with a wall of shadow. After that it got spotty.

There were flashes of memory, of  unbridled darkness exploding from her on instinct, of monsters falling and her flesh being torn. Of screams of fear and pain, of her companions and those that remained of the tieflings they’d saved in the Grove. 

They hadn’t been able to save them all. Mol had been carried off into the night and a handful of Fists and Harpers had been slain. 

She pulled her knees to her chest, waiting for the aftermath to pass. She spat out another mouthful of vile blood, not caring that she stained the carpet. She caught Gale staring at her, his brows furrowed.

“Do you do that every time you use the Shadow Weave?” He asked, sounding more interested than disgusted.

“Throw up rotten blood?” She asked blandly, her head pounding. “Or bleed out of all my face holes?”

“Well—yes.”

“Yes, it’s my favorite part.”

He ignored her sarcasm.

“I wonder if it’s because of the explosive way in which you channel it. Perhaps with some sort of physical focus you could mitigate some of the effects. We could run a few experiments—“

“No,” she said quickly, her skin crawling. She’d spent long enough as a lab rat, she couldn’t handle a day more of it.

“It wouldn’t be anything worrisome, just a handful of trials to see if it would aid in controlling the release of magic! Though, it could also have something to do with your connection to the Shadow Weave itself. Perhaps—“

She interrupted him by throwing up another mouthful of fetid blood on the carpet, wishing her legs felt strong enough for her to walk away from the wizard’s ramblings. 

“Perhaps,” he said pointedly, carrying on even as she pressed her forehead to her knees, very clearly not interested in what he had to say. “Perhaps you’re too great a conduit for the Shadow Weave and the explosiveness is due to the uninhibited intake of the magic. Were you born with the ability to channel it?”

“No,” she said tersely, though Gale seemed unaffected by her tone. 

“Well that makes in especially interesting. When did you develop the ability?”

“Can you not just leave it alone?”

“Of course not! This is uncharted territory—you know I’ve met my share of Shadow Sorcerers in the past, but none who’s powers manifested in such a way. Do you know the catalyst? That could give us the greatest clue to figuring out how to control it.”

“My bitch mother,” she said, voice muffled by her knees.

“Excuse me?” Gale asked, and she ignored him, pushing herself to her feet. She’d rather faceplate down the stairs than discuss her childhood magic lessons with Gale. In fact, she’d prefer a crossbow bolt through the foot. 

She stumbled away, ignoring him as he called after her.

She was tired of the questions. It wasn’t as if she had many answers, or the ones she did have were of any use. All they were were old, ugly memories for her, far better left buried. 

She strode through the first floor, making note of the destruction. They’d have to make sure their defenses were shored up in case they launched another kidnapping attempt. If they lost Isobel—

She didn’t want to think about what would happen if they lost Isobel.

“Oh—by the Nine Hells! Who let you walk around like that?!”

She pressed her eyes shut, taking a deep breath before turning to Astarion. 

“Do you need something?”

“You look dreadful,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “I thought Gale was supposed to be looking after you.”

“I don’t need to be babysat.”

“You’re swaying where you stand and covered in blood. He didn’t even have the decency to spare a Prestidigitation for you?”

“He was too busy proposing experiments to better channel the Shadow Weave,” she said acidly.

“Of course he was,” he said, digging a handkerchief out of his pocket. He reached out with it, almost as if he was going to wipe some of the blood from below her eyes, but then he made a face and just sort of tossed it at her. She caught it and swiped at the blood on her face, more to placate him than anything else. His jaw twitched as he watched her and he looked away.

“You wanted something?” She asked dully. He made a face. 

“Yes, well, Shadowheart sent me with a Greater Healing Potion, since apparently you’re avoiding her.”

“I’m not avoiding her.”

“You are, and I don’t like playing errand boy because the Shar enthusiasts can’t get on.”

“I’m not a fucking Shar enthusiast.”

“You just use their super special brand of the Weave.”

“I don’t have the patience to be sniped at right now, Astarion! Go find another sparring partner. Perhaps His Majesty is more to your standards,” she said, pushing past him.

“Will you—“ he said, grabbing her about the arm. “Will you just take the stupid potion?”

“Fine!” she said, uncorking it with her teeth before she could think about what would come, if only it would get him to leave her alone. She drank it all, trying to ignore the way it burned, the way it made her stomach roil. She held her hand over her mouth, hoping it would stay down long enough for Astarion to leave. 

Another fun effect of giving into the shadows. Magical forms of healing worked, but poorly, and they hurt. 

Her mother had found it a rather amusing side-effect. Especially when she forced her father to heal her.

It would get worse, the more she used it, she knew, the longer she was around the Shadow Curse, until it hardly worked at all.

“Why are you making that face?” Astarion asked, peering at her. She shook her head, trying to shoo him off as she pushed past, towards the side of the inn. She threw up in the bushes, the taste of blood and bile and ichor making her stomach clench even more painfully. She stood there for a long moment, her forehead pressed against the weathered slats of the inn. She groaned as she finally pushed herself back to a standing position, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. She turned back towards camp, only to find Astarion staring at her, a strange expression on his face, one that wasn’t the utter disgust she would have expected. 

“Lythra, darling—“

“I’m going to brush my teeth and pass out. I’ll get to whatever you want when I get up.”

She left then, without looking back.

Astarion didn’t follow. 

[kittiofdoom]

I was tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton​ to share some wip!

No Far Cry stuff unfortunately is in a state to be shared otherwise it would just be like a few random sentences for a skeleton structure pfttt, but I do have the beginning of a piece that is for a prompt in my inbox that’s going to rip my heart out lmao. So have a glimpse of Kenna during the final assault on Asgard during Ragnarök.

No Pressure Tagging: @baldurrs​ @jinfromyarikawa​ @yuelaos-codex​​ @detectivelokis​ @sstewyhosseini​ @simonxriley​ @strangefable​ anyone that wants a reason to share their projects!!

Kenna knew this place. A vision. A battle. She knew this place like she had lived it before.

And she has.

She just didn't realize it until this exact moment.

The glow of magic lit her skin, tattoos incandescent as she called upon her magic to aid her. Blood and ash was all she could taste in her mouth and that feeling deep inside her chest beat like a second heart.

Death was coming.

Many times in the past Odin had asked Kenna to tell him his fate but her powers didn't work like that. She saw glimpses, fragments of information like sand trickling through her fingertips and yet Odin pushed for more than Kenna could give.

But Kenna had dreamt of this place long before she met Odin.

She didn't understand the signifigance back then. The Vanir were at war with the Aesir of course there would be a battle—of course there would be death. But then the war came to a truce and Freya was married and the fighting stopped. A new era of peace and prosparity for the realms headed by her dearest friend and the All-Father.

She had put this vision aside—at the back of her mind—until it was forgotten. It must've been false, she must've got it wrong. Her powers weren't all-knowing after all. She knew her duty—and her place. She would serve and obey and survive.

And then came Ragnarök.

The glory and the fall.

Smoke and ash were thick like smog, the once beautiful skies of Asgard were a aflame in a purple haze. War greeted her like an old friend. It was brought to her home by a child’s hubris. She'd been a fool to ever hope peace would last. Swords clashed, the ground shook as Hrimthur's Wall came down in a hail of stone.

Kenna killed in Odin's name—even through the schemes, even knowing that innocent people will die—are dying at her hand. She could not turn her back on him now.

Even if she knew in her heart of hearts what would truly happen.

“Get out of my way!” Kenna snarled, shoving a body aside as she ran it though with her blade. She might have known him once, he was a Vanir. But she put that part of herself aside when she chose to stay in Asgard all those years ago.

She had to get to Odin.

“I will not warn you again. Move or I will rend you from this realm.”

Blood sprayed against her face as she weaved around the next soldier in her way. They wouldn't just let her pass. She didn't have time for this. Fingers reached up, smearing the blood in a sigil on her face with her free hand. If they didn’t know who she was before this. They probably knew who she was now.

“Sveiða.”

Kenna didn't even look back when the soldier started howling in pain. She knew he'd be writhing around on the floor in pain clawing at himself. She'd seen it many times in the past and did not need the reminder. The spell would wear off soon enough if he wasn't killed on the ground where he lay. If he lived he'd never forget the feeling of his blood burning in his veins.

They could all burn for all Kenna cared right now.

She had to close the distance. Maybe she could change the chains of fate that bound them all. She had to try.

[royalreef]

{ fullcfphobias​ }

It was no secret that monsters have lurked amongst humanity, quite the opposite in fact. There were countless photos circulating the internet of blurry figures stalking the forest, or strange shapes sailing across the sky. Humanity, in it’s hubris, often dismissed such things as hoaxes. Fiction conjured by their fellow man in attempts to scare one another. Such a thing became rather common, groups of people gathered around a campfire to share stories of horror. It was all in good fun, those who found themselves afraid given a reassuring pat on the back. It was just a story, fabricated and thus unable to truly bring any harm.

Oz found themself getting in the spirit on the occasion, slipping into the haunted houses monsters themselves set up. Fiddling with the lights, moving the eyes of paintings hung on the wall. All small shows that brought down the guards of those within, laughter coming from the participants as they remarked on such stale gimmicks. Then a door would slam, or a suit of armor once stationary would grab hold of the nearest arm. A few yelps, slight jolts, but nothing lasting. Still cheap tactics, but they weren’t really meant for much else. There’s a small spike in heart rates, one that would quickly taper off once that split second of fear was gone as if it’d never existed.

Those were always just light snacks though, and eventually Oz would find themself wanting more. Something that would last, something of substance. It was harder to come across amongst monsters, fears were kept deeper and their minds were more resilient. It was only natural, with the abundance of magic and such there was a lot to get in the way. Humans were less of a hassle, simply seeing a monster could be enough to unsettle. It’s why, at times like this, they found themself seeking people out.

Typical crowds had started to thin out as night settled in, those still out on the streets no doubt in a rush to avoid being caught in the looming rainfall. One particular man wasn’t very fortunate, however, a string of swears muttered as he pulled his hood up. If he just cut through this alley, he could probably make it inside before the current drizzle became a downpour. He wasn’t particularly thrilled about the shortcut, his skin crawled at the thought of something skittering within. There was a dumpster against one of the walls, who knew what all of that garbage had attracted. His shoulders tensed as he picked up the pace, heart beginning to loudly thump in his chest as he wondered if it was the rain blurring his vision or the alleyway had gotten longer since he entered.

The man’s skin had graduated from the prior discomfort to a full itch, his walking nearly slowing to a stop as his nails dug desperately to stop the wretched sensation. He had to keep walking, the feeling would surely pass once he was anywhere else. His internal pep talk wasn’t as much of a motivator as the unmistakable buzz by his ear. Nope! Nope, absolutely not. He was leaving and he was leaving now. The itching somehow felt worse, as if the very things he was trying to get away from had slipped beneath his skin without notice. He could almost see the outlines, feel the many legs as the insects made their new home amongst his innards. The fixation on these sensations pulled at his attention, enough to distract him from many things. The time, the path ahead, and the extra shadow that had been tailing him for the past several minutes to name a few.

Unsurprisingly, he tripped. The puddle water soaking into his clothes as he pushed himself up to his knees reminded him of why he’d even taken this shortcut in the first place, his attention thankfully drawn elsewhere before he could stew in such regrets.

When his gaze finally met the shadow on the wall he froze. His mind raced, working overtime to rationalize what he was seeing. It wasn’t his own, it couldn’t be, considering it was stood upright while he was clearly still picking himself off the ground. There was also the fact it was moving, arm raised from its side. For a moment he simply sat and stared, eyes wide, before fingers started to emerge from the wall. They phased through from where the shadow’s hand should have been, a hand and arm following shortly after. A figure was pulling itself from the wall, and all he could do was watch. Dread sat heavy in the pit of his stomach as it stepped out, suddenly solid as if it had ever been anything different.

It was shaped like a human, even dressed like one, but things were clearly missing. Where one would expect to find the typical identifying features there was nothing, a pitch void from which light seemed dimmer around. The only thing to lie within the humanoid abyss where two points of light, both which were trained on him. He didn’t have long to take its features or lack thereof in before it began to approach, losing what loose human resemblance it had as its limbs grew longer.

Oz lifted the poor guy by the front of his jacket, face splitting open to reveal their mouth. His scream was drowned out by their own shriek, eyes rolling back into his head as his body shook. Blackened tears ran from his eyes, the same gunk shortly starting to leak from his nose and mouth. It was quite similar to the substance the amalgam themself was made of, and one that quickly began to gravitate towards towards them. It was only when the flow of it stopped that he released the guy, his body landing unceremoniously on the ground with a thud.

It wasn’t until they turned, ready to retreat back into shadow, that they spotted a second person. They’d been so focused on the guy currently twitching on the ground that they hadn’t stopped to check for anyone else. Not that it really mattered if they were spotted, just that being caught unprepared like this was a surefire way to make mistakes. They found themself snapping back into original shape, eyes wide as the matter they’re comprised of lost some of it’s darkness. Yep, this sure was a mistake alright, one that would be hard to recover from! Especially so, considering they then spoke— their voice was not typically much to fear, especially when just there to fill a silence.

“Uh..”

       There is no fear in the eyes of that human standing there. No tremble, no fright. There’s no fear anywhere in her, like the emotion had been mysteriously voided from that body. Not that it was vacant and empty, that there was not light behind those eyes, no. But it shifted and pulled out like taffy in strange directions, while jeweltone eyes stared back at Oz, too bright for the alleyway, for the storm.

       All of her seemed too bright, actually. Vivid in a hazy kind of way, like the golden hour before dusk, or like sunshine lighting up dust motes. Her dress looked almost old Hollywood. Long and shimmering like the planet Mercury, liquid gold that hugged her close around the hips and was cut around her collarbones. Little jewel-facets, a cut diamond for a dress, matching little trinkets on her wrists and hands, fine chains that burned like low embers in the forever grey and the stretching shadows. It was only partially overshadowed by the shawl that hung over her shoulders, shaggy white fur that was far too big for her, and swept forward into two terrible paws that hooked over her chest. Black claws hugged her close, fastened with a little circular pin that hung right over her chest.

       She looked like she had stepped out of the wrong era, like someone had taken a photograph here decades ago and the subject hadn’t yet wandered out of the lens, and that was before the realization hit that she was wearing polar bear fur.

      One of her hands was clutching an umbrella — big and domed and marble-white with gilded edges, matching to her outfit. The grip and pearl-tipped end were held by those same slender hands as before. Lovely hands. Pianist’s hands, maybe, their ends done up sharp, surely done prior to... well, whatever had made her dress up in this way. People didn’t just end up in an alley looking like that. Smiling at Oz like that.

       It didn’t seem to be right. That might have been a clue — that her face seemed to react slower than it should have. Smiling, yes, but smiling like she didn’t know how to use the muscles of her face and did not realize how many it took, and only making the expression long after the fact, willing it into existence rather than naturally smiling. She didn’t smile with her teeth. It contrasted sharply with those ever-blue eyes, a shade of blue that wasn’t real. So vivid and vibrant, two holes where this drab existence had been poked through, exposing something beneath. It was like scratching off a new coat of paint to reveal wallpaper beneath, hyperreal, blue the color of sapphires, of aquamarine dreams, of a butterfly’s wings, of a secret that wasn’t supposed to be told.

       Her skin was dark, the color of an olive tree’s branches as the sun dappled through its leaves, to strike stark contrast with the deep shadows where one would find shade and salvation, writ with sun and with sea spray so that it could never be fully scrubbed out. Rich as time, speckled with so many freckles that it was impossible to count them all as they crested over the curve of her shoulders, across her cheeks in endless starry patterns. A galaxy spanned across even the sliver of chest that could be seen, even in the dark alleyway, each constellation more evocative than the last. Someone could lose themselves in all the stories they had to tell, all of their shapes that danced through dreams.

       She was slim, and small. Smaller than Oz by a wide margin, without even needing to stretch themselves all that far. There was a leanness to this human, feline with twisted muscles twining around sharper bones, a swimmer’s physique. Graceful, suggestive even as she merely twisted her hands around the handle of her umbrella, snuggled closer beneath the bear’s pelt.

       Somewhere, above her brow, perched on a nest of vibrant red hair that curled like sheep’s wool, there was a crown. It was not a crown that Oz would recognize, and its gold and pearls could even have been mistaken as merely matching the rest of the ensemble. The rest of the long hair was pulled back, into a ponytail, and left to cascade down her back, looking soft and well cared for.

      She was still smiling. Still smiling, and standing there, like she was expecting Oz to say something more after all of that. She had been watching, surely. All of it, the entire show, unnoticed and quiet as featherfall, and all she was doing was smiling like she was in on some joke that Oz didn’t know about, feeling no fear and not even looking all that perturbed. Her gaze was a little too sharp.

        “Well? I thought you were going to do more to him. Longer, certainly. Is that all?” She spoke with a calm, lazy confidence, so absolute that the seas parted ways before her voice. There was an accent to it, something familiar, but it couldn’t be named, not so easily. She sounded beautiful. Maybe she sang, in her spare time, or that was why she was so dressed up?

      Either way, she did not, in the slightest, seem bothered by the dead man at Oz’s feet, did not even spare him a second look.

[elftwink]

saw someone today say they thought catching fire shouldn’t have sent katniss back to the arena and instead should have sent gale & prim and while i SUPER disagree, that point is very interesting for two reasons. one, from a media analysis perspective, while it would have made for an interesting story it would have also reduced catching fire back down to katniss’s personal story when at that point the quarter quell is establishing a system. there is obviously some ambiguity in whether or not that game was random (did they really decide that 75 years ago and it was unlucky that katniss won the year prior, or did snow specifically pick that one in order to kill katniss) but in the end it didn’t particularly matter. because while katniss was one of the more pressing concerns... that quarter quell wasn’t about her by herself. and i do think at some point the capitol would have held a hunger games like that regardless because the POINT of putting the victors back in is to prove to the districts that they are powerless. that any power they are given through victory in the hunger games can and will be taken away at the capitol’s whims. they are allowed to break their own rules and the districts are not. that they are safe only when and if the capitol allows it, that they can NEVER feel secure ever. THAT’S why it was like that.

having another opportunity to kill katniss was a bonus, but it’s just one part of that much larger picture of the capitol’s maintenance of power. taking close friends/family of previous victors into the arena would make for a very compelling personal drama about katniss and her life, but sort of misses the larger picture, because that’s not really different from any previous year. a victor’s friends and family (provided they are in the correct age range) are ALWAYS at risk, so there’s no need for the capitol to do any further convincing on that front. they don’t need to target people who already feel unsafe, they need to make those who do feel safe lose that sense of safety.

which brings me to the second interesting thing which is that from inside the story.... that plotline seems much more likely to lead to the capitol’s continued reign rather than the uprising the books see. like, ik we all got caught up in the dystopia ya that followed thg but a major part of thg imo is that katniss is not special. she isn’t different or more powerful. in mockingjay they specifically talk about how she’s a really bad rallying point because she’s just a normal young woman dealing with extreme trauma and she’s not able to turn on her sort of rebel persona on command. she can’t play the political game required of a rebel leader, at least not without help. katniss happened to be in the right place at the right time and yes, she made several HUGE inciting decisions that started the domino effect, but the uprising is no more HER story than it is anyone else’s, because it would not have been possible without concerted efforts from everyone around katniss and also the general unrest in the districts at large. thg is not a personal drama, even though we are most familiar with katniss’s personal story

but ironically, if the capitol had put prim and/or gale in the arena... i think it would have been much more difficult to get to the beginning of mockingjay. because you would lose everything the other victors brought. because to the general public, the friends/family of victors are kind of irrelevant. katniss would endure huge personal trauma mentoring a games like that, but the general, communal unrest that really picks up in catching fire would have much much less room to grow. and it would have been easier to stop.

which is why it didn’t happen. in catching fire the capitol (well snow, but also the whole system behind him) is still confident. katniss is a threat, sure, but not more than a blip on their radar. they’ll crush her and undermine the victors in one swoop. win/win, from their perspective. that hubris prevents them from really understanding why that power has been maintained at all. that quarter quell was them shooting themselves in the foot, something they don’t even begin to realize until the interviews. they had to cut the recording when the tributes held hands. it didn’t even once occur to anyone that they might view each other as allies at least in part because they are so sure that they’ll keep playing by capitol rules, even with nothing left to lose. the capitol is too caught up in its own fiction to see what the real people involved in it are doing

i always think it’s interesting when people discuss thg as a personal story about katniss because it’s not... missing the point per se (thg IS about katniss and her story because she’s the viewpoint character and her personal struggles matter [they matter SO MUCH], and her choices are impactful and she is a main player in the uprising), but it often overlooks how a main point of thg is that personal stories can be planned and manipulated for political ends, often to the detriment of the people involved. peeta’s expression of love in his interview wasn’t HONEST, even if he did really feel that way, it was a tactical decision to make them more likeable and thus more likely to survive. it’s essentially coerced. katniss and peeta have to play nice in the capitol despite the rage and trauma they’re dealing with because the story they present matters more than their feelings. katniss’s position as rebel leader is designed and we literally watch everyone brainstorm how to make her more compelling. katniss kills coin instead of snow at the end because she recognizes the part she is playing and refuses to tie up that story with a neat little bow (and coin set that up in the first place because she wanted snow’s death to be a spectacle, not because of any sense of justice, but as another piece in a larger political game)

everything in thg (or nearly everything) is done with an audience in mind. everyone is always concerned with how they are seen because it is life or death almost all the time. and they have to maintain these stories and facades even when it starts fucking destroying them. when snow does stuff to katniss it’s not about KATNISS, it’s about sending a message to the people watching her. which is exactly what coin does in mockingjay. prim’s death is a great personal loss to katniss but it’s framed by other characters as a necessary sacrifice/unfortunate side effect to achieve a common goal, an explicit parallel to the deaths of tributes in the hunger games to achieve the capitol’s goal of continued power. these stories erase and erode the actual people who star in them and make them into characters rather than human beings, dehumanizes them to the point where their lives only matter insofar that they can help or hinder a cause. the characters MUST put on this kind of show to even survive, but it wrecks them. ruins their lives and their friends lives and eventually they also don’t see people anymore, just pawns in an ever-ongoing game. katnisss isn’t allowed to just suffer trauma and try to recover, she is forced to make it palatable and compelling and interesting and Important(tm), re-traumatizing herself in the process. it isn’t just katniss’s story, it’s a story about that story and how it’s told. katniss has to reconcile being a person with being a symbol, what she thinks and feels with the roles she is forced and/or expected to play. often with no clear resolution or delineation between the two

i bring this up cos in the vid that prompted this post the person was like “and then when prim dies in mockingjay it’ll be in spite of everything katniss did to save her” which IS missing the point. prim’s death isn’t supposed to be compelling or interesting, it’s not ironic or poetic or anything like that. that’s on purpose. her death is meant to be senseless and go against what you think should happen in a story. it’s meant to be unfair and abrupt, and it would lose actual narrative value if you tried to tie it back into the story of catching fire again. prim just dies. not in spite of anything, not in a tragic twist of fate, but because she is viewed as expendable, the same way all the children who die with her are, the way 75 years worth of hunger games tributes were. katniss having saved her more times doesn’t add anything except appealing to your personal sense of what makes a compelling narrative. you are buying into the story the series explicitly and clearly deconstructs

[emersonlogan]

who: sonny & [OPEN] ! what: reworking his game plan after spending all of orientation doing guerrilla marketing for margot rowe’s living bard’s society presidential campaign instead of formally reuniting with his friends and/or working on the relationships he’s supposed to be forging if he wants to do what he came to cherry to do ! where: the ccu cafeteria !

Sonny worked on the docks for a few years, back in San Francisco. 

The other workers used to tease a group of old sailors-turned-fishermen, who were always driveling on about their neurotic superstitions. The fishermen wouldn’t set sail against a red sunrise, because that meant a storm is coming. They all had gold hoops piercing their ears, not because they were hip, but because it was supposedly good luck to have some gold in you. They said redheads weren’t allowed on their ships, because they were usually soulless Pagans. Women were dangerous to have on board, because they’d distract the crew; but statues of women on the outside of the ship were good luck, because nothing calmed the sea gods like the sight of a topless lady on the bow. Whistling was bad luck, because it took a fool’s hubris to challenge the wind. You couldn’t set sail on a Friday, because that was the day of the week that Jesus died, nor the first Monday in April, which is the day that Cain killed his brother Abel, nor the second Monday in August, which is the day that Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed, nor December 31, which is the day that Judas Iscariot committed suicide. Tattoos were lucky, and the fact that they looked badass was just an incidental bonus. Albatrosses were unlucky, because of some arbitrary poem a guy wrote in the 1700′s. And, god, bananas? Total shit-sucking catastrophes, the devil’s final yellow omens; keep them as far away from the ship as possible, and don’t you dare ask why; the simple act of mentioning them could compromise the whole voyage. 

It made sense, though, the more Sonny thought about it while watching the freaky geezers pour wine all over their decks for good luck. He figured that the sea was such a powerful, scary, deadly, unpredictable frontier, with no one around to save them if something went wrong on the ship. They were completely at the mercy of something greater than themselves. Of course they would do anything to keep themselves from getting psyched out. They were challenging something too mighty to wrap their heads around, venturing into an infinite expanse filled with unspeakable evil.

Sitting down at an empty table in the CCU cafeteria, he rubs one of his ear lobes between his thumb and pointer finger and wonders if Clarissa Teller would know anybody who could give him a little gold hoop piercing.

Sonny drops his stuff on the seat beside him and glances down at the last few flyers he had to terrorize the campus with — ♡ Vote Margot! ♡  

When the eyes of this woman he’s never met before today stare back at him, he has to ask himself how he jumped headfirst into this mission without stopping to ask if Ted Lewis was running for the same spot. Remember Ted, Sonny? That’s the guy who you’re actually supposed to be building a relationship with. He never even stopped to consider it, not consciously. Just committed himself to a chipper stranger he had no baggage or tension with. It was always in his nature to throw his heart and soul into random ventures completely on a whim, but he knew he wasn’t doing this in the name of impulsive philanthropy. It would be nice to see a sweetie like Margot win— he’s never found an underdog he wouldn’t root for— but he knew he was doing this to procrastinate the real mission that brought him back to Cherry. 

In the most charitable explanation, he was doing this to get his mojo up to snuff before he got down to business with his old friends. He couldn’t function like a good little detective with the way his heart sunk like an anchor every time he saw a familiar dimple of someone he left in the dust, or heard about any more ways the gangs’ lives changed for the worse since he betrayed and abandoned them. He’s hiding ulterior motives from them all over again, he’s still lying to them about what he did to the Freeses, and some of them — including sweet, hopeless Mac, of all people — he’s completely using, building up their trust with the endgame of taking advantage of them the same way he did Scott. It’s hard to keep his head in the game when he’s so busy feeling like a nasty little devil. He has to psyche himself up and get to work before the incomprehensible evil that lurks in Cherry decides to reveal something he doesn’t need people to know. He needs to ease his conscience, feel like he’s boosted his karma, and remind himself of who he is despite his dirty, dirty deeds. 

He can’t just focus on karma or luck, though. He only has a chance to save Libby for as long as he’s safe and trusted around town, and he can’t waste time on random crusades for outside parties. He’s at the mercy of some treacherous greater power that could expose him at any second, and he needs to move faster than the tides. Spiritually, he did some good work today, but he needs to do something that matters in a tangible way. Compromising with himself, he decides to do something that will get his investigation moving even if he isn’t ready to talk to the gang yet: he should do some work for Ted’s campaign now.

He folds up the last few Margot Rowe flyers and moves to shove them into his bag, but his boney elbow accidentally knocks over a salt shaker in the process. Before he even registers it, his hands are raking up the spilled salt and tossing it over his shoulder without taking a split second to see if anybody was behind him. He goes back to sticking the flyers in his bag and pulls out a spiral notebook and ballpoint pen, blissfully unaware that he just threw a handful of teeny-tiny white rocks into some poor schmuck’s face. He bites the cap off of the pen and starts drafting his first groundbreaking slogan idea: TED 4 BIG BARD.

[eorzean-tale]

FFXIV Writing Challenge - Prompt 3: Temper

Tales of house Dumastin

“So do you think I can be a Temple Knight, ser? You are knighting me at my nameday celebration, are you not? It’s rather embarrassing to be knighted so late in life, I must say.” 

Ser Bernien smacked his wooden practice sword against Marcelloix’s shield, then cracked him on the shin when the predictable opening happened. “Mind your focus on the fight, lad. You do want to make it to that fabled feast, don’t you?”

Marcelloix straightened and looked down at him (Goddess, when had the lad gotten so tall) with a bemused smile. “If you had wanted to kill me, you would have either done so ages ago, or you will do at my celebration just to teach me another lesson around hubris, non?” 

He wasn’t wrong, of course, but the old knight still slapped the flat of the blade against his arm hard enough to add another bruise. “Treat it with the attention it deserves, my lord. Else I have better things to do.” To his credit, the boy bowed his apology, and remained focused for the rest of the session.

It was afterwards that the subject was brought back up, and Ser Bernien couldn’t help but envy the younger man his stamina. Sure, he was still the better swordsman, but he got winded more easily now, and his bones ached. “You will knight me, non?” 

“Aye, you deserve it,” he told him between sips of water. “Would have done so already, but you know how your lady mother can be.” The Baroness had insisted on delaying it, arguing that knights went out to war to fight for their country and House and that Marcelloix, the only male heir of house Dumastin, could not be risked in such a fashion until the last possible moment. Of course the Dragonsong War had ended since then, but that didn’t really deter her in a world where there was always some other threat right around the corner. Given that her own husband had died doing his knightly duties, despite rumours to the contrary, Ser Bernien couldn’t even fault her for her reluctance. 

“She would rather I wed and father a couple of sons first, so I can die with the line intact,” the youth replied with a nod, earning himself a slap to the back of the head. Nothing too hard, but a warning, still. “Ouch, it was just a jest, I know she worries for me,” Marcelloix protested, but one glare from the older man had him bowing an apology yet again. “I should not make light of my duty, I know,” he conceded, momentarily looking much older. The pressure was already having its effects on him, but even as the protective side of Bernien balked at the thought of it, the knight in him could only admire a job well done. Marcelloix was young and inexperienced, but his mother had made damned sure he would know the weight of privilege, and the obligations that came with it. 

“Temper your expectations though, my lord. I don’t think your lady mother will want you joining the Temple Knights even if they’d agree to take a scrawny lad like yourself to be squired there. You know how she feels about public scrutiny.” 

Marcelloix’s purple eyes flashed with annoyance for a moment as he pushed some of his long hair from his face. “Sooner or later, house Dumastin will have to rejoin the sun-to-sun of Ishgardian nobility. People will accept a ruling lady keeping her house aside, heck, they probably think it some feminine weakness and expect it, but I won’t be granted the same courtesy.” 

He was right, of course, and he inwardly cursed their Mistress of Books for educating him so well. Whatever had happened to the boy playing at vanquishing dragons? Time sure marched on, Bernier thought, until the boy snapped him out of his moment of melancholy.

“Besides, where else would I find a lady to wed if not among the balls of high society? Can’t give her grandchildren without one, can I?” 

The knight found himself laughing at the sincerity of the question, like the lad almost hoped that he knew of some potion or spell that could replace the marriage altogether. “That’s the truth of it, my lord. The truth.”

[fantasy-so-far]

Day 4 - Reckless (Free Day)

           Though he was self-deprecatingly pessimistic about romance and “happily-ever-after,” Holly found comfort in the arms of a lover. In the wake of his relatively recent abduction and injury, “The Rover” was behaving recklessly, and that was no truer than in his choice of bed partners. It was heedless hedonism that brought him back to familiar haunts and hearts. He was presented with the pain he had caused and peppered it with promises he would never keep. His own fear, pain, and rage made him unforgivably selfish.

           Valerian looked upon Holly with pity as the bard made his rounds in the club. A petite, but no less furious, Rava woman threw a drink in his face and slapped him hard enough to leave his cheek pink, but after a lengthy exchange of words, the woman was once more hooked by the bastard’s charm. Try as she did, her aloof performance slowly crumbled, and she clung to her drink for courage. She was at risk of falling once more into his arms, and though Valerian’s sadistic streak craved the crash that would follow, he was not patient enough to be so passive.

           “As I live and breathe,” Valerian purred as he approached Holly from behind. It was a quaint, ill-fitting phrase that never ceased to amuse the cursed Viera.

           The Rava’s gaze shifted to him and narrowed to a scowl, as if she might have read his intentions from the faint smirk on his lips. She opened her mouth, likely to tell him to take a hike, but Holly spoke first.

           “Valerian!” He exclaimed as he turned.

           Valerian savored the alluring apprehension that shone in Holly’s amethyst-colored eyes and let it grow a bit before he glanced to the woman.

           “I am afraid I must steal this charming rake from you for the evening. I do hope you understand,” he stated.

           Holly was immediately frustrated by Valerian’s hubris, but he didn’t protest. Instead, he casually turned to the bartender and ordered a drink. Though he acted like he wasn’t bothered, Valerian was thrilled that his bratty slight had found purchase.

           “I am not done with him,” the woman retorted with unveiled venom. “You can have your go at him when I say so.”

           Holly froze before turning to look at the woman. He genuinely liked being pursued and desired, but he found her response to cross the line into control, which he did not suffer silently.

           “You have grossly misunderstood our reunion,” Holly replied coolly. “I have said my piece, so I am going to join him at his table. I hope you have a good night.”

           The woman turned to gawp at him in indignant fury before slapping him a second time and storming off. Though Valerian had seen the man deflect thrown objects with a sweep of his arm, Holly made no attempt to stop the woman’s assault. Perhaps it was his tithe for the anger and hurt he continued to cause.

           “I hadn’t expected to run into you, Valerian,” Holly replied after receiving his drink and gesturing for the other man to lead the way.

           “Is that true? You have come to one of my favorite hunting grounds and assumed that I would not be here?” Valerian asked as he took Holly to a table near the stage. The dancers were mid-song, so a few other patrons groaned as the two men walked through their line of sight but they were otherwise ignored by the room.

           “No. I suppose it’s bullshit,” Holly laughed. “I came looking for familiar faces, honestly.”

           “I figured. Vi told me that you have had a hard time finding your course again.” Before continuing, Valerian held up a hand to pause any impending protests. “She worries about you, before you get angry about us talking about you when you aren’t around. I don’t bring up the topic. She does. I will admit that I am worried as well.”

           Holly rolled his eyes and downed the double shot, artfully avoiding the ice. He turned the glass in his hands a few times before setting it down and turning to Valerian.

           “I am not here to talk about what happened. I am here to ignore it,” Holly admitted flatly. “There’s nothing to be done about what happened, so I just want to drown in liquor, tits, and ass. I am tired of people walking on eggshells around me, like I am a beloved pet gone rabid. Most of these people don’t actually know me. They see a facet of me, a well-adapted, civilized part of me, but they ignore where I came from and what I have done to survive. I have strayed from their interpretation, and it is exhausting to always assure them that I am fine, all the while I am craving blood in ways only you and Violetta would understand.”

           As Holly went on,Valerian privately chanted panicked curses as he found his heart softening. This was a man that had left him the moment he had expressed committed desires, breaking his heart in the process, and still he was melting as he watched Holly set a course for self-destruction.

           “Holly,” he whispered as the man’s rant continued. “You will have to face your fury, but—but…” He once more interrupted the argument as it formed on Holly’s lips. “That is not why I approached you. Honestly, it was jealousy. I couldn’t stand that simpering waif’s display, and I am certainly not here to make you a better man. I wouldn’t be able to stand it if you weren’t the broken wretch that you are. It is the only thing that makes your heinous rejection of my love seem like a warped boon.”

           He paused when Holly started to laugh loudly. He had heard the titter and then chuckle, but now the bard was laughing almost uproariously. Valerian huffed with annoyance and leaned forward to pour himself a glass of wine. He would let the bastard get it out of his system.

           “Are you quite finished, you heartless fuck?” Valerian asked when Holly’s mirth faded. “My point is, I wanted you for myself. That’s it. Spend the night with me. When morning comes, you are free to resume your reckless crusade under whatever banner you desire. Or, alternatively, you can return with me to the house and lounge about in finery and supervised debauchery. I could finish that painting I started…”

           Holly ran his tongue over his lower lip as he considered the offer. He glanced around the full, active common room and considered the stories that could be told if he refused his former lover’s offer. Many of them would be new, but the nagging call of a classic muddled the argument. When he looked back to Valerian, he inched across the loveseat to get closer. His gaze shifted over the man’s pale features and then back up to his eerie scarlet stare.

           “Say ‘please,” Holly teased, his warm breath bathing Valerian’s wine-stained lips.

           Valerian smirked and shook his head. “No,” he murmured. He advanced and drank in the warmth of Holly’s eager kiss.

           If they were damned, at least they were damned together.

Master Post || Prompt Source || Challenge Carrd

[royallyjoon]

nephilim (quatre)

you know where the cred goes 💙

cult au, supernatural creature au

yandere! ot7 x f! reader

warnings: yandere themes, violence, manipulation

undoubtedly, the boys have opened their arms and hearts to you. but have you done the same? life has only gotten more stressful for you, and the closer you find yourself getting to them, the more you feel as though you are changing, and the more you push yourself away. you refuse to break. never forget: one’s hubris could be their hamartia. forge your lonely path with conviction. after all, it may not be yours for much longer. the victor or the fallen--exactly who is it that stands to lose the most?

——————————————————————

For a long time now, you had feared that your relatively peaceful days in Ichabod were coming to an end, and recent events only further proved your point. 

Mana’s forewarning carried its weight well, as Aemilia seemed dead set on making an enemy of you. She went from hardly acknowledging your existence to cursing it. 

She would never lift a finger to do her dirty work, oh no, for how could the delicate Augustus princess stoop so low as to take the garbage out herself?

No, she used her puppets Brooklyn, Constance, and whoever else she managed to sink her claws into in the student body to torment you. 

They tripped you in the halls, stole your belongings, and essentially made it difficult for you to bleed into the background like you used to.

Luckily for you, you happened to gain some formidable allies.

Mana was there to tell Aemilia’s lackeys to back down, and they wouldn’t dare approach you with Jimin around. And he happened to be around more often than not, strangely enough.

The three of you managed to form a strange alliance during this time. Your best friend was still extremely cautious around Jimin and his siblings, as were you, but they had gotten somewhat closer, which made you glad. You didn’t want to be the bridge between them, as you thought that would be tiring and more than you could already handle. 

Still, the two were only human. They wouldn’t always be there to defend you. Nevertheless, you were quite capable of defending yourself. 

You didn’t give Aemilia the satisfaction of breaking under her pressure. You held your head up high despite the amounts of rumors flying around the school about you, even if they made you want to split your own skull open. 

The student body, in part, was divided. Half of them wanted nothing to do with you, considering how you were associated with both the Augustuses and the Kims. They were wary of your actions, claiming you were steps away from meeting Wylynne herself. 

The other half whispered about how tired they were of Aemilia’s antics and tantrums, given that this was not the first time she had behaved like this toward another student. 

Two weeks passed by, and neither you nor Aemilia was giving in. The strawberry blonde was beside herself, and so were her poor friends. Every day that she failed to teach you a lesson was another day she went raving mad in private.

Soon enough, her patience would snap. She would find herself going over the tipping point, but the question remains: Who would stand to lose the most when she got there?

It was another stressful day for you at Ichabod Academy as you sat in your lively homeroom. 

Mana rested on your desk, laying their head on their arms. You figured they would be uncomfortable, considering the way their body was twisted around in their seat, but your friend was drifting off without a care in the world. 

You slumped in your chair, looking every bit as done with life as you had recently felt. There was so much you had to be on the lookout for, and today was no different. 

You blinked tiredly and looked at your best friend. You then decided to lay your head on top of Mana’s, who did nothing more than let out a grunt, and closed your eyes in an attempt to get some rest as well.

When Jimin returned from the restroom, he internally cooed at the sight. 

Your head started rocking back and forth as it tilted dangerously on top of Mana’s. Ensuring he wouldn’t wake you, the boy sat you up and leaned your body on him so that your head was resting on his shoulder. 

He smiled down at you in relief. Your classmates took note of his treatment and started to whisper about the two of you, but one look from him and the room quieted.

Unfortunately for you, the peace was short lived. There was a loud crackling over the intercom that shook both you and Mana awake. 

They sat up and glared at their surroundings in annoyance. You opened your eyes in a flash, desperately hoping it wasn’t your first period teacher. 

“Don’t worry, Ms. Diivi isn’t here yet.” Jimin reassured you. “It was just the intercom.”

You nodded in thanks and covered your yawn with the back of your hand.

There was some more crackling and finally, your principal began to speak. 

“Good afternoon, students. I apologize for the interruption, but this is urgent.  Constance Pierre is to report to the principal’s office immediately. I repeat, Constance Pierre to the principal’s office. Thank you for your attention, and please continue about your day.”

You squinted in confusion. 

Constance has never been called to the principal’s office before in her entire life. Even when she was causing trouble for you and other students, the teachers paid no mind and others were too afraid to report her. What could have happened?

The sound of feet pounding against the floor got closer and closer until you could hear it outside your classroom door. A blonde blur passed the room, disappearing as fast as it had come.

“Pierre...why does that name sound familiar?” You murmured to yourself.

“It’s the name of the freshman that went missing.” Mana said as they stretched. “Chance Pierre, I think.”

Your eyes widened in understanding.

“He was-is Constance’s little brother.” They corrected their statement.

Jimin glanced at your shocked expression and suppressed a dry laugh.

Quite frankly, he could care less about the Pierre family. Constance has been nothing but a nuisance to him and his brother.

He’d been willing to overlook the rumors of how annoyingly outstanding and clever the freshman was because he knew his little brother would always be better. 

But after the blonde went so far as to start pestering you, he used the information he’d gathered against Chance in its opportune moment. And he had no regrets.

You snuck a peek at Jimin and saw a familiar, cold decisiveness plastered on his face. It was the only expression you’d been seeing from him for a while now. Any time someone brought up the missing student, Jimin would go frostily silent. 

It reminded you of the difference between the two of you, just like his reaction--or lack thereof--the morning of Chance’s disappearance had.

You figured he was just uncomfortable talking about the situation and was carefully avoiding it, just as he had with you and Mana that first day you spent lunch together.

At least it wasn’t Mom or Mana, you thought to yourself.

“They must’ve finally found him.” You commented, distracted by your incoming thoughts.

Aemilia’s family is specifically in charge of hunting down anyone who can be perceived as a “threat” to the Kim family. Brooklyn Hayes and Constance Pierre, however, acquired social immunity for themselves and their families as the girls are so close.

Or so you thought.

Constance’s disheveled appearance the morning Chance went missing made much more sense, then. She was worried sick about her little brother, and one of her closest friends didn’t even bother warning her or her family. 

You shuddered. Just how many people would Aemilia sacrifice? How far would she go, just for her sick sense of what was right?

You had no intention of finding out.

By lunch time, the rest of the school had heard exactly what happened to poor Chance Pierre.

The fourteen year old boy was deposited in the family’s living room, returned out of the blue just like all of those who came before him. 

His mother had stepped out for a short moment to go grocery shopping and returned to find her bloody mess of a son, who she then quickly rushed to the hospital.

He was covered in bruises, had a broken arm and leg, several broken ribs, and permanent blindness in his left eye. All things considered, he is one of the lucky ones.

His family was just grateful that he was returned to them still breathing.

Whatever the message was, the Pierre family had received it loud and clear. And so had the rest of the town.

No one is allowed to leave Ichabod. Not without being stopped by Death herself. 

Another school day had come to an end, and you walked out the building with Mana and Jimin at your side. 

Seeing how the end of the month was coming up, you and Jimin decided that it would be best if you went over to his house to work on the project again. The beginning of the presentations were not far off and it was about time you completed your research.

It didn’t take long to convince your mother. The both of you found it easier for you to go over to the Kim residence than to ask Jimin if he could come to your home.

You sat on a granite bench outside of the entrance. Mana stood on your left, leaning up against the wall and Jimin sat to your right, perched on the bench. 

You were waiting for Driver Bin and Mr. Waye to show up when you heard a familiar voice call out.  

“(Y/N)! Jimin hyung!” You watched as Taehyung came running out the school doors, Jungkook trailing calmly behind him.

You waved at the two and gave them a tired smile. Taehyung made himself comfortable on Jimin’s lap as Jungkook stood along the wall near Mana.

“Did you have a good day, (Y/N)?” Taehyung hummed, eyes teeming with concern.

“Yeah, it was fine.” You said, struggling to actually mean that statement. 

Mana gave you a knowing look and huffed out a laugh under their breath.

It’s not as though you almost had your things stolen twice in one day.

This morning, Hoseok saw you chasing a junior who was running away with some of your notebooks and folders in hand. 

His charming smile dropped and he gave her a grim look. All he had to do was extend his hand and she placed the items in his palm, which he then promptly returned to you.

Then one of your classmates stole your laptop while you were at lunch in an effort to wipe the thing. Had it not been for Namjoon walking into the library and catching them in the act, you surely would have lost all of your information. 

Thankfully, he safely retrieved your laptop from your classmate. You made a new password for all of your devices and resolved to never let your bag out of your sight again.

“I’m glad you’re coming over again, though! Maybe we’ll get to watch a movie or play some games together.” He flashed you a boxy grin and you sent him a small smile in return.

“Jungkookie’s got loads of games,” Jimin added, peeking his head out from behind Taehyung. “He’s such a hoarder, he rarely lets us play with him. I’m sure he’d let you, though.”

Jungkook punched Jimin in the shoulder, looking at the ground in embarrassment. “Hyung, what are you saying...”

 “Yeah, that sounds nice.” You sighed absentmindedly. “I could do with a break from school and homework for like, the next month.”

The youngest brother flushed, peeking up at you through his bangs. “If you wanted to, I’d be happy to play with you.” He mumbled as he smiled.

“Oh, there’s Driver Bin!” Taehyung called, hopping up and pulling you and Jimin to your feet. 

You hugged Mana goodbye as the black van pulled up to the curb. Just as you turned to follow Jimin, however, someone knocked their shoulder into yours. 

“Oh, sweetie. You should really watch where you’re going.”

Brooklyn stood in your path with her arms crossed. Over her shoulder, you saw Aemilia and Constance standing a short distance away.  They looked as though they were about to make their way towards Aemilia’s family’s car. 

Of course, she could have just walked around you, but why would she ever let you off easy? 

The strawberry blonde wore a satisfied smile and she leaned over to whisper something in the ear of a haggard Constance. Constance merely blinked and nodded in response. 

You smiled at the girl in front of you. “Of course. It was all my mistake. I’m so sorry, Brooklyn.”

You stepped closer as though you were going to confront her and grabbed her arm, pulling her toward you before she could step back.

She fought against you but that only made you grip her arm tighter. You could feel your nails start to dig into her skin.

 “I’m sorry that you’re nothing more than a means to an end.” You murmured in her ear.

The brunette stilled.

“I’m sorry Aemilia couldn’t care less about you or your family.”  You continued, speaking in a low voice. “I’m sorry that your so called friend sees you as mere disposable goods, or should I say...a useful little puppet?”

You released your grip on her arm, bringing your hand up to her shoulder instead and giving it a few consoling pats. “Didn’t your little sister just get the lead role in the school play? I would hate for you to be the next Constance...”

You looked toward the blonde just to emphasize your point and Brooklyn’s eyes followed your gaze.

Constance was staring, unseeing, at the ground, nervously clinging to Aemilia like a lifeline. She was strangely quiet and obedient...like a dog in fear of disobeying its master.

Brooklyn looked back and forth between you, Aemilia, and Constance in utter shock. You sent her one more sympathetic look before moving around her to follow the Kims into their car.

The remaining students whispered, wondering about what you said and in the corner of your eye, you saw Mana tilt their head inquisitively. You knew they had questions, questions you would have to answer later.

You bowed in greeting to Mr. Bin and entered the car behind Jimin like last time, Namjoon going in after you.

Mr. Bin closed the door and walked around to the other side of the vehicle in preparation to leave.

“I’ve never seen Brooklyn look so shocked,” Taehyung said from the backseat. He put his hands on the headrest behind you and poked his head around it. “What did you tell her?”

You shrugged. “Something that could hopefully put her life in a different perspective.”

“I don’t know how you deal with those girls, (Y/N).” Jimin said. “Aren’t you tired of the tricks Aemilia’s playing?”

“Don’t you just want to get rid of them, once and for all?” Taehyung asked, tone darkening.

You shrugged. “For whatever reason, she’s currently obsessed with me-”

The reason being all of you-

“-and of course I want her to stop, but I would never give her the satisfaction of letting her think she won. She’s petty, and a bully.”

You texted your mother an update on your location and locked your phone, looking up at your classmates. “She just needs a reality check. I’d be happy to give it to her every now and then.”

Part of you felt like trying to care for Brooklyn was pointless, especially after the way she treated you. The other part of you felt you were killing two birds with one stone--you were opening her eyes and isolating Aemilia in one go.

While Namjoon and Hoseok nodded in understanding, the rest of the boys couldn’t help but worry. 

They all followed Namjoon’s advice religiously in fear of scaring you away. But what if your independence only made it harder for them to be able to be there for you? What if you never came to them on your own for assistance?

...They would simply have to make it so that you had no other choice, would they not?

But the circumstances were not yet that dire, so for now, you had nothing to fear.

——————————————————————

The ride into the woods was pleasantly silent, and this time you made sure you didn’t fall asleep.

All too soon, Mr. Bin drove the van past the wrought-iron gate and up the impressive driveway. You weren’t as nervous as you were your first time visiting their residence, but you still had your guard up.

The boys bound up the wooden steps and opened the front door, piling into their home. You entered last, quietly closing the door behind you. 

As you were taking off your shoes, you spied a pair of nude slides next to all of the black ones.

Jungkook noticed you looking at them and smiled. “Mother prepared them for you. She saw you wearing hyung’s pair the last time you came over and ordered them after you left with your mom.”

“That’s so kind of her,” you said, slightly in awe. “I’ll be sure to express my thanks.”

You never thought you’d reach the day where Mrs. Kim would welcome you so readily into her home, but here you stood corrected. 

“(Y/N), let’s go!” Jimin called to you from the stairway.

“Coming!” You lay your shoes at the door, slid your feet into the slippers, and went to catch up with him, climbing upstairs. 

The library had hardly changed since you were gone. The shelves were just as dusty and dilapidated as before, and the couch was just as comfortable.

You maintained a safe distance away from Jimin this time as well so he wouldn’t get the opportunity to pull any tricks.

You spent the majority of the afternoon on writing the paper together, as you both had agreed. A few hours later, you finished and decided to get a head start on the presentation.

“‘The strength of a Nephilim depends on which angelic order their parent hails from,’” You read out to Jimin as he added to your shared document from his laptop. 

“‘The sheer majority, however, were parented by those in the third sphere. This was the lowest order consisting of the angels most concerned with the affairs of humans: Principalities, Archangels, and Angels.’”

“Got it.” He claimed, typing out a couple more sentences. “I think we have enough for the background information, but Mrs. Hargrove also wants us to discuss the religions they come from, their abilities and their weaknesses.”

You hummed. “Angels are mentioned in a multitude of religions, but Nephilim are really only mentioned in the Hebrew Bible, according to sources.”

“So that question shouldn’t be so difficult to answer,” He smiled, marking it. 

“Nephilim are really strong,” you said from behind the book cover, fascinated by the information it held. “They appear as ordinary humans on the outside but possess celestial powers bestowed upon them by their angelic parent. They’re faster and stronger than ordinary humans, and are excellent at reading people.” 

Jimin took the book from you and glanced further down in the book to see if he could find more specific powers for your project. 

“Oh, I found something here.” 

You opened your laptop and prepared to type as he read. 

“It says Nephilim possess super strength, longevity, the power of flight, healing abilities, teleportation, telepathy, angelic wrath, illusions, the ability to drain someone’s life force, and telekinesis.” He raised his eyebrow in awe. 

You chuckled as your hands raced to keep up with his words. “Illusions, the ability to drain someone’s life force, and what?”

“Telekinesis, the ability to move things with your mind.” He said. 

“I could use that all the time--like, the other day, I was waiting in front of the student council room to return the uniform I borrowed.” 

You recounted the story for Jimin as he peeked up at you. You were too engrossed in typing, however, to notice his gaze.  “I could have sworn the door was locked, but then Namjoon appeared and it unlocked without him pulling out a key or anything. He just flicked his wrist and open sesame.”

Jimin unabashedly stared at you, a small smile on his face. You always noticed the littlest things about them and it made his heart pound for you a little harder.

“Namjoon hyung always comes in at the coolest moments,” he replied, looking down at what you’d managed to gather so far. “So, we have the powers and where they come from. I think we found a section on their weaknesses the other day.”

“Yeah, it sounds like their main weakness is original sin, or the innate tendency to sin, all humans receive once they’re born.” You thought back to the section you and Jimin read before. “Because they’re part human and part angel, they are constantly at war with themselves and the human side typically wins.”

“Do you think that’s a bad thing?” Jimin asked. 

You closed your laptop. “...What do you mean?”

Jimin shifted, tucking his legs underneath him. “I mean, they’re celestial beings. They have cosmic powers at their disposal, access to the heavens, and everything they could have wanted. But they have a choice to throw it away, to sin, for...whatever the reason may be.” He muttered, glancing aside at the carpet. “If they gave it up, do you think they would have made the right decision?”

You paused for a moment, eyeing the shadows nearby branches cast on the library windows. “It think it depends on the person and what they’re sinning for. Whether they were doing it for their own self interest, or to protect a loved one-”

“What if they were doing it because they loved someone?” Jimin interrupted, eyes widened in curiosity.

Your eyes left the window as you turned to face him. “I would admire their dedication. And it’s not as though they lose their abilities when they fall from grace. I only wish that person would be worth it, and that they’re happy.” 

You smiled wistfully. “An angel losing their wings to love someone for the rest of their life. What a sad, beautiful thing. ’Tis the plight of being human, I suppose. They’re really not that different from us--besides the celestial gifts, of course.”

Jimin grinned and hummed in agreement. 

As always, only you could understand them perfectly.

You stood up from the couch and brushed off the back of your skirt. “Uh, Jimin, could you please tell me where the bathroom is?”

He smiled. “Yeah! You just make a left at the corner, then a right, then another right, and there should be a guest room with a bathroom in it.”

You zoned into and out of your thoughts momentarily and blinked, smiling and nodding at him. “Thanks.”

——————————————————————

Perhaps Jimin told you the directions incorrectly, or you made a left when you should have made a right, but there was no doubt about it. You were lost. There was no bathroom where he stated there was, and you’d been wandering around the third floor for several minutes now with no clue as to where it was.

“Damn this house.” You muttered under your breath. “Only seven people live here, why is it so big?”

You finally came upon what looked like a guest room, one that hopefully had a bathroom inside, when you heard two voices speaking from the behind the partially open door. 

“Seriously. You need to be more careful with these sorts of things.” The first voice said, deep and mature.

You stopped in your tracks immediately.

“It’s not like I wanted this to happen.” the second one spoke. Their voice was much lower and raspier than the first. 

“Of course you didn’t. That’s why you should pay more attention when doing your work.” The first voice nagged and you heard someone hiss.

“Ah, it’s fine. It was worth it. Still, thanks for patching me up, hyung.”

You were stuck near the crack in the door, too afraid to move in fear of being heard. 

“Whatever. You’re too reckless. Maybe this’ll teach you a lesson.”

“Oh, come on. How was I supposed to know that the kid would make such a-”

“Stop talking.” The first voice stated, sounding much lower than it had before. 

Your eyes shook at the sudden silence and you whipped around to look at the hallway, quickly searching for a place to hide.

About two steps behind you, there was a five foot long indent in the wall, courtesy of the prominent display of a large painting.

You risked it and threw yourself backward, stepping as quietly onto the wood as you could before throwing your back up against the indent, facing away from the room. 

And not a moment too soon, as you heard the door fly open the second you were hidden from view. You sunk to the floor in a crouch.

“What’s wrong, hyung?” You could hear the younger’s voice sound from the room much clearer now.

You sucked yourself as tightly into the corner as you could.

There was no response from the older and you strained your ears for a sign, a hint, anything.

Breathing felt too loud, swallowing felt too loud, the brush of your clothes against your neck as you turned your head felt too loud. Everything was deafening.

Please don’t find me, please don’t find me, please don’t find me-

There was the slow, soft padding of feet on the wooden floor. You trembled as it got closer and closer to where you sat. 

In the corner of your eye, you could see a socked foot, inches away from where you hid.

“Jin hyung!”

Your savior, none other than Jimin, appeared at the end of the hallway, yelling in excitement.

You know he saw you, of course he saw you. It was impossible not to coming from his direction. You cast your eyes down, praying he wouldn’t reveal your presence.

He grinned as he ran towards the man. 

“You came back early!” The younger boy tackled him in a hug, wrapping his legs around him. 

The force drove the man back several steps and he grunted, his foot disappearing from your sight. “Jimin, you’re getting a bit too old for this, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but I know you’ll always carry me, hyung.” You heard him giggle. 

“What are you doing up here?” The other voice asked, joining the other two in the hallway. You remained where you sat, not moving an inch. 

“Yoongi hyung! You came back too!”

He scoffed. “Of course I did.”

“Answer his question first, Jimin ah.” You heard the elder comment in a much warmer voice than the threatening tone you heard behind the door. 

“I was in the library working on a project with my classmate. She had to use the bathroom but she never came back, so I came looking for her.”

You blinked rapidly, staring at the wooden floor in front of you.

There was a pause. 

“Have either of you seen her?” Jimin asked.

“...No, we haven’t.” The deep and mature voice, which you now matched to the eldest brother, replied. 

“I’ll just keep looking, then. But you should head downstairs. Father will be home soon, he’ll be pleased to know you’re here!”

Due to the series of complaints you then heard, it sounded as though Jimin took both of his brothers by the wrist and led them to the stairway down the other side of the hallway. 

You waited in that spot for several moments, until you couldn’t hear anything but the wind blowing up against the walls. Once you ensured that they were gone, you ran back down the hallway you came, bladder be damned.

Of course. How could you have possibly forgotten Mr. and Mrs. Kim’s two eldest children?

Kim Yoongi and Kim Seokjin.

Had you not moved when you did, and had Jimin not interfered when he had, you might have...no, you surely would have lost your life in that instant.

——————————————————————

You made it back to the library, quickly and quietly opening the door before rushing in.

Jimin still hadn’t returned, so no one was there to see you fly over to the couch and plop down to sit. You tried to catch your breath to slow the pounding of your heart.

Kim Yoongi and Kim Seokjin. You were almost caught eavesdropping on their conversation.

You had never wanted to purge your memory more than in that exact moment.

What if they suspect I heard everything? What if they have the Augustuses’ people capture me for it? It couldn’t have been that important--it sounded like they were just patching up wounds. Maybe one of them got into a fight? Surely this wouldn’t be enough to warrant such violence. Even they have limits, yes? Then again, when did they ever need a reason to-

The library doors flew open and you flinched, looking up at them only to sigh in relief.

“(Y/N), there you are! Did you find the bathroom alright?”

Jimin’s eyes twinkled playfully as he smiled at you. You restrained yourself from cursing at or hitting him in anger and relief, choosing instead to let out a deep sigh.

“Yeah,” you stated quietly. “It was fine.”

At that moment you received a text from your mother stating that she was downstairs.

"My mom says she’s here. I guess it’s time for me to go.” You stated, beginning to pack your laptop and notebooks away.

“Sure! I’ll come downstairs with you.” He smiled and turned away from you to return The Word of the Lost to its proper shelf.

“Thanks,” you whispered, then zipped your bag up.

Jimin was already gliding away toward the back of the library, the leather bound book in hand, but he still managed to hear you. He didn’t respond, but he smirked triumphantly.

You accepted his silence as a “You’re welcome” and took the moment to fix your composure. When you were both ready, he led the way downstairs.

“My eldest sons have finally returned home!” You heard Kim Moonsik cheer from the living room. 

His tone, usually melancholic and oily, was much lighter today. You surmised that even his mood could be improved by the sight of his family.

He sat on one of the two settees while his two oldest sons perched on the long, gray couch in front of him. 

They both had black hair and dark eyes, like their brothers and parents. One was casually dressed in a large black hoodie and black sweatpants, while the other looked comfortable in a neutral toned sweater and slacks.

The one sitting on the left rolled his eyes. “I don’t understand why you had hyung drag me here a week earlier than necessary, Father. It isn’t that big of a deal.”

Kim Yoongi was notorious for his rebellious attitude. You had heard that since his days at Ichabod Academy, he never listened to authority figures--his classmates were afraid of him and his teachers let him do as he please. The only time he would adhere to rules and tradition was at the required monthly meetings, for obvious reasons.

“On the contrary,” The older man chuckled. “Every time you come home is cause for occasion, my prodigal son.”

“Have some sympathy for me here.” The eldest drawled with his arms crossed. “I get a headache every time I’m forced to drag you home with me.”

Kim Seokjin, on the other hand, was an entertainer. He would lower people’s defenses with a friendly expression and a joke. The citizens of Ichabod found him much more agreeable and respectable as Mayor Kim’s eldest son. They thought him harmless. They fawned over him and Namjoon, praising the mayor for how well he’d raised them in terms of respect and diplomacy.

They were fools. For even now, you could see it as he lounged back relaxedly in his seat: Kim Seokjin may be considered kind and polite, but he was by no means harmless. 

“Do you want me to bring you some medicine?” Jimin piped up from beside you on the stairs, drawing the three’s attention. 

You could feel the college students’ gaze burning into the side of your face.

You kept your facial expression neutral and descended the stairs behind Jimin, who skipped down the rest of them. 

“Who’s this?” You heard Yoongi question.

“This is my classmate, (Y/N). She’s the person I was looking for earlier,” Jimin said, seating himself in between his older brothers.

You bowed toward them. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

Seokjin smiled and reached out his hand. You extended yours, expecting a handshake. 

He held it, turned it over, and pressed his lips to the back of it. “The pleasure is all ours.” 

Yoongi smirked as you took your hand back, fighting a blush. “How lovely it is to make your acquaintance.”

“Thank you, you too. It’s nice to see you again as well, Mr. Kim.” You addressed the older man.

“You also, (Y/N) dear. I’m simply ecstatic you took up our invitation.” Mayor Kim said, the usual, passionate fire in his eyes blazing. 

You fought back a shudder. 

“You know the entire town needs to be present, Yoongi ah.” Mr. Kim continued the conversation from before. “You’re no exception.”

“I never said I was,” the second oldest retorted. “I just prefer to spend less of my break here.”

“How’s everything at school, Jiminie?” Seokjin asked as Jimin wrapped his arms around his midsection, skillfully redirecting the subject matter.

“Strange, as usual.” He mumbled, hesitantly looking up at you. 

“I heard the police finally found the Pierre boy,” Mr. Kim added, and you suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable in the presence of this conversation.

Where’s my mother? Weren’t we supposed to be leaving?

“Yes, we heard about it at lunch.” Jimin said. His tone when speaking to his father wasn’t as clipped or standoffish as it was when he was speaking to his mother; rather, it was more lackadaisical. “Right, (Y/N)?”

All four heads spun to you, still standing in the middle of the living room. 

“Why are you standing there looking so stiff?” Seokjin sent you a sinister smile. “Come join us.”

This was the last place you wanted to be, but you had no choice in the matter. You smiled awkwardly and shuffled to the empty settee. 

Before you could sit down, however, Jimin jumped up and pulled you to the couch, seating you in his old spot between his brothers. He then claimed the spot on the other side of Seokjin.

You stiffened and relaxed in a second, praying to everything that you didn’t look as uncomfortable as you felt.

The atmosphere was stifling. You couldn’t breathe.

“It’s a shame what happened to him, truly.” Mr. Kim continued, humming in sympathy. “I sincerely hope something like that doesn’t have to happen again.”

How dare he sit here and act as though he had nothing to do with it? What happened to Chance Pierre was his fault! You unconsciously balled your fist in your lap.

“I’m sure everyone will take this lesson to heart, Father.” Seokjin consoled him. “May they never underestimate the power of Wylynne’s grace again.”

“She is holy and forgiving, but some actions need to be punished, yes.” Yoongi added from your right with a cruel smirk. “Praise Wylynne.”

“Praise Wylynne.” Jimin nodded, eyes twinkling with amusement.

It suddenly occurred to you that you were the only one left who had not spoken. When you raised your eyes to meet with the others’, indeed, they were waiting for your response.

“...Praise Wylynne.” You smiled. False religion or not, there was no way you would be testing your luck in front of the divine priest and his sons.

Mr. Kim nodded in approval, then broke out into a laugh. “Wise, hardworking, and devoted; like mother, like daughter. Wylynne surely smiles upon the women of the (L/N) family.”

You laughed awkwardly. “Thank you, Mr. Kim.”

“Will your mother be arriving to get you soon?” Mr. Kim asked you.

“It was to my knowledge that she was already here-”

“(Y/N)!”

Your head spun toward the sound of your mother’s voice and found her standing in the entryway next to Kim Eunbyul. She wore navy blue scrubs today and her hair was pulled back into a bun with a few loose strands in the front. 

You had thought right. The two were a vision next to each other.

Mrs. Kim walked over, bringing your mother with her. “I apologize for the wait--(M/N) and I were having the most delightful conversation. (Y/N) my dear, how are you?”

She sat next to her husband on one settee and your mother took a seat on the other, empty one. 

This was your second time seeing Mrs. Kim, yet you still could not get over her beauty. She wore another silk housedress, a muslin scarf draped behind her back and over her inner arms. 

Her elegance was neither ostentatious nor arrogant. She demanded respect but gave it in return. 

She had what Aemilia desperately sought after but could never possess.

You nodded with a smile, bowing slightly. “Good evening, Mrs. Kim. I’m fine, thanks for worrying. And thank you so much for the sandals, I really appreciate you going out of your way for me.”

The former actress waved her hand lightly as she laughed. “It was no trouble at all!”

She took your hands in hers and looked down at her feet. “Besides, we match!” Following her gaze, your eyes widened. Indeed, you both had the same style and brand of slippers on.

“Thank you so much for the welcoming her so warmly, Mrs. Kim.” Your mother smiled. 

“Of course.” She assured. “Think nothing of it. I already think of you both as family.”

Your heart warmed a bit and you smiled in response to her words, for you already greatly admired Mrs. Kim. To think that she had taken a liking to both you and your mother...

It was then that the rest of the brothers trekked downstairs in curiosity, then heartily grinned once they realized their oldest brothers had arrived.

“How about we let the kids step aside so us adults can talk properly, hmm?” Mrs. Kim suggested, taking her husband’s hand.

Mr. Kim grinned and squeezed her hand in response. “A wonderful idea, love.”

The boys then quickly pulled you away from the main couches, moving your discussion toward the glass windows. 

You looked back at your mom a couple of times while the brothers greeted each other before focusing on the conversation at hand.

The eight of you stood in a circle near the windows, and you were currently stuck between Jungkook and Seokjin. 

“The other day, (Y/N) said she really liked your interior designing, Jin hyung.” Hoseok piped up. “She said she thought the living room was lovely.”

“Did she? She must have impeccable taste.” He playfully winked at you.

You smiled weakly. “Thank you. I really admire what you’ve done with the space.”

Yoongi, across from you, leaned against the glass. “How is everything at the academy these days?” He asked. 

You hesitated to answer then directed your gaze to the floor thinking the question was not meant for you. When you didn’t hear any of the other boys speak, you looked up and found six sets of eyes on you.

Their gazes were so focused and intense, as if you would break or disappear the moment they looked away. You shifted your eyes.

“It’s not the easiest, but isn’t that what high school is like for everyone?” You grimace-smiled.

“(Y/N)’s being bullied.” Taehyung revealed, draping himself over Jimin’s shoulder. “Aemilia Augustus and her lackeys won’t leave her alone.”

This little-

You whipped your head around to see if your mother had heard anything. Thankfully, Taehyung’s voice was lowered at the time. She seemed engrossed in her discussion with Mrs. Kim. 

“The Augustus princess?” Yoongi asked, interrupting your thoughts. 

“She’s what?” Jin started in surprise, his polite smile turning into a displeased frown. He glanced at Namjoon. The student council president simply nodded in response.

“She has the other kids pester or steal from (Y/N).” Hoseok added, glaring out the window. “The students can hardly stop talking about it.” 

Jungkook gently tugged on your shirt sleeve to get your attention. “If she’ s bothering you--” 

“It’s alright.” You assured them before they could really give Aemilia and her people a reason to go after you. “I’m working it out.”

“And how well is that going?” Namjoon snorted, giving you a knowing look.

You grimaced, locking and unlocking your phone. “...I’m working it out.” You repeated, suddenly fascinated by the wooden floor.

“If she ever gives you a hard time, you let me know.” Yoongi said, holding up his fists. One hand was wrapped in bandages and the other hand was bare, knuckles covered in torn skin and still-healing scabs. “I don’t get these from just lying around, if you catch my drift.”

You gaped at his hands and at the offer. Kim Yoongi? Offering to beat someone up for you? Where had his famous apathetic attitude gone?

“Violence is never the answer, Yoongi ah.” Seokjin replied before you could. He gently took your phone from you while it was unlocked and swiped around until he found your contacts. “If you ever need help, just give us a call. Don’t be afraid to reach out. We’ll always be there.”

You opened and closed your mouth in distress. 

Seokjin pointedly ignored the glare Namjoon was sending his way. 

He was jealous of his younger brothers, who got to see and speak with you every day. Earlier, he’d been in the middle of healing and wrapping Yoongi’s injury when he saw your shadow outside the door. 

He’d barely been able to hold himself back from ripping you out your hiding spot and pulling you into his arms. But then all of their progress would have been for naught. 

So he allowed Jimin to drag him away. 

But not anymore.

He understood that you needed your time and space but, really, their angel shouldn’t be so stubborn around them. 

He held the device out to you and you took it back, observing the six newest additions to your contacts list. He’d taken the time to add not just his number, but the rest of the brothers’ numbers as well.

“Thank you,” You confided with a rare, genuine, and small smile, “really. But I can handle it myself.”

On the outside, some of them nodded while the others frowned at the floor.

On the inside, however, they collectively sighed inside their head, tired of your age old response.

They just wanted you to be able to lean on them, to see them as another option that was always available to you, and only you.

How long was it going to take for you to trust them? How far would they have to go to capture the object of their desire?

Whatever the obstacle, they would surely overcome it. 

Your mother called your name once more and you shouldered your bag, replacing the nude slippers with your school shoes.

“I hope you have a pleasant night,” You said to the brothers, fumbling with your shoes. “I’ll see you in school tomorrow.” 

“See you tomorrow!” Jimin waved you off with a smile and his brothers and parents chorused farewells behind him.

You both bowed once more to the Kim family and descended the stairs, making as hasty but collected an exit as possible.

“I swear, (Y/N), I lose years off my life every time I come to this house,” your mother murmured once you both sat in the car.

“You know what, Mom? So do I.” You exhaled, slumping down in the front seat. “Drive slowly, won’t you? I might be the one throwing up once we reach the edge of the woods.”

Your mother barked out a laugh and nodded in thanks to Mr. Bin as he opened the gate. 

As you drove away from the Kim family home, you opened your messages and texted Mana, updating them on how you’d nearly lost your life this time.

That night, you ate dinner, cleaned up, finished other assignments, and had an hours long conversation with Mana about Brooklyn and your latest visit to the Kim residence.

The way their eyes bugged out of their head when you told them about how you’d nearly gotten caught made you laugh. Of course, it hadn’t been funny in the moment. Even thinking about it now made you slightly nauseous.

But you went to sleep that night all the same, dreaming once again of haunting, magnificent black wings.

——————————————————————

Once the front door of the Kim household closed, Jimin’s cheerful face dropped into a scowl. 

And he was not the only one upset. All seven of them glowered around the room in the aftermath of (Y/N)’s departure.

Kim Eunbyul and Kim Moonsik sat deathly still on the couch, unprepared for whatever was coming.

When someone is explosive with anger, they are destructive. One might break things, they may say harmful words, but for the most part, one takes their anger out in that single moment.

The seven men behind them were different.  

When they were angry, they plotted. The harder it was for them to get what they wanted, the harder they fought. They made sure there would be nothing that could possibly be in their way. 

“We told you to be patient, hyung.” Namjoon broke the angry silence. “Don’t ruin all of our plans with your ineptitude.”

“Isn’t that a little harsh?” Seokjin scoffed. “I put your number in her phone, too. Try being a little grateful.”

“Don’t disrespect your elders, Namjoon.” Hoseok chided, shoving his hands in his pockets. “We told you to put your dog on her leash.”

“You weren’t complaining when Aemilia’s antics gave you opportunities to help (Y/N),” Namjoon sneered. “I loathe her very existence as well, don’t misunderstand me.”

“You should hear the rumors going around at school, Namjoon hyung.” Jungkook frowned. “People are placing bets on how soon Aemilia’s going to destroy her.”

“I know you’re the brains of this operation but if (Y/N) gets hurt, this is not going to end prettily.” Yoongi stated solemnly.

“I won’t let it get to that point.” Namjoon assured.

“Get it together. And keep that girl in line.” Seokjin nodded.

There was a significant reason Eunbyul was so receptive of the (h/c) haired girl and her mother. 

Despite the fact that she really did enjoy your company and was happy to welcome you into their home, she knew what would await her if she ever dared to mistreat you.

You precious thing. You precious, hardheaded, stubborn thing. Why did you not give in to what they wanted? Could you truly not see how much they how much they longed to protect possess be with you?

Perhaps you’ve already started picking up on it, and this was why you wanted to distance yourself from them before it was too late.

You beautiful, foolish thing. It was already far too late.

Eunbyul quivered, squeezing her husband’s hand. Moonsik wore a stony expression on his face, but he squeezed his wife’s hand back with surprising strength. 

When she looked up from her lap, she gasped, for Jungkook was squatting directly in front of her. She felt as though his dark gaze was piercing her soul.

The probability of that very thing happening in this instant was high.

She exhaled and carefully avoided his gaze.

“Mother, Father,” he hummed, “is everything alright? You’re shaking like leaves in the wind.”

“Oh dear.” Taehyung replied, resting his arms on the back of the settee behind them. He tilted his head and frowned down at the two as if they were insects, scurrying around in an attempt to escape their deaths. “That doesn’t sound very good.”

“I’m sure it was just a result of them working so hard.” Seokjin smiled at Moonsik. “I must say, I was impressed.” The elder simply nodded and avoided his gaze.

Namjoon strolled over to Eunbyul’s side of the settee and gently pat the woman on her back. “Your performance today was especially moving, Mother.”

“At least she wasn’t trembling in front of (Y/N) like she did last time,” Jimin kissed his teeth. “Useless woman.”

Hoseok bent over in laughter, the outburst shortening into a light giggle as he joined them by the couches. 

“They work diligently, why not praise them once in a while?” He suggested, suppressing another laugh.

“Like I’ll ever.” Jimin rolled his eyes. “I really hope you know what you’re talking about, Namjoon hyung. I’m going to bed before I feel the need to hit something--or someone.” Jimin glared and bounded back up the stairs.

“It’s alright. We’re fine.” Eunbyul forced out. “Thank you.”

“Yes, you should be. If you weren’t, it would imply you did something wrong.” Yoongi smiled.

“And if you did something wrong,” Jin continued, “...well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

She stiffly nodded. 

“Of course not.” Taehyung grinned and pat her head condescendingly. 

“Of course.” Moonshik repeated, willing his hands to stop trembling.

He had never expected this to happen. He never thought he would be living the life that he did.

He had called for power, and he had surely received it, but not in the way he thought he would.

Was the insurmountable power worth the treatment he received in his own home?

Yes. And if he had to repeat it, he would have made the exact same decision. It would surely be worth it. That was what he told himself day in and day out, the prayer he spoke to his god in an attempt to convince himself of the lie.

It would surely be worth it.

“We’re trusting you, Mr. and Mrs. Kim.” 

——————————————————————

The Augustus residence was a fairly old building, a beautiful family manor transformed into a modern, affluent home. It stood in the center of the city, as their family used to be the epicenter of society. 

Aemilia found both her home and its location extremely fitting. 

As unfortunate as it would be that she would have to move from this stately home to one in the middle-of-nowhere woods, she was willing to deal with it. She would follow her future husband anywhere, everywhere, if need be.

Usually, the esteemed Augustus home was silent. 

“How could you?” Brooklyn shouted in anger.

But today, those grand old walls whispered in the wind through quite the ruckus.

“The people that work for your family dragged Constance’s little brother out of his home in the middle of the day! They tortured him for two weeks! You knew where he was the whole time, and you didn’t say a thing!” Brooklyn gestured toward their friend. “She came to you for help, and you slammed the door in her face!”

The blonde had stopped talking long ago. She curled herself into a ball and tucked her head into her chest, looking well on the verge of a panic attack. 

The three girls had arrived at Aemilia’s house earlier, prepared to do the usual: finish some homework, study, and binge watch some shows. 

But (Y/N) (L/N)’s words had been ringing inside of Brooklyn’s head all afternoon. 

A means to an end. 

Disposable goods.

A useful little puppet.

She couldn’t take thinking it anymore, so she finally voiced the dreaded question. Brooklyn asked Aemilia what she and Constance meant to her.

The strawberry blonde tilted her head, staying quiet for several minutes. She then grinned and replied,“My ladies in waiting?”

For Wylynne’s sake. She could have at least been less direct than to compare them to literal servants.

Brooklyn erupted at Aemilia, asking her if that’s what she thought years of friendship had amounted to, thus leading them to their current argument.

For whatever reason, it had never occurred to the brunette that Aemilia may be using her. She thought she had broken the barriers the callous girl held for her long ago, but after Constance showed up at Brooklyn’s house in tears, combined with Aemilia’s response to Chance’s disappearance...

Perhaps it was time she seriously reevaluated their “friendship”.

“Don’t you think you could have reassured her that he was alive? Even police officers tell family members when people have been arrested.” Brooklyn glared at the other girl.

“Get real, Brooklyn. This isn’t a stupid police station. This is Ichabod. It’s because we live in Ichabod that Chance broke the law, and received his due punishment.” Aemilia justified coldly.

“A fourteen year old boy in laying in his bed, covered in bruises and permanently blind in one eye. But I need to get real because this is Ichabod, and that somehow makes it okay?” Brooklyn raised her volume, disturbed by how convicted Aemilia was in her reasoning. “How could you possibly think that makes it okay?” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Aemilia sneered, “I wasn’t aware that I needed your opinion or approval for my thoughts and actions.”

“That’s exactly the problem! This is about you playing us, using us through your actions! I honestly thought we meant more than that to you!” She snarled in response.

“I don’t see a problem with it,” Aemilia shrugged. “You and Constance used me for popularity and safety, and now you come crying to me, claiming that I can’t use you in return?” She barked out a laugh. “That hardly seems fair. How ungrateful.”

The brunette couldn’t deny the benefits that came along with being close to the strawberry blonde, but for her to twist their entire history and friendship into one of utility? She was beside herself with anger.

“Used you? You think we used you? For what?” She roared. “Your money? Your status? Don’t you think we have those exact same things?” 

Brooklyn Hayes and Constance Pierre were not one’s normal, run of the mill best friends. In fact, they were in extremely similar situations to Aemilia, for their families were also members of the old city elite. 

The Hayes and Pierres had lived in Ichabod for nearly as long as the Augustuses. They may not have had the same amount of prestige that Aemilia lay claim to, but they certainly were not far off.

“You grew up with us and thought we were nothing more than what? Walking labels that strengthened your social status? People you could use to do your bidding?” Brooklyn deadpanned. “We were nothing more than pawns in your game, weren’t we?”

“We didn’t befriend you because of your title or your family, Aemilia. We befriended you because we admired you and your personality. We weren’t the ones that twisted your perception of us into toys, or puppets, or ladies in waiting.” She gave a mirthless smile. “That was all you.”

Aemilia paused, reminiscing on her younger days. In every interaction she ever experienced, she was treated like royalty. At some point, she simply assumed it was natural for everyone to bend to her every whim.

Everyone...except for those two.

They had approached her for some childish reason like playing dolls or tag or other, but it was all genuine. 

“I honestly can’t believe you.” Brooklyn shook her head at her silence and stormed around the room, collecting her and Constance’s materials and shoving them into their respective bags. 

“All these years. All these years, and I was that clueless, that hopeful.” Brooklyn muttered as she gave her a cruel smile. “I can’t believe (Y/N) (L/N) knew you better than I did.” 

Aemilia’s face flushed bright red. 

“Your ladies in waiting are going to relieve themselves of their position now.” Brooklyn carefully dragged the non responsive blonde to her feet, holding both of their bags and contacting her personal driver. She curled her lip. “Please feel free to march your way to the throne by yourself, your highness.” 

The door slammed shut behind them, and for a moment, the residence was silent once more.

Then, with an anguished cry, Aemilia picked up whatever textbooks were nearby and vaulted them at her walls.

First, her future husband. Next, her friends. What would that (h/c) haired bitch steal next? Her life?

“No. No. I won’t let it get that far. I would never let you get away with it!” She screamed, hurling another book. 

Her bedroom door swung open and her father ducked the incoming textbook. “Aemilia! What on earth is going on? Brooklyn and Constance just left looking extremely upset, did you three have an argument?”

She dropped the rest of the textbooks, raced to her father and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Daddy, I need you to call up the special squadron.”

Aloysius Augustus held his daughter’s hands and warily pried them off of him. “Whatever for?”

Aemilia flashed him a maniacal grin. “Namjoon just texted me. He says his father believes he’s found in another soul in dire need of discipline.”

——————————————————————

Ever since engaging in this battle of wills with Aemilia, you tell yourself that there isn’t anything that could surprise you anymore.

Yet the actions of your classmates the next morning were strange. Stranger than you could possibly anticipate.

You entered the classroom and found a group of girls standing in a huddle around a desk, whispering to one another.

The room was strangely empty. Neither Mana nor Jimin had arrived yet, nor had some of your other classmates known for coming to school relatively early.

The girls noticed your entrance and quieted immediately. You found this suspicious, so you decided you wanted nothing to do with them. You shifted your gaze away from them and kept on walking to your seat.

That is, until you heard one of them scoff loudly in your direction.

“I mean, just look at her. She walks around the school as if she’s better than us, just because Ms. Diivi had Jimin sit next to her.”

You froze but their tittering only got louder. 

The girl that scoffed before, a classmate of yours named Seph, left the group and stood in front of you with crossed arms.

“You’re not anything special, (Y/N). You shouldn’t mistake yourself.”

The others seemed to agree with her as, soon enough, they left the desk one by one to surround you.

“It’s really pathetic how you practically beg for Jimin’s attention.”

“The other day, when you made him give you his sweater? It was really embarrassing.”

“Yeah, I could hardly stand to watch.”

They imitated your shivering as they laughed, making it look as though you were having a seizure.

“You used to be tolerable at the least, but Jimin transferred to our class and you finally decided to take the opportunity to climb the ranks, huh?” Another sneered.

You could hardly move. You were stuck in place, the words swimming around in your head.

Externally, you stared down at the ground in confusion, but internally, you were shocked. You couldn’t believe the accusations the girls were coming up with.

Even after everything this town had been through, the Kim brothers still had some sort of deluded fan club...and now they were coming after you.

“What the hell?” You finally said, lifting your head to look each of them in the eye. “Why would I go begging for his attention?”

“Don’t try to deny it, bitch.” Seph snarled. “You used to keep your head down and mind your business like the rest of us, but now, all of a sudden, you’re relishing in the spotlight.”

“We’ll see just how much Jimin likes you soon enough.” One of her lackeys snickered.

They left you where you stood, turning their attention to the doorway.

You could see Jimin from the glass window in the door, waving goodbye to Taehyung as he headed off to his respective classroom. He reached down to twist the knob and pulled the door open.

Had you blinked, you would have missed the entire thing.

Seph pulled a bucket out from under the desk they were all crowded around and threw its contents all over Jimin.

He closed his eyes and opened his mouth in shock as he was doused in water from head to toe. His uniform was soaked and his hair lost its floofy nature, flattening down over his eyes.

One of the girls ripped the bucket away from her and shoved it into your hands. They moved back in tandem, shocked gasps hiding their deeds as Jimin wiped water out of his eyes, which landed on you holding the bucket.

“(Y/N)...?”

You were just as shocked as he was, mouth agape. The evidence was completely against you.

He looked up at you with teary eyes. He looked hurt, so angry, you figured there was no way you were going to get out of this.

“I didn’t do it, why would I?” You protested.

“Jimin, are you alright?” The ringleader picked back up, skillfully concealing a triumphant smirk with an open look of concern. “(Y/N), how could you do such an awful thing? Especially after he’s been nothing but kind to you...”

Wow, does she get lessons from Mrs. Kim or something?

You dropped the bucket in surprise. “No! Jimin, it wasn’t me, I promise, they just grabbed the bucket out of nowhere-”

This is it. My mother is going to have to bury her daughter young. I failed to provide for her, or thank her for everything she’s done for me. Your thoughts couldn’t stop racing. 

“Even for a prank, that’s a bit much, isn’t it?” They continued behind you.

“She’s been acting all this time. I’m not surprised.” 

“He treated her so well and it all just blew up in his face.”

“That’s just like her.”

“She’s lying directly to his face, how fake.”

“Disgusting.”

They continued spouting lies in front of Jimin, telling him about how you were only using him, how you would curse his very existence behind his back. 

Jimin approached you, his wet shoes squeaking on the tile floors.

You backed up, intimidated, bumping the back of your leg against another desk and falling to the floor.

...Would begging help? 

When you finally looked up at him, begging felt like an appealing option.

Jimin’s eyes glistened, chocolate colored irises now hardened and flashing gold.

They were even colder than the ones you’d seen in your dreams, and you felt the temperature around you drop considerably.

You must have been going crazy with terror, something that wasn’t completely amiss in your town. The girls behind you were feasting on the fearful expression in your eyes.

Then, right as you were about to stand, Jimin gently put his hands on your elbows and guided you up.

To their surprise, he tugged you to your feet, wrapped his arms around your shoulders, and pulled you in for a hug.

“You must have been so scared, weren’t you, (Y/N)?” Jimin whispered in your ear. “Those rats dared to mess with you. They tried to come between us with petty rumors and tricks. It’s okay, I’m here now. I believe you.”

He rubbed his hand up and down your back, the water from his uniform seeping into the front of yours. “I’ll make sure you have nothing to fear.”

Jimin pulled away from the hug, smiling at you. He then turned to face the girls, and with that same chilling smile, spoke.

“You all enjoy playing pranks, yes?”

The girls’ expressions changed in a matter of seconds, from snickers and taunts to tearful pleads.

Seph could hardly pick her jaw up off the floor. “Jimin! It was (Y/N), we all saw her-”

“Ah, ah, ah.” You heard a low chuckle sound from the doorway and whipped your head towards the sound.

“I saw everything with my own eyes.” Hoseok stood in the entrance, his arms crossed as he leaned against the door frame.

When had he gotten there?

“And quite frankly, I don’t take too kindly to you lying about what happened to my darling little brother.” His famed smile slipped from his face as he stared down the girls with more hatred than you’d ever seen him possess.

“Jimin...” you reached out to get his attention, but he couldn’t pry his gaze away from the detestable scum that stood before him.

How quickly the tables had turned, you thought as you watched them cower.

Jimin calmly walked toward her and tucked his hand underneath her chin, yanking her ear to his mouth.

He directly whispered into Seph’s ear, but everyone in the room besides (Y/N) heard the same thing, the message pulsing loud and clear inside their heads.

“I’ll make you wish you had never done that.”

He left the group huddling against one another in fright.

“You’ll have to try harder than that.” Hoseok smirked and kicked off the door, walking off with his hands in his pocket.

You stood, incredulous at what had just happened.

“Jimin.” You lay your hand on his shoulder and he covered it with his, turning to meet your gaze. His eyes were wide with expectation.

“Let’s go see your brother, we can get you some new clothes.” You said softly. He smiled serenely and nodded, dragging you to the door by the hand.

Before you could step out, however, he turned around to face them and glowered. “Clean this mess up.”

Seph whimpered and knelt down to pick up the bucket. The other girls scrambled to collect paper towels to dry the floor.

You watched them, trying to conjure up some form of sympathy. That could have been you, cowering beneath him. Moments ago, that was you.

Frighteningly enough, that familiar, heart-strengthening feeling made no appearance. There was no hatred, no remorse. You felt nothing as you were dragged away to the third floor.

Jimin knocked on the door to the student council room, smiling as he spotted his brother. Namjoon, on the other hand, raised an eyebrow in confusion.

“Hyung! I need a new uniform.”

He stepped back to let the two of you enter. Jimin released your hand and beelined for the atrium, grabbing a new shirt and a pair of pants. He then stepped into the bathroom and loudly shut the door.

“Do you mind telling me what that was all about?” Namjoon looked down at you for a moment before his eyes flew up and he stared at the wall with newfound interest. “Feel free to grab a change of clothes as well.”

You followed his gaze and jumped at just how wet the front of your shirt had gotten. “Thanks,” you muttered, desperately hiding your blush.

I’m seriously finding myself back here too often.

You got another polo from the closet and left the door open as you changed, praying that Jimin wouldn’t leave the bathroom and that Namjoon wouldn’t walk around the corner. To keep him busy, you filled him in on what had happened moments before.

When you were finished, you stepped out into the main room with your wet shirt folded over your arm. Namjoon leaned against the wooden table with his arms crossed. His eyebrows furrowed and he looked as though he didn’t know whether to laugh or punch someone.

You glanced at Namjoon and thought back to the way he looked at the people around him.

It quickly dawned on you how bothered you were by Namjoon’s view of everyone around him as some sort of game. 

He always wore an amused smile on his face: when he was looking at his mother in his family home, when he heard what Constance did to you, when he saw all of the students worrying over Chance, and whenever Aemilia and her antics were brought up.

He probably thought he was so clever at hiding it, at being the misfortunate yet accomplished gentleman that everyone perceived him to be, but you saw right through his act.

“The audacity they have to dare make such a ruckus on school property,” He clenched his jaw. “Don’t worry. They will surely receive proper punishment.”

You nodded, eyes glazing over with indifference.

You were too grateful that it was not you or Mana and too exhausted to be concerned with the affairs of other students.

They should have been prepared for this, at the very least. You were only worried about the well being of you and your loved ones.

Did that make you incredibly selfish? Did that make you just like...them?

A hot flash of anger rose in you and died as quickly as it had appeared.

Perhaps Namjoon’s act angered you because it was so similar to, no, better, than your own.

Your face twisted in response to your thoughts. “Thanks for the help. I’ll be sure to pay you back. Tell Jimin I’ll see him in class,” you muttered and bowed then left, needing to separate yourself from them as soon as possible.

Namjoon watched you leave, intrigued by the sudden look of displeasure you wore. “...She noticed,” he chuckled to himself.

"She must not have liked it,” Jimin said as he walked out, fully changed. His hair was still a little wet, but it was nothing he couldn’t take care of later.

Namjoon scoffed.

His little brother subsequently seized opportunity of your absence to explain to Namjoon just how delightful you looked in front of him.

“She looked as though she were about to beg, hyung. As gorgeous a sight as it was, those lower beings had the nerve to send her to her knees.” Jimin growled. “They terrified her, made her think I was going to hurt her.”

“What would you like to do with them?” Namjoon asked him as he leaned against the wooden table, a familiar smirk on his face.

By the end of homeroom, those girls were removed from your section. By the end of lunch, they had left your class and the school completely.

——————————————————————

The final bell rang and you lifted your head off your desk. You’d been trapped in your thoughts since earlier today, but your class schedule had given you no time to focus on your inner monologue.

Someone’s finger tapped your shoulder and you snapped out of your thoughts, directing your attention to them. 

A freshman stood before you nervously and passed you a folded piece of paper. 

“Thanks,” you muttered.

The kid nodded and scurried out of the classroom.

You unfolded the paper, reading the slightly disorganized handwriting. 

You and me, (L/N). Show up alone. Rooftop. 4 pm.

You didn’t even need to ask the kid who it was from.

“This is the game you’re going to play?” You mumbled to yourself. “You still can’t even confront me face to face.”

Unfortunately for you, you already were alone. Mana never came to school today, as they had gone with their father to visit their grandmother at her nursing home, and Jimin was going to be in robotics club for the next forty-five minutes or so.

Then again, Brooklyn and Constance didn’t look like they were attached to Aemilia’s hip today either. The brunette spent all of lunch sending her a bunch of particularly nasty glares from across the cafeteria.

You eyed the clock. fiddling with your phone. After several minutes of deliberation, you opened it to text your mother that you would take yourself home today. 

Let’s get this over with.

Approximately thirty minutes later, you shouldered your back pack on and made your way to the school staircase. 

You texted Mana an update on where you were going and what you were going to do, just in case. After a second thought, you also texted Jimin.

They must not have had their phones on them because they didn’t text back immediately, so you locked yours and put it in your pocket.

When you finally arrived to the rooftop, you saw Aemilia standing near the edge, strawberry blonde ponytail swinging in the autumn breeze.

You already weren’t feeling well and wanted to go home several hours ago. Alas, you were here. 

Your school rooftop was moderately large; appropriate, considering the size of the building. There was nothing up there but a few stacked, forlorn chairs, scattered materials, and blocks of concrete that functioned as storage spaces.

“What do you want, Aemilia?” You asked tiredly. 

She didn’t say anything, nor did she turn around. You walked a couple steps closer to her and stopped. “Hello?” 

“Did you enjoy yourself, (Y/N)?” She asked, her back still facing you. 

You squinted in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Did you enjoy taking everything away from me? Everything that I deemed mine?” Aemilia finally turned to face you. 

On the outside, she looked no different than she had a couple of days ago, but her eyes seemed...hollow.

“I didn’t take anything from you.” You pointed out. “Though, it sounds like you finally realized how skilled you are at pushing people away from you. That has nothing to do with me.”

“Don’t lie to my face.” She croaked out a laugh. “Don’t you dare claim that you haven’t stolen anything of mine.”

Her gaze turned malicious. “I thought you’d be a bug. Small, easy to crush. I wanted to make you even more insignificant than you already were. Unidentifiable.”

“But the harder I tried, the more I failed to crush you. I wanted to rub you into the dirt, but you kept on escaping unblemished.” She gazed in bored ire at her own two hands as though there was something on them that only she could see.

“So I realized, if I can’t crush you, then I’ll just have to destroy you. Completely.”

Foreign hands grabbed your arms with a vice and you started, immediately fighting to pry them off. 

“Are you fucking serious? What are you doing?” You voice was a mixture of fear and disbelief.

Had your greatest fear finally come true? Were the Kims actually going to make an example of you?

“I’m simply executing my right as an Augustus. I am removing anyone who is a threat to the Kim’s empire. My future empire.” She calmly remarked, nodding tonce o whoever was behind you. 

No. She was doing this for her own purpose. Her sense of order, of what was right in the world.

“Aemilia! You can’t do this!” Your voice raised in pitch and your breathing increased, your blood pumping faster and faster by the second. The hands on your arms were growing tighter and tighter.

“Oh, (Y/N). I tried to warn you several times. You didn’t listen.” She chided with false disappointment. “You did this to yourself.”

“Are you scared? Have you now realized your wrong doing? What a shame.” You watched in horror as a deranged smile crept its way onto her face and Aemilia threw her head back in laughter. “It’s already too late!”

There was no time for her descent into madness.

You stilled for just a second, then rocked your head back and successfully slammed it into your captor’s. There was a low grunt from behind you and the person let you go. You took off without a second thought.

You didn’t even bother trying the school door, as you knew it would be blocked. 

Instead, you ran past Aemilia, shoving her aside as hard as you could, in the direction of the roof’s edge.

The strawberry blonde fell, but her laughter didn’t pause--if anything, it only rose in volume. 

You realized the person had regained control of themself, as they came barreling after you.

Yet you also knew that one floor below you, there was a balcony informally used by all the students as a multipurpose space. To your knowledge, it consisted of old blankets and furniture.

I’d rather take my chances with an old table or couch than these bastards, you thought as you ran towards the eaves.

The closer you got, the harder your heart beat in your chest. You were terrified. But somehow, under all the fear, you were able to rationally think and suppress your fears. 

You willed yourself to keep running and, before you could think about it, threw yourself over the edge.

You were in the air for about three seconds before your captor grabbed you by the jacket and stopped your descent. With surprising strength, they yanked you up and backward, tackling you to the floor. 

Your body met the concrete with a harsh slam and you yelled out in pain. Hopefully, you had received nothing other than a few nasty bruises. 

Aemilia’s laughter had quieted by now and she stood on her feet. She brushed her clothes off with a pleased grin.

“Nice try, sweetie. Mr. Byun, why don’t you give dear (Y/N) here a reminder on what happens should she mess with the Augustus family?” She crooned.

Your captor pinned your hands behind your back and shifted so that they were kneeling on your arms, bones digging into your back. He grabbed you by the hair and slammed your head repeatedly into the concrete.

It hurt.  

It hurt more than when you sprained your ankle that one time walking to a monthly meeting and had to continue walking on it for the rest of the evening. 

It hurt more than when your mother healed a particularly deep cut of yours by stitching it up herself because she couldn’t afford to take you to the hospital.

It hurt more than seeing your mother’s face whenever you asked about your father. 

Everything hurt.

You couldn’t even cry out in pain as it would take up too much of your effort, effort that you didn’t have to spare.

“Thus, I declare myself the victor of our little battle of wills.” Aemilia chirped, not at all disturbed by the violence occurring in front of her.

There was something hot running down your forehead. After a couple of blinks, red crept into your eyes, falling down your face with your tears. 

“Your pride’s going to be the death of you.” You choked out, then winced as the Mr. Byun kicked you harshly in the stomach.

“Should my time arrive, at least I will go out in a blaze of glory.” She said brazenly, beaming with triumph. As she bathed in the light of the afternoon sun, her strawberry blonde hair turned a shocking red.

You blinked blood out of your eyes and squinted up at Aemilia, not that it helped as your blurry vision kept her form shifting in and out of focus.

“Yet I can’t say the same for you.” 

Then the grip in your hair tightened and your face met concrete for the last time, your entire world going dark.

Halfway across the campus, Kim Jimin turned his phone on and felt his heart drop to his stomach as his eyes landed on your text message.

——————————————————————

hey y’all! whew this is a long one--i’m sorry for taking longer than normal to update! thank you all so much for your enthusiasm and love! i adore reading your theories and comments :D i hope you all enjoy this chapter! feel free to let me know what you think will happen next~

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@melaninkpops​ @loserwithapen​ @hellaspookystudent​ @ecillartto​ @omgsuperstarg​ @ace-angel-judas​ @jjamsbangtan​ @lovinggalaxies​ @lovesick-heart0​ @ksxmpoison​ @girlmeetsliv3​ @thedarkwinterrose​ @purpuravm​ @oneweirdbean​ @hopelessfountainjoonie​ @mazmaz30​ @enigmaticlove-03​ @uppiespuppy​ @queenceline22​ @kokofikats​ @taeyohonic​ @creatorspalace​ @supertweetycherry​ @anachikartadze​ 

[stardustincarnate]

EARLY TRYST // Light Yagami x Reader

word count : 4534 genre : fluff <333 ! crack-ish, pre-kira!light, all that  mushy mushy stuff, best friends to lovers because who doesn’t love that trope?

a/n : i’m not sure if i’ve posted this here before but i’m fairly certain that i haven’t oh godric you’ll have to forgive me if i had  --

Who wakes up 5:00 early on a Saturday morning just to bug their neighbor to have a match with them?

Technically, you did. You were bored, and the first thing that came to your mind was playing your favorite sport with one of your bestfriends, who's also your neighbor, Light. Surely he wouldn't mind, would he? But it mattered not since he also did the same to you back then, insisting you two bike together just because he wanted a companion and knew you wouldn't refuse. You were hella pissed even so, and now it's your turn to get revenge.

You brought a ladder, placing it just enough to reach the window to his bedroom on the second floor. You eventually climbed up, practically pressing your face against  the window to get a clearer sight of him sleeping peacefully on his bed, his angelic face barely visible as it was partially covered with his blanket.

'Say goodbye to your sweet dreams, lover boy.'

You thought and knocked on the window loud enough for him to hear. Your first tries were futile so you knocked a little louder and more violent. To his dismay, Light woke up with a teeny-bit of panic in his chest. Creasing his eyebrow and squinting his eyes, he looked at the window, seeing a familiar figure. You snickered as he awakened, languidly making his way to the window, an irritated look on his face when he met your eyes.

He opened the window. "[Y/N], what the hell are you doing here? What time is it?"

"About time for you to play with me."

"Huh? Play with you? You're acting strangely childish. I was still sleeping." He clicked his tongue. You chuckled and shook your head. "Aw, sleeping beauty is upset because his dream was left unfinished. Don't worry, his dashing savior is here to make him feel better."

"You mean worse."

"Bad!" You playfully punched his shoulder. "Says the one who still has sleep in his eyes."

"Of course I have. You just woke me up." He scowled, turning his back at you and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his face a little flushed.

"Heh, don't be shy!" You teased, wobbling a little in your position.

"I'm not shy! Tch, seriously though, you're in a ladder? You only made it harder for yourself when you could've just knocked on the main door. Mom and dad are already awake. They'd let you in."

"Eh? But I was shy- you know- err, how am I supposed to say 'Can I go to Light's room or something?'" You blushed a little. He hummed in response and gave an understanding look. "Come on in."

"I can't fit in here- just meet me outside. I'll wait for ya."

"You got yourself in this so don't turn back now. You can fit but in another position." Before you could reply, he suddenly grabbed your arms and indicated you to push your head inside. You did, whimpering as he pulled you in by grabbing you by the armpits, your faces almost bumping in the process. You gave a squeal as you felt your feet of the ladder, causing you to grip him tighter, almost hugging him-or maybe even inhaling him.

For a better description you basically looked like a flying fish from outside who's getting devoured by a portal.

With all his might, Light pulled you in until your whole body finally got inside. Of course, as he was secretly anticipating to, you both fell on the ground, with you on top of him, your head against his chest.

You immediately stood up and accidentally stepped on his ankle, resulting a loud whimper from him.

"Oof."

"That hurt, you know."

"Sorry. But-" You both heard a loud crash from outside. You were certain that the ladder you used had fallen, and it was so loud you swore some of your neighbors woke up. "...As I was saying... That was a dangerous way to get me inside. I could've fallen."

"Too bad you didn't."

"How rude!" You scoffed. You jauntily walked towards his bed, flopping down as if it's your own. It felt so soft, and it kinda smelled like him too.

You closed your eyes and spread your arms. His expression softened that he couldn't hide a smile which you thankfully didn't see. He cleared his throat and picked up a pillow, throwing it at your face.

"Hey, I'll go get some coffee. Want some?"

"I've already drank one, but sure!"

"No wonder you're already so hyper. Now get out of my bed."

"Fine." You scoffed and got up, walking behind him on the way downstairs, making yourself smaller so they wouldn't notice.

"Light! You're up early." Sachiko greeted.

"Yeah, and it's her fault." He slid right to reveal your cowering figure. You shyly greeted his mother, flushing pink. "Oh hello [Y/N]! I didn't see you come in. Were you in Light's room the whole night? You two had a sleep-over..?"

"No mom. Why would we do that? She just has her own ways of disturbing my sleep. Is dad still here?"

"He's on the living room and just about to leave. I'll make you two breakfast."

"That's not necessary. We just need some coffee, after that we'll.. What are we gonna do again?"

"Play badminton outside."

"It's still a bit dark, don't you think?"

"It's alright. The sun is about to rise. It'll rise quickly." Light replied to his mom, taking two cups and then pouring hot water on them. "Mild coffee [Y/N]?"

"Nope. Black coffee will do."

"Didn't you already-"

"It was creamy white. It was bland for my liking. I need something stronger." You cheekily replied. He sighed and started mixing your coffee and then his own. "If I recall, yesterday I saw you walking home while drinking that black iced coffee from the convenience store. Too much caffeine is unhealthy."

"Yes, Sir Light, noted." You grinned, blowing your drink before taking a sip. "Hey, not funny. I'm genuinely concerned."

"Concern appreciated."

You both entered the living room, greeting his father who eventually got up, off to work. You sat beside Light as you both watched Sachiko kiss Soichiro goodbye. You smiled and mumbled an 'aw,' nudging Light and causing him to slightly spill the coffee he was about to drink.

"What?" He looked at you then to his parents.

"Nothing."

"Ah, I get it. You wanna do that with someone someday, don't you?"

"That's not-"

"It's okay. We all daydream like that, even me. So don't be shy."

"I'm not shy!"

"There goes my line."

"Hmp. So who's the lucky girl, or boy, you daydream about?"

"Why are you suddenly interested? Well what about you?"

"You didn't answer my question."

"Because that doesn't matter-"

"Unfair. You're so secretive."

"Fair enough since you're just as secretive as I am. You don't even tell me the guys you like, and I'm your bestfriend."

"Because that doesn't matter-"

"Why do you keep on stealing my lines?"

"Oi that's not the point! I mean come on, an honor student like you rarely talks about romance so when you do, of course I must know. I am your best friend after all."

Light cringed, chuckling. "There's nothing special about that."

"Pfft. Honor students like you are so busy with studying that you rarely have time for romance."

"What? No. Look at you, you're an honor student yourself."

"Yeah but I mean the pros, like you. The valedictorians, first honors."

"Just because I don't that about romance doesn't mean I don't think about it. But like you said, I rarely think about it."

"Ooh! So who is the lucky one?"

"Why do you want to know?"

You puffed your cheeks. Honestly you had no idea too. Let's just say you were... curious.

"I need to gather information. I need some information to sip. Either way I'll figure it out when I start my investigation."

"No."

"Augh- I'll disown you, Light Yagami."

He put his cup down, looking at you.

"It's not really possible to disown the person you like, you know."

The coffee that you were drinking almost came out of your nostrils.

"Don't have so much hubris on yourself. I can do a ten-paged essay about why you are so dislikeable."

"But you can do an essay about why you like me ten times longer than that."

"I am so going to hit your ugly being!"

His smile only grew wider, fascination twinkling in his eyes.

"Hit me with your sweet love, maybe I won't mind."

Not blushing wasn't really an option. He burst out of laughter as you'd been left speechless. You continuously punched his arm, but he never stopped laughing. And his laughter was indeed infectious.

As you two were having fun, you suddenly felt eyes on your back. You stopped and turned around, seeing Light's mother slyly smiling at the both of you as she slithered away towards the kitchen. You and Light avoided each other's gaze for a moment and blushed, finishing your coffees wordlessly instead.

"Well, I'll go change now. You wait here."

"Let me come with you-"

Light raised an eyebrow. "What a pervert you are, [Y/N]."

"NO! That is not what I meant!"

"Well what did you mean?"

"I mean, let me wait outside your room instead," You leaned in, whispering. "What if your mom comes here and talks to me? I mean.. I'm super shy around her."

He nodded in agreement but then he added, "There's no need to be shy around your future mother though."

'This smooth-talking bastard!' You sighed and rubbed your nape, 50% about to roll your eyes and 50% about to blush again. You knew what he meant by that. He had always been a tease to you. But you decided to play against his will.

"Wow. I didn't know that the Yagami family will adopt me someday."

"Tch, dummy."

"Did you just call me dummy?"

"What? Of course not! You really need to clean your ears. I said dumplings. Your cheeks remind me of them. And now I'm hungry."

"You are awful!" For the nth time in history, you hit his arm. "I'm really gonna disown you in one of these days. Now get your ass moving already so we can conquer the street first."

"Well you were the one constantly blabbering and delaying things here-"

"Beca-"

"Shut up."

"Pft. Fine." He pulled you up, holding your wrist even on the way back to his bedroom.

After about five minutes of changing to a plain white t-shirt and jogging pants, matching yours by the way, you two headed out the neighborhood. You picked up the rackets and shuttlecock you had left on the ground, handing him one.

"We don't really have a net-"

"Oh come on! This is just a friendly match, so there's no need for that."

"What about the scores? We can play somehow else if you'd like."

"That's not necessary. I'm making the rules, and the only rule here is that the opponent gets the score if you fail to prevent the birdie from hitting the ground."

"That's not how you play badminton.."

"I am well aware of that. I used to be a part of the school's badminton team, hello? But I make my own rules here." You grinned slyly. He shook his head. "There's no fun in this. You just woke me up to make me do some pointless things with you."

You were actually a little offended by that. You puffed your cheeks and crossed your arms.

"Is it bad that I just wanna have some quality-time with my friend? And to get my revenge, too."

What you said made his heart leap a little, and he was having a hard time resisting the urge to smile. But in the end, he only snarled against his own will. "Let's get this done quick. I'll make sure to destroy you."

"Oh, you wish."

And the game started. The eerie silence vanished, replaced by your grunts, pants, and intense movements. The sky was eventually transitioning from a dim purple to a pale yellow one as you two played, eyes focused on nothing but the shuttle, sweat dripping down your bodies. Light was just as determined as you were to beat his ass. The scores were being mentally recorded by you two-no cheating of course. It was a pretty fair game. One moment you'd be on the lead, but he'd take it, and you'd take it back, and the cycle continued. He was the worthiest opponent for you in this, and he thought the same about you.

The deal was a maximum of 50 scores. Currently, Light was leading and almost close to winning. Certainly you didn't want to get beaten so you struck the shuttle at a perfect angle with just enough force. It flew fast; you were sure he'd miss it. But his reflex was quick, and he struck it with a force much stronger than yours-but his flawed angle sent the shuttle flying higher than he intended it to, and it unfortunately landed on one of your neighbor's roof.

That neighbor just so happened to be the one you two-no, the whole neighborhood-absolutely detested.

Light rubbed his nape and laughed nervously, seeing your grimace. "I'll give the score to you then. So, you have an extra shuttle?"

"Unfortunately that's my last one." You facepalmed. You used to have lots of shuttlecocks but you just kept on losing them since everytime you play with someone, they'd either get destroyed in the process or fly too high and land on unaccessible places, just like what happened.

He frowned. "Seriously? What about inside your house? I'm sure there are a bunch of them tangled in your mess."

"I told you that was my last one. I haven't been able to buy more of them so yeah. But thanks to this nerdy friend of mine, I'm now left with none."

You were only being sarcastic, but it sounded way too derisive for him that he felt somehow guilty.

"Now what do we do.." You pouted to yourself. He averted his gaze which then met the ladder from earlier, a brilliant idea crossing his mind. But the last thing he wanted to do was to get involved, in any way, with that awful neighbor. A grim expression crossed his face and you saw it as you walked closer to him.

"Hey, I'm not actually mad at you, dummy."

"No- I mean, that's a relief. But I think I can retrieve it with the ladder. They might notice me though."

You snorted, but at least there was still a way to save that shuttle. You then looked at the sky. The sun was now rawly smiling at you. Surely those rogues weren't awake yet.

"You know what? I'll do it myself."

"Don't. You might fall. I'll go do it. It's a gentleman's job after all." He grinned. "Do you think they're awake?"

"I don't think so. The curtains are closed anyway."

"Alright. In case I fall, you stay below."

"Okay, Princess Light. I'll catch you using these strong manly arms of mine. Muah!"

"Ew."

Thankfully they didn't have a second floor so the ladder's height was alright- although still short. Once Light had climbed up, you stayed below, holding the ladder just to stay sure.

"Damn. How did it get that far?" He struggled to reach it with his racket, even with his arms and body stretched already. After a few valiant attempts, he sighed and steadied himself a little. He had an idea of climbing the roof but the risk of falling down in the process was high. And he certainly didn't want to squash you either.

"Well this is hopeless."

"Don't give up now, my princess!" You continuously poked his butt with the handle of your racket, causing him to give you a death glare, wobbling a little in his position.

"Are you asking to get squashed? Stop that or I'll fall on you."

"That was just to power you up, silly! Don't you dare fall on me."

"How about falling for you?"

"Bitch."

"Now now, don't say bad words!"

He chuckled and was about to continue his mission when suddenly, the curtains flew open, revealing a grotesque face of a woman staring at Light's crotch-because that's where the window was apparently placed.

Let's just say that you two never want to recall that twenty-minute rebuking that you swore went on even as you two had already left the neighborhood, heading elsewhere.

"That went well." Light heaved a sigh, poking your racket with his as you two walked side by side. You nodded.

"Mission failed. Geez, that woman just wouldn't stop talking and bombarding us with malarkey. I'm starting to hate her."

"To be honest who doesn't? The whole neighborhood hates her as far as I know."

"Pfft, right. So what do we do now?"

He poked your cheeks, and poked, and poked, before pinching them so hard.

"Stop your fetish for my cheeks! This is abuse!"

He laughed, a genuine kind. He didn't reply but put an arm over your shoulder. You puffed your cheeks and played along.

"Where are we going?"

"I'm a bit hungry. So let's head to the convenience store."

"Unsurprising but I didn't bring any money with me."

"Not a single cent?"

"Noooope."

"I guess it's fine since I'll be the one treating you. You should be thankful." You only smiled.

On the way to the store you noticed a group of older and drunk men resting on the side of the street. Their eyes pierced uncomfortably through you. You lowered your head, still feeling their laviscious stares nonetheless. Light also noticed this, and so he pressed himself to you. You hadn't even passed them and when you did, the inevitable came. They cackled, whistling and calling you by names as they rapped the table for attention.

You ignored them and thankfully, they didn't bother you more. "Those bastards." You heard your companion clicking his tongue in annoyance, looking back at the drunk men. He saw where their gazes were and it strongly disgusted him. There was an unnerving silence as you two arrived at the store.

You both had hotdogs with buns and ice cream which was your specific request and which Light reluctantly complied to. The two of you were sitting side by side, looking through the glass wall and discussing mostly about school projects and then some gossips which all came from you. After running out of food to munch on, Light went back to buy a huge bag of chips you two would be sharing.

The sky was now a saturated mixture of orange and yellows. People strolling outside were quickly multiplying until eventually the sidewalk got packed. Few vehicles came passing by. The day was starting for a lot.

"Those guys often do that to you?"

Snapping back to reality, you cooed, "Pardon me?"

"The drunk men we just came across with, was it the first time they've called you out like that?"

"Nope. They're always out drinking.." You saw him creasing his brows. "I know what you're thinking. Well they can't be help so don't think too much about it."

"Can't be help or not, that's still wrong. Did you see the way they looked at your curves? Those men reek danger for a young woman like you. Who knows what their next moves are?" Clenching his fist, he growled. He was truly worried for you. He knew how the world is full of suspicious people like them, and who knows that they're capable of doing?

"Now now worry-wart, don't be so angry."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner? You should really start walking home with me early. Does it kill you to immediately go home after school even when you have no business there anymore?"

He got you there. "But I don't want to instantly go home."

"Keep thinking like that and you might never be able to go home again."

You pursed your lips at how scary he made that sound. "Listen, [Y/N]. In this world, there are only a few people you can actually trust. And those guys? They're not looking worthy of someone's trust, even one bit. They're also not the only possible threats to you. Anyone you don't know, or even who you're acquainted with, could be. Even if they look so charming. I'm saying this as a warning, and as your friend. The way they looked at you really triggered me. I can't let you continue your routine anymore. Sure, I know you're going to argue that there's lots of bystanders in case something happens, but that's not always the case. And we're not even sure if they'll help you or proceed to give a blind eye to it."

There came a long pause as you absorbed his words. Hearing them made you feel grateful for having a friend like him-someone who speaks up because he cares about you and your safety. You merely nodded with your mouth agape.

"..I-I'll do as you say then. Thank you Light, really. I appreciate your concern. You give the best advices.. I-you're one of the best people out there."

"Sorry to suddenly explode like that." He smiled, and your heart softened. You asked, "And so, by saying that.. You trust me?"

"Needless to ask dummy. I wouldn't have said that if I didn't."

"Thank you. You know I trust you too. You're one of the people who's worth my trust." You flushed pink as you scratched your nape. This kind of conversation will always make you shy.

"You don't have to say thank you to me for trusting you. And what you said.. You're worth trusting, too."

You didn't argue. The following minutes were silent as you two stared at the void while eating potato chips. You didn't have any new topics in mind, and he seemed to be lost in his thoughts-or his daydreams. You didn't want to interrupt whatever was going on in that complex mind of his.

You absently stood up, craving for another black coffee, but you halted and went back when you remembered you didn't have your own money.

"Oh? You want something?"

"I want coffee. Well- if you don't mind. Ehehehe."

"That I am not going to buy for you. That's going to be your third coffee and the day's only starting."

"Hmph. Forgot I have a mom for a friend. But anyway, you good? You seemed to be thinking about something rather serious earlier."

"Yeah, I'm fine." He smiled. Although he was really deep in thought of something-but what was it?

As he'd already said, he trusted you. He had been friends with you since middle school. He developed the ability to read through your mind. With you both growing closer day by day, he had already memorized your hobbies, your predictably unpredictable schedules, your common moods, your personality, and your flaws as a human being. Heck, he could even write an entire biography book about you with all the facts 99% accurate if he wanted to.

To him, you were fascinating, despite the fact that you weren't his ‘ideal’ girl. But as they say, some ideals are bound to get broken when something unexpected and much more interesting comes along the way. Sure, you couldn't read his mind as good as he read yours. You couldn't decipher and foresee what his next moves would be very well, wasn't in the exact same level as he was, but he grew attached to you. He trusted you, which was a rare thing for him to do-and consider the fact that trust is a hard thing to earn. You were an honest person, mildly annoying at some point to him. You're one that's willing to help others too. Rarely gets the initiative, but when you do, you execute amazing plans and actions.

The world is ugly, indeed, but he considered you to be one of those who made it less that way. You were one of the beautiful people in this ugly, mundane world. And that, he admired you for.

He couldn't see you as just a friend anymore. He could basically see through you, like you were his other half-like you were meant to be. You were someone he could connect with, someone he trusts, someone he could love. The label 'bestfriends' bothered him because he felt like it didn't suit you both, because something else did.

A couple.

And going back, what he was thinking about was the act of courting you and becoming your boyfriend. But doubts flooded his mind, such as you two being too young for romance, the possibility of your parents being against it since he knew you once swore that you wouldn't get a boyfriend until the age of 25 (which was actually a half-joke), and him not knowing what to properly do afterwards. Was he ready for this? Having you as his girlfriend wouldn't really change or affect anything such as his studies. It would still be the same.. just with an upgraded relationship and label with you. Besides, he had been wanting to court you for some time already. And if he doesn't do it then he'd only grow more and more restless.

He wanted to be yours. He was sure you also reciprocated his feelings. Getting into a teenage relationship is easy and quick and maybe reckless, they say, but not for someone with a complex and rational thinking like him. There were some things to consider- but you know what Light said?

'God damn it.'

"Love."

"Huh?" You weren't expecting that response at all.

"I mean I was thinking about romance."

"Ooh! Finally, you decided to add some teenage thrill in your life. So, what about romance?" You gave a sly look. "Need help? I can be cupid, except I will be hitting you with my fist."

His smile was little but genuine, looking out. "There's someone I like for some time now. I've been wanting to court her."

"Awe! My boy has finally grown! My son is finally having a love interest! Eh, but why do you look so uncertain? Is there a catch?"

"Not really." He looked at you, his cheek resting on his palm. You raised an eyebrow.

"If that's the case then go for it! Who would dare to refuse the Light Yagami anyway? If you're feeling doubtful, which is highly unlikely for you, don't be. Any girl would swoon over you, even myself." You chuckled. He gave a fake impression of still being doubtful, looking down with his hands now on his thighs. It was a rare sight to see. You placed a hand on his shoulder, tapping it. Just then, he looked at you straight in the eye.

"It's not like you to lose some confidence. Come on, don't be sad. You can do it. Go ahead and court the lucky one. Cupid approves." You gave him a thumbs up.

"..If you say so," he seized your wrist and stood up.

"Can I court you then?"

[therenlover]

🍄 Zemo with Kiss promt #22. It gives me pride and prejudice vibes and like I was standing in the rain today so why not XD Congrats again on 1k!!! Can't wait to see more of you work! 😊

Thank you so much!!! I suddenly had inspiration for this idea and I’m really glad I got it down before I forgot about it lol. I hope you enjoy it!

Another Timeline, A Helmut Zemo x Baroness!Reader Drabble

Prompt: Kisses In The Rain with Helmut Zemo

Rating: T

Warnings: Mentions of the Sokovia Disaster

Word Count: 1100~

-------

You had been feet from death when the roof caved in.

No, not feet. 

Inches. 

Huddled together with Heinrich and Carl, you had only made it out of the house seconds before a massive chunk of rubble had dropped down and destroyed the entire front room. If you’d been even a few seconds slower while leaving, or if you’d chosen to try to go back for your phone, all three of you would have been dead, but spectacularly, you had made it. There was nothing left to do then but hold your son close and pile into Heinrich’s ill-suited Lamborghini as you made your way as far away from the ruins of Novi Grad as you could. 

In the end, you’d stopped at the nearest big city almost 3 hours after watching your home crumble to dust under a chunk of the capitol where your husband had been stationed. Catatonic, you’d made your way to an emergency relief center the locals had set up and then came the waiting. Two whole days of nothing but waiting. 

It rained the whole time.

The people were welcoming, of course, most of them happy to give up blankets or rations for the Sokovian royal family, but you declined their assistance where you could. At least you knew when the last hot meal you’d eaten was before this hell on earth. The people out here… well, you couldn’t say the same. Besides, you were far too anxious to eat or sleep anyways, so you passed any food you could on to your son or your father-in-law. There was something a bit more pressing you needed to do. 

Every day, from the crack of dawn until you finally passed out, you sat camped out by the one small radio that the camp had said up in the central tent, listening to the officials list off the names of those found dead after the disaster. Heinrich insisted that it wasn’t good for you, that the three of you should just drive over the border to Latveria and take shelter with the Von Dooms, but you refused to leave, because there, bundled in a shock blanket, you were waiting to hear Helmut’s name. “If he looks for us, he’ll look for us here,” you insisted, and so you stayed, all three of you, huddled together at the side of that radio as you tried to assure your son that everything would be okay. 

Only at the end of the second day did you rise from your spot to try to gather up some more supplies from another tent. 

It was just before sundown, though with the heavy cloud cover from a mix of precipitation and dust you could barely tell the difference between night and day anymore. By lamplight, you passed the huddled masses in search of a supply table or organizer of some kind. That’s when you heard his voice. 

“Do you have a list of all the people taking shelter here?” 

You didn’t trust your ears at first. In the darkness, it could have been any Sokovian man searching for his family. Above you, the rain fell in heavy, mucky drops that settled on your skin and streaked it with the remnants of the debris that hung heavy in the clouds. It was a trick of the night, that’s all.

“I’m sorry, sir, but-”

“Please. I have a wife and a son, their faces are known to the public, I just need to know if anyone has seen them here,” 

In an instant, you froze. Could it be?

“Baron, is that you?” 

That was the catalyst. You whipped around and there, in the gaudy white glow of an emergency camping lantern at a check-in table about 10 feet away, was Helmut. He looked awful, with dirt smeared across his face and uniform and tears in his eyes. Seeing him again, though, in any state made your heart stop. He was alive.

Your sudden pause must have caught his attention because in a second his eyes were on yours and he was running at a full sprint towards you through the mud. A soft sob escaped your lips as he captured you once again in his arms and pressed a desperate kiss to your lips. It didn’t matter that your house was nothing more than a pile of rubble. In Helmut’s arms, you were home. So you kissed him. You kissed him good and hard and breathless despite the black rain that poured above you until you couldn’t kiss him anymore.

“Schatz, I-” he gasped, wet hair dripping long dark streaks of water down his face that almost masked his tears, “Carl? Is he...” 

“Safe,” you nodded, “He’s safe and so is your father. They’re just inside that tent,” As you spoke, you gestured off in their direction.

“Mien Gott... Y/N I came back to the house and it was nothing but dust. I searched for you, for your bodies, for days…”

“We’re safe, Helmut. All of us are safe,” Your whole body seemed to tremble as you brought a hand up to his cheek. He relished in your touch, pressed into it, craved it and needed it like he needed sleep or air. For the first time in days, you felt halfway conscious of the fact that you had barely eaten or slept. It still didn’t matter though, not when you had just come back together. 

Something dark crossed Helmut’s features as he looked away from your face. “The Avengers and their hubris have destroyed our country, our people, our home… I can’t let them simply get away with this. They’ll pay for what they’ve done to us,” 

Slowly, you guided his face and gaze back to your own. It grounded him, gave him something to focus on other than the tremendous grief and loss that surrounded you on every side. “Once we’re somewhere safe and dry, we can ask Victor what can be done to hold them accountable, but for now can’t we simply be grateful that we’re all together again? For me?” 

He nodded, pulling you in for another, softer kiss. “I don’t know what I would do without you, Schatzi,”

“Nothing good,” you murmured against his lips before pulling back, “Now, it’s time to go see your son,” 

Hand in hand, you trudged through the muck towards your future, thoughts of what could have been fully resigned to the back of your minds. Vengeance could wait, for now, you needed peace, and that was what you were going to get.

[the-incapable-hero]

You know what I find really really cool? Stories in the SMP. It's just so cool how everyone has something unique going on about them. Each and every one has their own morals, goals, and values. The stories are so interesting because they span the person's whole life and while some are only a small amount of time so far, others have been going on for thousands of years. Their stories connect to other's stories and create a gorgeous woven web of lifetimes and interactions. It's all put on display in the SMP.

Not to say that it doesn't come at a price. Stories have been cut short and others have been turned into something grim that makes your chest ache and the air feel thick with longing for a better circumstance. I've seen a lot of their stories now. To summarize a few off of the top of my head:

A leader at first and too skilled for his own good, he spent his early days carefree in his own world. From his point of view, the world began to rip away his control and send peace spiraling away, all because of the people he let into his life. To everyone else, he went mad with his own power and convinced himself that the ends justify the means, only those means would negate the good intentions of the ends.

His best friend who stuck to his side to the end, with will forged by flames and a sword pointed forward. At least, he thought he'd keep moving forward next to his friend. In reality, he'd slowly realize just how deep he'd fallen into hubris and the man born in fire would let the spark in his eyes be safe kept by someone else.

They both had another friend too, one that was originally present all the time. Every moment he’d spend with them and their early days were filled with laughter. But as he saw his friends begin to descend into conflict, he’d sit in his house and stay away from the people he used to know as his absolute best friends. Ridden with a sudden and mysterious condition, he’d sleep for days and wake up to a different world, almost compelled to just go back to sleep.

A man outside of their group, but still close as could be. His voice had made music and his hands had made prose, his mind had built daydreams and his will had built bonds. But not everything was meant to stay and a mind open to creation is a mind open to corruption. He’d left his family behind along with his life and his best friend.

There was a son as well, born to his unstable father and mysterious mother. Though he was just as mysterious since he didn’t share any looks whatsoever with either of his parents, and he’d spend most of his life looking for something he could call family but he was destined to fall victim to the harsh waves of reality and war brought by his own father.

A boy, a friend, and most importantly, a fighter. He’d fight for people, he’d fight for countries, he’d fight for memories and progress and justice. He’d fight for bonds and homes and life. He’d spend his whole time there fighting and of course he’d get beaten down time and time again, only to somehow squeeze by with a good humored shout that ignored how he knew his future would be composed entirely of fighting.

A boy, a friend, and most importantly, a survivalist. He’d survived wars, downfalls, torture. He’d survived leadership, betrayal, and loss. He’d make it through trial upon trial, practically worn down to the point where he believed that to struggle wasn’t an option, but he’d survive still to see another day. He’d survive and leave his fighting friend behind. He’d survive and wonder if isolation was truly the best option until he concluded that since he’d tried everything else, it had to be.

Warrior of blood who’d been plagued by voices and brought to a sporadic quiver when his loyalty to a person had been betrayed. He’d growl with anger and forge his weapons, fighting and destroying what he knew in his core to be the biggest problem in the story of his “friends”. He knew he’d be hated, but if he were to be hated, then the voices told him that he might as well make it a spectacle.

A father that protected his son to the very end, even if it meant freeing him from his own mind and his own bloody downfall. The wind was taken from him in exchange for his son’s safety and silvery feathers had been torched ashen grey. The burn of explosion had attracted him to the chill of an icy tundra, away from the people he knew didn’t like him. Though perhaps new beginnings weren’t out of the question and he had enough of a heart to allow those with good intentions into his life.

Of course… there are so many more. The traitor, the mindless, the leader, the conflicted… the list keeps on going. Behind every single person is a story and I can’t help but appreciate that. It’s such a unique thing that can really only be obtained through the collective interaction of many many people. It’s interesting to see all of it.

I get a tightness in my chest every time I see it and I’m immediately glad that I write it down. So many stories that I get to witness. I wish that I was able to keep them all in my mind, but since my own story is just as crisis ridden, it’s hard to do that. My memory just keeps getting worse. The journals help though. Ranboo was right.

Oh, this is turning into more of a journal instead of just a mind dump. Oh well. It’s not like anyone other than me will see it. Maybe though, in some strange alternate reality, I somehow was able to share these stories. So, I guess, to the people in that alternate world: I hope you’re finding these stories interesting, and even if you don’t know how our stories will end, I hope you’ll make the effort to remember them. I can speak from experience that losing the memories of stories is perhaps worse than those stories ending.

[peony-pearl]

Seeing all these posts about finding Iroh's flaws and his shady backstories only to point out how imperfect he is only makes me love my meow meow more. He IS imperfect and inconsistent and flawed!! The writing and execution definitely could have displayed those traits more but idk I personally really enjoy seeing a character that has all these ties and immediate bloodlines to the start of a war and a horrible regime and despite continued shakiness and bad decisions he still does what he can to do the opposite so he can liberate the world he and his forefathers and nation have helped to conquer.(also I mean he wasn’t the crux of the show there were other things in a limited time that the writers had to fit in there so yeah nothing was going to be perfect)

He does what he can to protect and lead his nephew after spending 3 years with him, regretting that he looked away when Zuko was burned, so now while they're on the run he would much rather spend his hours trying to ensure they might have a surviving chance, but Zuko also needs to make his own choices and while he can talk him out of situations, he can't make Zuko's decisions for him.

Was Zuko right in being upset that Iroh was so excited for his own tea shop when it wasn’t the life Zuko wanted? Honestly I could vibe with his anger; but from an adult’s pov, Iroh had the knowledge to run a successful business and they needed the money and security. Zuko was a teenager who hadn’t displayed interest in living in Ba Sing Se, but the alternative was being turned over to the Fire Nation where he would be imprisoned.

Iroh was brought up the same exact way Zuko and Azula were. Iroh could have potentially been to Azulon was Lu Ten was to Iroh - a sacrificed soldier boy whose loss would have been blood on Azulon's hands, no matter how much Azulon was groomed to believe in the war from Sozin - the way he passed that conviction to Iroh and Ozai - the way they convinced Lu Ten and Zuko and Azula.

Iroh was the one to get his hands stained with the blood of his only child, and unlike Ozai who willingly scarred his son, it broke him. Yet, he was still a Fire Nation heir. He had decades of lessons and pride chiseled into his military brain - yet he began to see past it all. With the death of Lu Ten, and then Azulon, and then seeing Ozai crowned the Fire Lord, I feel like these 3 things in succession imparted a very big reason as to why Iroh ‘looked away’ when Zuko was born.

Nothing he did mattered.

He was the prince that raided Ba Sing Se for 600 days - to lose his child to his own hubris and to a war he was taught to believe mattered. The war was everything - and it cost him his spiritual everything - his only child. Then Azulon’s death occurs almost immediately after, only to be told it was his dying wish that Ozai be named Fire Lord.

Four blows - four losses: Lu Ten, Ba Sing Se, Azulon, the crown. All of these connected to what he had been learning since birth - the ultimate power of his birthright. That he would one day lead all of this, and it all comes crashing down within days.

Iroh leaves for a period of time before coming back to eventually witness Zuko and Ozai’s Agni Kai. Surely he could have stepped in? But what could hold him back?

The emotional blockage that he wasn’t strong enough. That nothing he did mattered. Ozai was Fire Lord, and even if Iroh stepped in, Zuko would have still been punished one way or another for what he did.

Ozai would have stepped over Iroh’s body to inflict the justice he wanted to impart of Zuko. And even if Iroh had whisked Zuko away, where would they go?

Probably on that ship, sailing the seas in exile; only this time with no crew and an angrier Zuko and a more vitriolic Ozai seeking them out.

None of these scenarios are any better though - but that’s the point. Everything about this family is FLAWED and that’s the beauty and tragedy of it. There are those that make the ultimate mistakes and come out on the other side. Others deserved better. Others deserved worse. To find positives and negatives is the purpose of their characterizations; the way they lived and then interacted with the other generation is KEY to the entirety of the story.

Each of these descendants had their own experiences that they imparted on others.

Iroh had 3 years to impart his experiences onto Zuko - even if the boy barely listened. Iroh had a lifetime of lessons burned into his skull - but only 6 years of trauma that had left bloodstains on his hands. He now had the trauma of a 16 year old that he had chosen to help with after feeling it was his place to look after Zuko. Imagine how helpless he felt he was in that moment of not being able to step in to stop Ozai, but the pain of watching his brother scar his only son - when all Iroh wanted was to see his once more.

When Iroh sees Azula and he’s on guard - he’s remembering the girl who smiled when her brother was injured - and things we never saw.

‘his royal tea loving kookiness’

‘uncle’s a quitter and a loser’

What was their first interaction when he finally returned and her father was now the Fire Lord? After her cousin had died, and Iroh was still in mourning? There just isn’t a relationship there, and after 3 years to become protective of and close with Zuko, to see Azula suddenly puts Iroh on guard when the last he remembers is that she spared no remorse over her brother’s injury.

Iroh does have more concern for Zuko than Azula - because the boy spoke out in favor of troops and was immediately and publicly shamed and literally scarred for life and sent out into the world on a wild goose chase that could have potentially never ended had Aang never resurfaced. Zuko was looking at a possible lifetime of never going home and not having much of a future unless he finally gave up - and then what? What future would he have had with all of that weight on his shoulders? That shame, the constant reminders from the colonies?

Iroh, who had already been on travels and lived in military bunks before, decided to watch his nephew - because he owed it to the boy. He allowed Zuko power, yet still taught him with the military prowess burned into his brain. However, he was still Iroh - still the benevolent former crown prince - but benevolent does not mean good. Iroh is no hero, not even to the Fire Nation. He does not want to be seen as a hero or a saint - because he knows he’s not. But he does know right from wrong, even if he doesn’t display it directly BECAUSE of his affiliations, and he has already committed wrongs.

But he can learn from them and help others from meeting the same fate he led his son to.