#like dignified but silly... even though he can and will kill for you without a second thought he chooses diplomacy when he can

[nyxronomicon]

baby do you have other favorite characters in kny ? the public wants to know

other than Rengoku and his dad... Tengen has definitely caught my attention 👀. I haven't really met Sanemi but I eagerly await learning more about him bc he seems like my type lol

Also NGL Akaza is pretty fine (despite his transgressions). I'm looking forward to meeting more of the demons too!! Kibutsiji is really hot as a woman but ugh I just wish as a man they didn't look like Michael Jackson lmao

[euterpessi]

Romance Manhwa/Manga Recommendations:

Historical Manhwa/Manga:

Death Is The Only Ending For The Villainess

I’ve reincarnated as the reverse harem game’s villainess, the one and only adopted daughter of the ducal Eckart family.

But the difficulty just has to be the worst!

Everything I do will only lead me to death.

I must be paired with one of the main male characters from the heroine’s harem before the ‘real daughter’ of the duke family appears!

Two older brothers who always pick a fight with me on every little thing.

The insane crown prince whose route will always lead to my death.

‘I only see the heroine and no one else’s wizard, and also her loyal slave knight, too!

‘First, let’s take some of them which I see no hope in, out of the list!’

“I didn’t know my place up until now. From now on, I’ll live as quiet as a mouse so you wouldn’t care the slightest bit!

But why do their interests in me keep on rising every time I draw the line?!

The Villainess is a Marionette

Cayena, the Imperial Princess, was known as the most beautiful woman in the Empire. She was a woman who knew nothing but evil and luxury.

However, she was destined for ruin: she would be used as a chess piece by her younger brother to secure his throne and killed by her crazy husband.

“I’ll make you the Emperor.”

“… Sister, are you referring to me?”

“In exchange, give me freedom.”

She had to change things before she became that Cayena.

The Reason Why Raeliana Ended Up At The Duke’S Mansion

Poisoned to death by her own betrothed?! Eunha didn’t wake up in a novel’s story just to get killed off again as an unfortunate extra! To change her story she needs a cover… 6 months pretending to be the fake fiancée of the novel’s male protagonist, Duke Noah Wynknight. But will this cold-hearted, angel-faced demon of a man really help her avoid another ill-fated ending?!

Your Throne / I Want to Be You, Just For A Day

The story follows main characters Medea Solon and Psyche Callista, who become archenemies after competing for the position of crown princess of the Vasilios Empire. On the day of the Yearly Prayer, Medea and Psyche accidentally switch bodies.

The Remarried Empress

Navier was the perfect empress, however, the Emperor wanted a wife, not a colleague. And so, the Emperor abandoned Empress Navier and placed an enslaved girl beside him. That was fine until Navier heard the Emperor promise the slave the Empress’ position. After many ups and downs, Navier decided she would accept being the Queen of the neighbouring country and remarry.

Kill The Villainess

Eris Mizerian was the villainess of a novel. The only daughter of a marquis, she got executed after scheming against the pure and lovely protagonist, Helena. My only goal, after possessing her, is simply to leave this world and go home. I am prepared to face even death, but the laws of this world keep stopping me.

A changed Eris begins to draw the attention of three men who once loathed her; the Crown Prince, the High Priest, and the Knight.

"It doesn't matter. I will never be able to love this world."

Even if the only way out is death,

even if the only way out is make a deal with a witch...

I will absolutely leave this world!

This is the story of the villainess who defies fate, Eris, and her escape from this world!

The Way To Protect The Female Lead's Older Brother

I accidentally took possession of someone in a 19+ reverse harem novel.

The problem is that I became Roxana Agriche, the older sister of the sub-villain. My damn father kidnapped the heroine’s brother. Now, is the only thing left to meet a terrible end from the vengeance of the heroine?

But what if I can avoid that horrible development?

“I’m also interested in this toy.”

“I’ll protect you until you can get out of here safely.”

The heroine’s brother, Cassis Pedalian, will definitely be able to pay me back later.

Shadow Queen

“Can you be my daughter for me?”

By his offer, Elena became Duke of Franceschi’s fake daughter.

She became the queen and gave birth to Crown Prince’s son.

Then suddenly, Princess Veronica who was assumed dead came back.

She was only just a toy.

But eventually, Elena gets her son taken and is murdered.

However, she went back to the past.

“I’ll destroy all of you.”

I’ll never live as a toy again.

Elena decides to seeks revenge.

Under the Oak Tree

The daughter of a duke, the stuttering Maximilian, married a knight of lowly status at her father’s coercion.

After their first night, her husband departed for an expedition without another word.

He comes back three years later, this time as a famous knight in the whole continent.

How would Maximilian face him on his return?

"The more I think of you, the more lonely and lonely I become. I don't know why I can't quit even though it's so painful."

I'm Stanning The Prince

Angela’s fanfic became such a sensation that it even reached the Imperial Family, leading her to get arrested on charges of treason. Nevertheless, her fanfic improved the First Prince’s image, and his sister, the Princess, decides to take political advantage of this and keep Angela by their side. 

The heroine who can now fangirl to her heart’s content, and the Prince who doesn’t know how to act around her. As they bicker back and forth, they start growing closer…

Miss Not-So Sidekick

Hyejung loved to read to escape her daily stress. But that’s before she woke up inside the bizarre world of her favorite novel! Instead of the main heroine who courts three eligible men, she is now Latte Ectrie – a minor villain that everyone hates?! One way or another, it’s a chance to live out her most beloved storyline, with popcorn in hand to watch all the drama! Taking charge of the narrative takes on a whole new meaning!

Even Though I’M The Villainess, I’ll Become The Heroine!

I wasn’t able to overcome the harassment and took my life, but I was reincarnated with the perpetrator? The perpetrator is the heroine, Florre, and I am the villainess, Dahlia, who’s going to die horribly.

“They said you are a villain with neither blood nor tears, but unlike the rumors, you often shed tears.”

“Your Highness must believe all the nonsense the idiots are talking about, huh?”

Grand Duke of Cervian, the half brother of the Male lead and who will be punished for treason afterwards. He approached me. I can’t lose the man who will be my greatest ally.

“Your Highness, would you marry me?”

“Now…… what did you say?”

“And take revenge together.”

A similar situation, a fixed ending. The heroine is not the only one who knows the ending of the novel. I took a long and arduous path of revenge.

Who Made Me A Princess

The beautiful Athanasia was killed at the hands of her own biological father, Claude de Alger Obelia, the cold-blooded emperor! It’s just a silly bedtime story… until one woman wakes up to suddenly find she’s become that unfortunate princess! She needs a plan to survive her doomed fate, and time is running out. Will she go with Plan A, live as quietly as possible without being noticed by the infamous emperor? Plan B, collect enough money to escape the palace? Or will she be stuck with Plan C, sweet-talking her way into her father’s good graces?!

The Villainess Reverses the Hourglass

With the marriage of her prostitute mother to the Count, Aria’s status in society skyrocketed immediately. After leading a life of luxury, Aria unfairly meets death because of her sister Mielle’s schemes. And right before she dies, she sees an hourglass fall as if it were a fantasy. And just like that, she was miraculously brought back to the past.

“I want to become a very elegant person, just like my sister, Mielle.”

In order to face the villainess, she must become an even more wicked villainess. This was the new path Aria chose to take revenge on Mielle who murdered both her and her mother.

The Evil Lady's Hero

Junipe Magnolia, a villainess friend of the heroine in this novel called Rael Cania.

The Junipe inside the novel has always loved the male lead, Iseed. To the point where she harassed Rael out of jealousy because she's loved by Iseed.

And thus, Junipe is destinied to die in the hands of the male lead of this novel.

But one day.

"Why did I become Junipe?!"

But let's think about it, it's still one year away from the time Junipe is going to get killed by Iseed. So, I have to meet Iseed and Rael first, I'll be able to find a way out of my death if I do so.

Yeah, let's meet them first!

But, this man is just so tender-hearted and kind. Would Junipe be able to escape from this man?!

I Tamed a Tyrant and Ran Away

God gave me a chance to relive my life. Before the rebirth, I had been used for the past 400 years as the empire's sword. And so, I swore to destroy the empire. I found the young prince of the country and became his teacher. I taught him how to become a tyrant and asked for the country.

"I will do the lady's will."

He conquered the whole empire for me, and I ran away.

"I came to take you, Charlize Ronan." Dylan became a perfect tyrant and searched the entire empire for me.

"You tamed me, so why did you run away?"

Untouchable Lady

“Please, Hilise. Please die in place of Gabrielle.” My always dignified brother begged me for the first time. He wants me to die for our stepsister, whom we don't even share a drop of blood with. “For the first and last time, I ask you this.” I've always been miserable, and there is no exception this time. The seventh time that I was betrayed and killed, I was completely free of lingering feelings. “I'm glad that you're a scumbag until the end.” I won't be swayed by love anymore. It's my turn to abandon them first.

I’ll Live On As A Villainess

I reincarnated as the villainess in a book!

The one who dared to commit attempted murder on the heroine is the owner of this body?

Let's just live in a quiet place where we have fun and eat! That's what I thought for a while.

It was so, so, so cold here in the north, where I was kicked out as a punishment.

Before I froze to death, I called the Great Demon of Fire and set fire to the fireplace but...

Why isn't he going back? If you've done the job, shouldn't you go back?!

I was flustered to find out that I had signed a life contract with a demon just to start a fire but to think that I'd be responsible for relieving his desires!

The bickering romance between a big puppy demon and a small villainess lady!

It Looks Like I’Ve Fallen Into The World Of A Reverse Harem Game

When I opened my eyes, I was in a different world. I had become the game’s villainous princess who was feared by all. Not to mention… Completely naked men I didn’t even know were approaching me left and right! “Are you cold? Shall I warm you up with a hug?” “Oh? Have you not had enough yet?” Seriously, what’s up with this situation? And just how the hell am I going to get out of this freaking game?!

Father, I Don't Want to Get Married!

I’m Jubelian? The daughter of the duke and the villainess of this novel?

I managed to avoid my death with some previous knowledge about my life, as this was my second time at it. Now, I should be able to live a peaceful life!

“I’m not going to marry a man unless he has everything. I want the most wealthy, famous, and competent man there is.”

I dreamt of a glamorous life as the daughter of the duke, but my father tells me the Crown Prince who is known to be a lunatic is to be my husband! As an extraordinary measure, I couldn’t help but start a contract relationship. That is, with a handsome side character that looks better than the main one.

“Why are you trying to avoid being engaged to the prince?”

“He’s scary. I heard that he even kills his own entourage if he doesn’t like them.”

A few days later, the prince sent a terrible letter to me.

“I will not kill you.”

Oh no, did I set up another death trap for myself?

Like A Wind On A Dry Branch

"Hi, You."

Count Casarius fell victim to a plague and died suddenly, leaving behind a will stating that Rietta, his beautiful young widow of the manor, whom he tried to use as a concubine, be buried alive alongside him. Just before Rietta is buried, Archduke Axias, rumored to be a cruel tyrant, arrives at the funeral to collect the enormous debt Count Casarius still owes him.

“Everyone here seems to feel sorry for her, and I still have a debt to collect from Casarius… If I take her instead of debt, I think all of you here should be happy," he smiled.

"Hello, Temptress."

Everything was a Mistake

Roa Valrose reincarnated as villainess in the book. In order to avoid the fate of being burned at the stake, she approaches the hero, Nocton Edgar.

It hurts every time she gets closer to him. Nevertheless, for her survival, she does everything he wants her to do.

“Come again, Valrose.”

The mysterious Nocton unexpectedly sought her out every day.

Then one day, her friend for 10 years says something unknown to her.

“Actually, I have a dream. The Duke of Edgar is a terrible villain!”

He is not the hero, but the villain?

As soon as she realized that she had misinterpreted the role, she decided to get away from Nocton.

“Let’s not meet anymore.”

But the villain’s reaction was strange.

“Don’t go. You’ve always been special to me.”

She was suspicious of his sudden change of attitude.

Will she able to get rid of Nocton safely?

I Became the Tyrant's Secretary

I became the secretary of a tyrant in place of my clumsy brother to survive.

But I have so much potential for it. I’m so darn good at my job. Because I served the tyrant so well, ‘Everyone has a happy ending’.

Well then, shall I quit being a secretary and live a leisurely life now?

“Rosaline, tell me what you want.” He asked as he stepped down from his chair.

“I want to quit.”

His eyebrows twitched slightly.

“Do you want to die?”

Your highness, you never hold on to people who want to leave, so why’re you being like this to me?

Seduce the Villainess Father

After being in a bus crash, I woke up to the world of my favourite web novel.

Not only that, It was before the protagonists were born, to their parents’ world!

To stop the incoming multiple bad events.

I tried to prevent the kidnapping of the sister who is pregnant with the female lead!

But I got kidnapped instead?!

It's depressing to be kidnapped, but my body couldn't handle the mana and became a sunfish-like state

But... if I am next to the emperor who kidnapped me, my body becomes normal!

Right! The way to save that man from marrying a witch and getting killed by his son, and for someone who is vulnerable to mana such as myself to live, is for us to get married!

The Villains Savior

Set on a path to tragedy and misfortune from a young age, Aseph Randell is doomed to die a villain. That is, until the mysterious Elzay Tiathe appears in his life with a promise: "I can save you." After having vivid visions of him for so long, can Elzay untangle the twisted fate tied to Aseph... or will they both be dragged down together?

Contemporary Manhwa/Manga:

Night Crying Crow

This woman; who is she?

If something was action, it'd be action. If something was romance, it’d be romance. The A-list actor Cheon Woo Kang, who's great at every (genre), had his heart stolen away by an unknown woman who’d broken into his house!

“We'll meet again.~"

Woo Kang contracted an over imaginative illness as he drew the woman, whose name he didn't even know. In front of Woo Kang, she reappeared as the police officer Park Tae... Could the shadow of the crisis that appeared in front of them be a coincidence?

Raise wa Tanin ga Ii

Yoshino Somei would have been a normal high-schooler if not for the fact that she is the granddaughter of the leader of the Osaka-based Somei Group, the Kansai region's largest yakuza organization. One day, Yoshino hurries home after hearing of the news about the unification of Kansai and Kanto's biggest syndicates, the Somei and the Miyama groups. This, according to the article, will result in a marriage of the leaders' grandchildren—one of whom is Yoshino herself! Despite her best efforts to annul the arrangement, Yoshino has to go to Tokyo to visit her fiancé, Kirishima Miyama, who is unexpectedly nice and charming.

During their first meeting, Yoshino is swept up in various events and becomes unable to refuse moving to Tokyo, which is why, half a year later, she now lives with the Miyama group. At school, she soon realizes that Kirishima is very popular, so her relationship with him garners the hate of his fangirls and subsequently results in bullying. To make matters worse, Kirishima could not be further away from her prince charming since he, after all, was born to be a yakuza member.

Raise wa Tanin ga Ii follows Yoshino and her new life in Tokyo that is filled with nothing but troubles connected to the underworld. However, though she wishes to be as far from it as possible, this isn't Yoshino's first time dealing with the world of the Yakuza...

Positively Yours

To Hee-won’s dismay, the BFF she crushed on and her other BFF are now dating! Seriously bummed, Hee-won decides to go wild just one time, and find solace with a handsome stranger. A very satisfying one night affair has now turned into more — she’s pregnant! Fate brings them together again, and now the regimented Doo-joon is determined to do the right thing and marry her. But they’re basically strangers! Except... their bodies have been very intimately acquainted. What’s this mother-to-be to do?

True Beauty

After binge-watching beauty videos online, a shy comic book fan masters the art of makeup and sees her social standing skyrocket as she becomes her school’s prettiest pretty girl overnight. But will her elite status be short-lived? How long can she keep her real self a secret? And what about that cute boy who knows her secret?

Cheese In the Trap

Hong Sul is a ordinary college student. Yoo Jung is the school's most popular upperclass man. He's good looking, rich, smart, and even nice. However, Hong Sul thinks there's more to Yoo Jung than what meets the eye…

SPY x FAMILY

The master spy codenamed has spent his days on undercover missions, all for the dream of a better world. But one day, he receives a particularly difficult new order from command. For his mission, he must form a temporary family and start a new life?! A Spy/Action/Comedy about a one-of-a-kind family!

Doppio Senso (18+)

“What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking about a guy.”

KyungHyun stopped in the middle of a deep kiss and sighed. His lips began to form a smile, but his fierce glare said otherwise. Possessiveness and jealousy spread across his sculpted face.

“Will you tell me his name?”

His easygoing and languid voice reached her ears.

“Why?”

“So that I can shoot him down.”

[wildernessuntothemselves]

Devil on Your Team | Part 1

Word Count: 1.9k

Genre: angst, smut

A\N: Asgard AU where Felix is Loki, Chan is Thor, and OC/reader is Lady Sif

Gif credit @915archive

“Will you join us this time, brother?”

Loki hesitates at Thor’s question. He was never good at the sort of thing that his friends enjoyed so, which made him a target for ridicule across the realm. What kind of man, a prince nonetheless, was so weak and fearful? Not a real man, that’s what.

Thor didn’t make it easier for him. Being the picture of the formidable, valiant warrior, he made Felix’s shortcomings all the more stark. Loki was all too aware of the comparisons people liked to make between them--they would fawn over how Thor was so brave, so strong, so much like the king that his frail little brother could never be. They would laugh and thank their stars that the fates were kind enough to have Thor be the old king’s first born and not his pitiful little brother.

Even Thor, who claimed to love him most in the world, was embarrassed of him. He always tried to egg him on and make him engage in “manlier” endeavors and forsake his witchcraft, forcing him along on his reckless adventures with his gang of hooligans so he would toughen up. How can he say that he loves him when he saw him as something that needed to be fixed? Thor didn’t love him. He pitied him.

Only you gazed upon him and accepted him for who he was. You knew too well what it felt like to be underestimated and ridiculed for being different, for daring to not adhere to their millenia-old customs of what makes one a good warrior or a proper lady. Every time he would hide and cry, you would find him and remind him that underestimating him will be their downfall, that true weakness is stupidity and arrogance and they had that in excess.

And there you were, coming to his defense once more.

“Shut up, you big oaf. Loki doesn’t care for our silly games.”

“Why not? All he has to do is sit back and not get in the way of our fair maiden and he should be fine.” Volstagg cuts in, followed by a series of chuckles that ebb and flow through the group.

“Volstagg.” Thor warns, shooting him a glare that quiets the snickering down, but by then it was too late, the damage had been done.

For, worse than the comparisons between himself and his golden brother, were those between him and the woman he loved so dearly.

Your close relationship made it so it was easy for people to jeer at the fact that the warrior lady is doing a man’s job while the prince practised such cowardly arts as magic that were meant for women. The comparison wasn’t flattering to either of you as he was thought of as a weakling and you as a woman trying to be a man.

“No, Volstagg, go on. Tell me what exactly you mean to say.” Again, you start defending him, ready to start a fight with the large man who began slinking back when faced with your unbridled fury. You were always so passionate about defending him, but Loki cannot let you keep doing that. He needed to prove that he could look after himself, not to impress those mindless thugs, but to prove to you that he could be a man for you, and provide you with protection just like any other man.

“I’m sure he’s just joking, my lady.” Loki interrupts and you look at him with surprised eyes that get all the wider as he continues, “It doesn’t matter anyway as I’ll be joining you.”

“My prince, you don’t have to--”

“I don’t have to do anything, my lady. I want to. Now let’s stop this useless bickering and go.”

__________________________

There was a nervous energy within the group the whole time they were in Alfheim. The men felt weird with Loki there and Loki felt weird with the warrior lady always hovering around.

“Lady, if I didn’t know any better I’d think that you were trying to guard me. I don’t need guarding. I can defend myself.” He didn’t want to snap at you like that but he desired so desperately for you to see him as a man for once.

“O-of course, my prince.” You splutter, a pretty blush on your face from being called out, and hesitantly take a few steps away from him, still not going far.

Loki huffs and charges forward carelessly, if you weren’t going to give him space, he will take it himself. And it’s precisely his attempt to distance himself from you that gets them in trouble.

“Brother, look out!” Thor shouts and Loki looks up barely in time to see an elf descend on him from the tree he was under. Shouts rise up and fill the air as their party gets ambushed by the rogue elves they were after.

Loki gets outnumbered, one of the elves delivering a blow to him before you can make your way to him. But your party quickly overcomes their momentary shock and works fast to push back the elves, steadily gaining control and shifting the tides in your favor.  Eventually, you beat the band of rogue elves and send them scattering back into the woods.

When the fight dies down, things only get worse for Loki as you rush to cradle his body in your arms, thinking he is unconscious, before turning back to the men. “Shame on you! If you hadn’t been absolute pricks to him, he wouldn’t have felt the need to prove himself to you and get himself hurt. Why must you be like this?”

“I’m sorry, my lady.” Thor speaks up, sounding genuinely upset too.

“Oh, shove it up your big behind, my prince.” You growl, lifting Loki up in your arms and moving towards the portal to go back home.

Even without opening his eyes, he can feel your worried gaze on his face and it kills him.

__________________

Loki became closed off the entire period he was healing. The more you fussed over him, the quieter he got. He was so disappointed in himself and you taking care of him only wounded his ego further.

“Stop babying me, woman. You’re worse than the lot of them. Would you like me to hand you a pair of scissors so you can snip my balls off and hang them around your neck?”

You were taken aback by his outburst, and Loki regrets his outburst for a second, thinking he’s finally pushed you away. But instead of stomping off, you get on the bed and straddle him, grabbing his neck and growling roughly, “You don’t want me to be gentle with you? Fine, I won’t be gentle.”

You smash her lips to his, tearing a noise of surprise from his throat. You’d been patient enough with him but he insists on being a brat. If that’s the way he wants to be treated then so be it. And judging by the way he kissed you back eagerly, you don’t have to wonder long.

He was almost healed by now, and you could be free to run her hands all over him without hurting him, eliciting instead the most needy moans from his pretty lips. But when he tries to do the same, he is met with hard, unyielding steel.

"This is unfair. Take this off." He protests against your lips.

"I think not. You have been quite the sourpuss lately, I don't think you deserve to touch me. Matter of fact, keep those wandering hands up." You grab his hands and pin them to the bed, intending to punish him for all the hell he made you go through.

"No, please, my lady, let me touch you."

"Oh you're already begging, that's not very manly of you." You bite at him, still upset that he endangered his life just because his ego was bruised.

He cowers under your intense glare, feeling reprimanded. "I'm sorry, I'll be good."

"Oh you will be. Now quit your protesting or I'll gag you too."

He shuts up, though he's unsure if it wouldn't have been better for you to gag him as the noises that come out of his throat at your ministrations were not very dignified.

"You don't know how long I've been waiting to get my hands on you, my prince. You drive me crazy." You drawl, palming his member and making him turn to hide his face in his arm as a blush covers his face.

"I should punish you for teasing me so." You  slowly pull his trousers down his hips, exposing his eager member to the cool night air that was clashing with your warm breath so close to where he needed you the most. "Will you be good for me from now on, my sweet prince?"

This was everything they ridiculed him for, being so subservient to a woman like this, but damn did he crave it. He needed you to own him.

"Yes, my lady." He stares down at you as you lean down ever so close to his cock, your breath fanning over him, as hot as ever and he feels his skin melt under it. The heat spreading to the rest of his body made his blood simmer in his veins. Sweat beaded up on his skin and his mind sweltered as you put your mouth on him, but he could do nothing but push himself into the scorching heat of you, submitting himself to the flames.

But all too suddenly, he stops burning, coolness flashing over his body like one of his brother's storms, and he stares down at you in betrayal, ready to apologize for everything and profess his undying love for you if only she would put your mouth back on him, but the horror struck look on your face sobers him up.

"My lady, what is--"

"What is happening to you?" You shriek, and for the first time he sees fear in your eyes.

"What do you mean?" He puzzles, looking down at himself in reflex, wondering what had possessed you when a flash of blue catches his eyes…

Huge patches of his body were covered by rough blue skin, the likes of which are all too familiar to him. He can't help his own shout of panic. "What is that? What is happening?!"

"You're turning into a….a monster." You shake her head, tears springing to your eyes at the horror unfolding in front of you.

"Lady, help me please.” Loki is even more shaken, tears already streaming down his face as he seems terrified of his own self. “Did they put a curse on me?"

"I-I don't know." You lament, feeling hopeless.

But then an idea pops into your head, "I'll get the king. He'll know what to do."

"No, please!" His hands fly out to hold onto you but you jump back, and Loki quickly pulls his arms back to his body, wounded at the disgusted look on your face.

"Why not?"

"You know he doesn't favor me."

"Don't be ridiculous. He's your father." You try to calm him down but he only gets more disconsolate. "No you don't understand. You don't see the way he looks at him when no one is looking. I'm… I'm scared."

Your heart breaks at the way he shivers, but there is nothing else you can do. You’re sure he’s just panicked. Odin is good and kind and you trust him beyond measure. "You're hallucinating, my sweet. The king would never hurt you."

"No, you don't understand--" He squeaks, and you reach out to cradle his face in your palms, only flinching slightly at the coldness. "Hush, my sweet." You kiss him gently then run to the king. Hearing Loki sob behind you only makes you run faster.

_________________________

A/N: lol surprise

[ahkaraii]

tov drabble (1618 words)

“Good fight,” Don Whitehorse compliments. “Not good enough, though.”

Schwann knows when he’s lost. He resorts to a cool, helpless apathy in these moments: a trait characteristic to him since birth.

“Then kill me,” he says without inflection.

“You won’t beg for your life?” Don asks.

“I am already dead,” he says. “There is nothing to beg for.”

“Huh. Interesting.” Don then shrugs his massive shoulders, like saying, ‘what can you do?’. “Aw’right then. Hey! Boys! Give this kid a good Altoskian welcome, and escort him to a cell, will ya?”

Altoskian hospitality is not unlike the Empire’s, Schwann reflects. They knock him around, piss in his water bowl, and don’t give him any toilet paper to wipe his face or his ass during the whole damn stay. Then again, an assassination attempt against his Imperial Majesty would easily warrant a public beheading — here, it seems to equate with seven days of enforced meditation toe-deep in his own shit before being kicked to the curb like nothing ever happened.

“You’re letting me go?” Schwann asks, a faint tone of disbelief in his voice.

“You’re not the first to try to off the Boss, y’know,” the guard explains, “and you won’t be the last. It’s almost a right of passage at this point.”

Schwann must reevaluate the guild’s hierarchy. His intel was clearly missing some rather important information. “Did you also try to kill Don Whitehorse?” he asks, not even meaning it sarcastically.

“Sure,” the guard admits, like it’s nothing. “Though I tried to poison him, myself. Gave the Don a case of the runs and he put a bucket of it in my cell and that was enough to make me not try again.”

Schwann’s just spent a week stewing in his own filth and understands what a powerful motivator the stench of unceasing fecal matter and lack of hygiene can be to a man who once thought himself as dignified. “Huh,” is all he offers. Is that how Don Whitehorse inspires loyalty? By sparing his foes in such a contrived way?

“Now, I’d close my eyes if I were you. Ready? Splash!”

After Schwann’s been waterboarded into smelling a little less like a sewer, the guard escorts him out the door and onto the cobbled street some ways from the headquarter’s main entrance.

“That’s it?” Schwann repeats, still not quite believing it.

“That’s it,” the guard says. “Though if I were you, I’d get a proper wash and new duds. You fucking reek.”

A bed and shower at the inn requires gald he no longer has. And even the filthiest tavern won’t let him in wearing the shit-smelling rags he’s got tattered on by a thread. He’s tired, he’s hungry, and he’s really five seconds away from giving up and taking a nap right there in the street. Where even is he, anyway? Dahngrest is a fucking labyrinth with far too many dead ends.

“You need quick cash, son? I’ll pay you to suck my dick,” a strange man with a caved in nose offers in one such dead-end alley, idly smoking a pipe.

Schwann considers it for all of three seconds before he smoothly says, “I must decline,” and walks off in the opposite direction as fast as his tired calves will take him. It’s barely been a week and he will not fall to prostitution just to get a fucking bath. That guy probably had syphilis, anyway.

“Hey! New guy!”

Schwann would’ve started walking even faster if the pitch of the voice hadn’t distracted him — it belongs to a kid, prepubescently high, gender difficult to tell with the patchwork quilt of nonsense they’ve got on.

“Take this package to Saggitarus,” the kid says, and hurls something at him that Schwann catches out of reflex.

“What?” he asks, but the kid’s already disappeared. Fast little bugger—either that, or great at climbing walls. “What...?” he repeats, staring at the innocuous brown-paper-wrapped box in his hands. It’s about the weight of his pauldron, some two kilograms dense, and rattles like there’s something round inside it. A blastia, perhaps?

“Saggitarus,” he echoes. The tavern?

Is this a test?

Is the Don testing him?

For a moment, Schwann expands his senses, wondering if he’s being followed. He can immediately feel eyes on him, and detect the sounds of muffled laughter in the distance. Then again, that might just be paranoia. He has just spent seven days with no privacy and bored guards idly betting on when he’ll get thirsty enough to drink the piss-bucket. (Shamefully, he only got to two before he succumbed.)

If there’s a blastia in here, maybe he can sell it, or, hell, use it. If Schwann’s already presumed dead and his dignity gone with it, then maybe--

The thought crosses his mind and leaves it without much fanfare. There is a task he has been given, and he shall complete it. “Saggitarus,” he repeats, and twists his ankles in the direction of the last tavern he’d been to. Maybe he can ask for directions there.

“Saggitarus tavern? Heh...y'mean the Sagittarius Tavern? It’s that way, new guy,” says the bouncer stationed outside.

Hm. Does everyone know his task, then?

“Sagittarius, huh? It’s southeast,” another man offers, “follow the music.”

It’s starting to feel like a wild goose chase, and everyone’s in on it. There is no music but distant laughter.

“Naw, new guy, it’s north! Y’know, by the fountain? Surely you passed it already.”

On and on and on, each new direction being interrupted by some new person with eyes on his package and cruelty in their smiles. It’s clear they’re all in on it, and he’s the butt of the joke.

“You’re all fucking with me,” Schwann says monotonously. He’s really quite tired. Honestly, he doesn’t really need a weapon to kill things. If he goes outside the barrier, maybe he could just rip a couple of stray Filifolia monsters into lettuce for a salad and then sell the rest of it for gald enough to pay for hay to rest with the horses…

The thought tantalises him for three seconds before he focuses back to reality. Don Whitehorse has probably already forgotten him. His underlings are the cats playing with the new toy the Don has given them. He’s nothing but fresh meat quickly spoiling.

“You finally give up, new guy?”

It’s the kid who gave him the package. Schwann eyes them more carefully this time. Blond, grey-eyed, and oddly confident in their stance. For being such a pipsqueak, this kid has balls to poke an enemy of the Don while he’s down. Schwann’s dead tired and still quite capable of snapping the kid’s neck like he would a chicken.

“What happens if I say yes?” Schwann asks, lightly.

“I take the package back,” the kid says, and stretches out a small hand riddled with weapon-born calluses. “Hand it over, then.”

“Hm,” Schwann makes as if he’s thinking, and a part of him feels silly but delighted when the brat begins to look visibly impatient. Is this kid the one in charge of his punishment…? “I think not, then.”

“Ugh,” the kid says. “Then hurry up and make it!”

Schwann bows his head like he would to Princess Estellise. “Of course, young Master,” he says, and is rewarded by the kid looking proper startled. Bingo. “I’m afraid I am quite lost, though. Why don’t we both help each other and you get me there, for real this time? That way we can both finally take a break.”

The kid squints at him and then gives an explosive sigh and turns around and starts walking. Schwann follows them leisurely. They walk down faintly familiar streets and end up at the tavern right where Schwann started. The bouncer outside looks just as amused as he did the first time.

“Ah, I see now. Saggitarus is your name, isn’t it?” Schwann says, managing a sardonic smile.

“At your service,” the guy says, and stretches out his hand. “Did you ever find the Sagittarius tavern, then?”

“Your directions were one of a kind, but my sense of direction is quite another.” Schwann plops the brown box unceremoniously into the guy’s outstretched palm. “Here’s your package, Mister Saggitarus.”

“Here’s your payment, Mister New Guy,” Saggitarius says, and flicks him a single gald coin.

“Thanks,” Schwann says without a trace of sarcasm, and turns to the kid. “Y’know where a tired old man could get a bucket of clean water for a single gald?”

“Uh, try the fountain,” the kid says. “Duh.”

“Duh,” Schwann echoes, and can’t help but laugh a little. Duh, indeed. Children above, he’s so tired.

“Hey. New Guy. I’ll throw you enough for a meal if you give Pecan this package,” Saggitarus offers, clearly taking pity on him. “Pecan’s the third waiter on the right at the Sagittarius tavern. You know your way there now, right?”

Schwann’s everything aches, but he’s starting to get the hang of this place now, he thinks. “Sure,” he says. “Throw in an old tunic and I’ll deliver it as fast as these old legs can take me.”

“Do it without causing a ruckus and I’ll give you some new shoes, too,” Saggitarius says.

“You got yourself a deal,” Schwann says, and points his feet towards his goal. He can’t wait to feel a little cleaner and rest enough to regroup and decide his next course of action; if he doesn’t send an encoded message to Zaphias soon, Commandant Alexei’ll probably assume him dead or, worse, a traitor. Till then, it’s nice to have a mission with clear cut instructions.

“Third waiter from the right,” Schwann murmurs to himself, and sets off.

[captainficspace]

Facing the Facts- Diego’s Day

Fandom: The Umbrella Academy 

Characters: Diego, Lila, Five, Klaus

A/N: Thank y’all so much for all your kind words from the first fic. I hope you guys like this one :) 

In all fairness, all Lila was planning on was getting coffee. Having at least half a pot going at all times was the one constant she could count on in the house, especially with Five around. She didn’t mean to walk in on what appeared to be a scuffle between the oldest little brother and her boyfriend at all, but when she started down the stairs, all she could hear were random curses and the muffled “pop” of Five blinking over and over. Then she heard something change. Someone…giggled? Five must have been in one of his rare mischievous moods.

“What are you up to?” She peered over the edge of the railing. Diego was standing in a rigid, defensive stance, hugging his torso while Five blinked around and around him from every imaginable angle. He was doing…something, but Lila couldn’t get a good look at what as Diego tried to swat him away whenever he would make contact. When they noticed Lila, they both stopped and looked up. It didn’t take two seconds for Diego to go red in the face.

“Just having a debate, and someone won’t accept facts.” Five announced, glaring Diego down.

“Can you not be an ass for one minute?” Five chose not to respond, instead blinking again and reappearing right behind his brother, grabbing his sides.

So that was where that giggle had come from.

“He said he wasn’t ticklish after I made him scream ten minutes ago, and if there’s something I hate, it’s a liar.”

“You screamed, huh?” Diego refused to meet Lila’s eyes, staring directly at the floor.

“I yelped out of surprise.” He defended, turning  to Five and grabbing his wrist before he could strike again, “And you didn’t even hear it, so you can’t prove I did even if I did.”

“Is that how it’s gonna be?” Five asked.  Diego was starting to hate the devious eye contact his brother and girlfriend were now sharing. Somehow it was even worse when all eyes turned to him.

“I’m just…going to head out-“

“Not so fast.” Lila materialized in front of him. Dammit. She rested her hands on his waist, barely light enough to touch. Either way, Diego felt ready to crawl out of his skin. Lila was going to be merciless, he just knew it.

“That wasn’t Five that giggled, was it?”

“Nope.” A voice said behind him. Diego turned and there was Five, smirking deviously up at him like Diego couldn’t throw him across the room with one hand. The people to the front and back of him were getting closer, going in for the kill. Diego knew running wouldn’t save him now. All he could do was threaten his vengeance.

“You two are so dead. This is unf-“ His words were interrupted by a shriek as Lila reached from behind and flexed her fingertips into the soft part of his waist. Five laughed out loud at his reaction, which Diego may have found surprising and even sweet almost if he wasn’t being tortured for his awful family’s entertainment.

“Told you he screams.”

“I don’t know about you…but I like his giggle more.” Diego was fighting to stay upright as Lila’s hands found their way under his shirt, scratching away at the bare skin just above his navel. He tried to growl though his suppressed laughter, biting his lip and shaking his head. If he was too loud, more people were going to hear and join in and he was going to find himself in the very depths of Tickle Hell.

He was folded over at this point, helplessly giggling as the torment went on. As soon as he would push a hand away, two more would seem to take its place. The hands were poking, squeezing, skittering and all of Diego’s nerves stood on end. His belly was a target and every touch was hitting the bull’s eye.

“This would all be over if you weren’t so stubborn.” Five said, grinning as Diego’s knees buckled and he almost tipped over. Lila had found a spot that made him throw his head back and howl, his entire body wavering.

“M-m not…”

“Is something that funny? I want to hear!” Lila said, faking interest as she dragged her nails in little circles across his abdomen.

“F-fuck ohoff!”

“I know it’s not because you’re ticklish.”

“I’m NOT!”

“You’re right. You definitely outgrew it.” If Diego hadn’t been using all of his willpower to just stay standing, he would completely annihilate Five.

“But if you’re not ticklish, why do you get all squirmy and silly when I do this?” Lila made her hand into a claw and vibrated it right in the middle of his belly, “Just a little tickletickletickle and you’re a mess!” Diego let out a cackle that echoed through the house, unable to even get a word out.

“What did he do now?” A voice asked from the top of the stairs. Klaus looked down on them, his face already lighting up at the thought of joining the fun. This was exactly what Diego knew and dreaded the entire time, and he couldn’t even try to look intimidating since the others were already tearing him apart.

“Refuse to face the facts.” Diego finally slid down to the floor, trying to bring his knees up to his chest for protection so he could catch his breath. The tormenting hands may have slowed briefly, but he still couldn’t stop laughing. It was like someone had pulled a plug inside him and he couldn’t stop it from rushing out.

“Sounds typical.”

“Oh b-blow mehehe!” He couldn’t make his voice threatening, so he hoped his words would do.

“Don’t be crude, sweet brother.” Klaus made his grand entrance, sliding down the bannister for the last few stairs and sticking the landing, “It doesn’t suit you.”

“Fuck off.” He felt completely ridiculous trying to be aggressive while curled up in a ball on the floor, fighting off giggles as Five and Lila tried to sneak in pokes around him.

“You did give us an idea.” Lila said, “I mean, when you asked us to blow you?” If it was even possible, Diego felt his face grow redder.

“NononoNONAH!” Next thing he knew, she was on top of him, hiking his shirt up and just about to make contact with his stomach. He fought like an animal, but there was no way of throwing her off.

“It’s cute how you think sucking it in is gonna save you now.” Klaus added, kneeling down to grab Diego’s arms and pin them over his head. Five followed suit and laid across his legs, securing the area best he could for Lila to deal the literal death blow.

Everyone expected a scream when Lila blew the first raspberry, but Diego skipped the stage entirely, falling straight into silent laughter.

“Look at his shoulders!” Klaus said, laughing as well. Diego’s whole body shook with hysterics but his shoulder could only be described as bouncing. He hadn’t seen him like this in forever, and now even Five was laughing with them. The four felt wrapped in giddiness, knowing each other well enough to perfectly balance tearing someone apart without going too far, and how to have the most fun doing it.

“You’re making him cry.” Five added. Diego tried to get his arms out of Klaus’ grip the best he could. He hated that everyone could see that he was being literally tickled to tears here. Everyone had teased him for it ever since they were all kids and would wrestle him down and leave him red-eyed and sniffling and beside himself with laughter.

  Lila finally lifted her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “Oh, really? I was just trying to make him laugh. Silly me.”

“It tickles, doesn’t it?” He finally nodded, unable to agree with anything out loud. That was the signal for everyone to stop.

She climbed off of him at last, but not before giving him one good last tickle. Klaus let go of his arms and Five was already on his feet, looking serious and dignified as if he hadn’t just been an accomplice in all-but breaking Diego.

 “You…” He hadn’t even tried to sit up yet and the room was spinning. “You all suck. That fucking tickled so bad.” All he wanted was the floor to swallow him whole as he laid there, breathless and hoarse and spun out on endorphins.

Five’s jaw dropped and he pumped his fist, finally getting the confession he wanted. “So was that so hard?” He asked, grinning away.

“He…he said the word! He never does that.”  Klaus was equally floored. Lila took a dramatic bow, blowing Diego a kiss when he flipped her the bird.

“You did almost kill him.” A voice said from above. Allison had been there for who knew how long, watching the scene unfold. Her phone was out too, no doubt recording the ordeal.

“You were there the whole time?” Now Diego was truly read to curl up and die, covering his face as he tried to regulate his breathing.

“I was going to step in if you didn’t get over yourself.”

“Please put that in the group chat.” Klaus called up to her, “I gotta watch him say the word again just to make sure it really happened.”

“You already know I will.” The others slowly drifted off to go on with their day, so that only Lila and her remains of a boyfriend remained. She poked his stomach and he shrieked, finally sitting up to swat her hands away.

“If I get you coffee too, will you stop being a baby?”

“Coffee and vengeance on a certain 58 year old, maybe.”

“Coffee first?”

“Well, naturally.”

[undertalethingems]

Bark at the Moon, Chapter 7: Predatory Instinct

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Or read on my Ao3>

Rating, Setting: Gen, Pre-canon

Chapter Warnings: None?

Chapter Summary: Sans is not a pet. All he has to do is wait for the right moment.

Sans waited.

It was his best quality.

It had let him survive before.

He waited. Watched.

The yellow flower was annoying. It wanted to control him. He didn't want to play its game though, so he just ignored it, and it was fun to make the flower mad. He couldn't do anything to hurt him, not really, so watching him seethe and throw little tantrums anytime things didn't go his way had become his main source of amusement. When the flower wasn't there, he slept. If he stayed awake, it hurt. He missed his brother a lot, and if he slept, he didn't have to think about that, or how long it'd been since he'd last seen him.

There was no point in trying to leave. He'd tried a few times, a few different ways, testing. Learning. If he tried to cut or bite the vines holding him, they'd just grow back. The flower came with if he cut across space, so that was no good, and he was too strong and sneaky to just kill. He had a special not-dying power anyway. Sans remembered that much.

So he'd wait until the flower got bored.

Got too comfortable.

He knew to look for weak points. Opportunities. To strike when the time was right.

The flower tried to get him to do what he wanted. He'd taunted him, tried to trick him into attacking, tried to provoke him. But he wouldn't even dignify him with a warning hiss most days. It wasn't the right time. There was no point in getting upset.

"Ugh, maybe I should just drop you in the middle of New Home and see what happens," the flower was saying. "But that's no fun if you won't attack. You really are useless, huh?"

Sans eyed the flower disdainfully, dull memories surfacing. The man had called them useless at the end. A waste of effort. Had said he should have destroyed them the moment he'd seen their souls. Sans had bit him then. He'd wanted to destroy the man's soul for saying something like that. The man was long gone now, but it was still a bad memory.

"Hey, no growling! Bad!" the flower scolded, slapping his snout with a vine. "Though, it's an improvement over what you used to say. I'm doing this world a favor by sparing everyone from your awful jokes."

Sans snorted, and shifted to lean more on one side. These vines were pretty uncomfortable, but he'd slept on worse. He was getting tired.

"You know though," the flower continued to muse, "it's been a really long time since I've seen your brother. I thought sure you going missing would get to him, but it's like he's missing too."

Something else stirred in Sans' memories. His brother... missing? Hadn't that happened before?

"You know what, I'm gonna check it out. You, stay."

Sans squinted at him as he disappeared into the earth. Not like he could go anywhere. He waited for a little while, then drifted off to sleep.

The flower came back a long time later. "Yep, he's gone! Everyone thinks he went on vacation, but I know for a fact he never takes vacations for any reason. What do you think of that, trashbag? Oh right, I don't think you can answer anymore! Hee hee!"

Sans amused himself by sending up a pair of bones right beside Flowey and making him jump.

"Hey! No! Bad! Bad dog... dragon... thing!" Flowey scolded, tightening the vines that restrained him until he couldn't breathe. Then, he let them loosen again. "You attack when I tell you to, or you're not getting burgers anymore!"

Oh, he did like those... but it was worth the risk. It was fun playing with his prey.

The flower scowled at him, and left. Sans settled in to nap some more. It really was a good way to pass the time while he waited--for a chance to strike, or the next meal. As long as the flower brought him food, he wasn't in too much of a hurry. After all, waiting was his best quality.

He didn't know how long it'd had been, but at some point the flower dragged in a big bag of--something. It smelled like food, but not as good as the burgers. Sans eyed it warily. After a lot of struggle and muffled swearing, the flower gave up and used his attacks to punch a hole in the bag before dumping a portion of its contents into a bowl. The meaty smell was stronger now--and burger or not, he was hungry. The flower noticed him eyeing it and grinned.

"Oh good, I was worried you'd turn your nose up at this, but you never were a picky eater. This stuff's way cheaper, and I can't stand farming Tem Village for gold anymore and it's not like you listened to me anyway. If it's good enough for the dogs, it's good enough for you. Maybe you'll get treats if you're good."

Ah, the flower was just trying to control him again. Well, food was food, and he'd keep biding his time. The flower didn't own all the burgers, he knew that much, and once he escaped he'd have those whenever he wanted. This stuff... he sniffed at it, then tried a bit. Really, it wasn't much different from the dry pelleted food he'd gotten from the man so long ago. It tasted better, if nothing else, so he shrugged to himself and dug in.

"Aaaanyway," the flower continued, "I still haven't figured out what happened to your brother. I know he can be sneaky, but this is getting ridiculous. If he IS on vacation, where did he even go!?"

Sans continued eating. The flower liked to talk, and it never took him long to keep doing so.

"No one seems to think he's dead, so at least there's that... But Snowdin's definitely on edge without you guys being the local fools, so I guess that's interesting. Maybe I'll arrange a brotherly reunion when I figure out where he is, so he can see what you've become," the flower goaded.

Sans snorted again. His brother was like him. The flower was dumb.

"Oh, I know you don't care, but I bet he would! Especially if I can figure out how to make you go into some berserk rage, like those human werewolf stories. THAT would be really fun. Hmm... now... how do I go about finding him?"

Sans finished his lunch and settled into the vines, getting as cozy as he could. Now that he'd eaten and the flower wasn't doing anything amusing, he was ready for a nap. The flower left him to it, more concerned with whatever silly plan he was trying to cook up.

A few days passed where the flower didn't do much but come by to feed him--though he quickly learned not to leave the bag of food in Sans' line of sight. Even if Sans wasn't able to move, that didn't mean things couldn't move to him. He rasped a laugh to himself--remembering the flower's outraged expression was still funny, and not getting the next few days' meals because he'd eaten them already was worth it. Anything that inconvenienced this jerk was well-deserved.

... Though... he was starting to forget exactly why. It was complicated, and he was tired of thinking about complicated things. It was enough to know he was bad, and needed to be defeated, but couldn't be defeated by attacking him. He just needed to wait for the right moment... however long that took. It had been a long time already. But he could wait.

He startled awake to the flower's shouting.

"Howdy trashbag!"

He hissed at him.

"Hey now, don't be like that! I've had my fun--I'm gonna let you go. Isn't that nice of me?”

He snorted. All this effort to keep him trapped, and he was just being let go? It was almost insulting.

"C'mon, it wasn't so bad here! You got to sleep all the time, eat a bunch, not work--pretty much everything you care about! But, you're pretty boring for a pet. So I'm gonna let you go home."

If this was really happening, his patience had paid off, even if he hadn't figured out how to make the flower pay. He pushed against the vines still holding him, and the flower tutted.

"Not so fast--you've gotta be careful! Everyone's gonna be scared of you, and they'll attack! And sure, you might be able to dodge one person... but a whole town... Well, let's just say your odds aren't good. So you have to stay hidden, okay? I know I was kinda mean to you sometimes, but I don't want you to get hurt."

He mulled over his words.

"So don't let yourself be seen or they'll hunt you down, okay? Alright, I'm letting you go..."

The vines loosened. He kept his eyes on the flower--was this a trick? What game was he playing? But the vines shrank away, and he felt like he was floating after being pressed to the ground for so long--and stiff. Very very stiff. Before he could even think about walking, he had to stretch and work the magic back into his extremities. Getting to his feet at last, he shook himself out and stared the flower down. A dozen bones burst from the ground and caged him in--

And then they--and he--were gone.

He stood in his living room again for the first time in--he didn't know. A long time. He called out, a friendly hoot to let his brother know he was back...

But nobody came.

He blinked, and called again before shuffling around and sniffing at the floor. Familiarity--home--family--filled his mind, and he breathed it in to flood himself with it. He'd forgotten how much he missed it, his brother most of all, and flopped down to roll and rub his bones against the carpet so he didn't smell like wet mud and vines anymore. But as he rolled, something else caught his eye. It was weirdly messy--there was a torn pillow, and a strip of carpet was missing. That wasn't right. Had... had his brother done that? Where was he?

He got up and continued to sniff around--oh, the fridge smelled good, he'd come back to that later--but none of the scents he found were fresh. Except for... a dog? Maybe? He couldn't tell. He huffed in frustration, waving his tail slowly before cutting up to his brother's room. Even here, the scent trail was old, and the floor was scattered with papers and books. His brother wouldn't leave things messy like this... He whined as a familiar ache entered his soul.

He'd done something like this before, right? His brother had gone...

He turned to walk through the door, and stepped out into the forest. His brother liked to be out here, maybe he could find a new trail to follow like last time. Last time...? Right, he had done this before. He'd gotten really lazy about remembering... He set off, plowing through the snow until he reached the main path. Nose to the ground, and--

A shriek rang through his skull, and a hefty ice attack thumped into the ground where he'd stood only moments ago. He fled the room and was back in his house before he'd even seen his attacker, and sat on the carpet panting. That flower had been right. People were afraid of him.

And now he was afraid of them too.

His brother was like him. Had he been attacked? Was that why he was missing? He got up to pace restlessly. No, his brother had to be okay--he was smart, he was strong. But what if he'd gone out and been caught? And if that had happened--oh, even if he'd gotten away, his spirit would be crushed.

This was bad, but he didn't know what to do. The flower might have set him free, but he was back in a world with problems and complications he didn't know how to fix. Uttering another low whine, he cut back to his brother's room and clambered onto his bed. It was as close to him as he could be--and still smelled of clean bones and linen. Maybe he'd go out looking for his brother later, but he didn't feel like it now, not so soon after he'd been attacked. He'd stay here, scavenge whatever was left in the fridge, and wait to see if his brother might come back.

After all, waiting was his best quality.

[wonderfulworldofmichaelford]

Psycho Analysis: Ivan Ooze

(WARNING! This analysis contains IVAN OOZE!)

I’m gonna level with all of you: Literally the only reason I watched Mighty Morphin Power Rangers: The Movie is because the villain in it is named “Ivan Ooze.” With a name like that, it’s sure to be a good time! And it absolutely was! Power Rangers is a fun, silly, campy franchise filled with ridiculous and hammy villains, and Ivan Ooze stands tall and proud among them by being one of the silliest, campiest, and hammiest ones of all – an impressive feat, really. So let’s take a look at this goopy, slimy Emperor Palpatine and see why he’s such a disgusting delight of a villain:

Motivation/Goals: He wants to kill Zordon and the Power Rangers, and… that’s really it. Ivan Ooze is really just a filler villain who was created solely to be the big threat of the film. Rita and Zedd hope he’ll just be their new Monster of the week, but he overthrows them to pull off his own evil plan. Ivan Ooze is, quite simply, a villain who thrives on being an evil bastard, and he doesn’t really even try and hide it. As the man himself says, "I am the galactically feared, globally reviled, universally despised... They call me Ivan Ooze!" There’s not much more to him than that, and that’s honestly fine.

Performance: Paul Freeman of Raiders of the Lost Ark is clearly having the time of his life here. He is hamming it up, delivering his lines with such charismatic gusto that it’s easy to see why Ooze is the most beloved aspect of this movie and fondly remembered even to this day. He’s just laughably malicious when he needs to be, and genuinely threatening when he needs to be. I mean, the dude takes out Rita and Zedd like it’s no big deal, and turns his phlegm into evil armies. This guy is a blast, plain and simple.

Final Fate: Ivan Ooze suffers the cruel fate of fellow hamtastic abomination Pennywise the Dancing Clown, suffering a final fight a bit embarrassing for a villain of such a high caliber: he turns into a bad CGI silly putty abomination, fuses with his bad CGI robot bug, and becames a bad CGI monster that ends up getting blasted to bits by a comet when he’s lured into outer space. It’s… not the most dignified ending for Ivan Ooze, unfortunately.  

Best Scene: As usual with fun, hammy villains, I find it hard to single out a single scene with him. Do I go with the scene where he betrays Rita And Zedd and kicks their asses without even trying? Do I go with the scene where he zaps Zordon with his force lightning (more on that scene in the next entry, so no, I didn’t pick it)? I finally decided, after much deliberation, on the scene where he meets the Rangers, if only for how nonplussed he is about them. “OOOOH! Where’s my autograph book?!”

Best Quote: Ivan Ooze missed a lot of things during his 6000 years imprisoned underground:

Apparently the last bit was an improvisation by Freeman, and they loved it so much they kept it in, and thank Ooze for that. It really is a highlight of what makes Ooze such a cartoonishly delightful foe.

Final Thoughts & Score: Look. Ivan Ooze is not some sort of deep, thought-provoking bad guy who will get you to question your place in the universe. What he is is a funny, campy, ham among hams. Much like with the Pumpkin Rapper, I think Ivan Ooze is one of those one-shot antagonists that really sums up just what is great about the Power Rangers franchise as a whole. Sure, he’s not exactly deep  or complex, but the way I see it, if you’re going to just have a generic “take over the world” villain, you can easily make them awesome just by going as far over the top as possible. Call it the Raul Julia effect, you don’t need to have the complexity of Thanos to be awesome as long as you can shoot lightning from your fingertips.

Ooze only has two problems, neither of which really detract from him as a whole but still need to be mentioned. The first is, as mentioned previously, the really bad CGI finale. One could argue this is just a product of its time, but… CGI was still capable of better effects than this. Jurassic Park came out two years prior, for crying out loud! Then again, I’m comparing an adaptation of Power Rangers to a film with four times the budget, so, you know, c’est la vie. I’ve never really seen bad CGI as a dealbreaker, and it’s only a small portion of the film, though I can’t stress enough that Ooze deserved a better ending.

The second issue, and the one I find a lot more substantial, is how Ooze was never used outside of this movie. This is probably because he was created specifically for the film, unlike most of the monsters on the show, but come on! This is Ivan Ooze we’re talking about! You can’t find a way to make it work? It’s a shame because Ivan Ooze is an amazingly fun villain, and in a fun franchise like the one he’s in, he would do well outside of the odd video game appearance here and there.

If it wasn’t clear by now, Ooze is a definite 10/10, despite (or perhaps because of) his flaws. He’s a testament as to what can be done with a generic villain to make them fun and engaging; he’s basically the anti-Malekith, the polar opposite of a great actor giving up and delivering a miserable, wooden performance with no depth. Ooze is pretty shallow in terms of motivation, but he makes up for it with sheer personality and scene-stealing goodness. Really can’t put it any better than the man himself:

[kissjane]

Okay, so somebody wanted an actual Davenzi underwater kiss, and somebody else wanted them to finally kiss in the kitchen, so why not kill two birds with one stone?

“Ugh,” Matteo whines, while he tries to unstick his damp shirt from his body, “Why does it have to be this hot?”

David doesn’t dignify Matteo’s complaint with an answer. It’s August, they’re stuck in the city, it’s going to be hot. They are trying to beat the heat with an old rickety fan and lots and lots of homemade lemonade, but after a week of unrelenting sunshine, the heat has crept into the flat and nothing really helps anymore.

“I want another shower,” Matteo says. David hums in agreement, but neither of them makes a move. It’s not like it’s doing any good, anyway – as long as they are actually standing under the water, they feel blissfully cool, but as soon as they turn it off, they get clammy again and by the time they have pulled on some boxers and a shirt they are sweaty again.

Even now, when the sun is almost set, it is still stifling in Matteo’s room, and the ancient fan isn’t doing much to get the air moving.

“Let’s go swim,” David suddenly says, and Matteo looks up.

“What? Swimming? Now? I thought you didn’t like swimming.”

“I don’t mind, it’s just, with the others, you know, I have to keep on a binder, and it’s not very comfy. But if we go to the lake now, there will probably not be too many people, and when it’s just the two of us I can take of my binder and just keep a shirt on.”

Oh. Matteo didn’t think about that. Once again, he feels wholly inadequate. He really should have thought about that, all the times he dragged David along to the lake with the rest of their friends.

“Hey,” David says, putting a hand on Matteo’s knees, “don’t worry. I can see you overthinking it, and it’s no big deal.”

“It is to me, though,” Matteo replies after a minute. “I’m your boyfriend, I should have been more considerate, I shouldn’t have made you come along, I should have asked you why you never went into the water, hell, I should have figured it out myself. I’m the worst.”

He hides his head between his arms, ashamed.

“No, Teo… Honestly, we’ve only been together for a few months, how could you know everything? You have learned so much already, and you’ve never crossed any of my boundaries. I could have told you, sooner, too. And besides, honestly, I wanted to hang out with you guys at the lake, even if I chose not to swim.”

Matteo lets out a small whimper, and David immediately pulls him in for a full-body hug, heat be damned.

“I swear, you have nothing to feel bad about! Teo, believe me, I’m not upset and you shouldn’t be either.”

“Still,” Matteo mutters darkly, not completely willing to forgive himself quite as easily as David does.

“Okay, well,” his boyfriend sighs, letting go of him, “make it up to me then, if you really want to insist, by going to the lake with me now.”

Clearly, Matteo has no other choice but to go along after that. Not that he minds too much. A semi-private dip in the lake will make for a nice change, after trying to find a spot between the loud families with small children who crowd the area during the day.

“You grab whatever you need, I’ll go find some towels. We’re going swimming.”

 ***

It honestly is heavenly, to be able to float on the dark surface without worrying about frisbees hitting you in the head. David jumped into the water as soon as they dropped their bikes, with loud cheers, and Matteo couldn’t help but grin as he was hit, once again, with the dizzying knowledge that David was his boyfriend, that David was sharing this with him, Matteo, and nobody else.

They have, of course, David still being David, held a few competitions – first to swim to the little island, biggest splash jumping off the jetty, and the like. But now they are just peacefully floating, occasionally bumping into each other. It couldn’t be more perfect, the air still warm, the stars bright above them.

“There one more contest we need to decide,” David suddenly says, his voice coming from somewhere to Matteo’s left.

“Yeah? Which one of us can go the longest without betting on some silly competition? I win,” Matteo snorts, not really wanting to give up this lazy feeling for another show of athletics. David always wins, anyway.

“No, seriously,” David replies, and he is suddenly right next to Matteo.

Sighing, Matteo tumbles around, so he is treading water and looking at David.

“Okay, fine,” he grumbles. “What is it?”

David looks at him solemnly, and even in the dim light, Matteo can see his eyes are dark.

“I bet I can hold my breath for longer than you,” he says slowly. His voice is low, and Matteo’s breath hitches in his throat.

Instantaneously, he is back in that abandoned pool – the one they’ve been saying they need to go back to all summer, but they never followed through, and secretly Matteo doesn’t mind, because in his head, it is this magical place, the place where he first kissed David, and the place where he found him, finally, after all those weeks of misunderstandings and secrets and fear.

He realizes with a jolt he is staring at David, and then a smirk breaks through on his face.

“Oh, you bet, do you? On three. One, two, three.”

They take in a big gulp of air at the same time, and attempt to stare each other down for all of five seconds, before Matteo grabs David’s shoulders and pushes him down. The other boy goes willingly, though, a smile on his face. It’s not like they weren’t thinking the same thing. There is only one thing they do underwater, really. Matteo follows David, and once they are submerged, their mouths find each other.

They come up, clutching at each other’s waist, gasping for air, but not for long, because as soon as they breach the surface, they kiss again, hungry, as if it’s that first time again, and at the same time, they can be leisurely about it, exploring each other without haste, with all the security that comes from knowing there will be a thousand more kisses to come.

 ***

They get back to the flat share in the dead of the night, their lips swollen, and their skin wrinkled from being in the water too long.

“I’m kinda hungry,” Matteo whispers, as David tries to push him against the door to kiss some more.

“Figures,” David mutters. “I’m trying to seduce you, Florenzi, and all you can think of is food.”

“You know me,” Matteo laughs, as he saunters out of David’s hold and into the kitchen. “When am I not thinking about food, huh?”

David follows his boyfriend, and catches him sticking his head into the fridge, which is likely empty.

“I can think of a few moments you definitely did not think about food,” he retorts, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

Matteo giggles.

“Okay, so I am either thinking about food, or about how hot you are. Sounds perfectly normal.”

David can’t help but grin back. Matteo almost melts at how adorable he is – hair still wet, stuck against his temple, eyes dark and that beautiful smile on his face. Matteo wants to keep staring at it forever, but his growling stomach has other plans.

“There’s really nothing to eat.”

“Really? Nothing? Not even cheese sandwiches?” David rummages through the cupboards. “Preferably without whipped cream, though,” he adds, as an afterthought.

And maybe tonight is the day for reminiscing, because they look at each other, and they know they are back to that day, when David disappeared. They have talked about it, and it’s not a painful memory at all.

“Those were the best sandwiches you ever had, Schreibner, and you know it!”

David laughs.

“It’s a good thing I was so into you, Florenzi, otherwise I wouldn’t have bitten into those atrocities for a million euro. Luckily you make better pasta than sandwiches.”

“Oh, so you’re only with me for my pasta,” Matteo jokes, while he has finally found some cheese, likely Hans’, and heats the toaster.

“It’s definitely a plus,” David replies, keeping up the banter.

“I wanted to kiss you, that day, you know,” Matteo says, and David knows, of course he does.

“And then again after the party.”

They look at each other, waiting for the cheese to be grilled.

“Mia had to come in and ruin our first kiss.”

They grin. There’s no heat behind the words.

“So much better to have it ruined by some frightening guard and a German shepherd.”

They cannot contain their laughter now, now that they can think about it without all the confusion and worry they felt back then.

“Have we ever actually kissed here, then?”

Matteo has to think about it. They probably have, some early morning while waiting for the coffee to be ready, or a quick peck while Matteo was cooking, but he cannot pinpoint anything. David seems to ponder his question, too, and he gives Matteo a blank look.

“Really? Two near-miss first kisses, and we never even rectified that?”

Matteo shrugs, but David apparently is offended by the idea.

“Teo! We need to kiss, right here, right this very moment!”

Laughter bubbles up in Matteo’s throat.

“Jesus, you don’t have to make it sound like such a chore. As if I wouldn’t kiss you anywhere and everywhere. And all the time, too, if you’d let –”

His words are lost in David’s mouth.

Soon, they forget everything else – almost first kisses, wished for first kisses, actual first kisses – and just get lost in their millionth kiss, or billionth, or trillionth – who is counting, anyway.

[taxicabinmemphis]

Prince Charming Chapter 6 - Sword-ing Things Out

chapter one - chapter two - chapter three - chapter four - chapter five - chapter six

Word count - 2,019

Pairing - Moceit (Prinxiety and Intrulogical in previous chapters)

Warnings - sword fighting, kiss without consent (it’s fine in the story but please remember that consent is essential, kids, and always ask first!), food, tell me if there’s anything else I need to tag!

Janus woke up later than usual. A glance at the clock told him he had slept for a full eight hours and that it was a quarter before ten in the morning. Dinner had been very late, and he read for a couple hours while processing the day before he went to bed.

When Janus had finished getting ready for the day (around a quarter past ten), he sunk out of his room and into the kitchen. He glanced into the living room next to the kitchen, spotting Patton sipping from a coffee mug. The moral side had a plate of pancakes in front of him, covered in syrup, and seemed to be deep in thought. His glasses were slightly askew on his face, his hair wasn’t fully in place, and his cardigan was tied around his shoulders a bit messier than usual. Janus smiled; Patton looked like he’d just gotten up.

“Good morning, Patton,” Janus greeted smoothly. “I hope you slept terribly.”

Patton jumped in his seat; Janus had clearly surprised him. “Oh! Sorry, Janus, good morning! And, uh, I slept alright I suppose. You?”

Janus raised an eyebrow. “A full eight hours. However, it doesn’t seem it was the same for you; you look quite tired. How long have you been up?”

“Oh...maybe an hour or so? An hour and a half? I got at least six hours, so I’m alright.”

“That’s wonderful for your health.”

“It’s one night; I think I’ll be alright,” Patton replied, a small smile on his face. “Anyway, Janus, please don’t bother cooking or anything. I made enough pancakes for everyone, and there’s another mug of tea as I had extra, if tea is indeed your thing.”

“It is, Patton. Making breakfast for everyone is very considerate, and the tea is a very nice gesture, thank you.”

“It’s no trouble, Janus,” Patton replied tiredly.

Janus grabbed a plate, placed two pancakes on it, put blueberries on the pancakes, and grabbed the aforementioned mug of tea. He noticed that there was already syrup at the table where Patton was sitting and walked over to the moral side. He stopped in front of an empty seat, not wanting to invade his space.

“I’d hate to join you, Patton, if you’d allow me,” Janus requested.

“Oh, of course! This is a table for all of us sides, is it not?” Patton permitted with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Janus sat down, frowning. “Are you sure you’re alright, Patton?”

“Yeah!”

Janus gave him an unimpressed look, pouring syrup over his pancakes.

Patton sighed and took a long sip of his tea. “I’ve just been thinking about yesterday. It’s probably why I didn’t sleep as well as you.” Patton stared at his pancakes, stabbing his fork into them rather harshly but not taking a bite.

Janus waited for more exposition but didn’t receive it. “I don’t suppose you’d like to elaborate on that.”

“I don’t think you’d want to listen.”

Janus shook his head to indicate a negative, taking a bite of his pancakes. “I’d love for your day to be ruined by unresolved worries. Considering the stress I put on you yesterday, it’s only fair for me to listen to your troubles in return.”

Patton glanced up at Janus from his food. “There are a lot of benefits to talking about your feelings…” Patton stated, considering Janus’ offer. “Sounds pan-tastic.”

Janus snorted at the pun, suppressing a smile. “I’m disappointed you agreed. What’s on your mind?”

“I just…can’t help but be mad at myself for what I did to Virgil. I know he doesn’t blame me for it, but I still feel really bad.”

“He would’ve killed you if you hadn’t,” Janus pointed out, taking a sip of his tea.

“I know,” Patton sighed. “But he’s my best friend! I can’t help it.”

“That makes no sense. It’s understandable. Of course you feel guilty, you’re Patton. But you have to remember—you totally deserve the guilt. It’s not like you did anything wrong.” Janus took another sip of his tea. “I wouldn’t go as far as to say your actions were more considerate than what could be expected of you.”

“Thanks, Janus,” Patton said, taking a bite of his syrup-soaked pancakes.

“Of course,” Janus responded. “Anything else on your mind?”

“Uhh,” Patton started hesitantly, “yeah? I may or may not be confused and...just a tiny—” he held up his index finger and thumb to Janus in a position that made them almost touch, “—bit annoyed and, well, irritated as well as previously a small bit angry with you for forcing me to fight Virgil.” He gave Janus an unsure look, smiling nervously. “Sorry?”

Janus sighed; this part of the conversation was inevitable. “Ah. Yes. Don’t be sorry, I get why you’re upset. You have every right to be.” He sipped his tea.

Patton nodded, refusing to look at Janus and staring at his pancakes instead as he stabbed at them with his fork. “Was it really necessary?”

Janus opened his mouth to defend his actions, but he shook his head. “No. It wasn’t.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“I was supposed to play the bad guy.”

Patton frowned. “It has to be more than that. You don’t seem like the type to do stuff like that just because of a role someone gave you.”

Janus sighed, pouring more syrup on what remained of his pancakes. “If you must know, Logan was beating me in our fight; I had to distract him.”

“You could have done anything else.”

“He also wasn’t getting in my head.”

Patton raised his head to meet Janus’ eyes. “In your head? Logan?”

Janus nodded. “It was quite a travesty. I guess I tried to...prove something to him and myself.”

“And?”

“I didn’t,” Janus said with a pitiful laugh. “Logan was right.”

The two ate in silence for several minutes, processing the conversation, before Janus realized he hadn’t apologized.

“I’m not sorry, Patton,” Janus said to break the silence. “It was right of me to take out the confusion of my inner struggles on your and Virgil’s emotional wellbeing.”

Patton gave him a weak smile. “I’m sorry, but...I don’t know whether I should forgive you yet. I want to, but...it hurt.”

“You don’t have to. I definitely expect you to, especially this soon after events. Just please know that my apology is sincere, and I will do my absolute worst to make sure it never happens again in the future.”

Patton finished his pancakes and put his fork down. He put his elbow on the table and leaned his head onto his fist. “I don’t wanna forgive you yet but you make it so hard. I wanna hold out until this evening but I’m not sure I’ll be able to.”

Janus’ human side adopted a pink tint. “You’re rude, Patton, but strong. I’m sure you can do it.”

Patton’s face lit up. “I have an idea!”

Janus raised an eyebrow. “I’d hate to hear it.”

“You’d have to be up for it, though, and you in no way are expected to be,” Patton prefaced.

“Alright.”

“We could fight it out! With swords!” Patton said with a grin. “If I win, it’ll satisfy me enough to forgive you, and if you win, I will be dissatisfied and be able to not forgive you.”

“Losing creates anger, does it not?”

Patton waved a hand. “No, I’m not mad at you, silly. You can not forgive someone and not be mad.”

“Fair enough,” Janus replied, finishing his breakfast. “I agree to this, especially if it helps calm your mind.”

“Yay!” Patton stood, taking Janus’ arm. “Let’s go sword things out.”

Janus snorted and shook his head. “Hilarious.”

The two ventured into the Imagination. Patton conjured the sword he had used the previous night, and Janus looked at it with amusement.

“A beautiful sword you have there, Patton, though I think I will have to trade mine for a shorter one.” He conjured a black gladius with a yellow hilt.

They were in a plain black room, the only color filling it being them and their accessories. However, they could see the other very well.

Janus stood in a fighting stance, smiling at Patton.

“Square up, sweetheart. Starting a fight unprepared is incredibly wise.”

Patton laughed nervously, a pink on his cheeks from the pet name. He shifted to a fighting position. “You got it. Prepare yourself to be defeated.”

“So you want to forgive me?”

Patton made the first move, not dignifying the comment with a response. He stepped towards Janus and swiped at his shoulder. Janus parried, and made a strike at the moral side’s neck, only for that to be parried as well.

They went on for a couple of minutes, trying to disarm the other. The only noises heard was the shuffling of feet, grunts of effort, and clashing of swords.

Janus made a particularly hard hit that Patton could barely parry, throwing the moral side backwards a little. He took the opportunity to discard his cloak and his hat, throwing them a good fifteen feet away.

“You removed your hat? And your cloak? Woah, this is a moment to remember!” Patton teased, striking at Janus’ head.

He blocked the blow, taking the opportunity to stare Patton in the eyes. “Only for you, honey,” Janus replied.

Patton flushed, stabbing at his torso.

“Oh, you needn’t try to hit my heart, it’s not there.”

Patton raised an eyebrow, deciding to humor him. “Where is it, then?”

“I don’t think I saw you holding it a few minutes ago.”

Patton laughed and made a cut to the neck. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my breath.”

“Considering it’s not cold enough, no….”

“Oh. I thought you had taken it away for a second,” Patton said with a cheeky grin, swiping his sword at Janus’ legs. “But if you haven’t…”

Patton knocked the gladius out of Janus’ hand, the blade falling right beside him. He stood close to Janus, really close, too close (though Patton could never be too close in Janus’ eyes), his sword at his side. Though Janus may have imagined it, he could swear he saw Patton’s gaze drop to his lips for half a second.

“I suppose I can take yours instead.”

Janus smiled, raising his hands to surrender slowly. Patton’s smile widened, and he took a step back.

“So I w-”

Janus kicked his sword up, grasping it by the hilt and knocking it horizontally into Patton’s torso, making sure not to hurt him. Patton fell backward, eyes wide as Janus knelt over him. His right hand was clasped over the moral side’s left, holding it in place so he couldn’t strike. He got himself as close to Patton as he had been before; leaning over him with a victorious smirk on his face.

“I think I win this one, my blue beauty,” Janus whispered, staring into Patton’s eyes. “Though, I’m completely opposed to a rematch.” He glanced at Patton’s lips, before looking back to his eyes.

No. Patton hadn’t said he forgave him, he was a dark side, this could have all just been a game. For show. And even still, romantic feelings were a completely different level than friendship.

He stood up and extended a hand to Patton to help him up. Patton took it, pulled himself up, dropped his sword, and in one fluid motion, pulled Janus in for a passionate kiss.

Janus’ eyes widened and he dropped his sword in surprise. He didn’t know what to do and was more surprised than he should have been. His hesitation prompted Patton to start to pull away.

“I-I’m sorry, I should’ve as-”

Janus reconnected their lips, putting his arm around Patton’s shoulders and kissing him like there was no tomorrow.

He pulled back for air. “You’re giving me mixed signals here. I won, yes, but you’re kissing me, so am I forgiven, or…”

“Not yet.” Patton pulled him back in for a third kiss—a smirk on his face and his eyes alight.

~

Taglist: @the-sympathetic-villain ​ @justanotherhumanstuff ​ @thistledown15 ​

~

This is the final installment! Originally this was a sequel, that’s why it has a title (I kept it cuz I like the pun). Hope you liked it! This one wasn’t quite as serious as the others so the writing is different.

                                                    \_/. _ . \_/

                                                        /     \

                                                       /        \ 

Love you all, thanks for reading this story!

[fnafslinky]

Fazbear Frights 1-9 review.

Into The Pit:

Slow and meandering during the first half but picks up speed after Spring Bonnie shows up. Good message and good idea, but the execution could be better. 6/10

To Be Beautiful:

This story is so full of fluff, you can cut out like 60% of it and lose nothing. I know it's going for a fairy tale thing with the repetition and all, but fairy tales do that because it's made for children. Repetition is to train a child's brain to remember better. These books are aimed at teenagers, so this narrative device is not needed. On top of that, it has unfortunate implications of "Not like other girls" memes that we don't need to revisit. Only saved by its creepy af ending. 3/10

Count The Ways:

Legitimately my favorite story out of FNAF and one of my favorites of all time. It fixed the previous story's Not Like Other Girls problems by having the goth main character hate the pretty blonde and being called out for not even knowing her and being shallow. It is actually surprising to have these two stories be back to back.

The narrative device of switching back and forth between the MC facing her death and how she got up to that point means it keeps your interest throughout that the previous two stories had problems with. It makes for great drama and tension.

The main reason I love this story in particular is because of this exchange near the end:

“Silly Millie, for someone who doesn’t want to die you sure spent a lot of time talking about it,” the voice surrounding her said. “But that’s the way of things, isn’t it? Talk is always easier than action.”

“I think,” Millie said, sniffling, “that when I said I wanted to die, what I really wanted was to escape. I didn’t want death. I just wanted my life to be different.”

“Oh, but that really takes action, doesn’t it?”

And, if I can be real for a minute: I feel like that kinda changed my life. Or very least, my point of view.

As someone who has made attempts on his life before and frequently battles depression- It made my problems so much less overwhelming. Of course I didn't want to die. I wanted my life my life to improve. And now whenever the thought of suicide passes through my head, I just remember this phrase and it helps me keep it together and calm down.

And also F.Freddy's follow up with having to work for happiness is spot on too. Misery is comfortable, that's why so many people prefer it. Happiness takes effort. 10/10

Fetch:

I'm in the minority for not caring for this one. I felt like there wasn't any direction or character arc, I didn't find Fetch particularly scary or interesting, and the MC makes a lot of dumb decisions in it.

That being said, I love how it jumps right into the action instead of taking awhile to get to it like the other stories did. The stories tend to play out like a different book and then FNAF characters are slapped in at the end. This one gets right to it and makes it integral to its plot. 6/10

Lonely Freddy:

Another one I really love. The Frights series has a good traction with its tragedies and this one is no exception. I really connected with the feeling of being pitted against your siblings, usually by accident and circumstance with your parents. Particularly this line:

“Maybe you’ve made them what they are,” Aunt Gigi said, pausing for a moment before adding: “Hazel’s the easy one. Alec is the hard one. It’s like you put them on their own little islands.”

I wasn't Alec, but Hazel in this situation. And it made me realize what my sibling went through because of it.

And this is another story where Freddy's is more integral to the plot too, and one of the few times it's not already abandoned.

I really like how well done Alec's back and forth he had with himself whether to befriend his sister or not. It's a believable character arc when he realizes his mistake at the end unlike another story that we'll get to.

And the fact they made a God damn teddy bear legitimately creepy is a mastery of horror writing that I can only ever hope to strive for. Definitely the scariest in Frights 2. 9/10

Out Of Stock:

I agree with Dawko that this one feels best to make a 30 minute special out of. It feels like a Halloween special or creepypasta you would watch/read as a preteen. Old enough to want to explore more mature stuff, but young enough to still have more cartoony stuff be familiar. And I mean that as 100% a positive.

I also like how this one is a bit more comedy based. Like the scene where the MC gets thrown across the room after electrocuting himself and his friends dont even notice. I can picture that bit so clearly.

The climax is the best part of having a dire game of Red Light, Green Light with the Plushtrap Chaser. It's very energized and exciting that the other stories don't have as often because the subject matter doesn't lend itself to it.

The trend in these stories of kids learning to appreciate their parents, and they're parents realizing they have to sacrifice some stuff to make their child happy is very sweet. And it's no different here. 8/10

1:35 AM

What I like about this series is that you never know where its gonna go from story to story. I though for certain this story was about how the doll was gonna have an evil spirit possessing it.

But no, what actually happened is that it's never made clear if the MC is losing her mind, being haunted, or just seeing stuff because she's sleep deprived. That ambiguity makes the book a lot creepier and sadder because you don't know how this poor woman should be helped. And it ends without any clarification. That's great and a perfect idea for horror story.

That being said, Scott's writing quirks (and it's definitely Scott doing it, I can tell) of front loading info, constantly stopping the flow to have backstory and over explaining things that don't need makes it frustrating to read after several books of it. And we're not done with that either. 9/10

Room For One More:

I skipped over all the dream sequences because it adds nothing to the story. Its great you remember Sister Location, but it feels like you don't trust your audience to read a FNAF story if there isn't animatronics every couple pages. And honestly? Understandable.

I do know based on my own FNAF comic, pages featuring humans is a lot less popular than the ones featuring animatronics. And I get it, you're a bunch of furries it's more interesting to visualize. And you can go in the opposite direction and have very little FNAF stuff when they're needs to be more. The New Kid doesn't even bring it up til the last third.

But I digress. The strongest qualities in Room For One More is three points.

The location is very vividly described. The underground security office with steel walls, the radiation disposals, the musky scent. It paints a clear and unique picture.

The main character's fallen arc of self care and distrust of others is a well done cautionary tale. It goes hand in hand with the speech before of having to work for happiness, and the difficulties there are from even trying. But you still need to do it.

The body horror is not as visually disgusting as it could've been, and more conceptually horrifying. But if you have a fear of bugs in your skin or crawling in your mouth, prepare for something so much worse! And no, that's not a spoiler, it's pretty obvious where its going from the beginning. 7/10

The New Kid:

This one was disappointing. This is not the way to do a tragedy, because I don't care about the MC.

Throughout the entire story, the main character has literal sociopath tendencies. He is controlling of other people, he doesn't have any empathy, he sees other people as tools to use, he kills a bird and doesn't care- So at the end when he accidentally kills someone, I don't believe him feeling bad about it. And I sure as shit don't care about his death after him leaving his victim to die, while he was still breathing, and not coming back for a week.

Also the twist at the end makes no God damn sense and I'm not even gonna dignify it.

A better tragedy would've been his friend, Mick, getting into trouble for the murder after refusing to ever stand up to the MC. Or even the MC being betrayed by him last minute for him to learn how his shit behavior really screwed him over. But the end result ended up being an unsatisfying mess. 2/10

I'll review the 4th's books with 5 and 6, since I'm sticking with a three at a time theme and because I haven't read 4 yet.

[champagnesuperhoeva]

Rewatching the iconic bar scene from the beginning of Red Dead Redemption 2 and appreciating the Little Details™

puts on galaxy brain

This is a fantastic, more candid introduction to the major players of the story, even though this is hours into the game after a series of intense opening sequences. Up in the mountains we got to see all these outlaws strut their stuff in unforgiving conditions, with the very real threat of death coming at them from all sides; wolf packs, rival gangs, a freezing blizzard. It just takes your breath away.

This is the narrative equivalent of letting their hair down, both literally and figuratively: getting the audience to see these characters as living, breathing people. The dignified and collected Javier is shown being more silly here, toasting the barmaids in a cheer and slurring his words. Charles, a man both blunt and reserved, shows off his gentlemanly side with his hand on the small of the lady’s back. 

It’s a great scene because it shows so much in a short amount of time, informative while still being organic. Charming while still fitting the mood of the story. 

takes galaxy brain off

okay but charles' reaction when arthur first walks up, guy hasn't said a thing yet and this man’s lip is already curling

he knows this loud-mouthed jackass is going to just fuck things up

Then, plot twist of the century:

A r t h u r F u c k s I t U p

Ladies don’t look too surprised the Brawny Man isn’t as soft as his paper towels and go off to find Mr. Clean 

javier realizes no amount of singing is going to bring them back

charles doesn't realize anything because he explicitly didn't invite arthur for a reason

arthur has a brief moment of clarity that he’s going to be single for 5,000 years

galaxy brain holds me at knifepoint

t-the character animation here is truly a masterclass, y-you can read a thousand little emotions and nuances in nearly every s-second

okay but then there's even more gentlemanly!Charles right here; taking her hand, but not grabbing her, like he’s saying "hey uh I'm not affiliated with him"

and I love that he's drunk enough to nearly tip over when she walks away anyway

this big adorable man is so soft he makes baby rabbits look like florida gators

ANYWAYS GET FUCKED

life comes at you fast

the van der lindes are all a bunch of voyeurs

but let's be honest I'd probably stand and watch arthur mud wrestle too

charles is definitely enjoying the show (considering arthur ruined it in the first place)

okay but why does charles look like a small child who just tracked mud on the clean carpet

I honestly like to think that, because he's one of the newest members, especially compared to arthur and javier and bill, he's a little edgy on potentially getting reprimanded 

what’s the equivalent of time out for outlaws? listening to dutch ramble about evelyn miller for three hours without a snack break?

why is javier holding his arms like a squirrel 

I think he got hit in the head one too many times and genuinely doesn't know where he is

Arthur limps off to go scream at his reflection while Bill’s daddy issues erupt like a bad case of cystic acne

it’s rumored to this day javier still doesn’t know who the hell the van der linde gang is or how he got here

anyways this was my TEDTalk on how global warming is a very real issue and will kill us all, like comment and subscribe 

[eatprayworm]

rongzhi fic: the wolf’s den

i don’t know what possessed me. i read @annadream‘s post about werewolf ding rong, and i suddenly had to write this (with permission, of course!). just a silly something about a commander and his wolf.

-

Before Ding Rong, Wang Zhi never gave much thought to the moon. The celestial bodies have their place and their importance, of course, but he’s hardly the sort to spend his nights looking up at the stars; his power, his place, belongs grounded on earth.

Like many aspects of Wang Zhi’s life, Ding Rong changes this too.

Wang Zhi watches the moon more often than not, keeping track of its phases on his calendar. Sometimes, this is not even necessary. The closer they inch toward the full moon, the more Ding Rong exhibits telltale signs of irritation, possessiveness, impatience, and he does not confine them to his microexpressions. Wang Zhi has learned to permit Ding Rong to feel these things with few limitations, lest he experience it tenfold when he transforms.

Sometimes, like this cycle, he hardly shows any signs of all.

The full moon comes, and Wang Zhi goes looking for him.

He doesn’t always. Ding Rong hasn’t had an incident in at least a year now, and Wang Zhi trusts his control as readily as he does when he’s in human form. But sometimes Wang Zhi feels compelled to check, just to make sure; he calls it curiosity because he refuses to call it concern. Ding Rong’s study is lit in a soft, amber glow, and Wang Zhi can smell the calming incense before he steps into the room. Sure enough, just as soon as he pulls back the curtain and steps inside, he sees his second in command lying on the floor, head on his giant forepaws, soothed by the earthy incense.

Ding Rong in wolf form is a sight to behold. When standing, he’s nearly as tall as Wang Zhi, twice that on his hind legs. His fur is mottled black and grey, all coal and ash, softer to the touch than it appears. His body is lean and tightly muscled like it is when he’s human; Ding Rong once huffed that he’s fairly scrawny for a werewolf, but Wang Zhi knows he can kill a man with just one strong swipe of his paw to a man’s face, and so Wang Zhi doesn’t think the comparison matters here.

Ding Rong opens his eyes slowly, a striking liquid gold that pops out against the dark of his fur. Wang Zhi’s lips quirk into a slight smile as they regard each other from across the room.

“Staying in tonight?” he asks.

(Just as he and Ding Rong have perfected their silent communication as humans, Wang Zhi has learned to understand Ding Rong’s expressions and language in this form too. Ding Rong once brought this up, concerned that Wang Zhi would not be able to understand the language of wolves. Wang Zhi had shrugged, waved it off. I’ll learn, he says. I want to know all of you, he means.)

Black fuzzy ears twitch; it’s a yes.

Wang Zhi could leave him be, allow him to return to his meditation in peace. There’s no reason to stay; Ding Rong doesn’t make for much pleasant company in his wolf form, all hair and slobber and lack of awareness of his own strength. So, Wang Zhi might as well take his leave.

But he finds his legs carrying him forward without his permission, and then Ding Rong is sitting up on his haunches, his (oversized, unnecessarily fluffy) tail leisurely thumping on the ground in delight. Such a fearsome beast; such a silly dog.

“Do you need anything?” Wang Zhi asks, pausing in front of Ding Rong. They’re practically eye level now, which was….unnerving, when Wang Zhi first encountered him like this. Now, it’s familiar; now, he only sees Ding Rong.

Ding Rong’s neck stretches, muzzle extended toward Wang Zhi and shiny, black nose twitching. Wang Zhi isn’t quite sure what this means, but he hazards a guess and extends a hand in turn. Ding Rong’s slimy nose brushes across Wang Zhi’s palm, and then a large, pink tongue lolls out to lick his hand, and ew. Wang Zhi crinkles his nose and withdraws his hand to his side.

“Enough,” he grumbles, shaking his hand to try to rid himself of goopy wolf drool. “You’re so tidy when you’re in your human form. Have you no shame?”

A huff, and Wang Zhi swears Ding Rong is giving him his most unimpressed look yet. I’m a wolf, what do you expect?

As if to make his point, Ding Rong fully stands and closes the distance between them, and before Wang Zhi can back up, Ding Rong nuzzles against his chest, sniffs along the sleeve of his arm until he can lick his hand again. Wang Zhi gives a very dignified ugh, and all he can do to avoid further onslaught is put his slobbery hand on top of Ding Rong’s head and use his fur as a towel. Ding Rong doesn’t seem to mind; in fact, he calms down, tail swaying. Wang Zhi keeps stroking along the soft fur of Ding Rong’s head long after the saliva has been wiped off.

“What will I do with you?” Wang Zhi sighs, even as he takes to stroking Ding Rong’s neck, where the fur is thicker. He buries both hands in his fur with a childish glee, laughs a little when Ding Rong exhales heavily again, a deep sigh, and licks his muzzle. Wang Zhi gets a brief glimpse at the rows of large, jagged teeth, which could easily shred him into pieces. Wang Zhi feels no fear; you will always be safe with him.

Ding Rong settles back on the ground, and Wang Zhi steps aside to allow Ding Rong to spread out properly. He’s about to step away completely when Ding Rong whines, bites onto the hem of Wang Zhi’s robes. Get down here. It’s Wang Zhi’s turn to sigh as he taps Ding Rong’s muzzle.

“Let go, you’ve already torn two sets of robes in the past three months,” Wang Zhi says, though there’s no real heat behind his admonishment.

Ding Rong acquiesces, and Wang Zhi carefully sits down beside him, and only now does he truly feel small: surrounded by a large, furry beast, radiating warmth and power. He gives into the temptation and shuffles further to the ground, enough that he can rest along Ding Rong’s side, head dropping into his neck fur. Ding Rong smells like dog and earth and something more distinctly him, and it’s….nice. This is nice.

He doesn’t realize he’s said it aloud until he hears Ding Rong’s tail thump again, and then he’s curling around Wang Zhi, protective as ever. Wang Zhi remembers turning, curling properly into the offered warmth, before drifting off peacefully.

---

bonus:

Wang Zhi wakes an hour later to Ding Rong jostling him as he sits up, body vibrating from a deep growl. He’s about to ask what the hell is wrong when he sees Jia Kui standing at the door, jaw slack. Ding Rong fur is bristling, lips curled back to show his teeth, and Wang Zhi just keeps one arm around Ding Rong in case he decides to lunge and stares at Jia Kui, waiting for the inevitable.

“That’s Ding Rong, isn’t it,” Jia Kui says at last.

Wang Zhi hesitates, then nods. There’s no point in hiding it.

Jia Kui stands there for another few seconds before he slowly nods in return, like he’s trying to get himself to accept that yes, this really is happening to him. This seems to appease Ding Rong, who stops his growling, though he’s still putting on an impressive glare.

“Right. Of course,” Jia Kui says, and before Wang Zhi can even ask if there’s something he needed, the bodyguard has slipped away, shaking his head.

Wang Zhi drags Ding Rong back to the ground, who gives a quieter growl in discontentment. Well, that makes two of them.

“Did you forget who he is?” Wang Zhi grumbles. “You know Jia Kui. He’s one of us. Part of….our pack,” Wang Zhi tries.

Ding Rong doesn’t seem to fully agree to that, as he puts a paw on Wang Zhi’s lap and stares at him pointedly. You’re my pack.

Wang Zhi sighs, pats Ding Rong’s muzzle and settles back at his side. “We’ll discuss this when you can use your words again.”

[yeats-infection]

@sqvalors tagged me in a lil writing meme... if you’d like to participate please do and tag me! 

ao3 name: fluorescentgrey but i also post some things as drglass (dr. glass is the second song on the fluorescent grey EP by deerhunter, so if i make another pseud it will be likenew, then washoff, etc.) 

fandoms: about two thirds of my fics are harry potter or star wars but there are a lot of random little goodies. currently i have shifted into the terror (2018) mode. 

number of fics: 59 right now... i will throw a party when i get to 69... 

fic i spent the most time on: this is funny because some of these technically took me like six months or more of working on them extremely intermittently... namely, bone machine. the series in the garden has taken me the most time generally... and in that, minuet did take me several months of working really hard while i had a schedule / commute that was not conducive to having a creative practice... 

fic i spent the least amount of time on: hilariously, literally my most popular fic by ninety miles, the witcher PWP that i wrote out of spite in two or three hours. 

longest fic: the source codes series... particularly heelstone which is 102k. i wrote these two stories in a single summer like a crazy person and i hate talking about them because i find them WAY too gooey. honestly, that’s why they are so long. it’s all the gooeyness!!!!!! 

shortest fic: yes, the answer is the witcher porn again (this silly thing is going to be the answer for many other questions in this little meme but i’m just going to stop talking about it while i’m ahead). the west end is just about 50 words longer and is much better and is a much better and more interesting story. 

most hits: we’re just going to pretend it’s sex and dying in high society, which has the second most hits. this is certainly due to the fact that @wolfstarwarehouse hypes this story a lot for which i am endlessly grateful! 

most kudos: recovery position has the second most kudos so let’s go with that one! i have been very touched by the response to this story, though i do personally like the sequel beachcoma a little more... i understand why not everyone wants to read it because it is a little more bittersweet. but it also comes from my soul. 

most comment threads: the two stories in the source codes series are leading here, because i only posted two chapters at a time so that i would get maximal validation, lol. 

most bookmarks: in order to talk about a story i haven’t talked about yet, the rosary has the fourth-most. i think this fic is truly my r/s swan song... i said everything i wanted to say and did everything i wanted to do. it’s a really good mystery/noir story that i didn’t think i could pull off until i did! and i love the OCs in it who have sort of manifested these secret headcanons for me that i may expostulate upon someday. thank you to @piovascosimo for the inspiration to write it. 

total word count: 1,000,478. lol! 

favorite fic i wrote: cannot possibly choose but probably the top five in order of date posted are: desperado, a handful of dust, doom town, beachcoma, jump into the fire

fic i’d rewrite / expand on: i already said all of source codes because it’s way too gooey, i also could make hard time killing floor blues a lot tighter, and a memoir of the flesh deserves a way better ending because i was rushing to make the yuletide deadline...

share a bit of a WIP: i was trying for a while to write a band of brothers AU where they are vietnam vets who start growing cannabis... based on the steve earle song “copperhead road.” this could have been SO good but the plot was too huge and unwieldy so i gave up. my roommate is obsessed with this idea and keeps asking me how it’s going so i may yet finish. but there’s a bit below the cut.

The knock at the door in the night was a sharp shock, bright as lightning, that sent them both back to Khe Sanh and before. Nix ducked. Dick went behind the doorframe. They kept low into the kitchen, where Nix took his old officer’s pistol out from where he kept it hidden behind the fridge. Then they went to the door, keeping to the edges of the hallways.

On the porch was Liebgott. He could have made his own way in likely right onto the couch without either of them noticing, so it was something that he had knocked on the goddamn door. It was particularly something given that none of the boys from Easy should have known about the grow operation, or even about Dick’s farm, being as Dick’s address on file at the V.A. was a post office box in town and Nix’s was still in Jersey. These considerations were nil to somebody who had spent the better part of five years in the bush of Vietnam. He took a last draw from his cigarette and put it out against the rubber sole of his boot, then he put the butt in his pocket. As far as Nix knew, he hadn’t said a word since January 1970.  

“Joe,” said Dick diplomatically. He put his hand out and Liebgott took it. Then he took Nix’s. He had handsome dark eyes, but they were full of a wall. You could tell he saw you, but it was like nothing followed the necessary channels to the brain to spur emotional response. It had been like this even while he was still talking, and after a while you got used to it.

“You comin' in,” said Nix, knowing he probably would even if he wasn’t invited.

Inside, they all three sat at the kitchen table in silence nobody was about to break. Finally Dick got up and went to the drawer where they kept the rollies and their share of the product. He passed a sheaf of papers and a film canister full of bud to Liebgott across the table. Nix understood as well as Dick apparently did that there would be no getting anything over on this kid, who had eyes in the back and sides of his head. He’d probably had a nice tour of the property before coming inside. “You hungry, son,” Dick said.

Liebgott shook his head. He extracted one of the buds from the canister and inspected it. They did look mighty good if Nix said so himself. They looked artful in Liebgott’s hand. There were black scabs across his knuckles and a dark rime of filth under those fingernails which still existed. He seemed satisfied enough with what he saw to take a paper out of the sheaf and start shredding the flower into it.

“Captain Nixon calls it Easy Diesel,” said Dick, like he was trying to pretend it wasn’t the funniest thing in the world.

Liebgott looked up and a smile flashed across his face like the savage golden light of a flare falling over the far hills. His smile was sort of brutal, like the edge of a knife in a barfight, or like a seething animal. Luckily it went away as quickly as it had come. He rolled the joint with a quick grace and lit the business end with his old silver Zippo Nixon hadn’t seen since the war. There was a skull engraved on one side and on the other it read IF YOU ARE RECOVERING MY BODY, FUCK YOU.

“I don’t know how you found us, Joe,” Dick said thoughtfully. “You don’t have to… tell us. But we ain’t exactly keen to have just anybody here.” He paused and looked quickly to Nix, who tried to make it abundantly clear by means of eyebrows that he wasn’t sure they ought to go down this road, wherever it was leading. Dick ignored him. Liebgott was watching them, fully understanding their attempted clandestine exchange. “We ain’t exactly keen to have the DEA here,” Dick said at last.

The cherry at the end of the joint atomized with a crackling hiss. Liebgott looked between Dick and Nix with extreme seriousness sullied only by his exhaling a dignified white cloud out his nose. Then he nodded, once, curtly, demonstrating he understood his orders as they had been relayed.

Nix flashed Dick what he thought was a what have you done type look. But Dick looked totally unbothered. He should have gone into this business years ago for how violently unflappable he was. He said to Liebgott, “I’ll get some blankets and you can make up the couch.”

Liebgott shook his head to say no need. He got up, careful not to scrape the chair against the floor, shook each of their hands again, and in less than a minute’s time he was back out the door with nothing more than what he’d come in with except the joint.

Nix and Dick, on the porch, listening to the crickets, watched him disappear into the darkness.

“Are we hallucinating,” said Nix eventually.

“I sure as hell hope not,” Dick replied. “We’ve got to ship all that product or we’ll starve.”

-

In the morning Nix was in the field, inspecting the plants. Liebgott was standing there at his quarter for god knew how long before he cleared his throat and Nix jumped about six feet in the air. There was a smirk shifting across Liebgott’s face that he would have been better about hiding when Nix had been his commanding officer. He looked like he hadn't slept. Back over there he had looked like that a lot, but it had been different, because of all the uppers they were taking. He cocked his head back over toward the long driveway and then he was off across the dew-wet grass which had already soaked through the hems of his canvas pants and his destroyed shoes.

Nix followed, like a duckling behind a hen. Liebgott still walked as though there were eyes in all sides of his head quickly processing information as he moved. Nix doubted you ever lost that kind of skill, even if in the real world it made you look like a mental patient. He caught up so they could walk side by side through the dew-wet grass. “What did you think,” he asked Liebgott.

Liebgott passed Nix the universal sign of furrowed brow that meant please clarify.

Nix gestured with pinched fingers to his own mouth as though Liebgott were also deaf. “The grass.”

He shaped his hand into an a-ok sign.

“You get any sleep?”

He nodded an infinitesimal nod, like the answer was a secret just for Nix to know.

“Well if you think it could be better just tell me how.”

Nix had had a high school friend whose sister was deaf from scarlet fever and whom he had watched on occasion communicate with her by means of sign language. Early on, back over there, he had sent off to command for a book, but by the time it came he understood it wasn’t that Liebgott couldn’t speak, he just didn’t want to. It was something like how people’s hair supposedly turned white if they witnessed some evil thing, or how people became ascetics in the name of god. If you were really fucked up on drugs or fear or otherwise, or if the natural magical thinking from childhood hadn’t been fully beaten out of you, you might have seen it as the sacrifice he had given to the forest for letting him out without a scratch so many goddamn times. It had been a bit of a trial to explain this to Spiers, who was practical almost to a fault, sometimes.

Liebgott showed another a-ok sign. Then he did a thumbs up which Nix knew meant it was good.

All in all it was smart. If he was still talking, Nix might have asked him, what have you been up to? You been sleeping on the street? You been to the V.A.? What did they tell you? And the answer would’ve been nothing good. Instead they just walked in the cool grass together in the sunshine and the morning was beautiful, and the air was sweet. It was all lovely until Liebgott had to physically stop him, laughing, somehow silently but also hysterically, from stepping right onto the razor-thin tripwire stretched invisibly across the dark gravel.

In the kitchen, Dick was doing the numbers. He took his glasses off when Nix came in and put the coffee on. “He learned a thing or two from Charlie,” Nix said, leaning against the counters.

“Who, Joe?”

“Our driveway is thoroughly ratfucked.”

“Hmm,” said Dick. He put the glasses back on and turned back to the accounting book. He was going to do this whole thing as above board as was humanly possible. The vivid daylight came through the window and struck the lens of his unstylish Ray-Bans and threw a kind of prism of color upon the white paper and the chicken-scratch sums. Nix felt like maybe this was something you would paint if you had the necessary implements and artistic ability. “Maybe we should see if we can get any more help.”

-

He was mildly ashamed to say it, but the doc had always kind of creeped Nix out. He imagined a hypothetical conversation with Dick, who he knew loved the kid, almost like a son: Listen, don’t get me wrong, he’s a good kid, I owe him my life, yadda yadda. But either he’s dropped the brown acid one too many times or the voodoo exorcism went FUBAR.

The doc had arrived on the farm on the heels of Sunshine and Rainbows, aka Mr. Bright Eyed and Bushy Tailed, aka one Edward “Babe” Heffron. Nix had written Babe in South Philly, being as he was a connoisseur of bud and once upon a time had been famed among their company for smoking anything anyone put in his hand, often to his own detriment. The operation was getting big enough that Nix needed another pair of hands, other than Liebgott, of course, who was still fortifying the long driveway whilst giving away his cover by playing Led Zeppelin IV as loudly as was possible. It was a tough calculation, because Babe was a genius of pot, but he couldn’t keep a damn secret, and lo and behold he had dragged along with him a dark shadow in the human form of Eugene Roe. They came up the driveway in a big old Ford pickup that rattled its rust off in the potholes. Liebgott had dismantled the traps specially for their arrival when they had called from Williamsport to say they were an hour out.

“I figured we could use a medical professional to lend some credibility to the operation,” said Babe thoughtfully, sparking a joint on the porch over sweating jam jars of iced tea.

Roe snorted or something but it wasn’t really a normal person’s self-effacing laugh. Winters clapped his back. Nixon knew Roe had dropped out of medical school after two years but there was no need to say anything. Everyone knew that. Now he was working construction and Babe claimed to be working as a mechanic in a garage, but this seemed suspect given the state of the car they had driven up in.

“Well we sure as hell are glad you boys are here,” said Dick magnanimously.

Babe exhaled an opaque cloud that rivaled Nix’s own father’s ability with a stogie. “Can we see the bush?”

They went out all together to the field and ducked between the rows of corn. Babe knelt in the soil. It was damp with dew and quiet in here. It would have been almost like over there except it smelled good. “What’s the cross,” Babe said, inspecting the plants.

“It’s an indica blend…”

“Well, I can tell that,” he said.

“So you’re an expert on the plant now too?”

“I’ve just smoked an awful lot of joints in my life, Captain Nixon.”

Roe snorted again. When they all looked to him he said, “You said in the letter there was some kind of altruistic reason for all this.”

“It’s medicine, Gene,” Babe said gently, but also like they had had this conversation thirty thousand times. Nix filed away for later the intimation that Roe had read the letter he’d sent Babe at home in South Philadelphia.

“I guess you don’t remember the psychic break you had at the Do Lung Bridge.”

Babe waved this remark off, even though Nix remembered it too. It threw a chill down his back, like a water balloon had hit him at the base of his neck. “That was laced,” Babe said.

“With what!”

“I don’t know! Something bad!” Babe turned to Dick and Nix. “Gene’s teetotal,” he said, like this was a big old point of contention.

So that counted out the bad acid. Maybe he was just like this. Maybe he had had those big sad bug eyes as a child or an infant or a fetus in the womb. “Good on you, Doc,” Nix said.

“I ain’t trying it,” Roe said, folding his arms over his narrow chest, “no matter what it does.”

The doc was a tough cookie. Babe had claimed, over there, about as high as the Byrds song, that the doc came from a long line of the kind of folks described in Dr. John’s “Gris-Gris Gumbo Ya Ya” and that, as such, he could heal wounds with his mind. When it didn’t work, as on the night when Jackson died, or the night when Hoobler died, or in the forest when Muck and Penkala died, or the night when Liebgott stopped speaking, he went to sit for a while on the edge of camp until Dick went over and made him eat something. Nix watched them in a state of confused envy, and then he went to write the letters to the families, so that Dick wouldn’t have to.

At dusk, after they ate a light dinner of corn on the cob and rice and beans, he took the boys up into the hayloft with an armful of blankets. “Sorry this is the best we got,” he said. He had said that about a hundred god damn times since they got here.

Roe looked like he wanted to say, you’ve got to stop apologizing for everything. Instead he said, “Where does Lieb sleep.”

Babe perked up. “Joe’s here?”

“You didn’t see him in the driveway?”

Nix sighed. “He’s gonna want to know what he did wrong that you saw him,” he said.

“Does he still — ”

Nix shook his head. “Not a peep.”

In a couple days time, he couldn’t take it anymore, and he was hot and tired and stoned, up to his elbows in earth in the field, showing Babe how to replant the hatchlings he’d grown from seed. “You guys room together or what?”

“Me and Gene?” Babe’s eyes were red in the corners from smoking and from the sun. “What about you and Dick?”

Dick, who had the radio on inside turned up as loud as it would go, so that they would hear it in the field, playing Crosby Stills and Nash doing “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.” “What about me and Dick?” said Nix.

Babe was a smart kid. He realized this was going nowhere. With muddy hands he popped one of the seedlings out of its little pot and cradled it into the ground. “Well, I think he thinks he’s looking after me, but in actuality, I am looking after him.”

[wincore]

heaven, fallen | kim dongyoung

pairing: demon!doyoung x angel!reader

words: 12.3k

genre: angels + demons au, royalty + bodyguard au, some fluff n angst

warnings: mentions of certain...unholy acts (aka mentions of sex)

a/n: wooh this is a sort of experimental fic?? demons and angels are slightly noticeably different from their traditional concepts 

A flash of movement below the stone balcony alerts you and you take a step back. It’s not every day something alive pops up so close to you. The sky is a clear blue with streaks of gold and pink and the air faintly smells of orange blossom honey—it’s not a good day for an intruder to put a damper on your peace. Of course, Doyoung’s standing behind you in warned stance, a frown etched across his face. He soundlessly moves to stand in front you, and you peek out from behind his back, curious. The air is still for a few moments.

You jump when a black cat leaps out. Doyoung, however, relaxes and turns to you.

“A guest for Your Highness?” he says, a ghost of a smile on his face.

The dark coat of the cat stands out against the white marble, and it mewls several times in your direction before carefully making its way over. It’s a tiny thing, the cat, but it does have a loud voice and a lot of things to say.

You smile wide at Doyoung then look at the cat. “I hope so.”

The cat takes quite a while to warm up to you. It does not, however, find it inappropriate to shove its butt against Doyoung’s face, much to his distaste. You huff at him in jealousy several times. It is your castle after all, and the cat should be greeting its host, not the bodyguard. But no matter how hard Doyoung tries to fling the cat off his body, it ends up obstinately stuck to him.

“Maybe it’s your guest, Doyoung,” you sigh dramatically. The cat only gives you attention when you wave about food in front of its face.

“I’m ready to throw it out but I don’t think you’d like that.” His reply is blatant, an annoyed frown on his face.

“You were ready to throw me out half a year ago,” you state, enjoying the irritation flushing across Doyoung’s cheeks. “Didn’t you say I was the most annoying angel you’ve met?”

“Well,” he trains his eyes to the cat, “My soul wasn’t bound half a year ago.”

“So you’re saying you would definitely throw me out of my own palace if not for the contract.”

Doyoung looks up at you, eyebrows furrowed. “Of course not.”

You should’ve expected a lopsided reply from a demon. He has the looks and airs of a prince yet his tongue is sharp, and it only gets sharper with every use. You should’ve suspected his identity when he first walked in so subtle through the castle doors on celebration’s eve, steel gaze and refined manners. It made you revaluate all the stereotypes of little red demons with horns and a tail and a short temper. To be fair, Doyoung is the first demon you’ve ever met. And he’s only partly like what you had expected.

Royalty is never as bad anywhere as it is with angels. Too sheltered, too ignorant. Protect your purity, they always say, your innocence has a price on it.

Apparently, that price attracts demons and the like.

An angel heart is a dear thing. It can be carved out in a myriad of ways—demons would kill for it, especially yours. It can be eaten, sold or even kept as display in a rich demon household to provide for their existence. There’s something about it that makes the most dignified of demons turn into wild, uncouth creatures. Most have been trained to control themselves for widespread fear of the Gods, but even so, angels must be wary.

Demons live off hearts like yours, regardless of what say they have in the matter. The New Gods have tried rectifying it, but even if they can create worlds, they cannot change what is and has always been nature. The fear rooted deep in your blood took a while to come to terms with.

Nevertheless, you’ve whispered countless prayers to never come across a demon.

The first time you saw Doyoung, he was behind bars the colour of gold, made by angels to withhold demons. He didn’t look too displeased, with the way he was sitting lax, almost bored on the chair. The rings he wore indicated status and the glare he sent your way was most certainly demon.

“Ah, you’ve come.” That was all he greeted you with.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” you snapped quickly. These were creatures from nightmares, creatures who made nightmares. They’re just as powerful as you, if not more.

He didn’t smile much either. “Since I’m completely under your discretion, how about we strike up a deal?”

You scoffed. “Why would I bother with a deal?”

Doyoung leaned forward in his chair. Even through bars, you felt a strong sense of danger. There was no way he could escape his prison; the lightest of touches against angel-forged metal would burn him irreparably and your prison guards are much more skilled in combat than they appear to be. The demon was trapped and you were his only way out—everything was perfectly clear. And yet, it couldn’t be. There had to be more; details beyond your observation and facts you weren’t accounting for. After all, a demon behind bars could never be so calm without a trick up his sleeve.

“I heard I’m not the only…perpetrator,” he said. “There’s been quite a few breaches to the safety of…Your Highness.”

You grimaced at his tone, not in sync with his uncaring face. So he did know of all the times demons have tried to worm their way into the palace and steal what doesn’t belong to them. After all, it did surprise the hell out of your guards (pun not intended) when a demon in a tux quite literally waltzed in through the palace doors, his fangs noticeable by the time midnight came.

“You see,” he spoke again, voice clear as night, “I’m not like those other demons. I don’t want silly gold trinkets or angel feathers.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Right now, I’d like to be free.” There was a polite smile on his face that you knew was forced. You’ve never expected captured demons to be this straightforward. “Second, I’d like to make a deal with you.”

“A soul contract?!” You took a step back, startled. That really wasn’t very like demons; to put themselves out in the open like that. What’s the point of clever tricks and a silver tongue then? You can’t expect a demon to wager his life.

“My soul, not yours,” Doyoung clarified, speaking as though he’s over at an old friend’s. He still had his eyes trained on you, making you swallow before you speak.

“Just why would you do that, demon?” You’re unsure of this whole ordeal. On one hand, a demon bodyguard has its own advantages. Naturally skilled with strong reflexes and physical superiority, you’d have nothing to worry about. Angels have always had to rely on weaker substitutes; weapons and prayers.

But on the other hand, there are enough stories about striking a deal with the devil that have terrible endings.

“I would know what best to do with my soul,” he snapped. Demons are easy victims of impatience.

“Alright,” you said. There were multiple pairs of eyes on you as soon as you said it. You were going against millennia of advice and yet, you found nothing wrong with it. It was a change if nothing else. And angels do get bored easily.

Even Doyoung seemed taken aback. “Alright…then,” he repeated. “I look forward to working with you… Your Highness.”

Doyoung finally manages to pull the cat apart from him and sets it on the table. You have yet to discover the cause of its extreme affections towards the demon.

“I have no idea what to do with it,” Doyoung huffs.

Right then, the door clicks open and Jaehyun walks in and greets the two of you with a bow. He’s quite the charmer for a butler, polite and stubbornly obedient. As graceful as ever, he turns to you with a smile.

“Prince Taeyong has sent another message, Your Highness, and he’s expecting a reply,” he says, “Thought I’d let you know.”

“Did you have a choice?” you scoff with a smile. You’ll be honest, it should be strange to be away from Taeyong for so long when you had spent every waking moment together as children. Even angels drift apart with time, sadly. No wonder time is a God in itself.

Here you are, in Gods’ own lands but it’s still not paradise.

You wonder if the New Gods care anymore, care for creations that are not their own. Heaven and Hell are fragile things to bored inventors. You are creatures of old, your code programmed to be either good or evil, black or white with subtle quirks. To the New Gods, it’s inevitably obsolete.

You notice Doyoung’s scowl as soon as Jaehyun leaves. He isn’t paying attention to the little cat kneading at his pants, a little lost in thought. You could say Doyoung’s last meeting with Taeyong…didn’t go very well. Dark and light contrast quite a bit in the same room.

“What’s with that Taeyong guy? No angel’s ever had a reputation so large in Hell before,” he muses, the annoyance clear in his voice. “It’s like he’s immune to anger. And he’s too good-looking to exist anyway. What a mistake the Gods made.”

“I can’t tell if you’re jealous or attracted.”

Doyoung twists his mouth and finally turns to the cat at his feet. He picks it up and sets it on the table once more. You laugh to yourself; a demon and a cat make quite the pair.

“You lot are weird,” he says with distaste. “Especially the two of you. ”

You hum. “We’re treated like royalty for a reason. Even if we wish we weren’t.”

Doyoung crinkles his nose. “You’re a rarity among purebloods. You should know you smell different too. Disgustingly pure.”

You’re about to select a book from the shelf when Doyoung speaks up again. “I’ll be leaving.”

You nod. He gives you a short bow and disappears. It’s always like this. You might have part of his soul at your disposal but he’s only around if necessary (that is, in case you face danger). Terribly work-oriented demons are.

The cat finally comes around to you, curious eyes scanning you as you turn a page in your book. The room is just enough to be cosy, the sunlight not too menacing and the shadows pale and resting at the base of walls. The bay windows give you a colourful view—of flowered hills and higher snow-covered mountains. The orange hues of the sunlight play with the two of them as a mediator and the rest of the cloudless sky looks on in amusement. It’s always a perfect day here.

“I wonder how you climbed all the way up,” you hum to the cat, who’s hyper-fixated on a string dangling out of one of the books on the shelf. It’s not long before you return your focus to the book, just to get pulled in.

Ah, it’s a history book, you think to yourself. It’s not surprising; most of the novels in the palace are historical after all, and you’ve finished most of them. You drag your thumb along the side of an illustration before scanning the title. The Trade. The devil sits in a black velvet suit, a slow, smiling air about him like always and a gaze fixed upon the mother angel in white cotton. He swirls the blood wine, dark gloves covering his hands, while the mother angel has her arms out above her head to pull off her halo. The sun shines only on her, the devil’s face imperceptible in the shadows. One trade to mix chaos and law.

The Fallen. The angel no longer looks angelic, but his skin is paled to a greyish hue, lips dry and chapped. There’s a scar on his cheek; you know the burns are from the renunciation of status. He chose humans over his own kind. No wings, no home. Angels break rules but they do not avoid punishment. You felt sorry for him when you first saw the worn out strokes of ink that completed his figure in the book. He was the first to fall to earth, infamous throughout the history of your race. Sometimes angels don’t want to be on either side. He gave up an angel’s tranquillity just for a group of little orphans. Even in breaking rules, it was noble. To be able to face punishment is noble.

You turn to the next segment, annoyed. The Choice. The demon is laughing, dancing a dangerous waltz with the masked human; the angel simply weeps in defeat, clutching her heart. This isn’t just history—it’s quite common in the earth realm, or so you’ve heard. Angels fall in love with humans just as often as humans find themselves attracted to demons. Humans are creatures subject to temptation and an angel’s love is perhaps too…pure to be understood. It’s pitiful, but you don’t blame anyone.

You wish there’d be more books from the world of mortals. They’re all such tender beings, always the favourite of the Gods.

Ever since the emergence of the New Gods, access to the human world has been restricted. You can’t just pop in and out wherever you want—unless you face the consequences. Stripped of feathers and a halo, what is an angel but a mortal? You’ll be ordinary under the sun and moon, no longer glowing with nature. But of course, your kind has never cared for power or hunger; the heart is kindest when it’s full. Hope defines you, optimism encourages you. It’s why the demons find you so silly, so naive. Such children.

How unremarkable of you to want to break rules.

“Another book about humans?” Doyoung’s voice behind you makes you jump. “You angels always loved them far too much. It’s why there’s so less of you now. You do know they’re not quite as nice as you folk, right? It was quite an experience for me while I was there.”

You take a deep breath, composing yourself. You watch Doyoung smile before his lips drop to a serious frown again.

“So you’ve taken to sneaking up on people,” you scowl. “And forgotten your formalities again.”

“Don’t glare at me,” Doyoung says, “It’s not my fault you have awful reflexes, Your Highness. And- you’re not too fond of your title, are you?”

Doyoung knows the answer and you close your mouth, relaxing into your seat. You know he only keeps up the formalities out of innate courtesy (that, and the disapproving looks the palace workers send his way). Maybe it’s not a lie that demons are strict in their habits. He’s surprisingly well-behaved for a demon surrounded by angels.

“So did you have a valid reason to suddenly appear here or did you just want to scare the daylights out of me?”

“As per my job, I need to make sure you’re safe. You get into all sorts of trouble when you’re alone.”

“You talk as though the trouble doesn’t come from your kind.”

“Perhaps if you had better reflexes, you’d be able to avoid them.”

Doyoung takes a seat opposite to you and takes notice of the cat’s absence rather gleefully. He wears nothing other than his dark formal suit, sometimes without the coat, and he contrasts deeply with all the gold and white and amber of your palace. But his face is not out of place, save the exaggerated frowns and glares perhaps; and if Doyoung weren’t a demon, he certainly wouldn’t be an ordinary mortal either.

“Why do you lot hate the humans?” you spill the question.

Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “We don’t hate them…but we don’t exactly want to…fraternize with them.”

You blush at the word. Angels are known for falling in love with humans quite frequently. That’s why you end up with a lot of half-bloods or ex-angels in the human realm. Jaehyun, for example, had an angel mother. And you, you’re one of the last pureblood lines; as is Taeyong. It brings forth a sort of responsibility you’d otherwise be grateful to be rid of. You’ve known nothing outside this city, outside of your people—humans are a distant dream to you. You wonder if it’s just the angels’ habits of mingling with humans that keeps you chained here.

Ironically, demons are purer when it comes to blood.

“Why do you love them so much, Your Highness?” Doyoung asks, sounding just as curious as you.

“We don’t consider love to have boundaries…I think,” you answer.

“You’re not sure?”

“I’ve never fallen in love to be sure,” you sigh. “Just like you’ve never tried breaking the devil’s laws out of fear.”

Angels cherish freedom but demons obey fear.

“Are you saying you’re not afraid of losing the comfort of paradise?” Doyoung’s eyes are round and inquisitive even if his mouth is pressed into a thin line.

“Have angels ever cared for their own demise?”

“You should.” Doyoung sounds like a stern teacher.  

After a confused pause, you laugh. Doyoung leans back in his chair with an exasperated sigh.

“Is it a characteristic of angels to take things so lightly? What, is dying an art to you?”

“Perhaps,” you say, and laugh to further aggravate him.

Doyoung looks as though he’s holding back certain words, something like ‘you are so fucking annoying’, but you don’t comment further (especially with the glare he sends your way).

You don’t necessarily mean what you say. You’ve never experienced a choice between destroying yourself and love, whatever that might be—you’ve been stuck in a palace high in the Heavens your entire life. But you are aware that angels are known to betray themselves. No matter what rules the Gods—New and Old—set for your kind; it is always broken once, at least. Rules are but fragile things when angels are wounded. (And angels only cry when they hurt others.)

Demons, in contrast, are very practical creatures. They’re rather proud of themselves but they understand cause and consequence quite well; punishment is severe in the depths of hell. They can, however, be quite cheeky. Bend the rules, never break them—that’s an often repeated phrase in the book of demons. Some demons, additionally, abhor doing things not true to their own nature. But even their honesty comes off as acerbic, words dripping with the poison of raw truth.

You stand up, placing your book back in the shelf. Just how far could reading get you in this realm anyway? It’s better to look around your palace and your kingdom, this city of angels. You’re supposed to look after them, even if you’re not sure what you’re doing. You drag your finger along the spine of the book one last time.

“Say, Doyoung, do you not want to steal what the angels guard so dearly?”

“You?”

“Not me, exactly. You know. The sacred whatever. Do you not want to taste an angel heart?”

Doyoung narrows his eyes at you. “Are you trying to provoke me, Your Highness?”

You frown, voice wavering under his gaze. “It’s not like you can do anything.”

It’s sudden, the movement.

Doyoung shifts, his figure rather intimidating when it’s right in front of you, so close. He places one palm against the bookshelf, and you find yourself trapped, unable to look anywhere except at him. It’s not just that though—his eyes gleam the dark red of demons, no whites left, almost as if they’re bleeding, and lashes over them long as ever. It’s a precise shade; textbooks could never recreate it. Not bright, yet not completely fallen into darkness. The dark lines drag across his cheeks vertically from under his eyes. A demon must never be allowed to achieve their true form completely. That form angels fear isn’t a caricature with horns and a tail—it’s something resonant with deepened horror, the fright you feel when you’re no longer in control of your mind. This semi-form only gives you an idea.

“Tell me, are you afraid of me now?”

After a sharp intake of breath, you find yourself unable to respond. Demons get either ruthless or playful when they have a hold of you. You can’t, however, recall any knowledge to help you at this moment. Your eyes widen and you shrink into yourself. Fear. The awful emotion blossoms in your chest like a weed that can’t be pulled out.

“Look at me.” There’s a low growl in his voice, distinctly melodic making sure the fright doesn’t fade. This melody belongs only to demons.

Demons know fear. They know what it feels like, the extreme of it, and they know how to use it against the helpless. He’s just trying to scare you like all demons do when their pride is on the line. You know that and yet, it’s working.

“Don’t- Don’t come any- Come any closer and—”

“And what, Your Highness?”

“Don’t call me that.” Your breathing gets quicker. It’s difficult to think straight.

“Would you rather I call you by your name then, angel?”

The slow roll of your name on his tongue sets forth an unknown feeling in you. It burns as though you’ve never felt burning, like your castle is of ice.

You decide to shake it off with as much will as you can muster.

“Stop.” Your command comes out a little weak but steady.

Doyoung immediately takes a step back with a scoff, demeanour only softened so much. “See, Your Highness? It’s best not to feel too safe around a demon.”

Ah, Doyoung loves to remind you of angels and demons and the differences; that demons are cruel. Be afraid, he wants to tell you. You breathe in and out. “That’s a little ironic. Considering you’re my bodyguard.”

Doyoung chuckles and looks away, and you find yourself in awe of him. A demon smiling—no, Doyoung smiling is as sweet as it is rare. You were starting to think you were some sort of cruel prison guard with how miserable he looks sometimes. (It could just be the way demons look but you can’t be sure.) But of course, only angels have sympathy for demons.

“Yes, and since I’m only your bodyguard, I would appreciate you not calling me in the middle of the night to fetch you things.” Doyoung crosses his arms.

You let out a bout of laughter. Doyoung, on the other hand, furrows his brows with annoyance.

“Or water your plants for you. Or serve as an alarm clock. Or get you more unhealthy snacks. Frankly, I feel abused. And do you have any idea how awful those snacks are? What sort of angel makes something like that?”

It’s easy to listen to Doyoung, even if he’s just complaining, and you smile. Maybe you’ve started to enjoy his presence. Angels are what they are—lively and kind, but also ever-changing. Doyoung’s a steady you probably never expected to have. It’s comforting, if not anything else.

But you’ve discovered that both angels and demons are true to their heart—whether it’s the flighty heart of an angel or the unflinching one of a demon.

You wake up in the middle of the night thrice in a row. Breathe, you try to tell yourself but it gets difficult with each second dripping away agonizingly slow. All you can see are a gleaming pair of red eyes and hands burning into your neck. Angels are not spared from nightmares.

“Your Highness?”

You take a sharp intake of breath, jerking to the side only for your shoulder to hit the headboard. Your heart has leaped to your throat, blocking any air that might come through.

“You should take to using doors. They’re quite easy, really.”

“I thought something might have happened.” Doyoung looks well blended with the darkness of the night. Who’s pulled the curtains? Neither the moon nor the stars have been welcomed to your room. The golden vines curling around your bed dimly reflect the candlelight that Doyoung holds, the veins and fine lines of his hands and the numerous rings, perfectly illuminated.

“I’m fine,” you croak. Your cringe at how awful your voice sounds and clear your throat. “I’m fine,” you repeat.

Doyoung steps forward, his lips pulled into a frown yet again. It’s not like you’ll tell him that he has, in fact, managed to worm his way into your nightmares. The first time since he’s arrived, he’s terrified you and that too with a childish tactic. Demons like to play, get to your head. He observes you quietly, making you more conscious than usual.

“You don’t have to stay here,” you tell Doyoung.

Yet another sigh leaves Doyoung’s lips. “You angels might not have any regard for rules, but they’re very important to my kind.”  

“You’re really nice for a demon,” you consider. Your lips curl into a small smile.

“Giving your bread to the poor is nice,” he snaps. “Fulfilling the terms of a contract isn’t.”

The two of you maintain an empty silence for a couple of heartbeats before you allow Doyoung to sit in the armchair by the bed. He says nothing more (is it possible for a demon to be exhausted?) and rests his head on his palm. His lips are soft and relaxed, eyes the shape of almonds, daringly lovable—it should be sin for him to look like a heavenly creature when he’s committed such dark crimes. Of course, saints and sinners are a concept for humans to judge. You’re from different realms, opposites; there’s no choice in what you are. The sympathy you feel is not out of the ordinary.

“If I released your soul fragment—terminate the contract, would you be happy? You could go home.”

Doyoung hesitates.

“I don’t have a home,” he responds before falling silent. “You can’t terminate a soul contract. The Gods bore witness to the signing.”

You hum in displeasure but ponder nonetheless. “What happens if you breach a soul contract?”

Doyoung tilts his head, a short sign of struggle across his pursed lips. You never get answers to questions like these. The darker sorts of acts and abilities aren’t exactly explained in detail in angels’ libraries. There are only names you must avoid. You clutch the pale golden blankets to drag them off your body. The temperature seems to have shot up. You move closer to the edge of the bed.

“Gruesome details spared, I’d turn to cosmic ash.” Doyoung stares at his hands, no particular expression on his face. If you dared though, you’d say he looks uncomfortable.

You keep quiet for a few seconds. Terms and conditions can be sneaky with their words.

“Why did you suggest the contract?” you ask, some abandoned dread flickering in you. It’s not unlikely that you’re just a means to an end.

Doyoung keeps his silence, electing to rest his gaze anywhere but at you. There’s a faltering sense of emotion in him, you can’t quite tell. After all, demons are the hardest to read. A little drop of fear trickles down your throat.

“Why did you want the contract?” you ask again, louder. The seconds drip slowly.

Doyoung stands up with a scowl at your repetition, the candle blowing out. Great, he’s angry again. Demons are quite childish, considering how they accuse you of the same.

“Don’t ask me questions, angel.”

You freeze as you notice the demon’s red spread in his eyes. You are aware that angels have a habit of harping on about things till it drives people a little crazy; the mercy on his face has waned. You might have hit a nerve. Is this going to be your nightmare again? Are you going to feel the blood in your throat, feel your chest bleed onto your bed sheets? Is he going to wrap his long fingers around your throat, rip out your heart like you expect him to—like you expect creatures like him to? Demons are toxic beings, they’re meant to be evil. You might have been unwise to lower your guard.

“I could kill you right now,” Doyoung says, no humour in his tone. “I could claw out your heart and take it back with me as yet another trophy to mark my status.”

Angels are warm in touch but demons burn. When Doyoung presses his fingers—claws—against your neck, although lightly, you feel the searing touch of embers and instinctively hold your breath. He might leave some blisters for good. There’s a sense of lost time in him, something that burns slow, but even. Did he want you to beg for him to stop, bow to him as a demon? Dignity means more to angels than he might think.

The few silent moments sear the air in your lungs.

“Isn’t that a breach of contract?” you choke out the words, reason making its way back to you.

Doyoung frowns and he resumes his normal form. “Yes. Thankfully.”

Demons are loyal creatures. It’d be of no surprise if he’s still tied to the devil, to the dwellings of evil and misery—whatever the books said. Yet if you look closer, these are only the habits of a demon who no longer quite remembers the horrors of Hell.

“You don’t want to go back?” you whisper, bracing yourself for another outburst.

“No. I don’t.”

Honesty.

Doyoung retreats his hand. He keeps up a strange front, as though he didn’t just threaten to take your life.

“So you broke the rules? As a demon?” You sit up straighter, a bit more confident than earlier. At the very least you trust in a demon’s sense of self-preservation. He won’t harm you as long as the contract exists.

“Not quite,” Doyoung hums. He’s almost smiling to himself, an unclear satisfaction in his voice.

Your eyes widen as you realize. “The soul contract!”

“Yes,” he sighs, sounding uninterested in your suddenly acquired awareness. “Far more sacred than demons’ code.”

You shift on the bed for your back to press against the headboard and bring your knees to your chest. You don’t press further with the questions.

It must be difficult for a demon to betray routine. The core of demons lies in rules and routine—they have fear fuelling their survival. You wonder what it must like be for him to live without most of those.

Angels find torment in those exact same things; they value freedom and cause. Although, that doesn’t mean they play by the rules to honour those. Guardian angels fall in love with the ones they’re protecting, higher angels bare their teeth at thieving demons despite the code of conduct and even the purest of your kind shed their feathers to protect someone they love. They can’t work by rules, even those that are made for them. How unremarkable of you to want to break rules.

“Do you hate me? For what I am?” you ask Doyoung. It sounds painfully innocent, even you are aware, but the question pries out of your mouth. You change your question, your voice coming out in a softer tone. “Do you think we could be friends?”

Doyoung furrows his eyebrows. “You ask too many questions.”

You could be employer and employee, a strange definition of friends or even just two people stringed together by some holy contract—it doesn’t really matter. In the end, angels are angels and demons are demons.

Two nights later, you cough up blood. It’s not the red of demon eyes but a far more alarming tint of the exact same. Angels’ blood is rich in colour, a shade of red almost blinding to those caught unaware and the specks of gold only add to the unnecessary shine. Doyoung looks almost as pale as you when he finds you on the floor of your bedchamber, the shade of life and death erratically sprayed across your hands and bedtable. After all, he says, he’s supposed to protect you, he was supposed to come earlier, he should have sensed something. (‘It’s okay,’ you reassure him. ‘It’s not like that. This is not how rules work,’ he responds with a hard stare.)

It’s a strange infection for the likes of angels but not unheard of. When you think you’re almost glad you’re sick, you feel a sliver of guilt for the first time in your life. Perhaps an infection would rid you of this curse of purity. You voice it to Doyoung when the thought gets too heavy to keep to yourself; and he reassures you that it’s the disease talking, that you’re fine. What a strange thing for a demon to do.

You’ve never thought these emotions to be strong enough before. Fear. It’s a very concerning emotion. Angels aren’t supposed to be afraid.

“You talk as though you’ve suffered a great tragedy,” Doyoung scoffs.

“Haven’t I? I got a nosebleed and I must say I’m quite fond of my nose,” you state with an exaggerated wave of your hand.

“How awful, truly.” Doyoung shakes his head.

It takes you a day and a half to be back on your feet.

You’ve also taken to afternoon walks in the whisks of some inevitable urge. You prefer casting aside your obnoxious label of royalty; to truly enjoy, you must leave your burdens elsewhere. Doyoung isn’t too happy about it.

“Do you have to?” Doyoung chides, “Demons might not be fooling about in a city of angels, but there aren’t any marble walls here to keep them away either.”

You take a smiling lead into the dainty shops and exhibitions. “Maybe the marble walls will distract them.”

“They’re not stupid, you know?” Doyoung ducks to avoid a glowing garland. “They can smell you. Your purity or sanctity—whatever the hell you reek of. Higher demons know the difference between the old, halves and royalty.”

Doyoung stands outside, stubbornly refusing step in. You can barely hear him over the sound of ocean blossoms, rare flowers said to cure homesickness that are always singing. The Gods give the best of their creations to angels for safekeeping. There’s star syrup for existential dread, cloud extract for dehydration, Child’s Smile for momentary happiness—there’s so much around. You wonder if this is what would make humans happy—a cure for everything.

You turn your head to find Doyoung staring at a bottle with lips pursed. The bottle itself is the colour of plum, the contents hidden. You take a step closer to read the label.

Deep Space. Peace for a brief stretch of time.

“Are you tired?” you ask Doyoung, hesitantly. He turns to you with a start.

“Of you. Sometimes,” Doyoung responds without missing a beat, “All the time, actually.”

You laugh at the shake of his head, the sound as loud as the ocean blossoms. The shopkeeper walks in just then, skin dark as night and a smile as comforting as the moon. You’ve always loved coming to her shop. Despite all genres of medicine, the atmosphere is dominated by harmony. (There’s a strange irony in the words, you realize.)

“Oh my! How have you been, darling?” she greets you. “Would you like to taste fire nectar? The New Gods made it a while ago as a cure for lethargy.”

“I think we should save them lest the guardians run into a shortage,” you shake your head.

She nods in agreement. She was once a guardian angel too, keeping her human away from darkness with all sorts of cures. Never in excess, though, for it ruins the human balance—that’s what she told you on being good at her job, not that you’d ever get it. Angels like you are only a target—hearts too vulnerable and unreliable. You’re meant to kept peace in Gods’ lands for you know nothing outside of it.

“Is that a new friend…or a palace worker maybe…?” She turns to Doyoung, who stiffens under her gaze.

It’s an unfair disadvantage for angels to never be able to tell apart a demon. Perhaps, it’s to ensure equal treatment for all or whatever else the Old Gods had in mind. For an angel, anything with two eyes and a beating heart deserves sympathy.

“Both, hopefully,” you smile with your response.

It doesn’t take you long to reach the end of the city paths after exiting the shop. The flowered hills are much larger than before, the mountains only offering a shallow glimpse at their snow-tops. The trees sport all the hues of the rainbow, forming a lovely forest barrier between the place you stand in and the sleeping hills. It is quite lovely in paradise, if you so call it.

Doyoung sulks beside you, careful enough to not kick a rock out of frustration. “You are a real pain in the—”

“Hey,” you warn. “You don’t like the view here?”

“I’d rather be sleeping.”

You press on, getting up to stand on a nearby stone bench. “But weren’t you curious as to what a city of angels looks like?”

“I’ve seen enough,” he responds, voice low.

You realize the dreadful possibility that he might have had a hand in murdering other angels of pure or royal blood.

Even the sky is ever-changing in the land of angels. It brings about a nice wind but you prefer warmth. The scenery is perfect, all the colours in place and light resting where it belongs. But there’s still something missing, something key to your moments with Doyoung. The silence is deafening.

“We’re not really angels, are we?” you muse aloud. “We do whatever our heart pleases. What has that to do with kindness? Or peace?”

“You do whatever your heart pleases, yes,” he nods in uncaring agreement. “But your heart wants kindness and peace. I’ve told you, you lot are strange.”

“We aren’t always saints. Are we?” You’ve always wondered if all angels do the right thing.

“The Gods made sure to make you perfect,” Doyoung‘s voice is slow and reassuring. “Your instincts are built to cater to goodness. You’ve heard all of this before. And you’re asking a demon whether angels make mistakes?”

“Wasn’t the Devil an angel once?” It’s a famous story here, in fact. You shift closer, eager to know its origin.

“Gods’ creation, yes. Not sure about the angel part.” Doyoung purses his lips. You must be some sort of child in his eyes—constant questions and a need for reassurance. Easy to destroy.

“I think you’re good enough, angel,” he adds quietly.

The breeze caresses Doyoung’s cheeks, turning them a rosy hue and plays with his hair, tussling it in occasional gusts. He looks almost peaceful; for a demon, you wonder what it’s like to be free of Hell. His jaw isn’t clenched and neither is he furrowing his brows to glare at something in the distance. You decide you like this look on him as you turn to gaze at the city ahead.

When you look at him again, he’s smiling at you. It’s only your duty as an angel to reciprocate it.

There are things that hurt and things that only carry the echo of pain.

Your back bleeds onto the floor, a searing pain where your wings should be. It’s the first time Doyoung sees them, albeit covered in blood. You’re almost ashamed of them, now damp with flawless red, feathers plucked off on the floor. The purest white yet helpless, useless in danger. They’re only ever for show, just the way a demon’s horns and tail stand for jokes.

Doyoung carries you to the medic’s chambers and sits beside you, absentmindedly chewing on his finger till you stop writhing in pain. Now, this is concerning.

“Shall I inform Prince Taeyong?” Jaehyun asks. You can see that he’s afraid. After all, the human in him is easier to read.

“No,” you answer, making sure you get across the importance of your decision. Notifying Taeyong would be a terrible decision; he’d worry himself sick and one sick angel is better than two.

It’s quite often that you find yourself alone with Doyoung, especially after being advised to rest. Sometimes you forget he’s your demon bodyguard and not a housemaid with the way he keeps idly organizing things around you. He’s quite careless, untidy even when it comes to his own bedchamber and belongings. You wonder if he ever does anything but sleep in there.

Doyoung seems to be dozing off in his chair, head resting on his hand. You’ve never seen him sleep before; he always disappears with an irritated poof! when he gets tired. You feel sorry for him—maybe if he hadn’t signed the soul contract… You shake your head. He’s a demon after all, pureblooded and not any less wise than you are. You think you should start seeing him as an honest equal.

“You’re awake?” Doyoung asks, capturing your attention. His hair is messy and his face is splotched with red on one side.

You nod. The air smells wonderfully of chamomile, light and wispy. You think you’ll be getting better today.

“Doyoung,” you call, “Can you sing?”

Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “You heard me.”

You turn your head to grin at him. “Not to stroke your ego, but it was nice. Soothing for a patient. Tell me, do your eyebrows always move like that?”

Doyoung sinks back into the chair with a huff even though he’s smiling. “Do you have to be like this?”

He smiles quite a lot more than in the beginning. You can see the side of his jaw and his Adam’s apple as he turns his head. Pink lips and a dark mop of hair; you think it’s a good combination. His smile stands out to you, wide and sweet with laugh lines you want to trace. He’s quite nicely made, you think, and his features are handsome. You shake yourself again. These aren’t thoughts appropriate of royalty, of angels. And you experience dread too, in being something you are not.

You look away, trying to distract yourself from the crawling warmth across your cheeks.

Of course, you do recover well even if your wings are left a little sore. Still the same blinding shade of white, Doyoung stares in awe when you spread them. This form is a little exhausting but profound in the effect it has on others. Almost as if gazing at an angel could cure your vices.

You’re as warm as ever but the kingdom seems to have grown cold. Everyone goes about their business merrily yet you find yourself shivering every morning. Either the New Gods are brewing trouble for you or you really are sick. It makes you uneasy either way.

Your city is lovely and to appreciate its grandeur from a distance is much different from admiring it from the inside. You sit at the pavilion atop the hill overlooking the city and opposite to the palace, with Doyoung looking around with curious eyes. He hasn’t been here before, you realize.

This structure isn’t as grand but it is cosy with short pillars and a canopy top. You look ahead. Your palace is iridescent in the afternoon, the tops kissing the skies and caressing cotton clouds. You look up to see the highest tower, yours, peeking through a wave of clouds. The trees curl their branches around the base, almost protective. The little white and pastel houses of the city look docile, small places for the descendants of your kind, and they give you a sense of comfort. You sigh, frowning.

There are ruins atop the adjacent hill, the bricks fallen apart in a pretty pile. The red and yellow trees embrace the old brick structure all around it, the grass refreshingly colourful. Even destruction pretends to be art here, to be made something of. You remember the confusion and panic when the old archway had crumbled apart, just as the New Gods had expanded the city. You were only an adolescent yet you had found words to explain, to help your people. You’ve been told you’re good at controlling your emotions to help others. You’ve been told you’re good.

Doyoung sets your skin ablaze with just a lingering touch on the shoulder.  

“Let’s go, Your Highness,” he says, unaware of the sudden reactions he’s set in you. The longing in you is so wrong.

Certain fruits are forbidden in the land of angels.

This third sickness is of an entirely different kind, you think. You stare at Doyoung’s lips too long and too frequent. You sigh in his absence and his touches burn hot. You can’t even try to deny how attractive he is, how calming yet provocative his words are. Every time he looks at you, each gaze might as well have him with his hands around your throat. How you’d love to brush your mouth against those pretty lips of his, how you’d love to wrap your arms around his waist and run them against his back. It’s not natural, not right—but you’re wanting and waiting for something that can’t happen. This infection, it’s the most dangerous one.

“Taeyong!” you greet happily. His hair is as pale as moonlight and his smile hasn’t changed since you were children.

You wrap your arms around Taeyong, his scent still of strawberries. Ah, you’ve missed the warmth of familiarity that clings to Taeyong. There are hues of amber in his eyes, his skin glowing under the natural light. As two of the last pureblood angels, it brought you closer and only the responsibility of your kingdoms kept you separated. It’s a shame you’ve been so busy in your own cities, trying to make sense of the New Gods, a change of nature, everything. Maybe the Gods want to play, but you’d never know.

“It’s good to be here again,” Taeyong says and you smile back, but your eyes trail to Doyoung at the corner of the room. His eyes are focused elsewhere but you can see that his arms are crossed and his lips are shut tight.

Taeyong turns to look and you immediately grab his face before he sees Doyoung. The sudden embarrassment climbs up and you’re willing to do anything to avoid getting caught.

“Let’s go to the garden!” you suggest a little too enthusiastically. “You’re going to love the new puppies!”

Taeyong furrows his eyebrows, clearly suspicious but follows suit. You hope you aren’t being too obvious—this isn’t a childish crush you’re afraid of exposing; there are consequences when an angel falls in love with a demon.

Doyoung sits down beside you on the garden bench. It’s underwhelming to call it a garden, really, when you should be calling it an arboretum or anything of the grander scale. It’s beautiful—the flowers bloom as a performance and the trees whisper nurturing words. The water in the fountains is deep blue with ribbons of sunlight floating in them, the birds and fishes enjoying it in their own ways. You might as well get lost in a lovely dream along these paths, walking with no end for as long as you’d like. Taeyong crouches down at the side of the path, laughing as one of the pups of the royal dogs tries to bite his nose off.

“I’m telling you,” Doyoung leans to make himself audible. “He’s going to be apologizing to the pups if one of them bites his finger off.”

You laugh. “Maybe he’s more angelic than all of us.”

“He is. I can smell it,” Doyoung sneers. “You come a close second, though.”

There’s a moment’s pause before Doyoung flinches, and you look down to spot a small rabbit on his lap. Animals have a strange liking for demons, you think with jealous disappointment. Or maybe it’s just Doyoung. After all, you can’t say you’re not a little more than fond of him too.

“I don’t know what to do with this thing,” Doyoung informs you, eyebrows furrowed into a nervous look.

“What- you don’t have demon rabbits or something in Hell?” you scoff.

“No.”

“Are you serious?” Your face turns to incredulity. “You don’t have rabbits in Hell?”

“We don’t have any animals in hell. Except the, uh, hellhounds.”

“Sounds miserable. Are you aware that this bunny is your long lost twin brother, sir?”

Doyoung makes a sound of disapproval, carefully picking the rabbit up and placing it on the ground. You laugh at more jokes you make yourself and Doyoung pretends he can’t hear you.

Dinner with Taeyong on your right and Doyoung on your left is nothing short of awkward. To put it blatantly, one is your loving childhood friend who happens to be one of the purest angels and one is a demon who has successfully managed to steal your heart—and the rest of the members of the palace are there to bear witness to your every slip-up. There’s not a lot of talking, only the soft thrums of the oblivious musicians’ instruments. The lights enclosed in a thousand dazzling crystals don’t do much to lighten up your mood even if the room is brimming with a warm, amber light. There’s plenty of food but never in excess, and the windows lining the sides invite onlooking stars. The splendour of an angel’s palace is of no meaning without its residents.

Taeyong’s attempts at a conversation somehow blooms for the better as the palace members join in. Soon, everyone seems to be over the initial awkwardness, filling the room with reminiscent laughter and stories. The sound most precious of all.

Doyoung, however, is surprisingly quiet. He’d usually start the dinner with his provoking demon tongue or talk of old songs and books on the better days. But he’s far too quiet, and it drives you over the edge. You nudge him with your knee.

“Are you alright?” you whisper.

Doyoung furrows his brows. “Perfectly alright. Why?”

You press your lips together. He is most certainly not alright, but you’re a little out of words to continue. Unsurprisingly, Doyoung vanishes into thin air, excusing himself politely as soon as he can. Your appetite was barely enough, to begin with, but now it’s completely lost.

Dinner is over after an excruciating hour and a half. It’s difficult to avoid chatty angels, and you suddenly realize why Doyoung hates hanging around for too long. You make your way to your balcony trying not to be too obvious and are relieved yet afraid to find Doyoung there. Your room emits the barest of warm candlelight through the glass windows, and it dims the closer you get to his stagnant figure. The night sky is clear, stars blinking lazily as they gaze down upon your realm.

You pause before you ask again this night, “Are you alright?”

Doyoung responds with silence, leaning against the balcony railings. He’s wearing a loose black shirt for a change, and the parting of his hair has been mussed up by the wind. His fingers are long and elegant and the way they rest against the railing is nothing short of beautiful. Demons can be deceitful, but there’s no treachery to him tonight.

The night breeze caresses your form and you shiver again. You find yourself a little hypnotized when you look at Doyoung’s face under the moonlight. There’s not a single flaw you can point out in the demon and it’s quite frightening.

“Doyoung?” you call again, your voice meek.

Your heart hammers in your chest when you find Doyoung’s mouth twisted into a grim frown, his silence heavy. His eyes are on the verge of red and he exudes some sort of dark energy you can’t quite fathom.

“Are you really not afraid of me, angel? Of a demon?” he asks, his voice quiet but heavy.

Doyoung cages you against the balcony railing. Heat claws at your throat and you wonder what—why he’s doing this. The other times have been a reminder of who he is—but now, he looks closer to a demon than ever, almost genuine and you’re having a hard time coming up with the right words.

“Doyoung. Now’s not the time for games. I—”

“My soul is in your hands. This is not a game. And neither am I.”

Doyoung gingerly presses his hand against your face as if he’s holding a paper crane. Even in this half form, he’s unbearably handsome, his jaw stiff as he stares at you.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers. “Please tell me to stop.”

He starts to move his hand away but you softly take hold of it, pressing it back against your cheek. If this is your undoing, you might as well relax into it.

“You angels really are unafraid, aren’t you?” Doyoung muses. He’s quite right. You have a demon gleaming, almost upset in front of you, caressing you with hands that might have blood, your blood, on them.

It’s alright, though. The confusion inside you calms the closer you are to Doyoung, your frostbite fading. There’s a soothing to his fingertips.

Doyoung’s voice is harsh, the usual reminder coming up again. “I could hurt you, claw the purity out of your heart, I could flay your wings till you were as godless as I am—would you still be unafraid? Would you still believe in me? Don’t tell me you’re this gullible, angel.”

You’ve heard of demons tricking angels to pull out their hearts before. There’s quite a price on the purest of hearts.  

Even so, Doyoung doesn’t scare you. His words are just that—words, threats to provoke fear, never meant to be carried out. For even in the demon, there’s something pure and unheard of. He likes to scare you because he’s afraid too. Your observation was sudden in the beginning, but now you have feelings inappropriate for an angel to have towards a demon.

“Is that why you came here? To rip out my heart? Rise up the ranks?”

“Initially, I might have. If I didn’t have other things to worry about.” Doyoung’s gaze is intense and unwavering. “I couldn’t hurt you now. Not ever.”

“The contract?”

“No.”

Doyoung cups your face as he leans in. He smells vaguely of dark chocolate and wine, although you’re sure he doesn’t care for angels’ desserts.

“You’ve done a strange thing to me, angel.”

Doyoung’s breath is scorching over your lips but you don’t regret letting him press his mouth against yours. It starts off innocent enough, the shyness of your first kiss leading till Doyoung clutches your waist to pull you closer and you lose hold of yourself. He parts your lips with utmost piety and the sweet sensation brought by his tongue spreads throughout. He intends to be slow, making you feel every swipe of his tongue and every press of his fingers. In this moment, you can’t deny his nature and yours—a demon and an angel under a sky made by careless Gods. And yet, nothing exists apart from you and him.

Doyoung pulls you inside, his mouth still on yours and a new feeling shooting through your nerves. The shuddering of breath that comes from him makes your heart flutter and you tug at his shirt, pulling him closer. You move your fingertips to his neck and eventually wound them in his hair, the taste of stars stuck on your mouth. He looks partly dazed, partly euphoric when he pulls away and a short laugh passes through him before he kisses you again, deeper and deeper with each passing moment. His voice is hoarse by the time he speaks again.

“You know there are consequences to this, right?”

“Do you?”

His forehead lowers to press against yours. “I can’t really give a fuck.”

He presses a swift kiss to your lips and you smile against it. He can be absurdly gentle for a demon. But then you remember the searing touch of his mouth and his fingers against your skin, and your face blossoms with red again.

Doyoung kisses your jaw before moving to your neck, leaving a slightly wet trail; demons have quite a tendency to leave marks, possessive warnings. You’ve never felt love so burning and raw; every time he pushes against you so sweet, his mouth nearly innocent with the words he uses for you. He takes his time to make you feel good and you can taste the honey liquor of Heavens with each passing moment, every move of his. Desire is such a base thing and yet you feel waves of it, the blush across your skin glowing. Angels really do betray themselves easily.

“I love you,” Doyoung promises against your mouth before the line between right and wrong fades to a blur.

You wake up with a start. Was that a dream? You try moving and stretching but there’s an aching throughout your body you can’t account for. The morning drizzle outside your window can only do so much to soothe your discomfort. You’re sleepy despite the first rays of the sun already gracing your presence through the mild rain. Your head’s a little haywire from the detailed pictures and sounds in your head. You blush. Did you really dream something so outrageous?

“You’re awake.”

You jump at Doyoung’s voice, at a loss for words to greet him. There’s an unusual sprinkle of pink across his cheeks, and you realize with bittersweet certainty that last night wasn’t a dream. He doesn’t meet your eyes at first and when he does, he’s almost shy with halting hand gestures. You’ve gone and made a demon flustered. You giggle when he tries to get to what he’s saying.

“I think,” he begins, voice rather quiet, “I think perhaps we…we should talk some things out.”

Doyoung sits beside you, looking at his hands. You want to place yours in them, remembering the warmth. He stares at you unblinking when his eyes trail to your neck and he turns away with a cough.

“Habits don’t go away easy, I suppose,” he mutters.

You brush your fingertips against your neck to feel the uneven skin that’s been marked. Demons have special bites for their lovers. Your cheeks grow so hot, you’re afraid you’ll need to get to the balcony to take a cool breath.

“I…I’m sorry if I…if I… Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head. “No- just a bit- I think it was a little- quite sudden. I wasn’t expecting anything to happen last night- Gods, that sounds strange. Not like that. What I mean is—”

Doyoung laughs. “You’re an idiot, angel.”

Demons are hard to read, but Doyoung doesn’t have to tell you what he’s feeling these days.

“I’m afraid,” he says after a long pause. “I’m afraid of hurting you. I can be careless with my words…my lips and hands—”

You blush.

“—and I don’t know which rules I’m breaking, but…I want to forget about angels and demons for a while.”

You nod and move closer. Doyoung’s warmth is inviting and you place your head against his shoulder without any second thought. He straightens, startled by your sudden movement but he relaxes soon, his arms wrapping around you. You tilt your head to see him smiling at you, his eyes shining with light akin to the Heavens. Perhaps you’ve loved him since before the realization buried you under its weight.

This is wrong.

You gulp down the voice in your head. A wave of panic rushes through you and your smile wavers. For the first time in your life, you don’t know the difference between good and bad.

The question from Doyoung comes in almost expected.

“What’s wrong?”

He’s too good at reading you, even without the contract. If only you could answer honestly, as an angel should.

Your eyes meet Doyoung’s and you lean in. Soon enough, there’s a comforting press of his lips against yours and although short, it lessens the loud beating of your heart. Doyoung looks you up and down, brows knit together and mouth pressed into a thin line.

“If there’s an emotion I know best,” Doyoung begins, “Then it’s fear.”

You don’t respond. You can’t quite think straight at the moment.

“You’re afraid this is wrong.”

“This isn’t wrong,” you respond quickly.

“They’ll take away your wings,” Doyoung reminds you. “They’ll hurt you.”

“They’ll hurt you too and yet you’re here. I’m not the one afraid of losing my wings.”

Doyoung smiles, amused. “Did you know I was the highest-ranking demon in my state? Perhaps one of the highest of our kind, too.”

“I didn’t,” you answer. “I’m- I’m not sure if you’re showing off.”

“I can show off if I want to—I earned it,” Doyoung huffs. “That wasn’t the point. The point is—you should do whatever the hell you want if I’m doing whatever the hell I want as a god-fearing demon.”

You give him a small smile. The way he’s so comforting isn’t what you’d expect of a demon—it’s kind. How unremarkable of you to want to break rules. But how willing you are to do so.

“Can’t a high ranking demon have everything he wants?”

“No. The rulebook just keeps getting longer.”

Doyoung sighs. There’s weariness across his features. “I hate rules. I hate routine. I can’t believe it took me so long to realize.”

You giggle. “I might have misjudged you. You seemed so strict. Like a grumbling soldier.”

Doyoung huffs. “You’re a poor judge of character for an angel.”

He reaches out to comb through your hair, the smallest of smiles playing on his lips. You wish he’d come closer.

“Can I tell you something? Just between you and me,” you whisper as you lean in.

Doyoung leans in at your hand gesture, eyebrows furrowed in curiosity. You place a sudden kiss against his cheek, pulling away just in time to see the red rush into his ears. He slips into rather flustered laughter soon enough.

“Flirting with a demon now?”

“I’ve been doing that for a long time now—just wish you’d noticed earlier.”

That earns another bout of laughter from Doyoung, making your chest swell with unspeakable love. He looks at you with love, something you’re sure demons aren’t allowed a peek at. Don’t the Gods dare take this away from you; it’s precious. You’re tired of this game of choices, rules that exist only to insinuate guilt and fear. This realm won’t die without you, neither will you be able to do anything truly dutiful in your castle of glass.

Doyoung puts his hands on either side of the bed by your waist to engulf you in another warm kiss, smiling against your lips.

“I want to keep doing this,” he murmurs, “Even if we have to hide from the Gods themselves.”

This is wrong.

The voice in your head warns and you press down your guilt. If only for a little while, you could keep this up.

Demon blood isn’t red, you come to know.

Your heart can only struggle in the chaos set by Doyoung’s resting figure in front of you. The black liquid staining Doyoung’s only white shirt is his blood, you realize with a weak noise. You’ve never seen a colour so dark. He breathes slowly, eyes closed in what seems a peaceful slumber.

Taeyong beside you is frantic. “We were talking, and then- and then he just- he just collapsed! And I don’t- I don’t understand how to save him- I don’t understand why he’s bleeding when no one hurt him.” He takes a breath to calm down.

There are repercussions when an angel and a demon fall in love. The two change for the other, a change nature can’t permit. (She is also a child of the Gods and she’s almost more firm in her laws than them.)

Demons don’t fall sick easily. You’re there when Doyoung opens his eyes and he jolts up as though he wasn’t hurt in the first place. You can see the clawing of good and evil him, his eyes a little wild before they settle back to the calm. Nature isn’t supposed to bend like this.

“Ah,” he realizes as he looks at the two of you. “I passed out.”

An unknown emotion passes through his irises momentarily as he looks at you. He returns his focus to declaring he’s fine. You purse your lips and almost let your emotions explode, containing it only till you can convince Taeyong to leave.

“You’re hurt because of me,” you choke out.

The room is quiet, Doyoung’s unwillingness to meet your gaze making it worse.

“Now, we don’t know that, Your Highness,” he responds, voice distant.

“Don’t call me that,” you snap.

“I wouldn’t want to make a habit of calling you love,” he reasons.

“We’re in private—it doesn’t matter.” You try to keep your breathing steady. The panic that rushed in with Doyoung’s invisible injury is doing a tremendous job of driving you mad.

“You’re hurt because of me and I won’t allow you to get hurt anymore,” you say, your voice solid.

Doyoung scoffs. “You’re an angel, not a God.”

You purse your lips. “This isn’t a joke.”

“You sound like me,” he says, slightly raising his eyebrows. “You know I said the exact same thing when you were fooling around in your illnesses.”

“Congratulations, you’ve turned me into a no-fun demon.”

Doyoung sighs loudly. “You’re right, though. I don’t want you to get hurt either.”

He sighs again as soon as he says the words. “I really am a disgrace when it comes to being a demon.”

You laugh softly. Out of all the flaws demons cage within themselves, you couldn’t possibly expect one of them to be an absence of true demon nature. Doyoung is one of a kind.

“How did you…how did you know that you were- were different?” You don’t know a nicer bundle of words to use for your question.

Doyoung hesitates, furrowing his eyebrows. “I don’t know. I hated doing my tasks more than I was afraid of the rules. That was odd.”

You breathe sharply as his eyes linger on your form, the old frown on his face. A demon’s gaze is still that of a hunter—nature shaped you into predator and prey and she did not like you forgetting it.

“Don’t be afraid of me.”

You jump at his voice, Doyoung’s form sitting straighter and he leans forward. Your heart is still unsteady every time your breaths diffuse, when he’s close like this. He bites his lip before he presses a chaste kiss to your lips, the warm sensation spreading all the way to your fingertips. There’s a comfortable silence before Doyoung takes a deep breath.

“I don’t know what you did to me but I changed. I noticed it when the stupid animals starting warming up to me, when I felt sick for the first time in centuries after I saw your blood.”

He pauses.

“You know it too. The pains of going against nature.”

“That long?” you ask.

“Yes,” he answers.

You sigh. You’ve never been loved this way, and it’s already as warm as anything you’ve known. It’s not difficult to love him.

“Don’t worry about me, angel. It’s not what you should feel for a demon.”

Doyoung disappears within seconds and you’re left with mixed emotions, muddled up thoughts and the pending answer to your question of identity. If angels are meant to do the right thing—how would they ever know? It falls into a habit to hear that you’re good every waking moment of your life, but when it actually comes to choices, none of them spell out good for you. You don’t know what choice to make. Doing things in the name of Gods or love does not make you good.

Angels are not heroes, you realize.

And yet they still choose to be in a strange design that never fails, even if it means breaking rules that are millions upon millions of years old, set in stones unyielding.

It’s almost like a test. You don’t think you’ve prepared for it.

You take to endless pacing and anxious walks and somehow, you end up by the main balconies. The breeze isn’t as strong and you spot a familiar figure by the bench. You take a seat beside Taeyong, your mind still muddled up. He greets you with a surprised smile and you share a moment of peace before you interrupt it.

“Taeyong, do you think we’re good?”

Taeyong turns his head to you, his shoulders hunched as he rests his forearms on his thighs. There’s no particular expression on his face, perhaps a bit of confusion.

“I don’t think we’re any better than everyone else. We just try to be good.”

“Isn’t that human?”

Taeyong laughs. “Humans have always been the Gods’ favourite creation. It’s why we look so similar.”

The wind fills up the silence with a tune pulled from nature.

“I’m sorry,” you say, looking down. “I don’t know why I got so worked up—it’s not normal. We haven’t talked in so long and I just bring you doubts and questions.”

“I think it’s perfectly alright,” Taeyong responds, “You still choose to be good.”

You breathe deeply. Angels are always helpful—it’s not strange for Taeyong to use kind words with the devil himself, much less you. He’s always been this way since you were children, since you showed each other what you gathered of the world around you. You told him things and he listened, a comforting exchange of words.

“Say, (name),” Taeyong interjects your thoughts, “you’re in love with the demon, aren’t you?”

You freeze, a lump forming in your throat. Taeyong nods towards your neck and you hastily pull up your collar. The demon bites haven’t faded since the night you…well, professed your love. You’ve been wearing high collars more frequently—you don’t want your neck exposed for the entire palace to see when there’s only one possible conclusion to the marks.

“And you’ve…uh…you know, physically...amorous too, then? As in—”

Your cheeks get warm.

“Yes. I get it. Whatever you mean. If you want to say I’m a disappointment, you can. I’m failing myself.”

Your eyes flicker down, the guilt bubbling up in your chest again.

“If it’s love, I think it’s quite wonderful.”

You look up, confused. You’d expected some chiding at least, in Taeyong’s soft, stern words. Like those he used as children for your all too eager self, who used to love getting lost in the woods and jumping over fences into lost lands.

“You’re saying this is okay? I’m not following any of the rules we’ve grown up with.”

“Oh, we both know angels aren’t like. We never follow rules. The Gods might as well be playing with us now. You’ll still know to do good.”

You’ve always known the universe to be at the mercy of Gods. New or Old, everything has their time. The universe was born of fire and it will end in ice—that’s the future written in the stones. You sigh. It’s time to make a choice, even if choices belong to humans.

You have a purpose, and you sure as hell will follow it.

“You’re a good motivator, Taeyong.”

“I am?”

“No. I just realized something.”

“You’re welcome either way,” Taeyong says with a goofy smile.

You punch his shoulder, falling into laughter. It’s good to laugh like this, with friends. At least there’s one more person to share the truth with, till one by one, it’s the entire universe. Things could be worse for angels.

Doyoung’s eyes widen ever so slightly when he finds you sitting by the window, enjoying the drizzle outside. It’s soothing in a strange way, how he fits into your peace so easily. He sits beside you, the barest of sunlight through the clouds highlighting the honey in his eyes.

“You look pensive,” he notes.

“Well, because I’m thinking.”

The soft tapping of the rain against the marble tiles fills your ears. Doyoung draws nearer, his head still high with the dignity of demons.

“I can tell when you’re distressed, you stupid angel. What’s wrong?”

You turn your head to the scenery outside the window, the sunlight thriving despite the rain. There are many different endings to a story; most would hope for it to be right here, in Gods’ land. 

There’s still hope for an epilogue.

“I love you,” you irritably blurt out. “But you’re so complicated. Everything’s so complicated.”

“Angel’s finally facing reality,” he hums. “It’s not making a lot of sense, is it?”

“No,” you grumble, slouching over with your elbows on your legs.

Doyoung draws his fingertips on the small of your back. You’ve never seen him as peaceful, not just pretending, as you have these past few months.

“Do you ever just not want to be on any side?” you ask.

“After what you’ve done to me, angel, I just want to be on any side with you- Gods, I can’t believe I said that.”

You laugh. “You’re cheesy, demon.”

Doyoung’s cheeks break into pink but he maintains his face nonetheless.

“No wonder they don’t let us keep you alive for long,” he sighs. “Not just because you’re annoying, but because you’re stronger.”

“Stronger?” you scoff. “What, that’s some internal demon joke?”

“Angel, you changed me. You must understand what that means.”

You stay quiet. So the books were right? Good triumphs over evil—words almost treated as law in the old days. If only guilt wasn’t a horrible side effect.

You reach out to push the hair out of his eyes, enjoying the look of peace on him. Doyoung closes his eyes and sighs. The devil is a gentleman; you’ve seen what the humans find so attractive about demons. But beneath that is the unknown, darkness you can choose to waltz with or soak into. There’s no peace about demons, not in their laws, their homes, their own bodies. But heaven looks a little different to you now.

“It’s going hurt, you know?” you whisper. “Neither of us are accustomed to changing ourselves.”

“The damage is done,” Doyoung responds. “I’d make you a promise if I could.”

“What promise?”

“I’ll always protect you.”

Doyoung hesitantly leans in and seals his promise with a kiss, long enough to make you believe it. Nature can’t hurt what isn’t hers anymore. She isn’t infinite. On the other hand, even time can’t break a soul contract, or you’d have outlived it into oblivion (of course, that’s for as long as time lets you). The contract binds you, protects you but it cannot predict the end.

There are some rules angels can’t break and there are some consequences demons can ignore. 

[star-anise]

I would enjoy it greatly if you would rant about the White People Smile thing, because ever since that post, I've noticed how much I do it

Okay this one is gonna be a deep dive.

For the uninitiated, I’m explaining why white people do what they do. This refers less to the actual amalgamated experiences of every person with pale skin and European descent ever, and more the aspirational model of whiteness held up as the cultural ideal in former British colonies.The gap between these two concepts is left for the audience as an instructive lesson on how useful racial stereotypes are in predicting the experiences and behaviour of individual people of that race.

Previously, while explaining why guest towels are often not meant to be used by guests, I dipped into the white propensity to never let someone know when they’re making a mistake–to smile awkwardly and say nothing when a person is being rude or offensive–before going back to talking about the unique properties of linen and terrycloth. This is a further look at the subject.

So, I can’t explain this for every person ever. And I’m gonna take a different tack than I normally would, which would normally be to talk about trauma and the fight/flight/freeze response to stress. Instead, I’m going to talk about my research into the cultural moment centuries ago when this response started to be advocated, and how connecting to long-lost European martial arts helped me unlearn this response.

Tl;dr it emerged as an alternative to stabbing people

I said once that I was a frustrated medievalist, fitting in my history education around other concerns, and therefore ended up studying, more than anything else, how the middle ages disappeared? This is one of those cases–the only vaguely relevant history class I could get into that semester was  Early Modern England, which focused on the Tudor and Stuart dynasties, 1485-1649. That’s the period right after the Middle Ages are said to have “ended” in Britain.

At the time I was also very active in the Society for Creative Anachronism, a living history group. I did rapier fencing, using the long, light swords that were intended specifically for person-to-person combat in civilian settings. They’re duelling swords, at a time the duel was becoming a separate institution from the battlefield. They were used in Spain, Italy, and France earlier, but this time period was about when they became popular in England, so I decided to use the class as a lens to study duelling in England. My prof was very receptive to this, partly because it meant he had one student whose papers weren’t about the political machinations of someone named Thomas and/or Cromwell.

So, duelling is an inherently aristocratic system. To understand it, you have to understand that “privilege” literally means “privi lege”, Latin for “private law”. It meant that the laws that applied to nobles were different from laws that applied to commoners. Commoners were not generally allowed to carry weapons or kill people; if the average commoner killed somebody, he would be tried for murder before a jury of his peers and executed for murder. But the nobility fell under the privilege of the sword; they were the class of society whose job it was to carry weapons and kill people, police and army by hereditary right. Nobles were judged by juries of their peers, other nobles; other nobles accepted that sometimes they were 100% correct in killing people. And if you’re like, “Whoa that’s fucked up, it’s like police deciding if a police officer was right to kill a civilian,” DING GOLD STAR FOR YOU. It’s why Robin Hood, the anti-aristocratic hero whose archenemy was a sheriff, is such a popular folk figure in England.

So nobles could kill commoners without serious consequences, and nobles were also allowed to kill other nobles, so long as they followed a code of combat known as chivalry. That included things like: Don’t attack someone who’s unarmed or defenceless; don’t attack from behind or without warning; bow to him before you begin fighting; blah blah blah blah. They were always more ideals than realities during times of war, but when artillery showed up on northern European battlefields in the 1400s, they became deeply impractical in warfare.  (Redacted: detailed explanation of why this is.) The ideal of a fair fight between matched foes stuck around in the duel, but it became a civil affair, not a military strategy.

Okay okay so. Why did duels happen? More than anything, they were about honour, prestige, and respect. Nobles had a certain way they expected to be treated, a code of politeness and manners with which people had to treat them. A commoner who failed to treat them this way could be punished with limited ability to resist, but other nobles had to be treated according to the same chivalric values of the fair fight. They had to be challenged to a duel.

So duels occurred over all kinds of shit. Failing to give someone precedence or jostling them in the door; having an affair with somebody’s wife; insulting someone’s favourite religious figure; behaving in an unchivalric manner; accusing someone else of behaving in an unchivalric manner; anything. People could make tutting sounds over duels being fought for the stupidest shit, but that didn’t necessarily stop them from being fought.

So the duel and the culture of politeness were really intertwined. You were polite to people because if you weren’t, they could stab you and get away with it. It’s funny how the word “gentle” started out a thousand years ago meaning someone from a particular lineage, how that lineage was the only people with social permission to perpetuate huge amounts of violence, but now means restraint from violence–but that’s what happened. A lot of courtly manners among the nobility were really like… intense high-stakes peace negotiations with everyone, all the time. 

So like, imagine current Tumblr callout culture, except if somebody called you out, you had to let them try to kill you.

Many monarchs of this era HATED duelling culture. Countries like England and France had histories of war between nobles and the Crown, so the Crown hated their nobility being really strong powerful military leaders. Powerful nobility had the pesky tendency of refusing to obey monarchs they didn’t like, or even kicking them off the throne. This pushed those monarchies towards a principle of absolute royal authority over which nothing and no one had precedence. Privilege, so far as these monarchs were concerned, ought to belong to the CROWN, and then people the Crown specifically deputized. You can’t just have people running all over and killing each other whenever they wanted! So the monarchs all started, slowly, to place restrictions on duelling and noble privilege, trying to consolidate that power.

Part of how that was done in Britain specifically was to reach out to the common people. Well, the rich common people. The merchant class. You may also know them as the bourgeoisie. One of the ways the monarchs of this era got extra money their nobles didn’t want them to have was by selling rights to colonial enterprise and writs of nobility. If you had enough money, you could become a baronet! Or own land in Ireland! Or go trade fur in North America! Which led to the social mobility I’ve mentioned before–while the crown was squeezing down the rights of the nobility, it was also opening up to the concept of common people becoming nobles. 

Here’s the thing about European racism: In places where there weren’t as many people of colour around to be racist at? They just narrowed down their concept of race. Nobles genuinely believed they constituted a separate race of people from commoners, and that they were physically different and genetically superior to common people. So this kind of class mobility was an existential threat. How can someone with no noble blood become a marquis?!

(Spoiler: In previous centuries there had been much more class mobility, before the medieval concept of “nobility” fully formed, so it was in fact as bullshit as most other racial constructs. And as the noble/common divide blurred, race had to be defined in more comprehensive ways: English against the inferior Irish, until the Irish could be assimilated into whiteness and defined in opposition to black Africans. When there have in fact been black English people for as long as there has been an England. Really truly honestly, race is constructed bullshit.)

Anyway, when the British Crown prohibited duelling in the 17th century, they tried to justify it by saying to their nobles: Hey look, here are all these commoners dressing and acting like you! And duelling like you! How droll! Don’t they look ridiculous and stupid, fighting over the littlest thing? Wouldn’t you say duelling is a little gauche? A little bourgeois?  You wouldn’t treat them like your equals, as though they deserved to be treated with the rules of chivalry, would you? No, that would be silly.

So in former times, if someone breached the standards of politeness, they’d be called out and expected to apologize or fight. But now, calling someone out would be affording them noble status when they didn’t merit the racial construct of nobility. And also, like I said before–if a commoner who was trying to break into high society made a mistake, and people pointed it out to them, then they’d learn to correct that mistake and fit in better. And then they might MARRY a noble, and DILUTE the BLOODLINES and POLLUTE the shades of PEMBERLY and MASS HYSTERIA, CATS AND DOGS LIVING TOGETHER.

So now, the nobility slowly came to believe that ~taking the high road~ was the better response: Refuse to dignify bad manners with a response, just let the awkward silence hang there so everyone can see how badly-behaved they were. Well-bred people will just know the secret unwritten rules of society. Then you can quietly exclude the rubes from your parties without ever letting them know they’re being excluded. And anyway, if you did duel someone, you’d have to do it in dead secret and if you actually did kill them, you might have to flee the country or else the Crown would arrest you and try you for murder and it’s not nice to get your dwindling noble privilege rubbed in your face.

So that’s the birth of the British response of “When someone fucks up, smile, look constipated, and say nothing.” It was especially strong in noblewomen, who wouldn’t be able to duel anyway, so might as well make a brave face of the only option that feels possible. By the time Jane Austen was writing in the late 1700s and early 1800s, society was leaning further and further to “true politeness means never expressing disapproval of someone else’s bad behaviour.” Partly because pointing out someone’s lapse in manners came to mean you thought they were stupid and hadn’t been properly enculturated into your class, which was of course the worst thing ever.

Across the centuries, the threads holding all the pieces together have rotted, so we forget why we define politeness this way; it’s just The Way Things Are Done. It’s just #verybritishproblems. It’s just the lower-class belief that if someone offends or insults you, you should punch them in the nose; it’s just the anxious privileged liberal belief that violence is wrong and we should just wring our hands about it. The most aware I’ve seen people from former colonies be on the topic is Australians, who know that they don’t subscribe as much to British manners and ideals because they were a prison colony, largely settled by poor people who got there by breaking the rules.

My grandmother, born 1929, totally aspired to that level of class and gentility, even though she was raised dirt poor; being a white settler in Canada meant that theoretically, if you worked hard and went to church and improved yourself through cleanliness and education, you could join the new ruling class. She aspired to the heights of Calgarian society, for whatever that was worth. And she has this specific way of sucking her breath in that means “Oh GOD, granddaughter, you have just something TERRIBLY gauche. Think about everything you are doing, wearing, and being at this moment, and magically intuit which of them is incorrect!” She’s also the one who made my mom learn to do pulled-thread embroidery, and taught me how to lay a place setting of silverware for a four-course meal, and basically strove to turn herself into a living model of aspirational whiteness. When my mom and I go into family therapy, we usually end up talking about how much we want to reject her ideals.

How did I unlearn this?

I am not a good fencer. I love the idea of swordfighting, but in addition to my weakness and disability, I have a really timid posture and way of moving. When I was a kid, I made it a game to see if, by turning sideways or flattening myself against a wall, I could navigate through a crowd quickly without ever needing anyone to move or notice I was there.  I really connected with the idea of Arya, in Game of Thrones, learning how to be a silent ghost, learning to catch cats. 

Then, in fencing, I had to learn entirely new responses. I’ve traditionally flinched and frozen when physically threatened; now I had to train myself to assess an incoming threat and fend it off. I had to learn to stand upright, to hold my core strong and solid, to respond to an attack and then to attack in return. It’s really physical, and in turn, really emotional. When I’ve taught teenage girls in turn, I’ve had to ease them through the process of laughing in discomfort when they land a hit on someone, crying when they hit someone out of fear and shame because they’re not supposed to DO that. Those are stages I’ve had to go through as well. I was pretty affected by a book I acquired through SCA channels, The Armored Rose, about the experiences of modern women learning to do historical combat. It’s a feminist analysis and it felt true to me, but now, a few decades later, I think it’s not really about “women” so much as “people who have been socialized to never be violent”–there are a lot of men I’ve taught who have been just as likely to freeze, who needed to overcome emotional hesitation before responding assertively, and women who had no hesitation at all.

But one lesson that really left an impression on me was learning from a doña, an acknowledged master of the form, who was helping me fine-tune the way I held myself when I fought. “Pull in your core,” she said, encouraging me to bunch my muscles up so that when I uncoiled it would be even more powerful and positive. “Hold a little bit of ferocity. You gotta be a little mad at your opponent.”

“Anger gets in the way of clear thinking,” my usual teacher, an older man, said.

“Too much, yeah,” she said. “But in the women I’ve taught, the problem is usually not enough anger, not too much.”

I can still call that feeling up very clearly–legs tense and coiled, body held upright, ready to respond to an attack with a counterattack of my own. IIt felt good. I loved fencing, loved the sense of accomplishment I got learning how to respond to attacks and defeat them.

As a child and teenager I was hideously socially anxious, and had been bullied for most of my life. When people were socially aggressive towards me, it was incredibly hard not to just freeze up. Fighting back was impolite. Resistance was futile. I would either physically or metaphorically tuck myself into a ball and wait for them to stop hitting me, get bored and go away. In my late teens and early twenties I started getting medication and therapy to deal with my problems, and that meant learning to be socially assertive. To say, “No, you didn’t hear me right, what I really meant was–” and “No, I’d rather not go,” and “Excuse me, I’d like to be included in this discussion.” And a lot of the time, when I did that, I could physically feel the scrape of another sword against mine as a ghost in my mind. I’d put my feet into a fencer’s position before difficult conversations, to give me courage.

And after writing my final paper on duelling, I thought a lot about what it would be like to live in a duelling culture. How weird, how foreign would it be, to believe that somebody else deserved to die for treating me badly? How did you summon up enough anger to fight someone for insulting you? What kind of emotion would be necessary to drive a real sword into them, and not a blunted one? 

What would it be like if I treated myself like someone whose feelings and experiences mattered, whose integrity was worth defending?

I mean, it was not a quick, easy, or complete fix. Years after, I’d still do things like get assaulted and take a year before telling anyone about it because the guy who assaulted me was friends with all my friends and I didn’t want to make them choose a side. But as much as I did change, that was how. And that enabled me to have richer relationships with a lot of different people. Before, people would hurt me without knowing it, and never know why I was later too scared of them to talk. I took a long time to trust people, to feel comfortable enough to connect with them. That fragility made it hard for me to help people, to do the kind of jobs that I wanted. The sturdier I got, the better at defending my boundaries and expressing myself, the wider the array of people I could talk with, get to know. 

And since what I really wanted was to be a therapist focused on complex trauma, and a huge proportion of the people with complex trauma in Alberta are First Nations, Métis, and Inuit, that put me in situations where we had to talk about colonization and decolonization, and people started to ask me, “Hey, white girl, why do white people have so much stuff in their houses you’re not allowed to touch or use? Why are white people like this?” and could explain social niceties like “Yeah, this is a weird random thing white people do that seems really rude or stupid to you? But if you’re applying to a job and want a white person to hire you, they’ll judge you for not paying attention to it.”

I also learned, later, as training for a job, another form of martial art. Specifically, nonviolent martial arts–what to use when an impaired or intoxicated person attacks you, and you want to defend yourself without harming them, and how to render them safe if they’re hurting themselves. That job left me alone for 48 hours with teenagers with serious behavioural problems, who would do things like flail their hands in the direction of my face when I was helping them with basic hygiene. 

They didn’t mean to hurt me, and it wasn’t aggressive, but still, their nails would sometimes draw blood and it frequently left me feeling frightened and angry, because I’d been physically hurt. And it’s actually really hard to convince your monkey hindbrain that they didn’t intend to hurt you, to make that adrenaline and fear go away. It made it really hard to care for them when I didn’t feel safe, because it was hard to summon up compassion, gentleness, and empathy with my heart going a hundred miles an hour. So that training helped a lot. After that, I could catch and deflect their hands before I risked getting hurt. We could have a better relationship because I felt confident and safe around them. 

It’s filed in my brain next to the time I was playing with my nephew when he was a toddler, when I discovered that he stopped blithely using me as a climbing post when I said “Ow!” when he stepped on my boob. Once I let myself vocalize pain, he realized that he was causing me pain. He asked me about it, and when I said that it hurt me when he stepped on me, he apologized, gave me a hug to make it better, and played more gently after that. He hadn’t realized he hurt me; letting him know when he was too hard let him know how to be kind to me.

Those two are physical memories I call to mind when I’m dealing with someone who’s really upset and lashing out at me: sometimes the kindest thing you can to for someone else is deny them the ability to hurt you. To let them know the effect they’re having on you, so they can stop.

Okay. Dive’s over. I just felt my ears pop.

[blainesebastian]

35 + 38 + 42 -> brio :) Thank you so much for all your fics, they're amazing

35 “You make me feel safe” 38 “All I wanted was for you to be happy” 42 “You’re always on my mind”

Thank you for reading darling!!

No longer accepting prompts, got a backlog to fill :) thanks to everyone who sent something in! And especially to @medievalraven for her help talking through this idea with me.

--

All I want is for you to be happy –it’s not something Rio ever says to her but sometimes Beth wonders if he would, if those are words he’s capable of saying. They don’t communicate like that, through syllables, through dialogue that makes sense once it’s in the atmosphere.

Beth’s always been a talker, someone who’s been able to get through a lot just by saying the perfect string of words together—it’s gotten her through her parent’s rough patches, through school, through her disastrous marriage with Dean and through PTA meetings. It’s what’s gotten her through working with Rio, not so much with communicating with him, but through their patchwork deals and meetings with other undesirables.  

Rio seems to be the same way, a silver tongue that curls around language so intimately. His words burrow deep, under skin, double meaning behind simple phrases. It’s gotten him where he is today, it’s one of the reasons she wanted to work with him in the first place. Because there’s honesty in his words, which is why he’s so careful with what he says. He chews over things before he says them, he means it—he’s believable and it feels like tumbling through a dark rabbit hole to trust him.

Despite both of them being so similar in how they talk to other people, they don’t talk to eachother that way. Rio would never say certain things to her and she’s apprehensive over the words she uses with him.

They communicate mostly through touch, because that feels the most true. It’s easy to hide behind words but not as easy to hide emotions through physicality. When his fingers touch her skin, it’s like a language all their own. He doesn’t tell her everything, and vice versa, but they can feel the words like brail when his hands settle on her hips, when her fingers brush over the wings of his bird tattoo, when he yanks her out of harm’s way, when she smacks his chest for being ridiculous, when he kisses her temple, when she grabs his hand and his ring makes an indentation against one of her fingers.

It’s there—it’s tangible.

It’s not exactly what Beth wants or needs to hear but most of the time, that’s okay.

--

Sometimes, however, things are said that leave imprints on skin.

--

Rio pulls up one day in his sleek car, slipping through the streets of her neighborhood like a soundless black cat on the prowl. Beth sighs; can feel him without turning around as she stands in front of her open trunk. She likes having work to do, don’t get her wrong, but she hates the fact that he always turns up whenever he wants.

Unannounced, rain or shine, like some sort of demented postal service.

“Mornin’ Ms. Boland.”

She shakes her head and turns slightly, trying to motion to her groceries. “I’m busy.”

He shrugs his shoulder, “S’alright, I can wait. I’m patient.”

Beth snorts without meaning to, “No you’re not.”

Rio makes a face at her and puts his car into park, leaning back into his seat, as if he’s ready to prove his point. He’s really going to wait for her to carry her things in and put the groceries away? She feels like making a show out of it, taking her time, maybe even whipping up a recipe for dinner when all is said and done…but she doesn’t feel like trying his patience.

She looks up at the sky and lets out a long sigh, closing her trunk and trying to ignore his aggravatingly handsome grin as she makes her way to the passenger door.

“There’s really no one else you can annoy today?”

He hums, putting the car back into drive. “Nah, you’re always on my mind.” There’s a wall of silence that follows, settling over them like a blanket. It wraps in-between their bones and lives along their synapses; breathing in their veins.

Beth distantly realizes that he’s said something important but it doesn’t register until later.

Rio’s eyes are traveling over her face, slipping down her neck and onto her shirt; a quirk of a smile following as he grazes over the too bright, too floral pattern.

“Last thing I want to hear is another ‘partners’ talk in the middle of IKEA.”

She rolls her eyes, putting her seatbelt on as they begin to drive away from her house. “Oh, that was one time.” But nothing follows except a fond chuckle.

--

There’s a lot of blood that her fingers are slipping.

She’s only sewn him up once and it was in her living room, under a controlled environment, with plenty of gauze and disinfectant and bright lights. His wound wasn’t that deep; a bullet graze that he couldn’t do on his own. It needed two stiches, she did it under his supervision, it healed perfectly with little scarring.

She kisses it from time to time.

This is different.

They’re in his car, away from a warehouse but not in the best neighborhood. The windows are dark, the only illuminations are the streetlamps outside and the overhead light on the ceiling.

It’s not enough.

She debates turning her cell flashlight on but Rio makes a guttural noise that she doesn’t like, she’ll have nightmares about it.

“Fuck, just do it.”

“There’s no need to be bossy.” Beth snaps back, brushing her hair out of her face, getting blood on her skin. His blood. Tacky and warm.

She’s got the bullet out, its somewhere in-between Rio’s legs, she just needs to stich him up now. Beth wishes she could open the car door, give herself some space, but she needs to do this fast and the last thing she wants to do is draw attention to them.

God, she can’t do this, she can’t breathe.

Her hands are steady even though it feels like her entire body is shaking. She cleans the area and gets the needle ready. Beth can do this; she’s done it before. She suddenly pictures her kid’s Halloween costumes that she made from scratch like that’ll somehow help and Rio senses her hesitation because he grabs her hand.

He squeezes, gaining her attention.

Despite being shot, he doesn’t look that bad—annoyed about the inconvenience and clearly in pain but not trying to show it.

“I trust you,” He licks his lips. “Give me a badass scar, yeah?”

I trust you. Her breath catches in her throat and he lets go of her hand.

The words repeat against her eardrums and drown out every other sound as she gets to work.

--

Beth searches through Rio’s kitchen cabinets for chocolate and finds nothing resembling it. For someone who has a kid, who lives in this apartment when he’s not with his mother, she expected more sweets to be stashed about.

Nothing, nada.

She sighs, leaning her elbows against the counter and tapping her fingers against her cheekbones. Yeah, it’s ten at night and she should be going to bed instead of trying to find dessert when they’ve ate dinner hours ago but…can’t blame a girl for trying.

“You have no chocolate, seriously?”

Rio pads into the kitchen in a pair of grey joggers and black t-shirt, letting out a soft huff to let her know he’s heard her but not dignifying it with a real response. He doesn’t really eat sweets, she knows this, but still…

“Nothing?” She asks again, turning to look at him. He’s opening up the fridge to grab water, taking a long sip. Beth kinda hates how distracting it is, the muscles in his throat working before he puts the bottle back. “I’m not asking for much, I love chocolate, okay? I’m craving it in the worst way right now—”

And suddenly, Rio opens up the freezer and pulls out a small tub of chocolate ice cream. Wait, not just any chocolate ice cream; double fudge chips. He slides it over to her in a long gesture, putting a spoon on top.

“I know.” Is all he says; the simplest of two words. There’s the smallest smile on his face as he leans against the counter and watches her rip off the lid and dig into it…even when she nearly bends the spoon.

--

Beth cleans her gun, watches how Rio does it.

It’s calm and calculated and she had no idea that a gun could come apart in so many pieces. That so much of it would need cleaned. She sighs and rubs the back of her neck, biting her tongue on saying something like I don’t use this thing often enough to clean it but figures that will only cause some sort of backlash.

He’s always encouraging her to use her gun, even when she doesn’t want to. She’s fired it before, of course, but it’s never felt very necessary.

Her eyes wash over Rio’s face, his jawline, the stubble on his chin. She memorizes his bird tattoo, the lines there, the hollow of his throat, follows his sharp curves down to his hands holding onto his own gun.

She’s felt those hands before, on her, inside of her, pulling her close and pushing her away. Beth feels a little silly cleaning her gun, keeping it on her at all times, because…the words are out of her mouth before she can stop them:

“You make me feel safe.”

Rio goes still, pauses in a way where she wonders if he’s even breathing. His jaw clenches as he bites down on the inside of his cheek, putting his gun down, the metal clanking noisily against the tabletop.

“Don’t,” He says quickly, shaking his head at her. He holds her gaze for a long moment, until she realizes he’s serious, until his words burn into her skin like a brand, “One day I’m gonna get you killed,” Rio looks down at her gun and picks it up, presses it into her hands,

cold metal and warm skin.

“It's just not today.”

--

Beth yawns, stretching her arms over her head as she leans back into Rio’s couch. “Alright, that’s it. Last book is done.”

Rio sits up next to her, flipping through a file of paperwork, cars in her backlot that haven’t made it through their process of searching them yet. There’s still a few they need to work on and hash out clients for.

Right now, they’re just trying to make the books match the car inventory. The last thing she wants is another Turner situation where she’s hiding in the bathroom trying to get rid of evidence either in the ceiling or toilet.

“You sure? My eyes feel like they’re permanently crossed.”

She smiles a little and puts the book on top of some others in the corner, pulling her hair back into a messy bun. “Might improve your looks.” Her voice is warm and teasing despite how tired she feels and Rio picks up a pillow only to tap her side playfully.

“Bed?”

Beth nods, putting the pillow to the side as she stands up. “Bed.”

She makes her way over to his bedroom, moving to pull the sheets down. He presses up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist as his hands squeeze her hips. His mouth comes down onto her neck, a shiver coursing down her spine as his stubble tickles her skin.

“Am I not going to get a thank you?” She pouts. “You could have easily done that on your own.”

Rio turns her in his grip, pressing her down into the mattress, blanketing her body with his. “I like havin’ you around.” She smiles, the words sinking into her pores and living there, warmly, before he kisses her.

It’s deep and intimate and his tongue slips between her lips, making her moan, his hands working their way up her shirt. Then, too suddenly, he’s gone—moving down her body.

Beth lets out a soft huff, clearly displeased that he’s disappearing, that his mouth is gone from her own. “Where are you going?”

He looks up at her through his eyelashes, “I’m thankin’ you.” and pulls the string of her joggers loose before sliding them onto the floor.

--

Words are like touch, but they don’t fade with time.