#like. he has this memory of knives looking at him directly and smiling

[qualityrain]

saw somebody point out how when legato and knives r alone knives purposefully doesnt look at him directly and im so

[bumblebee-be]

Dead Eyes

Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard | 2.8k | Teen and Up Audiences | Hurt/Comfort: Nightmare Edition

Neil has a nightmare and, despite his best efforts to handle it on his own, Andrew is there.

read on ao3

Neil didn’t expect the nightmares to stop. He never allowed himself the delusion of thinking that with his father gone and his mind and body both working through the achingly slow process of healing - one he isn’t sure will ever end - to imagine that the ghosts of his past life and the memories woven into their faces would ever stop tormenting him, especially in his sleep. 

But. Still.

There’s a part of him now, as he clutches the edges of the sink with a white knuckled grip and grinds his teeth together so hard he things he may break them, that desperately wishes he could seal his demons in a box, throw it into the deepest recess of his mind, and have a little time before they clawed their way back out. 

It doesn’t work like that, and Neil knows it, but he’d like to be able to open his eyes. 

He has them clenched tightly shut, his entire face screwed up, every muscle in his body tense and taught with a herculean effort to stop shaking. He was shaking when he woke up, he was shaking when he stumbled his way out of bed into the bathroom, but he swears he almost shook all the way apart when he caught his own reflection in the mirror. 

Dead eyes stared back at him. 

He tried wearing contacts again - briefly, last summer after everything with Ichirou was settled - but it didn’t take. When he’d walked out of the bathroom, Andrew had taken one look at him and caught his chin in an unforgiving grip when Neil tried to sidestep him. 

“No,” Andrew had said simply, but the look in his eyes was fierce and the clench of his jaw was tight. 

“I’m sick of seeing him,” Neil countered. Andrew hadn’t budged. 

“Then don’t see him,” he said after a beat. As if it were that easy. “See you.”

“I can’t-”

“He doesn’t get to take anything anymore.”

Neil’s response died in his throat as he tried to process that. 

Andrew released him with a shove back towards the bathroom. “Take them out.”

Neil knew he didn’t have to, that Andrew would give in if Neil pushed back, but Neil just swallowed his argument and took the contacts out. 

Now, with his eyes squeezed shut so hard it’s already giving him a headache, Neil wishes he hadn’t let Andrew throw them all out. He’d almost tried to save a pair, but one look from Andrew said all it needed to convince him not to. The contacts were a way to hide. Neil wasn’t doing that anymore. He had no one to hide from.  No one but myself, he thinks bitterly now. A tremor travels down his spine, sending gooseflesh across his skin. His chest feels tight and his breath shudders as he tries to inhale deeply through his nose and slowly through his mouth.

Having his eyes closed isn’t great either. All it does is allow the remnants of his nightmare to flash unbidden behind his eyelids, for the ghosts that cling to his very soul to torment him further. 

 You could just not look at the mirror, a voice in his head reminds him. But, no. No, he can’t. If he opens his eyes, they’ll find his own reflection again.

Neil spent a lot of time avoiding mirrors directly following his stint with Lola and Nathan, but eventually he got comfortable enough with his own reflection so it wasn’t really a problem. But when he’s like this, it’s like there are invisible fingers guiding his face towards the mirror, urging him to look, not allowing him to wrench his gaze away from his own eyes. 

He’s working on it. Well, he’s trying to. But it’s a hard thing to work on when failure means spiraling so deeply into his own demons that he’s made himself sick before. 

No, the dark of his own mind is better. Even if it is plagued by dead parents and sadistic smiles, knives and fire. 

Neil clenches his fingers a little tighter around the cold porcelain. Dimly, he worries he might break it. But he’s far too concerned now with finding some semblance of solidity, and the bite of the ceramic into his flesh - too dull to break his skin, but hard enough to bruise - offers him that. Offers him a small reminder that he’s real, and he’s here, and he’s not breaking apart into a million pieces despite what it may feel like. His stomach may churn and his throat may feel like it’s collapsing in on itself, and he may not be able to stop fucking shaking, but he’s here. 

He strains his ears, listening for any sounds from the other room. But there’s two doors between him and Andrew, and even then Andrew barely makes a sound in his sleep. Neil’s just grateful he manages to slip out of bed without stirring the other man. 

A part of Neil knows it’s stupid, that Andrew will probably be pissed in the morning if he somehow pieces together that Neil didn’t wake him, but Neil knows there’s been plenty of times Andrew hasn’t woken him. 

Another part of him, a part of him that he is trying valiantly to smother right now, desperately wishes he had woken Andrew, that Andrew was a solid line behind him for Neil to lean into and a secure pair of arms to hold him together so Neil didn’t have to do it himself. 

Neil blames that small, weak part of himself for what happens next. 

A thin, reedy sound falls from his lips and he struggles through another breath, his head dropping down between his shoulders as he twists his fingers in a desperate attempt to feel the porcelain bite into his skin. 

Fire. He’s on fire. 

There’s flames licking at his cheekbones, burning down his throat, skating across his skin. He’s burning from the inside out and he has no way to put it out. He can only twist his grip on the sink tighter and tighter as waves of flames travel down his body, rocking him harshly as his muscles tremble. He’s panting now, harsh breaths puffing through his clenched teeth as he screws up his face, his eyes staying shut as sparks dance behind his eyelids. 

It’s an eternity before the flames release him, leaving him sagging against the sink, not letting up his death grip for even a moment as he tries to catch his breath. Absently, he notes a tear working its way down his cheek. There’s a dull throbbing in his fingers from how hard he’s clenching the ceramic. His head is pounding now, in time with his racing pulse. 

The scars he carries feel ripped open, and it takes all his willpower to convince himself that’s not possible and he’s not bleeding out onto the floor. Still, the tremors become harder as phantom blood tracks down his skin. 

His breaths are coming fast despite his best efforts to calm himself, and he can feel frustrated tears burn behind his eyes. It feels as though the demons in his mind are stabbing hot knives at every vulnerable spot they can find, slicing his mental defenses to little ribbons with glee. 

Nathan’s cold smile flashes behind his eyelids and he can feel his own lips curving into a cruel mockery of it. The insane urge to laugh bubbles up in his chest, but he stamps it back down. He doesn’t need Andrew walking in on him laughing maniacally as he attempts to crush their sink to dust beneath his fingers. 

He swallows his laughter and tries to count to ten and then back to zero in as many languages as he can. It works well enough for the laugh to shrivel and die in the hollow cavity of his chest, but soon enough the numbers - he got as far as Russian - get lost in the static fuzz of his panicked mind. Every part of him wants to run right now. 

Neil knows he could just go for a run of Perimeter Road, but he’s not sure he trusts himself enough in this state to not just keep running. It’s his first instinct, a feeling so familiar it may as well be carved into his bones, woven through the strands of his DNA. He’s not sure if he’s gripping the sink so hard to keep himself from flying apart or to keep himself from bolting. Either way, he grips it like his very life depends on it, and he grinds his teeth, and he tries to continue his Russian counting. 

In the state he’s in, his mind a haze of panic and every nerve ending set on fire with adrenaline, Neil is hyper aware of his surroundings. He feels the brush of the very air against the skin of his arms, feels the sweat beading on his brow, feels the press of his cotton T-shirt resting against his chest. 

He hears when one of the floor boards in the bedroom creaks. 

Neil strains his ears, his breath catching in his throat. 

He hears the first door open. 

Run.

He hears another step land on the floor. 

Run!

He hears the bathroom door open. 

RUN!

He forces himself to still, the trembling beneath his skin fighting against every ounce of willpower he’s using to quell it. He can’t feel Andrew, but he knows he’s there, just a mere two feet away. 

He holds his breath still, waiting through the agonizingly long moments before-

“Yes or no?” 

Andrew’s voice is rough with sleep, thick with something Neil can’t piece together right now, and unwaveringly firm. 

“Yes,” Neil chokes out on his second attempt to answer, barely anything more than a ragged gasp tearing itself from his throat, clawing its way out whether Neil wants it to or not. 

In an instant, Andrew’s there, a solid line of heat at his back. A heavy palm lands on the back of his neck, hot fingers squeezing the sides of his throat in a silent command. Neil jerks his head in a harsh no. He can’t. He can’t move, he can’t do what Andrew wants, he can’t think, he can’t-

“Neil.” Andrew’s voice is a low rumble, softening the turmoil inside of Neil, flowing over him like golden honey. But his shoulders instinctively hunch higher, the lines of tension in his body blocking out Andrew despite Neil’s desperation to give in to him. 

“Neil.”

Neil lets out a thin sound through clenched teeth, straining to get the words out, to explain to Andrew that he can’t move or he won’t stop moving until he’s running. That the only reason he’s still here is because he won’t let himself move. 

But he doesn’t have to say a word. He never really does when it comes to Andrew, never has. Andrew just… knows. 

The grip on the back of his neck tightens and Andrew tugs Neil roughly, but so painfully gently all at the same time, towards him. Neil’s hands refuse to listen, gripping the sink. 

“Let go.” 

As if it were that easy. 

“Let. Go.” A warning growl tinges Andrew’s words and he pulls Neil at the same time, and Neil loses his grip on the ceramic edges with a harsh gasp. Before he can fall or shatter or dissipate into nothing, though, he’s yanked into Andrew’s solid chest, the hand on the back of Neil’s neck squeezing fiercely, the other coming up to grip his shoulder. 

Neil’s hands, desperate for something to cling to, find purchase in Neil’s own shirt, a fist digging into his stomach, and in Andrew’s, clutching the fabric of his shirt just the the side of where Neil’s forehead is pressed into Andrew’s chest, held there by Andrew’s own hand. 

It isn’t until Neil starts to feel the steady thump of Andrew’s pulse beneath his knuckles that Neil is able to suck in a full, ragged gasp of air instead of the short bursts he’d been gasping since Andrew touched him. Andrew doesn’t move, Neil can barely even feel the rise and fall of his breaths. The only sign he has that Andrew is alive and real and there is the pounding of his heart beneath Neil’s own touch.

“Breathe,” Andrew instructs, like it’s just that simple. 

But Neil gave himself over to Andrew the moment he released the sink. And Andrew says to breathe. 

Neil takes a slow breath, the cool air soothing his burning lungs and raw throat. He sucks in deep breath after deep breath through clenched teeth, guided by the stroke of Andrew’s fingers on the back of Neil’s neck, grounded by the press of Andrew’s chin into the crown of Neil’s head. He thinks he hears Andrew murmur Good into his hair, but he has no way of knowing if he actually did. 

After several minutes of neither of them moving, Andrew pulls back slightly. Neil tries to move with him, a small, broken sound falling from his lips. The hand that isn’t on Neil’s neck moves to grip his chin, forcing Neil to stop and face Andrew. 

“Look at me,” Andrew says.

Neil’s voice trembles and cracks, “I can’t.”

“Neil.” Neil just gives an aborted shake of his head, stopped by Andrew’s grip on his chin. “Abram.” Neil sucks in a sharp breath. “Look at me.” 

Neil opens his eyes. 

Hazel eyes, fiery and fierce with an emotion Neil’s spent brain doesn’t have the dedication to find a name for right now, stare back at him. Andrew’s jaw is tense, concern written in the tight corners of his mouth and slight crease of his brow. 

His eyes - Neil’s always loved Andrew’s eyes, even before he realized he loved them - search Neil’s own. The tight panic in Neil’s chest begins to unravel further under Andrew’s steady gaze. He releases his death grip on Andrew’s shirt, pressing a flat palm to his chest instead, feeling the thump of his heart once more. His other fist stays pressed into his own stomach, clenching his shirt tightly. 

But his breaths come easier now, and the fog of panic is beginning to lift. His jaw aches as he lets some of the tension release. 

“Who was it?” Andrew asks after a long beat of silence. 

Neil instantly stiffens again, his breath stopping in his throat and threatening to choke him. 

Andrew squeezes the back of his neck again, fiercely. Neil refocuses on Andrew’s eyes, resisting the replay of his nightmare that’s starting in his own mind. 

Andrew doesn’t ask again, just stares Neil down and grips the back of his neck so tight it's just this side of painful. 

It takes Neil a few tries to get the names out. “Nicky. Nicky and Dan.”

The only sign that he actually said it aloud is a tightening of the muscles around Andrew’s mouth and a nearly imperceptible nod. His death grip on Neil’s neck relaxes, his fingers petting through the fine hair at the base of his skull and down the overheated skin of his neck. 

Neil’s breathing has gotten close to normal, the adrenaline starting to wear off now that instead of falling endlessly, he has Andrew to crash into. Andrew to catch him and hold him together. 

“Do you want to tell me about it?” Andrew asks after several more infinite moments, his gaze never wavering from Neil’s.

Neil can’t stop the full-body flinch at the question. Andrew doesn’t say a word, and Neil doesn’t have to either. Andrew just nods, his fingers still stroking the skin of Neil’s neck. He doesn’t let go of Neil’s chin either, keeping his gaze trained into Neil’s eyes as though he can read his very soul through them. 

“How can you stand them?” Neil blurts it out before he can think better of it. He opens his mouth to explain, but then closes it. He doesn’t have to. 

Andrew’s quiet for a moment. He shifts his hold on Neil’s jaw, pressing three fingers under his chin to tilt his face up more, brushing his thumb across Neil’s bottom lip impossibly softly. He studies Neil’s eyes carefully, thoughtfully, and then shrugs one shoulder. 

“They’ve never been anything other than you for me.” He tilts his head slightly, as if considering. “One of the first real parts of you that I got.”

The unexpected answer steals Neil’s breath again, though this time not from panic. Andrew doesn’t look into his eyes and see the eyes of a killer, of someone heartless and cruel and demanding. Andrew doesn’t see dead eyes.

“Yes or no?” Neil whispers breathlessly. 

Andrew’s lips twitch ever so slightly and he lifts his chin. “Yes.” 

Neil crushes his mouth to Andrew’s, the kiss tinged with desperation and fading panic, but also - hope. Hope that one day, Neil can look into his own eyes and see what Andrew does. Hope that his eyes aren’t really dead, because he sure as hell isn’t. 

[flowerbeddd]

A Vision Of The Future As Incremental Change Sparks A Conflageration

I didn’t know she would be there, the coffee shop by my office, but I shouldn’t be surprised. Chaos permeates her life, and I was her chaos for today. She had made peace with the flow long ago. Maybe I envied that.

“Hi Sola, it’s been a while.”

“Oh my god? Tiago? Is that you? Let me pay for you!”

She smiled that stupid smile that she did, where she was unable to control the way that her face contorted. I had spent so long increasing my Composure, making sure I could keep a poker face, but she still broke it. I smiled alongside her. By a whim, I went to Connecticut. By a whim, I met her. There was something I wanted to talk to her about, about the next chapter of my life. I had my advisor.

“Let’s walk!”

“There’s someone at work, an intern, I think he has it out for me. He always gives me these . . . looks every time I see him.”

I liked to kvetch about work, complain for no reason. But it was also warplanning, understanding my enemy, planning preemptive strikes. When he eventually betrayed me, I wanted to be ready. I couldn’t give him too much information. I should have made Jacques sign an NDA to not worry about the social repercussions of being with him. She didn’t give any feedback. She didn’t speak, just walked with a solemn, wistful expression. 

“So uh . . . I wanted advice. We needed a cool, young, semi-socialist face and rent was expensive and I think I want to run in New Haven. Maybe we can become roommates to cover the cost?”

She paused.

“Good luck, I hope you win. But no, I’m not going back to living with you.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“I’m out of college, out of the past, but you aren’t.”

I felt a pain in my gut, like dull knives pressing themselves into my abdomen. I could feel them pushing from behind my eyes, touching the different centers of my brain. Adrenaline, tears. She continued to speak. I blinked, my brain not quite understanding. I wasn’t sure if it was a controlled burn or a stray lightning bolt, but her words sounded like a forestfire. Those dulled knives became fists pushing their way through my body, I was crumpling from my weak points. A punch behind my eyes, a digging into my gut, a jab at my liver, fists like cymbals in my ears, breaking my already horribly crooked nose. I hated that nose. I hated how others looked at it.

I didn’t want to hear, I already knew what she was going to say. Resentment, how she has hated me since we met, how she loved art like I couldn’t, how she loved Chappel and I didn’t, how my love of Lana was self-deprecating. I could skip it and still get the message. She spoke for too long, sun-blotting smoke rising from that mouth. Then, there was silence, surprise that she was even able to do that. Her mouth was agape, hands twitching to cover it. We didn’t know what to do. I shook, caffeine and anger. My body took over. I threw my coffee at her. She gasped, her scarf and jacket drenched. A flash, a memory of when we did this for fun back in 2024. I knew I yelled something at her.

“Ground yourself. Describe the scene. Start with what you can see, especially motion in the environment, what you can hear, what you can feel, especially emotionally, what you can smell, what you can taste.”

I was sitting on the ground right behind the corner, right out of her sight. There were cars moving in front of me, people in their own little worlds. Buzzing along, different music blaring from each one. Different cultures, lots of different people, each looking directly at me. They hated me. I stuck out like a sore thumb. He Who Is Transplanted Does Not Sustain. I knew everyone hated me. It smelled like drugs and disease. It tasted like failure and death.

I didn’t expect her to be like that.

I had been here before, multiple times with multiple people. Delayed title card, Blue State, frayed relationship. I didn’t know that he had been. I remember the summer after the first semester, where I was waiting to see him again. I was watching so many different videos on board games, Shut Up And Sit Down. I wanted to play them with him, but when we came back, he didn’t want to play them with me. The Road To El Dorado and Pandemic sat on the shelf, right next to the machine we played his Red Dead Redemption on.

“Hey, Tiago. It’s been a while”

We smiled at each other and caught up. He talked about an intern who ‘had it out for him’. I didn’t have anything to say. Nights at the apartment, hearing him go on and on about how Solomon, or the 15-year old who shouldn’t really be here, or Arborial were all trying to destroy his life. It’s all self defense, until you’re building a weapon. I’de rather be betrayed than play the betrayer. Who cares if I get tricked now and then?

“I want to run in New Haven, maybe we can become roommates to cover the cost.”

I saw two paths: One where I told him how I have felt for the past 5 years, where I read him Culmination, where I told him why I had been drifting away from him after college. That would hurt him, it would hurt him a lot. But it would let him understand why, understand why I’m saying no, understanding why I’m picking Hartwell over him. It would let us move forward instead of dwelling on this moment. The other, where this goes unsaid. He never understands. Cold comfort and regret.

“Good luck, I hope you win. But no, I’m not going back to living with you.”

He blinked, not understanding. We were driving back and I was mad, yelling in the car. Hartwell told me that I would have to cut him off eventually.

“I’m out of college, out of the past, you’re not.”

Calm before the storm. Leaves falling in the air, cars rumbling by slowly, children in the nearby theater laughing. I was once them, they will eventually be me. I could feel the warmth of my drink in my hand and running down my throat. It smelled like fall, wet nature, pumpkins, cigarettes, and coffee. I thought about my tongue and throat, the meek, oft-forgotten sensors there, trying to hone in on what they were telling me. My tongue did not speak to me, for it was priming cannons, readying itself for the onslaught of words. Then the moment passed. There is no one-liner to say before we begin. This is not cool, this is cathartic violence. Rage towards a barren world.

“Here's the difference between us: I can imagine a world where we aren’t friends, you can’t. You take me for granted, that I’m always going to be there for you, be there to understand your emotions. It’s time for me to cut you off and for you to grow up. Therapy is about improving oneself. I can’t do that for you. I can lead you kicking and screaming to water, but you yourself must drink. You know what us living together would be like? Remember the first semester when we met, how stressed you were? I told you how to get better, I drilled it into your head. That’s what I do for my job.

“When I come home from work, I don’t want to keep working; I want to walk to talk about what I’m writing, I want to talk about Hanan [there’s no better name for her], I want to go to Elm City and play a game, go to Rock Spot and climb, go to Blue Orchid and converse and party and Esprit De Corps. Hartwell can provide that, he is the type of person who wants to do those things with me, to spend time with me, to engage with my interests even if he doesn’t understand. You’re not that type of person. I know it doesn’t seem like it to you, but every day you will wake up and strain me a little bit. I know it seems like this is me lashing out, like it came out of nowhere, but it hasn’t. This is consequence, a piece of Culmination. I stuck it into your head, tried to drill through that thick skull that you should care for others. How long ago was that? Five, six years ago? Look at yourself, look at how much pain living like this causes you. We’re supposed to change. Take a red pen to the self. That’s what we do, that’s what life is about: Understanding and improving. Life takes time because it takes time to do this. How long has it been? I don’t think it’s been just 6 years, I think it started before then. All that time and you’re still the same, still lashing out because of internal conflict you don’t want to deal with. You will never change.

“I thought . . . I thought we were healthy rivals. Two people fighting to best the other because they wanted to prove that they themselves were strong. It’s not about besting the other, it’s about showing them your strength and learning from theirs. But no, I’m not your rival, I’m your enemy. When I say something, it’s not an advisor speaking to you, it’s an enemy breaking down your feeble resolve. Everyone is your enemy. You hyperanalyze what our friends say to prove that they are trying to get you, and then you hyperanalyze how you interact with others and whine and complain about how they’re going to obliterate you because you were so awkward. It’s a cold war, a classroom where no one speaks. You’re cutting down your relationships, cutting the world apart just so you don’t have to look in the mirror! You don’t care about anything but yourself. You’re a perfect politician: Apathetic, and without a soul.”

I was shocked. It was over. It hurt. It hurt everywhere. I wanted to run away, but he deserved to say something back. Maybe I went too hard, maybe I hurt him too much. His hands were shaking, caffeine and adrenaline taking over his wire-knit body. He yelled “WELL YOU’RE A VIRGIN BITCH”, threw his coffee at me, then darted away behind a corner. I thought something, but the words stumbled out of my mouth.

“Ground yourself. Describe the scene. Start with what you can see, especially motion in the environment, then what you can hear, then what you can feel, especially emotionally, then what you can smell, then what you can taste.”

It was autumn. Leaves falling off of the trees. I wasn’t the right person to console him. It was my job and I just quit. I was by a street I didn’t know the name of, but one that I’ve been to a thousand times before. I did a play here as a kid, I came here every Thanksgiving to help drive food to those who needed it. He would exile them. It sounded like his sobs. I felt uncomfortable. I took off my scarf and jacket; they were warm and wet. I could feel the chill of the air on my arms, a reminder of winter when I was younger. The smallest fingers of The City pulled me down to the ground, out of the different ways it should have gone, about other things I would say. The residue on my clothes drowned the smells around me. My mouth hurt, but I didn’t want to put more drink in it. I threw out his cup on the ground, then the one in my hand.

And I walked away.

[goldendivinewrath]

@forgivenpunishment

There's something like static while Wolfwood is lost in a swirl of his own thoughts, and for that Vash is almost grateful. It gives him time to center himself, more or less; to calm and keep focus. Bits and pieces, impressions of emotions do show up, but they're distant enough to let him breathe.

Wolfwood is going to be okay, in spite of everything. And is just as irritated at Midvalley, apparently, but he's trying not to "listen in" on that. When he's standing, uh, kind of on his own (Vash would help hold his weight anyway considering everything that's just happened), some of the tension eases. They're not completely helpless anymore, and Wolfwood is back to purposeful communication again--

Which becomes not... ideal. The information, specifically. He didn't think it would be in regards to possibly finding help in any of the fallen henchmen, of course, but he's fully unprepared for just how open the other man is about things they haven't talked about. Had no plans to talk about, with reason. Vash is aware some of that thought transfer can't be helped, of course, but it doesn't... it doesn't feel like prying, somehow. Maybe that's actually a bad thing, knowing that Wolfwood hasn't encountered the need to figure out barriers between keeping his thoughts to himself and sharing them, but Vash can't quite know how difficult that is for anyone else.

Like he couldn't have been prepared for how... cold he feels in reaction to Wolfwood confirming, giving words to, things that Vash had kept to vague assumptions. Given a title like Punisher, what the man seemed to prioritize, his skill at utilizing his weapon; Vash knew. But he hadn't been told so directly. The memory, suddenly popping bright across his vision like a flashbulb--

He goes still. Very, very still. Closed off completely, and though it only lasts for a second at most, it's noticeable. He's just... he's trying to reign himself in before it leaks through, knowing it might already be too late. The intensity had surprised him; he'd mentally fumbled, and the strength of Vash's emotions might not show much on his face, but it's a churning ocean in his head. Grief is for the slain, sure, but there's more grief for Wolfwood. The anger boiling underneath isn't directed toward the man next to him at all, but it does scatter in all directions for a brief moment. Then its searing intensity is pointed directly at Knives; and finally, resigned, back at himself. None of this... none of this should have happened--

He tries to slam a lid on the overflow of thoughts and emotions one more time, hoping nothing seems amiss. It can't-- None of it will help them. It's his to deal with later. After. Alone. "I see." Words spoken out loud along with communicated over their connection, but his voice is an uncharacteristically dry rasp, like the fleeting there-then-gone plastic smile he offers. So these people probably won't help them, but he can't just... "Do you think they'd help each other? I'd... rather not leave them to their injuries." To him, it really doesn't matter which side anyone's on; but he supposes Wolfwood knows that already.

As much as the other man has an excellent point and their time is limited. Swallowing, Vash looks around and listens. "The Plant's close." And doesn't seem distressed, but awareness of their physical forms can take a while to surface no matter what's happening, so he can't know what's going on for sure. "It's she, by the way, thanks." A moment of warmth and teasing is needed, fully necessary, because...

Legato. Yeah, he's aware, if distantly. It's not as if his brother had taken a liking to him, exactly, but... "I guess Legato's a little more powerful than I thought, huh?" Dangerous to underestimate, and Wolfwood seems to know enough about him to offer quite a bit more warning. The bandits had been more of a hindrance than a danger in the end, though he hopes he's left enough of an impression on them to keep them away from anywhere he's rumored to be for a while. Fat chance, probably.

Vash winces with the uncomfortably popping shoulder, letting Wolfwood support his own weight but deciding that staying close is the best option. "Well, at least we don't have a steamer to stop this time." He's not sure that's really an upside since they don't know the full scope of what's going on right now, but he keeps digging his heels into frustrated optimism even with the more serious subject matter. "I need to know how you are, though. If you need anything. There are places to rest and probably supplies, but..." There's a whole town, empty. Probably everything left exactly as it had been between one moment and another. Food and medicine more than likely won't be hard to find, and it's a little extra cruel how wrong that actually feels.

@goldendivinewrath

Well, his hearing is back—kind of. Instead of silence, there is the loud ring of tinnitus replacing it. So he can't hear, but the sense is coming back, even if it's taking its Goddamn time. That one was the one he'd been afraid of losing the most.

Midvalley... Player... What an asshole. He can't wait for the day he gets to turn that noisemaker into scrap metal. See him make his noises then. Wait... what if it isn't just the instrument?

...Nah, it's gotta just be the instrument that does it.

Right?

Smug assassin aside, Wolfwood uses Vash to get to his feet. His vision is best compared to someone with really poor eyesight and thick glasses. He can see shapes close and far, but can't make out the details. If he squints he can get his near-sight back, but he has to squint hard.

Okay. Time to think logically.

"Interrogation isn't a bad idea, but you'd have to find the right one," Wolfwood projects, still taking advantage of the mental link, "If they're loyal, they'd sooner kill themselves than give you information—and believe me, they have the means. You find one that wants to defect... well... they might give you something, but you have to corner them first. Defecting means getting added to a hit list, which is what my job was. A lot of my work was killing these guys that defected after a job. You know, Punisher. Punishment. That thing."

Even if he wanted to hide this information, he... can't. The thoughts are already in his headspace, it's not like speaking, where he can vet what he says before he says it.

He also can't control the flash of a memory where he killed a grunt that actually took their mask off. Like it'd save them to make the Punisher think of the humanity of it.

It didn't.

That one stands out a little. There are several flashes where the grunts shoot to kill, riddle him with bullets—sometimes the Punisher would fall prone, dead.

Unfortunately just an act, thanks to those serums. Red vision, locked onto the enemy, hot lead from the Punisher, the weapon. Though, you couldn't really separate the two. Man, weapon... he was—is—both.

"Anyway, if you find a defector, they might respond with violence or just run. Time isn't on their side if they don't want to die. Also, I'm not sure how much they know, honestly. As far as I know, they're just given their jobs and are kept in the dark about everything else."

"If the Plant is still here in town, Knives—or whoever is in charge right now—will send his lapdog to come pick it up. Her up? Them up?" Wolfwood hates this whole... stream of consciousness thing. "Legato. Blue-hair, pompous, stick up his ass—gets off on misery. That whole steamer event—where everything that could go wrong did go wrong? That was him. Besides the bandits, anyway. Don't know what those guys were about."

He stretches his arm out and rolls his shoulder as his other hand pushes against it, which causes a sickening 'pop' sound.

"God, this fuckin' hurts. Why do I put up with this shit every day? Man..."

[themirokai]

Your favorite Emotional Support Raven is back, this time in a ficlet inspired by a prompt from @altair214, which is linked at the end of the story. Spoiler for the Sandman Comics: Dream eventually makes a new Corinthian and does a better job of it than the last time. The new guy is still a terrifying eye eater but he doesn’t run away to the waking to be a serial killer and he doesn’t want to kill Dream. The circumstances under which Dream makes him are complicated but we’re not going to worry about that. For this story, we’re still vaguely after the end of the show. But Dream has made a new Corinthian. Cool? Cool. 

Once again, proofreading by the inimitable @argylepiratewd who seriously improved the quality of this ficlet and who has proofreading commissions open.

~~

Matthew found the Corinthian, the new Corinthian, in a clearing of the dark and twisted forest that comprised the Nightmare Realm. He didn’t look new. Same face, same hair, same black glasses. Lord Morpheus had said that he had made this one better, and of course Matthew trusted that he knew what he was doing. Of course. He just… wanted to have a conversation. Get the lay of the insane psycho killer nightmare land. 

As he approached, Matthew heard a sssshhhhhink! sssshhhhhink! sound. The Corinthian was sharpening knives. Of course he was. 

Matthew landed in front of him. 

“Matthew the Raven,” the Corinthian said, with his faux charming smile. 

Sssshhhhink! 

The smile, just like it was on the old Corinthian, made Matthew’s feathers stand on end. 

Sssshhhhink! 

“Do you have a message from our lord, good raven?” 

“Uh, I - uh, no. I don’t.” The knife looked really very sharp. 

“Then to what do I owe the pleasure?” 

Sssshhhhink!

“I just wanted to talk to you.” Sssshhhhink! “Listen, could you stop doing that?” 

The Corinthian immediately set down the whetstone next to the line of knives at his feet, but began spinning the knife he had been sharpening between his fingers. “Better?” 

“Yeah, uh - thanks.” 

“And what did you want to talk about, good raven?” That calm, pleasant smile… was really obnoxious. 

“You got some of the old guy’s memories, right?” 

“Yes.” The knife twirled smoothly over and under his fingers. 

Matthew tried not to miss having hands. “So you know what he did?”

“My predecessor was in existence for hundreds of years, good raven. I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

Matthew rolled his eyes. “The Boss said he made you smarter than the last one. Either he’s wrong or he also made you an asshole. As you are well aware, I am talking about murdering people in the waking world for over 100 years, helping to keep Lord Morpheus imprisoned, and then trying to kill him.” 

“I do have some memory of those unfortunate events,” the new Corinthian said, with an expression so bland Matthew nearly started pecking. 

“‘Unfortunate events’?!” The feathers on Matthew’s neck fluffed outward, and he hopped forward. “Listen bub, you need to understand that I am watching you and instead of mouth-eyes I have really good eye-eyes. And if I get one whiff, one inkling, that you are even trending in the direction of the last guy, I am going to be all over you like white on rice. And I may not have a whole line of stupidly sharp knives but I have talons, and I have a beak, and I am annoying as fuck when I want to be. You are going to be begging Lord Morpheus to unmake you again.”

Matthew was standing very close now, looking directly up at the Corinthian’s face. At least the asshole had stopped spinning the knife. “Do I make myself clear?” 

Was that… a flicker of hesitation? The faux charming smile was back, but Matthew was almost sure that it carried a hint of uncertainty. 

“You are very clear, good raven.”

Matthew jabbed a wing tip at him. “Good. Don’t forget it.” 

With a powerful flap of his wings, he took off and whooshed within inches of the Corinthian’s face as he flew past. He may have even knocked those stupid glasses askew. 

~ Elsewhere in the Dreaming ~

“I apologize.” Dream turned his awareness back to Hob Gadling. He brought their joined hands to his lips and kissed Hob’s knuckles. “I was distracted for a moment, it won’t happen again. What were you saying?” 

“Nothing important,” Hob gave him that bright, clear smile and gestured to the purple sand of the beach they were walking along. “Just admiring the scenery. I understand if you need to go take care of something.” 

Dream shook his head. “There is nothing that requires my attention at this time. My raven caught my notice without intending to.” 

“The used-to-be-a-human-but-died-and-became-your-bird-servant raven?”

“Yes. Matthew.” 

Hob looked around. “Is he here?” 

“No, he is elsewhere in the Dreaming. He became somewhat agitated in an attempt to protect me.” Dream found himself smiling. 

Hob squeezed his hand a little tighter. “If you need protecting, I’m not bad in a fight. You didn’t see all my skills in 1789.” 

Dream chuckled and kissed Hob’s knuckles again. “I am perfectly safe. There is a nightmare that threatened me in the past, and though it is no longer a threat, Matthew took it upon himself to give it a rather spirited warning. I strongly suspect he did not want me to know about it.” 

“Am I going to get to meet Matthew? I think I’m going to like him.” 

Dream turned to look at him, curiosity taking over. “You wish to meet my raven?”

“Sure. I mean, I’ve met Lucienne, if only briefly, and it sounds like Matthew is important to you. I would love to meet him. If that’s alright. And possible.”

“I shall consider this,” Dream said, gently touching Hob’s cheek. “But I am very pleased that you have asked.” He leaned in and kissed Hob’s smile. 

~~

So the prompt was this post (which may be a crow, we’re not sure but we’re also not picky) and while I started the story thinking that I was going to have Matthew pick up one of the knives, I think that would have made it goofier than I wanted. So I instead went with the ✨vibes✨ of Matthew wielding a knife. 

Also… foreshadowing? In my ficlet? It’s more likely than you think! 

Master post of all the Emotional Support Raven ficlets is here.

And I've started posting some of them on AO3 here.

[holden-caulfield]

The Distraction

main masterlist

REQUESTED: "Kaz brekker with a reader who is apart of the crows but she doesn't fight, she plays the violin and is used as a distraction during heist. And she's the complete opposite from kaz super sweet and nice. Maybe something goes wrong during a heist and she gets hurt."

SUMMARY: the reader is part of the crows and is used as the distraction during most heists, but when she gets injured she discovers something very interesting about kaz.

WARNINGS: blood and wounds mentions and descriptions.

WORD COUNT: 1846

"Everyone knows what they have to do?" asked Kaz to revise the plan once more.

"I stay in the shadows, watching over everyone and making sure nothing goes wrong." said Inej, checking all her knives.

"I escort Y/n inside and wait for the right moment to strike." said Jesper as if he was reciting more of a nursery rhyme than his part of the job.

"I distract." you said, simply shrugging your shoulders.

It wasn't the first time you had been it, the distraction. They said you played the violin, but you didn't just play it. You were one with the instrument, every melody that emitted from its strings was a spell and no one was immune. Every chord you played, every song you made, it enchanted everyone, it kept them glued to your agile hands, fabricating every single sound to allure and well, distract.

Kaz Brekker had found you, he had been lost in the music like everyone. No one was immune. His undeceivable mind momentarily stopped, enraptured by your fingers holding the instrument like the most valuable crystal glass. It was like watching a master at work and he knew he needed such an asset in his team.

Ever since then, you had worked with the crows, deceiving everyone they needed to with your talent. You didn't do the dirty deed, but you made sure it got done.

That night was no different: you got inside, Jesper by your side, both dressed with the most elegant clothes you could find. You smiled widely as you took your place at the center of the hall. You took out your weapon while they welcomed you with a soft round of applause, and then you began. Everyone had eyes only for you, everyone had ears only for you.

Jesper silently left his place and began roaming, but you focused only on your work. You played and you played, and you got lost in it. No one was immune, not even you.

It was only when you felt a sharp pain in your stomach that you stopped. Everyone was running around, the music had stopped and you realized you were bleeding. You let go of the violin, falling desperately to the ground, but you couldn't do anything for it as you clutched your side.

You didn't look down, you kept your eyes on the door. A swarm of men with rifles advancing on you. They were all hazy, undefined. They started falling one by one, scarlet strands filled your vision. Yet another man stepped closer to you, but no one stopped him. He was dressed in all black and black was the last thing you saw.

When you started seeing colours again, you weren't in the hall anymore, the violin wasn't by your side and you weren't dressed in your long scarlet gown. You were in a dark room, a tiny golden line was all the light you had and it came from a tiny opening in the window. You delicately touched your side and immediately retrieved your fingers as you ascertained that last night wasn't just a dream. You lifted your shirt slightly and saw stitches keeping the sides of the wound together. It hadn't been a dream, but it sure was a nightmare.

You tried getting up, sitting on the bed with the feet dangling on its side, and then the door opened: in entered a tall girl, brown locks on her shoulders and she was carrying what you supposed was food. You couldn't see it very well but the smell that invaded the room was obvious.

"What are you doing up?! Lay back again immediately!" she shrieked, settling the plate she had brought on the table beside your bed. She pushed you back down, uncovering your wound. "You aren't fully healed yet, you shouldn't be standing."

"Who are you?" you asked as you watched her hands hover over your stomach.

"I'm the one that saved your pretty face!"

"Thank you, then." she turned her gaze to you with shock on her face. You returned the confused look.

"When Kaz told me i had to help you, i thought you were a crow..." she pondered.

"I am. Y/n Y/l/n, pleasure to meet you." the girl shook your outstretched hand, still surprised.

"Nina Zenik, pleasure's all mine," she began, then turned her attention back to your stomach. "You don't look like a crow, what do you do?"

"I distract." you said simply, a déjà-vu, but noticed her look of suspicion, so you continued. "I play the violin and i distract whenever there's the need for a distraction." Nina scoffed lightly. "What?"

"It's just- Kaz doesn't need distractions." she claimed, and you started feeling a tingling sensation in you abdomen as she moved her hands over it.

"Well, sometimes during a job-"

"He has Jesper for that. He has demo for that." she admitted, a smile playing on her lips but you couldn't quite understand. "He doesn't need a violin."

"But he's the one who offered me the job, of course he needs it." you stated stubbornly. You weren't going to let some random girl tell you how useless you were.

"No, no, you got it wrong," she started. "Kaz doesn't need a distraction. He has plenty already." you were growing progressively more confused and irritated, but let her continue. "However..."

"However, what?" you asked.

"However i think he wanted a distraction." she said, flashing you a knowing smile.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," she twisted her hands on your abdomen and the wound was starting to disappear almost completely. "That Kaz Brekker is a very logical man, as you probably already know, and this isn't a logical decision. Why hire a distraction when he could simply ask Jesper or create one himself?"

You thought about it; you knew the crows had been together before you joined them and you knew they had worked together before but you always thought you made the whole process of stealing and deceiving easier with your abilities. Nina was now making you doubt that.

"I'll tell you why, because he wants a distraction, and, more specifically, you."

You widened your eyes as she got up from your side, the wound now a past memory, only a light scar was in its place. You lifted yourself from the bed, it still hurt but you had more pressing things on your mind now.

"What do you mean? Kaz hired me to work for him."

"That's what he tells you, but i think you are his first impulsive decision. Be proud of it, it doesn't happen often!" she winked at you but you were still confused. She sat down on the chair and started biting on one of the delicacies she had brought with her. "Want one?"

"No, thank you."

"Your loss." she said as she shifted the plate onto her lap.

"I think you're wrong." she lifted her gaze to look at you.

"Why's that?"

"I know Kaz and he does nothing without a reason."

"Oh you are right, but i think he had different reasons for hiring you." she said. "I think he might have a liking on you."

You laughed incredulously. Kaz Brekker would never.

"And i think you might be crazier than i expected."

"Then tell me, Y/n, why would such a logical man come check on his basic distraction every hour when he could simply find another one?"

You gulped. He checked on you every hour?

"Because no one does what i do like i do it." you shuddered at your words, you were speaking like him. "What i mean is, he would do it for everyone."

"I am quite sure he wouldn't check on Jesper every few minutes, he wouldn't pace around his office like a mad man if i were in your place." she said, eating the last of the waffles she had brought.

You thought about it a moment, then swatted the thought out of your mind. There was only a way to know for sure and it was to ask him directly.

"Do you know where he is now?" you asked, getting out of bed and going for the door.

"Where do you think he is?" she said inquisitively. You had a feeling you knew.

You thanked Nina and bid her goodbye, darting outside the room towards Kaz's office. You had been there sometimes, usually to discuss plans with him. You never made a big deal out of it but now Nina's words were reverberating in your mind. Maybe she was just messing with you, but maybe she wasn't and, however silly it sounded, you wanted to believe it was the latter possibility.

"Hey Y/n! Are you alright?" asked Jesper as he saw you running past him.

"Yes, have you seen Kaz?" you asked quickly.

"Should be upstairs, but why are you-"

"Thanks Jesper!" you didn't give him time to finish as you climbed the stairs.

You stopped in front of the door and knocked loud enough for him to hear you, thinking about what you could have said, thinking about his reaction. Would he have been happy to see you? Relieved? Impassive as always?

"Who is it?" came his rough voice from inside.

"Y/n." you said gingerly and you heard total silence.

"Come in." you opened the door and stepped inside. He was standing in front of the window, his shoulders to you. He didn't even turn around, maybe Nina was kidding and you fell for it like an idiot. "Do you need anything?"

"I-" you stopped yourself, what could you say? You just wanted to see him, see if he was scared for you, if he cared. "I thought you'd have wanted to see me..." you wanted to smack yourself in the face after that. He was Kaz Brekker, not some silly teenager in love.

He remained in silence, still in front of the window. It was late and the sun had already gone out.

"I am planning this new job and-"

"You don't need me for the job." you said it matter-of-factly.

Even though Nina might have been wrong about Kaz, you knew she wasn't wrong about you: you weren't vital for the plan and you had never been, so Kaz owed you at least an explanation. Especially after what happened the previous night, the job gone wrong.

"You are right, i don't." you weren't surprised by the answer he had given you, but what surprised you was that he admitted it so easily. "But i thought you'd want to be there when we get our revenge over those that did that to you."

You gaped at that, but he obviously couldn't see it. "We?"

"Yes. We." he repeated.

"Did you come checking on me?"

He craned his neck so that he was looking over his shoulder, looking at you. "Did Nina tell you?"

"Did you or not?"

"I did."

You paused for a moment. "Why?"

"Because you are one of us."

"Just one of us?" you insisted. You weren't sure whether you should have continued or not, but he couldn't leave you with such an answer. You needed a clearer one.

"No." he said, "Not just one of us."

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[tobesolonely]

apartment 41

hi y’all! this is my very VERY late submission for @meetmeinfleetwood​ ‘s “To Lovers” challenge (thank u miss sadie for even still accepting this LOL) but here is some good ol fashioned strangers to lovers with the line, “will you stay the night?” . :D enjoy everyone!

warnings: mentions of alcohol, intoxication, smut :)

word count: ~5.2k

my ko-fi! thank you :)

There were many things you loved about living on your own. You loved that your apartment was always clean. You loved that at the end of a long day, you could come back and brood in peace. You loved walking around in nothing but your underwear without the fear of anyone seeing you. You did things when you wanted, how you wanted. As a self-proclaimed introvert, there was nothing you loved more than living by yourself.

However, during slightly inconvenient moments like these, you wished you had someone else in the apartment with you.

You swore you’d been trying to get your favorite jar of pasta sauce open for at least the past ten minutes. It had been a long day at work, and at the moment all you wanted to do was heat the entire jar of sauce, boil a bunch of pasta, and call it a night. You were growing beyond frustrated–– you even contemplated just breaking the jar open. Ultimately, you decided against it lest you be met with a mouthful of glass.

Feeling defeated, you pick up your phone in frustration and hurriedly punch in your father’s number. The phone rings twice before he answers. “Hello? What’s up, hun?”

“Dad, what should I do if I can’t get this jar open? Like, it’s seriously glued shut,” you set it down on the counter probably a little too hard considering it was a glass jar. “I’m so hungry.”

“Did you try running it under hot water?”

You did.

“Hm. Try getting a good grip on it with a dish towel or something?”

Of course, you did.

“Well, I’m not driving over there just to open a jar for you,” your dad pauses. “You have neighbors, don’t you? Why don’t you knock on one of their doors?”

“Isn’t that weird?”

“No weirder than asking to borrow a cup of sugar.”

You thank your dad for the suggestion and hang up with him shortly after. He was right. You just needed someone to quickly open the jar for you and then you’d be back in your apartment, secluded from society until the next morning when you went into work. Besides, you’d been in your apartment for roughly three months now and you didn’t have a relationship with any of your neighbors. You figured now was as good a time as any to at least meet the person who lived directly across from you.

You slide on your slippers and clear the few steps it takes to reach your neighbor’s door. A faded ‘41’ was on their door, and a cheeky mat that read, ‘Did you call first?’ was at your feet.

You tried racking your brain for any memory of what your neighbor may look like, but you were drawing a blank. You were more to yourself than you initially thought you were and made a silent vow to become more social from this point on. You situate the jar of pasta sauce under your arm before placing two firm knocks against the door. Moments later, the door is flung open and you’re met with the smell of something delicious cooking, and a handsome, tall man donning a dirty apron.

“Hi, is everything alright?” he has a concerned look on his face as he looks over the top of your head and into your apartment.

“I— This is a little embarrassing,” you mumble, feeling your body grow warm. “I live by myself and I’ve been trying to get this jar of pasta sauce open for at least twenty minutes and I can’t. Do you think you can?”

His mouth slowly turns upwards into a smile before finally nodding, reaching out his hand to grab the jar of pasta sauce from you. “It’s pasta night at your place too, hmm?” His tongue is poked out of the corner of his mouth as he focuses on the task at hand.

“Yeah,” you reply. “I’m just gonna heat up the entire jar of sauce, boil some spaghetti noodles, and call it a night.”

The pop! of the jar causes you to jump slightly. “That doesn’t sound like very good pasta.”

You retrieve the pasta sauce from him, quietly thanking him. “It gets the job done.”

Your neighbor hums in agreement. “‘M sure it does. If you ever wanna taste some really good pasta though, y’know where I’ll be.”

“I do,” you nod. “Well, thank you again. I’ll let you go back to making your pasta sauce that is just way better than mine.”

He lets out a loud laugh. “I appreciate it. It wasn’t any problem at all, I’m here most evenings if you ever need help opening anything else, uh…” He trails off.

“Y/N.”

“Y/N. Beautiful name. I’m Harry, by the way.”

You look down at the dirty hallway carpet, a wide smile on your face. “Thank you, Harry. It was nice to finally meet you, by the way.”

“You too. Have a good night.”

You give him one more smile before turning on your heels and walking back inside your apartment, gently shutting the door. You quickly look out the peephole and catch him just as he’s closing his door, a dimpled-grin on his face.

It was Friday night when you finally got the chance to speak with him again. You were sitting on your kitchen stool nursing a glass of wine and waiting for your frozen pizza to heat in the oven when you heard someone coming down the hallway. As you had been doing all week since your interaction with Harry, you set your glass of wine down and shuffle over to your peephole, eyes scanning the small amount of hallway that was visible.

Harry comes into view seconds later, four overflowing bags of groceries precariously balanced along the length of his arms.

“Fuck.” You hear him mutter to himself. He attempts to reach in his pocket for his keys but once he realizes he can’t do so without setting at least one bag of groceries down, he lets out a loud huff in what you assume to be annoyance. You scuttle to your shoe rack and slip your shoes on before quickly flinging your door open.

“Hi! Need help?”

Harry jumps and you both watch as the contents of the bag he was getting ready to set down spill at his feet. “Now I do,” he’s already picking his groceries off the floor. “You scared the shit out of me. Also, were you watching me?”

Your face grows warm. “I heard someone coming down the hallway so I wanted to see who it was.”

“Oh, really?” Harry questions, pausing to look up at you. “You came out of your place so quickly, felt like I was bein’ watched or something.”

You know he’s teasing you but you can’t help but feel a little embarrassed that he caught onto what you were doing so quickly. Instead of dignifying his statement with an answer, you bend down and begin helping him pick up his spilled groceries. His hand grazes yours lightly as you both reach for a can of black beans, now slightly dented. It lingers for a moment before he retracts it to retrieve a different item. A quick, side-eyed glance reveals that his cheeks are tinged red.

“What are you making for dinner?” You ask him, standing up and dusting off the knees of your leggings.

“Uh, veggie chili. S’one of my favorites–– hey, is something burning?”

Your eyes widen and you abruptly turn away from Harry without so much as a goodbye, hurrying toward your kitchen that was starting to grow foggy from smoke produced by your oven. You were so preoccupied with helping Harry gather up his spilled groceries that you had totally forgotten you had a frozen pizza in the oven and if the smell was any indication of its current state, it was most likely inedible at this point.

Reaching for the oven mitt you kept next to the knives on the counter, you open the oven and fan the smoke out of your face, holding back a gag from the burnt smell. Your fire alarm immediately goes off once you open the oven and Harry appears a second later, a concerned look on his face. He looks around for your smoke detector and once he sees it he stands on his tiptoes to turn it off. You set your now blackened pizza on top of the oven and turn on the microwave fan. Harry’s already opening windows around your apartment, fanning the air with a throw pillow from your couch.

“Thanks,” you mumble, a wave of embarrassment washing over your body. You feared that Harry probably thought you were the most incompetent person on this planet–– first, you couldn’t get a jar open, and now here you are nearly setting your apartment on fire. “Guess I should’ve set a timer, huh?”

“Yeah, ‘spose you should’ve,” he replies. “It’s okay, though. ‘M about to get started on dinner, you can join me? If you’d like, that is. Maybe you’ll have a new recipe so you can stop eatin’ all this frozen shit.”

“Leave my frozen foods out of this,” you playfully scold him, crossing your arms over your chest. “Thank you for the invite though, that would be great, actually. I’m gonna get this cleaned up and then I’ll be right over?”

“Sounds good,” he neatly situates your pillow back on the couch. “I’ll see you in a bit, Y/N. Door will be unlocked.”

Once Harry’s gone, you move into action, quickly tossing the pizza into the trashcan before running to your bathroom. You try to remember if you brushed your teeth earlier that day but you can’t, so you brush them again just to be safe. You hastily examine yourself in the mirror before deciding you weren’t going to do anything more, not wanting to come off as trying too hard. You were almost one hundred percent certain Harry was just being neighborly–– nothing indicated that he found you attractive, so you didn’t want to make it too obvious that you found him to be the most stunning man you’ve ever seen in your life.

Locking your door, you clear the distance from your welcome mat to his in five steps flat, and take a deep breath before letting yourself in.

It didn’t take long for you to realize that Harry had more skill in the kitchen than an everyday home-chef did. He all but floated around the room, chopping with ease and finesse. The two of you had settled into a comfortable silence as he worked and you watched. Billy Joel played softly over his Bluetooth speaker, and he’d occasionally stop what he was doing to take a sip of his wine and look over his shoulder at you, almost as if he was checking if you were still there because you were being so quiet.

Your head was starting to grow fuzzy as you finished your third glass of wine that night, so you make the (responsible) decision to cut yourself off for the night. “Can I have a glass of water?”

“Course y’can,” he replies quietly, not stopping what he was doing. “Give me just a second and I’ll get ya––”

“Oh, I can get it myself. Just tell me where the cups are.”

Harry stops chopping and turns completely to face you, an amused look on his face. “You’re plastered, aren’t ya?”

“No? Why do you think that?”

Harry laughs. “You can’t hear yourself stumblin’ over your words, but I can. Jus’ stay right there and I’ll get your water. You want ice?”

“How do you know how to cook so well?”

“Culinary school,” he responds coolly. “Ice?”

You’re not sure if you are as drunk as Harry says you are, but you were currently finding the fact that Harry went to culinary school the coolest thing ever. “A chef? No way! What kind of chef?”

“I’m a Sous Chef. Gonna give ya a bit of ice.”

“I can’t believe I live across from a chef! No wonder you were giving me shit for eating canned pasta sauce,” you take the glass of water from Harry’s outstretched hand, thanking him. “Even your water tastes better than mine!”

“I think you’re just pissed, Y/N,” Harry responds, eyes crinkled from smiling. “Do y’like cooked carrots?” Your nose wrinkles in response to Harry’s question and he mutters something about how he’ll leave them out before turning back towards the stove to check on his food.

“How old are you, Harry?”

“Just turned twenty-seven. Yourself?”

“I’m twenty-four!” You exclaim, a little too excited. “Where are you from?”

He turns to look at you, eyebrow raised. “England. What gave it away?”

“Your accent.”

He hums, a small smirk on his lips. “Where are you from?”

“I’m from here. Just moved back home from my college town but didn’t wanna move back in with my parents, so here I am.”

“No roommates, you said?”

“Nope,” you pop the ‘p’, taking a big gulp of water. “You don’t either, do you? I just realized I haven’t heard or seen anyone else since I’ve been here.”

“I do not. I had a roommate when I first moved in but he ended up gettin’ engaged and moving in with his fiancée, so it’s just me for now. I think I like livin’ on my own better, though.” You watch as Harry reaches into his cabinet and retrieves two bowls and starts spooning your dinner into them. He sets the bowl in front of you and hands you a spoon, nodding at you to try it.

You bring a spoonful up to your mouth, blowing a few times before shoving it into your mouth. Your eyes widen at the amazing flavor that fills your mouth, and your eyes diverge to his. “This is incredible!”

Harry looks down at his bowl of food, a shy grin on his face. “Thanks, Y/N. Glad you like it.” He grabs his glass of wine from behind him and moves around to the other side of the island to sit next to you.

“Are you a vegetarian?” You ask, mouth full.

“Somewhat. I’m a pescatarian,” he shovels a spoonful of the chili into his mouth. “More wine?”

“I better not,” you reply, mind still fuzzy from all you’ve drunk throughout the night. “This is seriously so good, Harry. You’re cute, you can cook, you’re nice… you’re like, a triple threat!”

“Callin’ me cute?”

“C’mon, you know you are,” you answer boldly. “I’m just stating the obvious.”

“Thank you, Y/N,” he takes a sip of wine. “You’re a pretty big looker yourself.”

“Are you flirting with me?”

“You flirted with me first.”

“So what if I did?”

Harry lets out a quiet scoff, going back to eating his food. After a moment he says, “I wouldn’t mind.” You smile to yourself and continue eating, bringing the bowl up to your lips and tipping your head back so you could get every last drop of Harry’s veggie chili. He gets up to get another helping of food as you get up to place your bowl in the sink, lifting your sleeves to wash it.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says as he brushes past you, going back to where he was previously seated. “I’ll clean up later. Do y’want some dessert?”

“I think I will take some more wine,” you grab the bottle from the center of the island along with your glass, pouring a generous amount. “This is good. Nothing like the cheap bottles I get from Target.”

“I’m glad you like it. Thought I’d pull this one out tonight, always pairs well with dishes like this…” He trails off. “Anyway, yeah. Glad y’like it.”

You and Harry finish off the bottle of wine no more than thirty minutes later, having by now situated yourselves on his couch. He turned something onto the television (you think it was Iron Chef), but neither one of you were paying any attention to it. Harry was asking about what you studied in college, how you like your current career and your favorite things to do in your free time. You were asking him about England, his family back home, and why he chose to go to culinary school.

He has a way about him that captivates you— just completely pulls you in— and you never want to stop listening to him speak. Harry leans close to you when you talk, almost as if you’re telling him a secret that he doesn’t want to miss out on.

“I think ‘m jus’ as drunk as you are now,” Harry whispers, letting out an adorable giggle. “Goin’ into work tomorrow is gonna be a proper pain.”

“No one told you to try and outdrink me!” You yell, tucking your knees under your bottom. “Now we’re both drunk, what good does that do?”

“Think it’s more fun this way, don’t you?” Harry lets out a little burp, his face flushing. “Wanna help me clean the kitchen?”

“What happened to cleaning it later?” You stand up from the couch, wobbling slightly before catching your balance.

“Well, I didn’t think we’d get drunk off our arses and sit here talkin’ til one in the mornin’, did you?” He stands up as well, his hand moving to rest on the small of your back as he scooches past you.

“There’s no way it’s that late,” you retort, checking the time on your phone. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to overextend my stay. I’ll help you clean this place up and then get going.”

Harry swats a hand in front of his face, shaking his head. “Overextend your stay? Of course y’didn’t, more than happy to have you here. Do you wanna wash or dry?”

“I’ll wash since I don’t know where anything goes.” You move to the sink and roll up your sleeves, moving the small number of dishes in the sink all to one side so you can fill the other side with water. Silence falls over you again as you clean the dishes from dinner and soon enough you’re done, drying your hands on your t-shirt.

“Thank you, Y/N. We make a good team, huh? Got that done quickly, didn’t we?” He folds the dishtowel in half neatly and hangs it over the handle of his oven.

“Yeah,” you yawn, slipping on your shoes that had been discarded earlier in the night by the door. “I’ll get out your hair and let you get to bed, then. Thank you for having me over and for cooking that delicious dinner, I enjoyed it. I owe you.”

“If it’s frozen food, don’t worry about it,” he jokes, moving to open the door for you. “If you want to cook me something, though…”

“How about I take you out for dinner? I stay out of the kitchen, and you’ll get something edible and halfway decent. A win-win?”

Harry laughs. “‘M lookin’ forward to it. Goodnight, Y/N.”

“I couldn’t decide between Italian or sushi but since you’re a pescetarian, I figured sushi was our best bet.”

Harry looks away from the menu and at you, clearing his throat before speaking. “That was really thoughtful. Surprised you remembered considering how loaded you were.”

“For the last time, I was not that drunk,” you defend yourself, gently kicking his calf from underneath the table. “By the end of the night, you had way more than me!”

“Maybe so,” he replies nonchalantly, looking back at the menu. “Let’s not forget who can handle their alcohol better, though.”

You let out an indignant hmph, and get to scouring the menu yourself. You didn’t eat sushi very often so you figured you’d probably just get whatever Harry got.

“Let’s do sake bombs.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Sake bombs? Are you tryin’ to get me drunk again?”

“They’re fun! Just one?”

Harry shakes his head at you and grins before waving over the waitress, asking her politely for two sake bombs. She comes back a few minutes later with the alcohol and chopsticks balanced precariously on a tray, setting them in front of you and Harry respectively.

The waitress stands back and says, “Ichi… ni… san… sake bomb!” The two of you pound the table until your shot glasses fall into the cup and then you throw your heads back, chugging down the cocktail. When you finally finish chugging your drink and look back up at Harry, he’s staring at his watch as if he’s been waiting for you to finish for ages.

“Oh, you’re finally done? I was startin’ to grow old,” he teases, taking a sip of his water. “Do you know what you wanna order?”

“You’re annoying,” you reply, narrowing your eyes at him. “But I’m gonna get whatever you get.”

“Really? You don’t have any preferences?”

You shake your head. “I don’t eat sushi very often so I honestly don’t know what I should get. I’ll try anything, though.”

“You really did pick this place just for me, didn’t you?” He has a teasing tone to his voice, but his gaze has softened.

“I told you I owed you, didn’t I?”

At this, Harry just gives you a small smirk and signals the waitress over once again to order for the both of you. While you wait for your food to come, you fall into easy conversation with Harry again. It seems like you can talk about anything under the sun with him–– no topic was off-limits, and nothing was awkward. He had to have been one of the most interesting people you’ve ever met in your life. He was well-traveled, knew several languages, and loved to sing and write music in his spare time. Although you felt your own life was rather boring in comparison to his, he made you feel just as accomplished and interesting as he was.

“That was good,” he tells you after you’ve both finished eating, wiping his mouth with his napkin and slouching in his chair slightly. “Think ‘m gonna need to unbutton my pants here in a second.”

“Me too,” you answer with a laugh, making eye contact with the waitress. You mouth, ‘check, please’ and she nods, reappearing at your table with the check. As you’re digging in your purse to pull out your wallet, Harry reaches over and grabs the check before you can even look at it. He reaches in his pants pocket for his wallet and slides his card in before you’ve even looked back up.

“What are you doing?” Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Did you forget that I’m the one that owes you?” He shrugs.

“You can make it up to me another way. Don’t worry about it,” his voice is low and gravelly. The waitress comes back to collect the check from Harry and after he receives his receipt, he reaches into his wallet to place a cash tip for her on the table. “Ready to get home?”

Home. You know he only worded it that way because you live directly across from him, but you would like going “home home” with Harry, at least for tonight. There was no denying the sexual tension between the two of you was electric–– anyone who was paying attention to the two of you could probably sense it. You wordlessly nod and follow Harry out of the restaurant, intertwining your fingers with his when he holds his hand back for you to grab.

He stands on the curb and expertly hauls a cab, opening the door and gesturing your in ahead of him. Harry’s hand moves to rest on your leg as he makes small-talk with the taxi driver, asking him if he was having a busy night and how much longer he thought he’d be out for. Harry pays the cab fare and wishes the driver a good rest of his night before all but dragging you out of the taxi.

“What’s got you in such a rush?” You ask Harry, a teasing

“Oh? Did I misread the situation? I thought–– this is embarrassing, never mind…” his tight grip loosens on your hand but you pull him back into you, laughing at how adorable he was.

“Harry! I’m joking, I know what’s going on,” you rub your thumb across the top of his. “I was just messing with you.” You see him visibly let out a sigh of relief.

“Don’t mess with me like that, Y/N!” You’re still standing outside of your apartment complex in the dark, as close to one another as you can be without completely melting into each other. He releases his hand from your tight grip and places it gently on your face instead. “Is it okay if I kiss you?”

“Please,” you reply breathlessly, standing on your toes. Harry cranes his neck to meet your lips and presses them to yours softly, pulling back only when the both of you are near gasping for air.

“Was that nice?” He asks, thumb caressing your face. Your noses are pressed together and you just nod, still too breathless to speak. “Maybe we can take this inside, then?”

Once inside Harry’s apartment, he nearly rips off the new shirt you bought specifically for your date with him, discarding it by his door.

“Careful with that,” you mutter, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I just got that today. Tag is still onnit.”

You feel Harry laugh into the side of your neck, walking your backward towards his couch. “I’ll cover the cost if it’s ruined then, how’s tha’?”

Harry sucks harshly on your neck, causing you to let out a low moan. “I guess that’s fine.”

“That’s fine?” Harry mocks you, guiding you onto the coach. You hum in agreement as you sink further down into the couch, letting out a sigh of bliss as he peppered kisses along your breast.

Your movements are needy— desperate. Neither one of you were trying to hide how badly you wanted to fuck the other. Harry smashing his lips onto yours once more, his breath warm and tongue salty from all the sushi he had earlier consumed. He attempts to pull his own shirt from his body while not breaking the kiss, and you let out a satisfied hum when he succeeds. Now you’re both shirtless and the only thing stopping you from fucking each other proper is being still fully clothed on your bottom halves.

“Can we get these off?” You ask, tugging at your own bottoms. Harry helps you pull down your tight jeans, struggling slightly to get them off your sweaty legs. Once your jeans are off your underwear follows immediately after, carelessly strewn around the room like the rest of your clothing.

“Y/N…” Harry hungrily takes the sight of your body in, eyes darkening with lust. “You might be the death of me, did ya know that?”

“I do now.”

He sucks on his index and middle fingers and lowers them down to your core, slipping them inside you with ease. You hadn’t realized how wet you were until Harry was knuckles deep, curling his fingers tantalizingly slow inside of you. “Do ya?”

You bite down hard on your lip, nodding at Harry’s rhetorical question. “Obviously.”

He flips the two of you over, so that you’re now straddling him and he’s laying below you. “Take what you want, then–– oh wait, condom?” You nod and move as Harry digs around in his pants, pulling out his wallet.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys that keeps a condom in their wallet.”

He rips it open with his teeth in one swift motion and unbuckles his pants, giving himself a couple of quick strokes before sliding it on. “What if I am? Was quick and effective, wasn’t it?” He rests his hands on your hips and pulls you back on top of him, connecting his lips with yours again. “Now you can take what you want.”

Your hands move up to grip Harry’s shoulders as you slowly sink onto him, wincing at the stretch and burn an unfamiliar partner sometimes brings. You make eye contact with Harry as you take a moment to adjust to his size, noting how his grip on your hips gets even tighter.

“S’big,” you mutter, rolling your hips slightly. Below you, Harry squeezes his eyes shut. “So big.”

“Tell me how badly you want it.”

“You already know. Don’t feel like being teased.”

Harry juts his hips up to meet you slamming down onto him, groaning out loudly from the pleasure the added motion brings. At one point he situates himself so he’s sitting straight up, using his left hand as a support for him to rest back on while his right hand is tweaking at your nipples. He’s letting out a slew of curse words, letting you know it felt just as good for him as it did for you.

“Ridin’ m’cock so good,” he says under his breath, bringing the hand that was playing with your nipples to rest in between your legs. Whenever you slam back onto him you feel him not only deep in the pit of your stomach but also on your clit, bringing you maximum pleasure. “Don’t be so quiet, let me know when ‘m makin’ you feel good, love.”

“I’m already close,” you admit, feeling a bit embarrassed at how it took Harry doing next to nothing to work an orgasm out of you. Well, not literally–– but it felt like it. “Feel s’good inside me, you’re so big.”

Harry lets out a low moan from your words, throwing his head back in pleasure. It hits the arm of his couch with a quiet thump but his pace doesn’t falter in the slightest. “You’re gonna make me cum if ya keep strokin’ my ego like that.”

“You asked for it,” you reply, changing your move from riding to grinding as you were starting to grow fatigued. “I’m close.” You remove your hands from his shoulders and let them roam the expanse of your body, wanting nothing more than to receive maximum pleasure.

“Can feel ya squeezin’ ‘round me,” Harry says, taking his lip in between his teeth. “Know you’re about to come, pet.”

"Harry..." you warn, your movements growing more desperate and sloppy. You weren't normally a selfish lover but your head was so clouded from pleasure, all you could think about at the moment was your release. Harry leans his head back on the couch again and now uses his two free hands to bring you to orgasm–– one is rubbing circles on your clit and the other one is gripping at your breasts as you use your last bit of strength to swivel your hips on him.

You're coming undone not ten seconds later, loudly moaning out the man's name who laid under you. You don't slow your movements, knowing he was right behind you.

"Y/N, fuck, 'm gonna come-" he lets out a low, guttural moan, coming immediately after announcing it.

The sounds of you trying to steady your breathing are the only sounds that fills the room as you both come down from your respective highs. Harry runs his hands along your bare body, eyes hooded from the orgasm that just wracked his body. As you’re beginning to uncurl yourself from Harry, he grabs your hand, pulling you back down.

“Will you stay the night?”

You didn’t know what sleeping with Harry meant for your relationship going forward, but you were glad you knocked on Apartment 41. 

[tiredassmage]

Hyroh. “Very well.” Easy enough to commit to memory; Theron used names. It was… human of him. And the Jedi’s name was plastered just about everywhere the Republic could place it; he’d barely had to spend any time at all digging through the holonet for that much.

Yes, Lana had asked him for a profile on each of their potential allies. He might’ve even made it as far as Carrick Station, but what the SIS spy didn’t know about how he’d gotten Lana and him connected on Manaan wasn’t going to hurt him so long as they moved on. It still felt better than Lana admitting the Republic spy’s mental defenses were impressive. The idea of anyone probing around up there still sent an unsettling crawl down Nine’s spine. Hard glares when he’d first started working with the Sith seemed to have been enough to discourage her from trying to glean anything from him that wasn’t proffered to her in his records.

So, yes, Nine was quite content to leave Force-order titles well behind them. It’d make him feel less like he was back on Dromund Kaas playing a constantly-shifting game of Dejarik with unpredictable Dark Lords to forego titles.

Idly, the former Cipher wondered what that said of his own clinging to one. Idle musings for another time. Lokin would surely have some analysis on the matter, the old bastard.

Anyway, if Theron trusted this Jedi, Tyr was willing to, for now.

“Precisely,” Nine gave to his assessment. “And from what little we’ve managed to glean thus far, the Blades are more of a proxy. They’ll make a convenient scapegoat if anything blows up in their face. The locals won’t think anything of it.” And the Revanites needed their supplies from somewhere.

“The Blades essentially run Raider’s Cove and their leader has the ego to match.” Nine’s smile widened and he shrugged one shoulder in way of modest apology. “Not my idea, mind. Feels a little overdone, but… It will make a good story for a crew looking to expand their territory. And one with enough brass to take the fight to Margok’s doorstep - their leader.”

They wouldn’t quite be rushing directly to the top, even if Nine could’ve taken out the bastard with a sniper shot even in the Cove, given the chance. It’d draw the wrong kind of attention. They needed a story that would stick as much as the Revanites did.

He frowned thoughtfully as he listened to Hyroh through the door. “Theron’s hoping to make a run on their data eventually, see what we can get direct from the source. If nothing else, I imagine it keeps everyone distracted.” He drew a hand across his jaw, fingers dragging against stubble that was slightly longer than he generally preferred. The close shave, clean-cut look was too starkly military out here. It turned too many eyes even with a convincing Mid-Rim drawl. “And they’ve been after both sides, according to our reports. Normally, I’d say it takes brass to harass the Imperial Navy so directly, but… they’re the top dogs here. They take the largest cuts. Whatever Revan’s plans are, they’re certainly no homegrown-level scare. It could be resources, it could be a distraction to disguise where he really wants to strike…” And there was a lot of cover here, yet. Plenty of places the Revanites could’ve slipped into the trees and remained hidden.

He’d run into some of Revan’s remnants before - the early incarnation of these Revanites in the Kaasian jungles and, supposedly, some of the existing technology on Nar Shadaa. He couldn’t claim to be half a history expert as much as he supposed most Sith were on their Force-related matters, but it seemed Revan never had done things by halves by a couple thousand parsecs.

Nine passed the time in silence going over concealed weapons. The blaster at his hip was loud and obvious enough - more people in Raider’s Cove carried than didn’t, and as a to-be enforcer for the Red Hulls, subtlety wasn’t the exact goal. But a Cipher never relied on just one weapon. A set of throwing knives and a backup blaster hid comfortably underneath the leather jacket hung over a fit dark shirt - a bit killer in the heat, but better for not showing stains. He’d swindled a few poor sods at the cantina out of their credit allowances with the former. Outlaw covers were always a bit refreshing like that.

He pushed off from the wall as he heard the lock slip back open to Hyroh’s room. The Jedi had just shy of half a foot on him, so it’s rather by accident that Tyr’s eyes land on chest before all else as he stepped back out of the room.

He’d certainly understood the assignment though. Nine’s critical eye kicked back in, head tilting slightly to the side as he took in the man as a whole. A touch of extravagance in the buckles, power in the hug of the boots, free-fit to accommodate for the Rishi heat… It framed him well.

A smile flickered back across the Cipher’s lips as he gave an approving nod. “Like a powerful captain that’s ready to boast of single-handedly besting the best Raider’s Cove has to offer,” he said.

“What say drinks are on me for the evening, Captain? Considering you’ve already made a fine showing at the Blaster’s Path, I reckon we might need to find another bolthole to ease you in. I think letting the locals talk for a day or two before we start enacting plans will only bolster your reputation. And it gives me time to give you a lay of the land around here.”

RISHI ;; closed rp tag for @jupitcrising

There’s a lot of traffic in and out of the outlaw haven: ranging from smaller shuttles to larger cargo frigates transporting any number of illicit goods - everything from people to spice and probably a few things even the former Cipher hadn’t considered. Tyr wiped an arm across his brow and took up his canteen again, taking a long drink before throwing some of the barely-cool water back over his neck, dampening the bandana loosely draped around it.

He’d been eyeing traffic for roughly the past three days. After several months in careful exile, evading Imperial and Republic eyes while putting their noses to the trail of the Revanites, the trio had finally agreed it was time to move. Tyr suspected they wouldn’t much longer have the luxury of time - as illusionary as it’d been from the start.

But the roar of engines overhead dragged him back out of his thoughts. Shading his eyes from the glare of the sun with a hand, a different silhouette, finally, caught his attention. Not nearly as sleek as the Phantom - then again, few things were. His eyes narrowed slightly and he raised the macrobinoculars at his side to zone in on the incoming ship.

“Theron?” Tyr touched a hand to his commlink. The ship was coming in for a landing down at one of the free local docks across the bridge.

“Go ahead.”

“Defender-class Light Corvette?”

“Should be the one, yeah.”

“Good. I’ve got a visual.” Tyr lowered the macrobinoculars, stashing them away and making ready to abandon his perch in a quiet old shopfront in Rishi’s upper levels. “Tell Lana to make ready. It’s time.”

Keep reading

[cuttinqlines]

IN THE MIDNIGHT HOUR II

                             IN THE MIDNIGHT HOUR II

(richard ramirez [ahs 1984] x reader | mainly implied xavier plympton x reader)

trigger warning; drug use, toxic relationships, mentions of abuse, toxic characters, xavier is portrayed as a major piece of shit for the first few installments, glorification of a serial killer, knives, etc.

disclaimer: i do not support the real richard ramirez in any way, shape, or form. this is simply based on the fictional version from ahs 1984. no disrespect is intended in any way. please, feel free to click off of the fic if you don’t enjoy this type of content. any hate will be ignored.

word count: 2,467

a/n: sorry this took so long. im a depressed piece of shit lmao. 

taglist: @kuollut-talven @felicityofbakerstreet @bitchcraft1398 

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IT HAD ONLY been a few days since your run-in with the self-proclaimed ‘Night Stalker’ yet it felt like years had passed. The memory of the event was constantly running through your mind, seeming to occupy your every thought. It was as if your mind was filled only with visions of dark hair and piercing dark eyes. It had gotten to the point where it was consuming you, distracting you from anything that wasn’t the thought of him. It was impossible to focus. You weren’t exactly sure that you wanted to. The part of you that desperately longed for the dark stranger to reappear and tear you away from your dilapidating life was overtaking you. You had almost wished that you would have given in to his demands that night. Almost. Something had been holding you back that night and something- someone- was still holding you back, tethering you to the place you had grown to despise.

Letting out a sigh, you stared at yourself in front of the bathroom mirror, attempting to shake away the thoughts that continuously plagued you. The ghost of a bruise still showed underneath your eye, barely noticeable with the makeup that you had delicately applied over it. You looked better than you had in the days before, but you still weren’t keen on leaving the confines of the four walls of your bedroom, let alone your apartment. You hadn’t left the house since that night. You were sure everyone thought that you were spiraling- He had probably twisted the story into that narrative. You turned away from the mirror, leaning against the base of the sink. It was time to face the situation at hand. You could already feel the silent judgment of Montana. She had told you so.  “Fuck.”

It shouldn’t have mattered that much to you- what everyone thought. It’s not like they had too much room to judge. They were your friends, sort of, but they didn’t rule you. They weren’t the end all be all. Still, you couldn’t help but feel nervous at the thought of facing them. It had been days of voicemails, knocks on the door, and missed phone calls. You had gone ghost. They wouldn’t have expected anything else, though. It wasn’t unlike you to disappear. You were used to disappointing everyone. 

After a few more minutes of anxiety and deliberation, you laid out a pretty white line, snorted it down, and got ready to head out the door. At the very least, you could show up to aerobics and casually run into everyone. By the time you got there, you were sure you could figure out how to gloss over all of the problems that kept on appearing. 

****

The Aerobics studio hadn’t changed much in your week of absence. The faces of the instructors were still plastered on the walls, yours still included much to your surprise. The chairs strategically placed throughout the lobby were occupied by young adults, laughing at something one of them had said. The ambiance was peaceful and you suddenly wished that you would have shown up for work in the last week. The thought quickly diminished as you thought back to the bruise that had been occupying your face. There was no way you would have shown up with that. You wouldn’t have given him the satisfaction. Stepping up to the front desk, you leaned against the counter lazily. 

“Hi. Do you have any classes with vacant spaces open for today, Janice?” You asked the receptionist a bit awkwardly, looking at the wall behind her as you spoke.

The woman looked up, purposefully making direct eye contact. She looked you up and down, judgement written all over her face.  “Yes. The instructor position for the class you teach at 6:30, (Y/N). If you want to keep your job, I suggest you get prepared for it and go teach it.” 

You couldn’t help but cringe at her tone. The attitude dripped off of it like poison. Truth be told, you had thought that you had already been fired. That is generally what happens after you drop off of the face of the planet for a week. “Right- I’ll just go ahead and get set up to start, then. Thank you.”

“You’re lucky that you showed up today. You’re really pushing it with your delinquent behavior. Shape up or ship out, sweetheart. This is the last time you’re getting exceptions. You’re really lucky that Montana covered your classes for the week. Now, get moving. It’s 6:20. Studio 3.”

Janice hardly gave you time to react, as she stood up and began to push you towards the direction of the studio. Her cold touch caused an unpleasant shiver to shoot through your spine. Your mind instantly drifted to your unwelcome house guest, though the shiver he gave you was not exactly unpleasant- You mentally scolded yourself for obsessing over the ‘Night Stalker’, before practically bursting into the studio. 

It felt as if a million eyes landed on you from the moment you opened the door. The never-ending stares seemed to burn holes into your skin. One pair of eyes, in particular, seemed to stare the deepest. Xavier. You flickered your gaze to meet his, the other people in the room disappearing into a sort of tunnel that consumed the sides of your vision. Your heart caught in your chest. You wanted to tear your eyes away, but there was something stopping you. Something about Xavier always seemed to hold you back. His gaze was pleading, an apology seeming to spill out of it. 

 “(Y/N)! I thought you were going to be out for a while! Xavier said that you were like super sick or something.” Montana’s voice rang out, casually. “So happy you’re here though. Teaching this class has been such a drag.”

At the sound of the young woman’s voice, your head instinctively jerked towards it. You plastered a pained smile onto your face. “Yeah- thanks for covering for me, Montana. I seriously owe you one. Being sick was a major drag. Probably worse than teaching this class of Cyndi Lauper obsessed boys.” 

The blonde let out a laugh. “Well, since you’re back, I’ll let you take this one. And maybe take your man out when you’re done. He’s been such a buzzkill lately.” 

Montana gave you a wink, patting your shoulder affectionately. With a final wave to you and Xavier, she slipped out the door and disappeared down the hall with a flash of blonde hair. Not wanting to waste any more time, or give Xavier the chance to talk to you, you flicked the boom box on and let the sound of Billy Idol’s voice fill the room. 

****

The entirety of the class went by uneventfully. Billy Idol’s soothing tone seemed to temporarily soother your anxiety, making it easier for you to ignore the pained glances that were becoming more and more inescapable. You left the music on as the class drew to a close, turning the volume down to a soft, but audible hum. You didn’t bother to look as everyone made their way to the door. Instead, you moved towards the front of the room, letting yourself face the large windows that looked out towards the city. 

You watched as people leaving the last few classes of the evening walked down the sidewalk, off into the night. Some faces were familiar, regulars that always seemed to be in aerobics class. Other faces, unfamiliar and new. They all seemed so happy, as if their lives were perfect. You wished that you could get a taste of that feeling. You continued to admire the citizens of Los Angeles, lost in your thoughts. Then, in a sudden flash, there was a single face that stuck out in the crowd. Unmistakable dark hair and piercing eyes that could have belonged only to the face that you could never forget. You locked eyes with the man, causing a sinister smile to appear on his face. He moved closer to the building. Your heart skipped a beat. He was headed towards the door. Your eyes were still locked with his, nothing could-

“(Y/N)... Can we talk about what happened the other night? Please… I didn’t mean for it to go so far.” Xavier’s voice hit your ears, soft and pleading. 

You broke away from the ‘Night Stalker’s’ gaze, slowly turning to face the man that you had once felt so strongly for. You leaned against the windows behind you, pressing your nearly bare back against the cool glass. Xavier took a few steps closer, leaving only a few inches between your faces. You couldn’t help but flinch as he reached out to tenderly touch your face. Hurt flashed across his face briefly, but his hand still gently came into contact with your soft skin. You let your eyes flutter closed and sucked in a sharp breath. “I- I can’t do this,” you whispered, hot tears pricking in the inner corner of your eyes. So many different emotions were running through your body. The urge to run away from him had never been so heightened. 

He grazed his thumb gingerly across your jawline, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m so sorry, Please. I just wanted it so badly and I thought that was the only way. And I didn’t want anyone to find out. The way you looked at me when you did- I lost it. I thought you would tell everyone. I thought you would leave me. I’m so sorry.” 

You had yet to respond to him when a cutting voice interrupted the scene unfolding before you. “Well, well, well. What do we have here?” The deep voice questioned, sinister laughter etched into his tone. 

“N-?” You began, eyes flickering open. You met the dark haired man’s eyes, looking directly past Xavier. He was already staring at you intensely, the usual smirk plastered on his face. 

“Richard.” He corrected, moving his eyes from you to the other man in your company. Xavier had moved away from you by this point, looking at Richard with a suspicious glare. Richard simply continued to smirk at him, looking more and more devilish as time passed. “My little angel, didn’t expect to see you so soon. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Okay. Who the fuck are you?” Xavier demanded, his hand wrapping around your forearm in a protective manner. You instinctively recoiled to his touch. You shifted your weight from one foot to another, watching as the two began to go back and forth. 

“I’m the devil’s favorite prodigy. It’s more like ‘who the fuck are you?’” The other man taunted. His eyes locked on the contact point of yours and Xavier’s skin. An unreadable emotion flashed across his face, but was quickly replaced with his usual infuriating smirk. “I’ve decided I’m here to collect her. Truth be told, it wasn’t originally in my master and I’s plan, but it seems like I stumbled in at the perfect time, with you harassing my girl.”

“Your-? (Y/N), are you fucking this guy? We get into one fight and you’re off giving it out to this creep?” The blonde questioned, his tone demanding and incredulous. His voice rose with every word that he spoke. He was red in the face by this point. You could tell by the clench in his jaw and the way his hand tightened around you that he was angry. The smug expression of Richard definitely wasn’t helping his reaction either.

You tried to ignore the fear that had begun to creep into the back of your mind, your mind flashing back to his closed fist accidentally ramming into your face. You looked up at him with your tear stained face. Words were failing you. You didn’t exactly want to say that Richard had broken into your house, pinned you against a wall, and sparked something inside of you that made you feel so many fucked up things. Was it really more fucked up than what you felt about Xavier after everything that he had done? You weren’t so sure any more. Xavier seemed to take your silence and lack of denial as a ‘yes’ to his questions. Disgust took over his face, his hand tossing your arm away as if it had suddenly turned into some sort of cursed object. 

He scoffed at you, shoving you away from his body. “I can’t believe you would do this to me. Maybe you deserved that.” He spat out venomously, angrily gesturing to the hardly hidden  bruise underneath your eye. 

You flinched as his hand raised. Something seemed to click into place for the dark haired man as he watched the two of you, your reaction triggering the darkest part of him. You hardly had time to react further, before Richard was in front of you. His left arm pressed back against your body, gently shoving you behind him. His right hand was adorned with his blade, ready to slash at the man before him. “You did that to her? For your sake, I hope you say no. I’d hate to have to kill you right here. It would really throw a wrench into the master’s plans and we both hate that.”

Your hand reached out slowly, tugging on the edge of this sleeve, beckoning his eyes to meet your eyes. He complied, looking over his shoulder quickly. You shook your head at him, a silent plea for him to drop it. He was already acting psychotic enough to have the police called on him and you were sure that would be the last thing that he wanted. He looked back to Xavier, who was staring at him incredulously. “Get the fuck out of here or die,” The dark haired man spat out.

Xavier gave you a pointed look, before shoving past the both of you and storming out of the studio. You knew he would show up at your apartment later, demanding explanations for the psychotic interaction that just went down. You would figure out a way to avoid that later. For now, your full attention was on Richard. He turned towards you, dark eyes studying the every feature on your face. His hand hovered over the side of your neck, before gently pushing your hair to the side. His fingers softly trailed down the side of your throat, traveling down your chest. Like a phantom, they grazed the length of your body, sending a shiver down your spine. Your heart skipped a beat in your chest. You softly bit down on your bottom lip, eyes staring straight into his. “You’re mine now, little angel. I’ll kill for you. I’ll die for you. But you have to be mine forever- That’s the catch. Will you sell your soul to the devil?”

“I will.”

[beyondspaceandstars]

While You Sleep

Chapter 4

Relationship: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: angst, mention of violence, slow burn Summary: Soulmate!AU - Throughout life, you’re given glimpses of your soulmate through dreams. As you sleep, memories flash in your mind showing you the life your soulmate has lived. Everyone around you raves about how their soulmate reads great books or volunteers in their spare time. But you can’t relate as your dreams end up being more like nightmares. Through initial images of death and violence, you come to learn your soulmate is the Winter Soldier. 

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Hope was surprisingly actually kept alive as suddenly you were seeing the blonde-haired super soldier every morning. Sometimes even in the afternoon. While his order never changed -- quite the man with a plan as he certainly liked to stick to a routine -- he became much more talkative. 

It started out as the littlest things. Steve would bid you a good morning or ask you about some breaking news he saw the other day. You entertained the chit-chat quite well in between orders. Steve had practically taken over the seat at the bar, the same one you had offered him that one nerve-wracking day.

Wondering what he would ask you about each day certainly helped to keep your mind off things. Granted, it didn’t totally block out the fact you were speaking to your soulmate’s best friend, but the conversations mixed with that tinge of hope sure did keep thought about the nightmares at bay. 

Nothing was exactly progressing or regressing with the nightmares. They were at a sort of standstill in your mind. They were filled with violence but still were of older times, decades ago. The emotions, though, were not letting up. If you didn’t wake up with vivid imagery of knives being flung and guns being loaded, you sure did wake up with a roller coaster of feelings rushing through you. 

But what was felt from your soulmate didn’t exactly align with what the nightmares told. The small glimpses of Bucky’s eyes as the Winter Soldier wasn’t filled with… anger, sadness, regret. They were just… eyes. They held little to nothing outside of stoic determination. If lines were getting crossed, you weren’t sure. You still walked around feeling like a freakshow on display despite the fact no one, especially your coworker who had seen you initially crash and burn, ever asked you about the soulmate “dreams.”

Well, that was until Steve started getting more comfortable at the coffee shop.

One afternoon, he had apparently decided to get bold. He was lounging at the little bar area and you could feel his eyes watching you clean up some syrup bottles. 

Steve broke the silence, asking you something that he typically always did: “How are you?”

You shrugged with your back still facing him. “I’m doing okay, Steve. How are you?”

“No,” he let out an awkward cough. Your brows furrowed as you turned to him, abandoning your task. “How are you?” He asked with such a pointed look that your heart sank. 

You fumbled with the rag you were still holding, trying to look anywhere but at Steve -- but his demanding presence didn’t allow for it.

“If I’m being honest, not much is getting better,” you admitted. “I still see things, sure, but it's really about the feelings I get. They are so strong but I don’t know how. The dreams are like old memories or something, I’m not sure anymore.”

Steve nodded then looked down at his lukewarm coffee. You didn’t know how he didn’t get tired of that stuff, but you were past thinking he actually came in for the coffee anymore. 

“Thought they would’ve lightened up by now,” Steve eventually said. Your eyes shot to him. Every other word out of this man’s mouth seemed to stun you. You were nearly convinced he knew everything.

You wanted to tread on this, but carefully. 

“Why…” you sighed. “Why do you say that?”

“Hmm?” Steve hummed as if he didn’t hear your question. Your eyes narrowed in confusion. 

“I asked, why do you say that?”

He looked away, this time at the lines of syrup bottles behind you. He seemed lost in thought, his eyes shining with concern. Maybe he just needed that push and you wanted him to confirm… something, anything. 

Steve snapped back to you suddenly. “Just thought since it’s been a few weeks it’d be better.”

You looked to the ceiling, taking a deep breath. “Steve, do you-,” 

You were abruptly cut off by Steve getting up and placing his empty coffee mug on the counter. “Thanks for the coffee.” That was his final parting words for the day before he walked out of the shop, leaving you standing there confused and annoyed. 

But this wasn’t going to be over. Especially not after you went home that night, settled into bed, and gave into the nightmares. While still past memories, they were only a few years old. And featured Steve. Flashed of a bruised, tragic-looking Captain America played out quickly. The feelings washing over you were those of strong love but even stronger regret. Everything pounded in you as the nightmares played, coming in a weird kaleidoscope of clips. The hurt you felt was overwhelming. But there was also just so much… Worry. Fear. Your soulmate was afraid. Afraid of what exactly, you didn’t know, but he was consumed. 

You woke up in the early morning hours, heart pounding, feeling raw from that nightmare. Everything felt powerful like the final straw was snapped in you. You needed stuff to lessen and, supposedly, that could come with actually meeting your soulmate. You didn’t know the logistics of it all, people had been so vague as they preferred to fawn over and treasure the initial dreams, but there were ideas out there about how once soulmates formally met they created new shared dreams. Together, through the connection. These could be just as bad or they could be just as good as the original telepath. No matter the fact, you needed something. You were begging for this pull to loosen. The world was setting you up with this man and you had to see about it. Maybe get some kind of closure, at least. You were exhausted from playing it safe with Steve. Everything from his dumbass vague phrases to his hovering gaze gave you your answers. 

You were once again a woman on a mission, but this time you couldn’t hide behind a coffee counter and brewing espresso. 

You called out of work but showed up at opening time. Your coworker stared at you in surprise when the bell rang but you just gave her a wave and made yourself comfortable at a table right by the door. You sat very still, staring at the glass door, watching the patrons. 

A glance at the clock told you Steve was late for his usual coffee run but you weren’t giving in. If he had any inkling about your confusion he would show, be the confident man he could be and face you. 

Thankfully, you were correct. It was mid-morning by the time Steve strolled in, definitely not surprised to see you patiently waiting. Your eyes locked immediately as he gave a defiant sigh. But he didn’t bypass you for the counter. Instead, after you gave a single nod, he sat at the table, directly across from you. 

“Good morning,” Steve greeted you but he lacked that award-winning smile he always gave with it.

“Good morning,” you said, suddenly feeling iffy under his gaze. You had to practically shake yourself out of it to get back on track. You weren’t backing out, not after what you had felt last night. This would consume you after so many years. Your soulmate was going to consume you if you didn’t man up. “I think we need to talk.”

Steve nodded. “I agree.”

You sighed, a bit relieved. He possibly did know, your suspicions were confirmed. “These nightmares I have - they’re about-,”

“Bucky,” Steve answered so simply, you were almost jealous by how the name rolled off his tongue with ease. That was your soulmate and you could barely talk about him. But that was ending, you reminded yourself. Right now, you were taking steps. Life had become a whirlwind but maybe you needed it. 

“Yes,” you confirmed. “Everything I see it’s from his days as… you know what.”

“The Winter Soldier.”

You groaned in annoyance with yourself. “I’m sorry, this is just so weird for me,” you said. “I just learned the other day him and I are… And it’s a lot. Everything is a lot. I see and feel so much in the nightmares that I needed to make progress or something but, truthfully, I don’t know how to go about any of this.”

Steve nodded, his eyes looking very sympathetic. He leaned forward, his arms now resting on the surface. You shifted in your seat, staring down at the wood patterns of the table. Steve didn’t seem to mind the lack of eye contact, though, as he began. 

“I’ve known about you for a while,” Steve admitted. “When Bucky began getting back to himself he would talk about you every now and then. I-I don’t know when he realized it but he’d tell me bits of what he thought you looked like, where you went to school, the coffee shop you were always in… And, well, it didn’t take long for me to realize it was you he was seeing in dreams. But he doesn’t know that I see you nearly every day,” Steve let out a light chuckle, almost in disbelief of himself. “And he certainly doesn’t know the dreams he’s relaying to you. I don’t think he’s ever thought about it, honestly.”

Your heart jumped knowing your soulmate actually knew about you. Saw you. Got the loveliest dreams about you. It made you feel pretty good, really. You were glad you were giving him something light, relaxing, after everything he had seen. Maybe that was a fair trade. As long as your soulmate was okay.

“He doesn’t know I see all those… Things?” You asked, your voice dropping a bit timidly.

Steve sighed, shaking his head. “If I had to guess, it would have something to do with the fact that he’s remembering everything,” he said. “Everything he had done, the people and violence… All that comes back to him. He’s said he remembers it all. That’s probably the feelings you’re getting with the nightmares - him handling the aftermath.” 

Your heart dropped at that. You lifted your gaze to meet Steve’s, seeing he was wearing a similar mix of sadness and worry. It was still strange to feel this ache when you were awake.

But you understood, at least, as much as you could. It sounded like there was some healing going on, with everything coming in waves. Did you like that you had to suffer because of it? No. But that was your soulmate and a deep part of you wanted to just take all that pain away for him personally. 

“It’s not fair he has to deal with all this,” you said. 

Steve agreed, “It’s not.”

“But I want to help,” you spoke with such sudden determination. Steve gave you a confused look. “Would he… Would he want to meet me?”

That look of surprise on him suddenly morphed into some form of relief, with a bit of a smirk playing on Steve’s lips. 

“I think I could arrange that.”

“R-Really?” Your hands were practically shaking at this point but Steve seemed too cool and collected, almost proud of the situation he was concocting. 

“If I’m being honest, he mentions something about you nearly every other day.”

Your jaw went slack, now making you the surprised one. “But you knew who I was. Why didn’t you just tell him?”

“Would you have honestly been comfortable if I just sent him in here?”

Well, he had you there. You sighed, shaking your head, sinking a bit in your seat. 

“Yeah, he wouldn’t either,” Steve mumbled. “But it’ll be okay. I’ll figure out something.”

You nodded, maybe a bit too eager. “Thank you.”

Steve gave a small smile then averted his gaze to the table as if debating what to say next. You thought the conversation had wrapped up nicely but there was another thing you didn’t expect to hear about.

“You know,” Steve began, “back in the day, Buck never had any dreams and while now we know why,” he motioned towards you. You blushed. “We had just figured he didn’t have a soulmate or something. Like the world had just happened to screw up…” His voice trailed, letting out a brief sigh. “I can’t imagine his relief when he got the first images of you.”

Your heart swelled. It took everything in you not to choke out sobs. The feeling of hope and… love suddenly wash over you. It was such a distant feeling but it was all coming. Slowly, it was becoming an acquaintance. 

“Do you have a soulmate, Steve?”

He nodded. “I did.” You frowned at the past-tense use of the word. “But that time has come and gone. I’m more than happy to help Bucky get his.”

The lovely feelings crept back, stronger than ever. Just the thought of being in the same area as your soulmate was making it bloom even more.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Bucky Barnes Series Taglist:

@reichelhache @bella-bear03 @rvgrsbrns @thebadassbitchqueen @libraries-and-coffee @adoringanakin​ @heartbeats-wildly @japzalileo @aayaissaa @takemedancingmaine @bahama-mama-llama @ella_italian

[hongism]

mists of celeste ➻ 37

➻ pairing: ??? x fem reader ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, smut ➻ word count: 16.9k(? i think?) ➻ rating: M ➻ warnings: language, violence, guns and weaponry, blood, future warnings tba chapter specific warnings: talks of torture, talks of past self-harm, nothing directly graphic all mentioned through conversation, graphic depiction of a panic attack ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

⇐ previous | next ⇒ | masterlist

✧✧✧ act five ➻ part four

​​​

“I’m going to kill the king, Hyunwoo.”

“Y/N, you can’t… that’s going too far.”

“I don’t think we have a choice any longer.”

“We always have a choice, Y/N. It’s just about what you decide to do with that choice that matters. Think about why you’re doing what you’re doing, and what your intentions truly are. It’s not about revenge or payment for a crime — the crimes of his people cannot be put onto his shoulders.”

A sigh passes through your lips, one that sounds more exasperated than anything else, and Hyunwoo lifts a brow upon hearing the noise.

“This is revenge, Hyunwoo. He allowed my past to be taken, he created the law that allows the military to do that. Not to mention the other crimes he has committed — even if they are a result of him sitting idly by and watching them happen. I’m not saying Jisung is always right or that he is a saint for wanting to do this. But if Jisung won’t commit to doing it, then I’ll do it for him.”

“And we swore to find a way to get those memories back, Y/N. Don’t let this cloud your judgment. Don’t let your devotion to making Jisung happy decide your future. If this is something he wants, then he should do it himself and face the consequences on his own! It’s not a burden that you should bear as well. I know this is something you will come to regret!”

“Then you’ll have to stop me with force because I’ve already made my mind up about this. I don’t see Jisung getting in my way right now. But after all, isn’t this what he wants? He’s just too much of a coward to do the dirty work himself!”

“We both know where he stands on this, which is precisely why he’s not here. Just — please let us try one more time. I’ve spoken with a few of my off-planet contacts about this, and we have one last idea that might reverse the effects of the serum. You know how difficult this is; the military keeps such a tight wrap on everything about the serum. It’s near impossible to just get a spare vial, and even harder to examine how it works with test subjects while still being ethical. We are trying our best, I promise, just please hold out a little while longer. Jisung is getting things set up now… so please… just come with me and try before you do anything drastic.”

The man extends a hand, palm facing towards the ceiling and fingers outstretched for you to take. There’s hope in his eyes, a hope you haven’t seen from him in a long time, and that look is what brings your feet forward. You place your palm over his and curl your fingers tight around the side of his hand. He squeezes back as a small grin overtakes his lips.

“If this doesn’t work, then you know what I have to do, Hyunwoo.”

“I know,” he whispers. The hope in his eyes flickers a little, like a flame hit by a gust of wind. “In that case, I’ll do whatever I have to so that you don’t come to regret that decision.”

“Hey, get up. It’s go time.”

You wake with a start, not fully come out of the memory that paints the insides of your eyelids until you look around at your surroundings. Yeosang seems to be the one who woke you seeing as his hand is still outstretched to your arm. The sight of him brings you back to reality and reminds you of where you are and what exactly is going on. Jongho sits on your other side, dressed in nicer clothes than you’ve ever seen him wear before — a pleated and pristine navy suit complete with a bright yellow tie and hair gelled back on his head. Yeosang too wears a somewhat expensive garb although he appears more natural in the silk tunic covering his torso. His naturally dark roots are starting to peek through the blond near his scalp, accentuating the harsh part down the middle of his head.

Despite the fact that both look relatively harmless in this state, you know they each have weapons hidden somewhere on their person underneath that formal wear, just as you do with the knives strapped over your thighs under the skirt attached to your waist. Such an outfit like yours is something you hardly agreed to — it was moreso an insistence on Seonghwa’s part to at least dress the part (although he had to listen to some of your incessant nagging about how you could never fight in a dress so he had to settle on finding a substitute in the form of a jumpsuit with a skirt wrapped around the back. Yet the more you pick at the seams and touch the fabric, the more you recall the none too pleasant conversation you and Seonghwa shared as you were preparing to leave for the mission.

“Perhaps I do have an eye for beauty after all, or is it that you simply look breathtaking in anything?” Seonghwa stands in the doorway to your bedroom, not a mind for privacy as he watches you struggle to tug the zipper of your suit up.

“Can’t even breathe on my own, huh?” You huff out as you drop the zipper in defeat.

“I’ve already seen every inch of you, have I not? There’s nothing to hide that I haven’t seen before,” Seonghwa says through a laugh. He watches your cheeks flush with color before dropping his arms to his side and coming closer to you. He remains wordless as he pulls your zipper up for you, smoothing the fabric under his fingers down once it’s pulled up to your neck. “It suits you. Things like this, I mean. The silk makes you look… softer, yet the color combination of black and white makes you look lethal. Perfect definition of beauty, no? That something so delicate could also kill you? A wonderful dichotomy in my eyes.”

“Someone is in a poetic mood today.” You don’t hide the way your eyes roll to the back of your head, but Seonghwa doesn’t seem all too bothered by your show of faux-annoyance. Instead, his hands find your hips and turn you to face him directly, staring so intently into your eyes with his own dark ones that you lose the rest of your retort.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to go on this mission so desperately but that didn’t quite work out.” You’re quick to shake your head, already in the midst of denying his words before he even finishes his sentence.

“It’s alright. I’ll have Yeosang and Jongho there with me.”

“I would go if only Hongjoong would let me bu—” The thought cuts short as you place a hand over his forearm.

“Seonghwa, it’s okay. Hongjoong is right to have you stay here while you’re not 100% better. And you can both keep an eye on Jisung this way. We’ll bring Wooyoung back as quickly as possible, I swear.” Instead of consoling the man, your words seem to have an opposite effect as he drops his gaze to the floor.

“If I were stronger, this wouldn’t even be an issue. You should not have had to waste so much time having to look after my fragile and weak mental state when you could have caught up to the ship sooner and had all three of them back in one go.”

“This is what we’re working with, Hwa. It has nothing to do with your welfare. We still would have been too late regardless of whether that night had happened or not. So please — it will all work out and be okay. It has to.”

Seonghwa’s smile is quaint, a small twitch of his lips, then he’s leaning in to close the distance between your lips. You lift your hand to push hard against his chest, furthering that distance before he gets the chance to meet your lips with his.

“I just put on this black lipstick and you already want to mess it up? How rude,” you scoff. That isn’t a real reason, and you both know it, and you only solidify that further when you speak next before biting your tongue. “You shouldn’t push it right now. I still haven’t forgiven you for not fighting my decision to go with Jisung. Besides wasn’t the decision to… stop whatever this is mutual?”

“It was, of course,” he murmurs back, not quite meeting your eyes. “I am merely a creature of habit, so it will take some time for me to adjust to this change. But… Y/N, might I be so bold as to ask you something?”

“Hm, isn’t that a question right there?”

“I’ll take that as a yes then?” You regard him with a small nod but pull away so that his hands drop to his sides again. “Were any of the feelings you had for me something real and tangible? Not just because of what we are and that comfort of both being Sirens, I mean.”

You should have known he would bring this up eventually, especially with how the two of you are constantly dancing around each other and the topic. Still, you aren’t ready for it.

“I… don’t think I know the answer to that question, but even if I did, I-I might not be able to answer with complete honesty.” The smile that comes to paint Seonghwa’s lips is nothing short of sad and painful, not quite reaching his bright eyes with its usual mirth.

“It’s a conversation I wish for us to have one day, but I too fear that I might not be able to be completely honest either. Perhaps — perhaps we got a little too caught up in the heat of things without truly thinking about why we were doing the things we were doing.”

“Why did you do it then? I was the one who gave the initial push, I started things, I claim responsibility for that, but you pulled right back. So why?”

“I have found time to think about such things quite a bit lately since I was left in the medbay alone for so long; however, now is not the time to talk about that as it would take too long. Has Wooyoung brought you back yet?”

“No, not since the night in the medbay. But San very clearly said three days until they would land on Dorado, and it’s been six since then. They should be there by now, and the deals should have gone through. Wooyoung’s was to be immediate after all.” Seonghwa’s smile drops into a half-hearted scowl.

“Without Wooyoung on the inside, we will have no way of knowing where San and Mingi are.”

“Unless Jisung decides to be kind with his information.” You run a hand through your hair, mussing the already down tresses enough to be somewhat noticeable. “We’ll have to make do.” Seonghwa stretches across the empty space between you

“I won’t keep you any longer then. Tell the others good luck from me, and please… be careful? No unnecessary risks if you can avoid them. I’d like to see you all back in one piece.”

Reality swoops in on you as Jongho places a firm hand over your thigh.

“You alright? I can practically feel you thinking so hard.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Just… wondering about the mission.”

“It’ll be okay,” Jongho murmurs, squeezing at your leg a little tighter. “It’s a straightforward mission — easy in and out.”

“Hopefully.” Yeosang is the one to hum the word but he doesn’t look at either of you as he speaks. “Once we’re in, I’ll talk to the main desk and ask for someone with Wooyoung’s general appearance. It’ll be a bit difficult because they will have given a new name — something a prostitute would have. I’m not sure how many people in there will have similar appearances to Wooyoung but we’ll have to do our best. You two remember what you’re supposed to do?”

“Yes,” you nod. “Follow suit, wait fifteen minutes for you to pass through the reception area, then ask the same thing. A male short in stature with black hair and tanned skin. All prostitutes have collar so it won’t be Wooyoung’s defining feature any longer.” The recitation rolls off your tongue with ease after having heard Yeosang repeat it so many times by now. He nods in approval nonetheless.

“Remember there are cameras in each of the rooms. Don’t know how they use them but it’s something to be aware of. Hopefully, one of us will be able to come across Wooyoung, and in the case that you do?”

“We are to stay in the room with him for the allotted time, ping back to the ship and let Hongjoong know we have him, then wait for his signal,” Jongho responds. “His contact here on Dorado will be hacking their surveillance systems once we are certain that we have Wooyoung in a safe position.”

“Hongjoong sure seems to have a lot of contacts for someone who doesn’t trust people,” you murmur more to yourself than to anyone else, but Yeosang picks up on it nonetheless.

“His contacts are few and far between. This is one he has known since before he became a captain, so he holds a bit more trust with him. Back to the plan though, after his contact confirms our safety, you’ll crack a window and hop out hopefully unscathed. Remember that the Upper Echelon of Dorado is tight on security. Whoever gets Wooyoung out will have to be mindful of guards and try not to look suspicious. If any guards stop you, do not engage with violence. Simply do as they ask you to and tell them that Wooyoung is your slave. And one last thing: don’t forget we’ll be going in silent so keep a close eye on your wristbands. Understood?”

“Clear as day,” Jongho says while you offer only a hasty nod.

“Good, stay sharp then. We’ll be landing soon, and it’ll be go time immediately after that.” With that, Yeosang sits back and shuts his eyes, leaving you and Jongho to stew over the plan again in silence. At least until you decide you can’t take it anymore and turn to talk to the Berserker again.

“Are you nervous at all about the mission?”

A shrug.

“No more than usual. Recovering Wooyoung won’t be easy by any means, of course. It’s a step in the right direction, right? How are you feeling?” As though sensing your nerves, he pats your thigh a few times, and you simply stare down at the dirty floor beneath your feet.

“I feel a bit guilty in a way because I’m not too worried about the mission,” you admit, albeit quietly because you aren’t sure how please Yeosang would be to hear the words. “The only thing that is on my mind right now is how San is doing and if he’s okay.” Although you told Seonghwa otherwise, the sudden radio silence that Wooyoung has given you has made you anxious to an unspeakable degree. And not having the security of being able to see San through Wooyoung’s eyes is plaguing you more than you’d like to admit.

“I understand that,” Jongho says through a deep exhale. “I feel the same way about Mingi right now honestly. No matter how much faith and trust I have in Mingi, that fear always lingers and resides in me.”

“That’s how I feel about San. I shouldn’t be worried about him but part of me is just fearful that we won’t make it in time. That he’ll accept the serum before we can get him out.”

Jongho brings his hand up to take hold of one of yours, squeezing around your palm as tight as he can without hurting you.

“I know San better than I know anyone on the crew, besides Mingi perhaps. I’ve spent years at San’s side. He was the only person who trusted me at first and trusted me enough to let me in. That trauma he bears, the scars on his past, the red in his ledger, those lingering pains that resurfaced when the mutiny happened — I have felt them all. I spent months at the foot of his bed, taking what pain I could away for as long as I could, just existing to comfort him and help him get through even one more night. And in that myriad of emotions I felt from San, not once did I ever feel him desire to take it all away. Those scars he bears are part of him, and he treats them as such. Something like… small accessories on a bigger picture that he won’t let go of. So no matter what happens, I have confidence that San won’t let them win. He’s far too stubborn for that, his heart is too big, he has too much love in his body for such a thing. He would rather die before he forgets the crew, and that fact alone makes me confident that San will hold out.”

You are left in the wake of Jongho’s words for too long, letting them crawl under your skin and find a home there. You count the seconds that pass before your voice finds you again.

“I understand that.” Forty-one seconds. “It’s just the fear of him being hurt when I’m not around to stop it that is hard to get past.” Jongho’s smile is nothing if not soft and gentle, the epitome of understanding.

“In our line of work, that fear is always present. It’s always a possibility too, but at some point, you reach a point where you accept that sometimes, you won’t always be able to save someone from all pain. Just because you can’t prevent every ounce of pain doesn’t mean that you are doing something wrong or that you’re not doing enough.” Jongho pauses. Some emotion fills his red eyes and leaves them swimming with something unspoken. “There are some pains that we must allow to happen, no matter how much we wish to do the opposite. Even something as horrid as pain can be necessary and needed to move forward in life. Try not to dwell on it too much and focus on Wooyoung for now, yeah?”

“I’m trying my best,” you sigh and drop your head back against the seat. The second your thoughts begin to drift, you are brought back to another memory, this time one of Hongjoong’s dark office with Seonghwa at your side.

“You punched Jisung in the face?”

“Please, I let him off easy,” you huff back, ignoring the lieutenant’s slight shock in favor of finding interest in the wall.

“That’s not the important part,” Hongjoong cuts in from where he sits behind his desk. You shift to glance over the captain. “Does Jisung know anything about you being a Siren?”

“No, not that I recall,” you mutter after little thought. “I never slept with him or anything like that, and I can’t remember him ever seeing my back so it’s safe to assume he doesn’t know. Besides who would just see tattoos and immediately assume ‘Siren’?”

“Then his interest in you has nothing to do with you being a Siren?”

“Exactly, but why is that important? I can tell you why he wants me if that’s what you’re curious about.”

“We’re just eliminating suspicions right now.” Hongjoong shifts his focus to where Seonghwa stands. He wears a bit of a cocky grin as they stare at each other, both feet slung up on the edge of his desk and one brow raised. “See? Jin has nothing to do with this.”

“That doesn’t eliminate the possibility altogether!” Seonghwa retorts. A frown mars his otherwise pretty features, twisting his lips into a scowl so deep that you feel your own muscles ache at the sight of it.

“You live your life in fear of Seokjin. For what? Do you not trust me to keep you safe?”

“That isn’t it and you know it, Joong. I will not sabotage your plans simply because of what I am. That is why we keep my identity to be a closely-guarded secret yet our number one enemy knows of that identity. That is a weakness, and it’s one that you need to take seriously.”

“Why is that? Sheltering you would be more suspicious to the crew than anything else. Unless you would like to inform them of your identity? Allow me to call them all right this instant.”

“No! No, Hongjoong, I — fine. Have it your way. Keep believing that you’ll be able to fix where Jin went wrong by ignoring the issue altogether because th—”

“That’s enough.” You bristle at the tone of the captain’s voice even though he is not speaking directly to you. “I’m still on edge as well, Hwa, and I know you are as well. I know why you are too, but please have at least a little faith in me. Now, Y/N—” Hongjoong turns back to you now “—I’d like to ask about the nightmares you had that night.”

Your initial response is to inhale sharply and glance over at Seonghwa with panic boiling in your gut.

“Why do you want to know?”

All Hongjoong does is roll his eyes and drop his feet off the side of his desk. You purse your lips at the action, watching him with wary eyes as he shifts his position to prop his elbows up on the same wood.

“Seonghwa, you’re dismissed.”

“I — Captain?”

“Dismissed, Lieutenant. I need to speak with her in private.”

“Why is it something I cannot be present for?”

“That was an order, not a suggestion. Now go.” If possible, the temperature of the room would drop ten degrees. Seonghwa seems to want to retort further but he bites his lip instead. Then, he gives a quick bow at the waist and mutters a goodbye before slipping out of the office without any further issue. “What did your nightmares consist of?” Hongjoong repeats, arching a brow as he speaks this time as though it will get you to talk faster.

“You didn’t have to get me alone to ask me that, did you? What is this really about?” The questions flow without hesitation, and your second refusal to talk about the dreams draws a sigh from Hongjoong’s lips.

“Do you know anything of Seonghwa’s relationship with his mother, Y/N?” A beat of silence. You shift your weight from foot to foot, glancing away from the captain to find interest in something on the floor.

“I… did witness a few of his memories when the two of us were still with each other in the dreams, but — if you mean to ask me about his nightmares, I have nothing to offer. I didn’t see those at all.”

“No, he already told me all about those nightmares. I don’t need to know more of them,” Hongjoong exhales with a shake of his head. He draws his arms up over his chest as he talks, falling back to slump in his chair and letting his exhaustion shine through. “Initially, I was going to have Seonghwa go with Yeosang and Jongho on this mission. But now, that plan has changed and I will be sending you instead.”

“Why?”

“I can’t send Seonghwa down to Lynder unless I myself can be at his side the entire time. There is far too much of a risk if I am unable to do that.”

“Risk? Of what? He would be with Yeosang and Jongho, would he not?”

“Yet if even the barest whim overcomes him, they would have to listen to whatever he says because of his position as lieutenant. I am the only one with more power than him, and as such, he has to listen to me. If he goes to Lynder, the risk is of him abandoning the mission to seek out his mother.”

“That doesn’t sound like something he would do at all,” you counter. Both you and Hongjoong drop your chins at the same time, although yours is more of an accusatory and pointed action compared to the slumping defeat that comes over Hongjoong’s body when he lowers his head.

“I don’t know how much or what exactly you saw in Seonghwa’s memories. I do not need to know either. But something you need to know is that we have been back to Lynder exactly once since I met Seonghwa there. And that one single time, two years ago, we had to lock Seonghwa in the brig for six days straight to keep him from breaking out to kill his mother. Seonghwa tore cuts into his arms and shoulders so deep that Yunho had to come stitch him every night until we finally chained him to a wall to get him to stop. When he finally gave up on trying to break out, I went in and took the cuffs off, only for Seonghwa to choke me hard enough to fracture my neck and leave bruises that lasted for several weeks.”

“A-Ah…” The sound of your dry swallow echoes in your ears. It’s hard to imagine Seonghwa — cool, rigid, stoic, gentle and calm Seonghwa — ever being so depraved and rabid as to harm himself as well as Hongjoong. Seonghwa, whose greatest fear is losing his captain. Yet the grave expression coating Hongjoong’s delicate features remains serious and deadpan, and you know every word is one that holds a memory that is painful to recall. He’s telling the truth.

“Have you ever had that voice in your head telling you to be cruel, Y/N?”

“Of course I have,” you admit through a whisper, like the words are going to break the threads of tension hanging in the air.

“Seonghwa has lost his will and his mind to that voice time and time again, and it gave him his reputation as the Lieutenant of Death. Mingi may be a slave to a childhood which bred him to be a monster, but Seonghwa? He’s a slave to his own consciousness, the part of him that spent years trying to be perceived as an Elitist so that he could hide what he really is, someone cold and calculated without an ounce of remorse or emotion. He put his own monsters under the bed, but now he can’t get them out.”

Hongjoong sits up a bit straighter all of a sudden. His gaze is still unfocused and hazy though, refusing to look you straight in the eye. Either subconsciously or through the fog of that revisited memory, Hongjoong lifts a hand to his neck and rubs idly at the skin there.

“My Seon—Lieutenant is strong, but strength isn’t worth a damn thing when the person you’re fighting is yourself. He admitted to me once that the thought of letting that voice win is more terrifying than the act of killing his own mother. So for that reason, I can never allow such a thing to happen. Seonghwa’s demons are nothing if not rabid dogs begging for a pound of flesh, and if he can’t fight them on his own, I’ll do it for him.”

“Y/N, are you sure you’re alright?” Jongho yet again brings you back to reality, most likely a bit disturbed by the way you are squeezing his hand tight enough to hurt, but he takes it without complaint. “You keep drifting out of focus.”

“Yes,” you say, filling your chest with air when you remember to breathe properly again. “Everything is fine.” Rather than responding with words, Jongho just places his other hand over your joined ones and brings them to rest on his thigh. If you listen closely enough, you’re able to hear him humming a soft melody under his breath but the rumble of the transport car covers most of the sound up. Still, it’s a relaxing sound that brings you some much-needed peace of mind for the remainder of the ride.

And as it turns out, Yeosang wasn’t bluffing when he said the three of you would be there soon because you had barely started listening to Jongho’s soft song when the car comes to a screeching halt that leaves you lurching forward.

“Alright then.” Yeosang stands first, hands smoothing down the fabric of his tunic even though it’s still perfectly in place. It’s not against his nature to get nervous or anxious, but it is still odd to witness like this. He is usually stoic in an unsettling way yet the grim expression he now wears is only accentuated by the crude shadows cast over his face. “It’s go time. Let’s get Wooyoung back in one piece, yeah?”

With that, the three of you climb out of the vehicle to be greeted by a dark and pristine city with thick clouds of smoke billowing through the air below you. Looking over the lip of the road is like looking down a cliff with the dramatic fall to the lower portion of the city. You weren’t exactly prepared to see such a drastic difference between the upper and lower echelons, yet looking over that cliff is like looking into a different city altogether with wooden buildings and decrepit warehouses that can barely hold themselves together. Where you stand with Yeosang and Jongho feels like a different world altogether with roads lined with lights and technology, tall buildings made from wood with exquisite carvings detailing the sides. From what you saw of the city in Seonghwa’s memories, Lynder has not changed one bit since he was here last.

You can’t clearly see many of the buildings below your feet, but it doesn’t stop you from wondering which one could possibly be that bar where Seonghwa met Hongjoong, if it even still exists. Jongho pulls you away from the road by the arm, tugging you along behind him as you approach a new building. The swaying wooden panel outside the door is a dead giveaway, but it’s the absurd amount of lilies trailing over the railings that tells you what this place is.

“They weren’t bluffing with the House of Lilies name,” you mutter, wrinkling your nose a bit at the overwhelming stench. Yeosang has grown alarmingly still; he lingers outside the tall double doors with a hand hovering over the brass handles without budging even an inch for far too long. You could pretend to not know why he’s hesitating, you could act like he is merely holding you back and push past him in annoyance, yet instead, you find yourself laying a hand atop his shoulder and squeezing the fabric there lightly. “No matter what happens in there or what we find in there, we will bring Wooyoung out alive.”

Yeosang releases a shaky exhale that makes his shoulder quake under your fingers.

“I know we will.” He looks past your face to make eye contact with Jongho then gives a curt nod. “Here goes the first fifteen minutes of hell.” The Elitist pushes hard against the brass handles, and the door gives way to his effort.

If you thought the smell outside the House was horrid, you don’t even know how to describe the reeking stench of flowers that hits you with the force of a tsunami. It’s thick enough for you to feel as though you are wading through a sea of flowers when in reality it’s just a strange yellow haze hanging about the interior. Yeosang doesn’t let the smell affect him in the slightest; he walks inside without missing a beat, shoulders pushed back so far it nearly hurts to see. Despite that, he walks like a prince, like someone who knows how to act in high society with ease, and for the first time, you don’t see Kang Yeosang before you. Instead, it’s Kang Minhee, the forgotten prince of Aera, who walks before you and heads for the front desk where a middle-aged woman with dramatic hair and hefty makeup stands.

“We should mingle a bit and look natural,” Jongho whispers when the two of you stop just inside the doors. “May I?” He motions to your arm with a small smile, not saying anything else and leaving you confused.

“May you…?”

“Quit being dense and give me your arm,” he huffs back and extends his elbow for you to loop your arm through, and this time, you get the hint, hooking your hand around the inside of his arm. Yeosang shifts to look back at both of you as you pass, and you offer each other discreet nods before he returns to speaking to the receptionist.

You let Jongho lead the way for the most part since you aren’t sure what you’re supposed to be doing outside of “looking normal”, although even doing that is somewhat difficult. Jongho doesn’t stray far from the entrance area until Yeosang dips into a hallway and out of sight without looking back at the two of you. Moments later your wristbands buzz, signaling that it’s time for the first fifteen-minute countdown to begin. Jongho shifts to fiddle with his wristband while you keep your hand folded over his elbow still. It gives you a chance to glance around the whorehouse without the distraction of having to act normal, but frankly, there isn’t much to see beyond the bodies filling the foyer and mingling about the lounge before you. There are flowers everywhere — probably an overabundance of them, and they aren’t just lilies as they were outside. You can’t pinpoint whether those flowers are the source of the clawingly sweet scent stuck to the insides of your nostrils or not, but that yellow fog seems partially responsible to some degree.

“You seem to know how to look like you belong in high society,” you mutter once Jongho pulls his attention back to your surroundings. A huff of laughter leaves his lips.

“It’s not because I grew up that way. I was merely an observant child who wanted to grow up and have more than what I had.” A smile cracks his stony expression. “Isn’t that what all children want?”

“I—”

Well, you wouldn’t really know, would you?

Jongho’s expression softens as he realizes what he’s said and who he has said it to, and his gaze turns apologetic seconds later. He turns to flag down one of the workers milling about with drinks, taking two glasses of what looks like wine in one hand. Jongho angles one of the half-full flutes in your direction. You take the hint with relative ease despite the clawing scent of flowers still muddling your thoughts.

“I didn’t mean to hit a nerve,” Jongho says through what seems to be a sympathetic smile. “What do you think your childhood was like? If you don’t mind talking about such things. We have time to kill after all.”

You draw your lips into a tight purse, curling them around the edge of the wine glass and pressing an imprint of your dark lipstick there. Subconsciously, your hand tightens around the inside of Jongho’s arm as well, although the Berserker doesn’t comment on the added pressure as he simply continues to regard you with the same steely and careful gaze.

“I think it must have been rather sad,” you admit after some thought. It must not be the answer Jongho was expecting at all because his brows draw together in confusion. “What kind of childhood must one have for them to willingly sell away their memories by fourteen? The more I think… about that time — when they gave me the serum — I recall fighting the doctors but I don’t think it was because I didn’t know what they were doing. I’m certain that I knew my memories would be taken from me. It was the act of them strapping me to a chair like a prisoner that frightened me.”

This time when Jongho smiles, all you can see is pain in his deep red eyes.

“I would have given anything in the universe to have my memories taken away at that age too, if it’s of any comfort to you.” He pauses to swirl the liquid in his glass, watching the red liquor dance before his eyes under the yellow haze around your bodies. “Don’t think you’re weak for wanting to forget that past. No child should ever deal with pains that strong, even if you can’t remember what they are.”

“People like you… San, Mingi… the whole crew honestly — how can I not view myself as weak in comparison? People who were given the choice but denied it and rejected it unlike me, who apparently didn’t want to be left with some shred of dignity. What did I become with that fresh slate they gave me? All I could do then was be weak, but it seems like that hasn’t changed one bit.”

Jongho won’t let up with that devastating smile, and you are about to turn away so that you don’t have to see it any longer when he finally lets it fall.

“For what it’s worth, you are rather strong in my eyes. During your fight with Jisung, I’ll admit that I tried to ease some of your pain then. It’s not something you know about — the others know of it by now so I should have told you sooner and I’m sorry for that but I have a special mutation in my genes that gives me the ability to take away and absorb emotional auras. I inherited it from one of my grandparents so it’s something I grew up learning how to use and I carried that over when I joined the crew. I attempted to do that with you because you were in so much distress and I was worried but — b-but your pain was too much for even me to bear. So before you go around calling yourself weak, you ought to give yourself more credit. Just because the pains you bear are different doesn’t mean that they are any less than the pains the rest of us bear.”

Jongho doesn’t say anything more than that; he slings his wine back in one shot like it’s nothing then places the now empty glass on a waiter’s tray as he’s passing by. You don’t touch your own, mulling over the glass as you fall deep in thought. If Jongho could feel that much from you, then it begs the question of what else he might be able to feel from you.

Can he sense that I’m a Siren too? Would he be able to tell that Seonghwa and Wooyoung are Sirens as well?

Your mind shifts to latch onto something else he said. Your pain was too much for even me to bear.

“It’s okay, Y/N. Stand down,” he murmurs. “You need to pick your battles, and this is not one for you to fight right now.” Again you feel that pull of warmth coming from him, like someone is trying to pull something from your chest, but it retracts almost instantaneously. Jongho falters. His eyes squeeze shut harshly, face contorting with something that almost looks like pain in your eyes, but that lasts less than a second before he’s recovered again. It’s not enough to stop the onslaught of emotions coursing through your veins.

You had been too preoccupied at the time to think about that moment until now.

“That time — did I hurt you? When you tried to take it away, did I hurt you even a little bit?”

“Nothing you did hurt me, Y/N. It wasn’t your fault, I promise you didn’t do anything. It’s something I have done time and time again for others on the crew and something I would do again as well. It’s what I’m good at, and something I was born with for a reason. If it helps even a little bit, then why would I not take the temporary pain?”

Every fiber of your being is telling you to fight those words, to tell him that it’s not worth it, your pain should not be a burden he has to bear as well, yet no words fall from your lips. Your mouth stutters uselessly without saying anything, and Jongho just keeps smiling like nothing is wrong. The clenching in your chest is not fine, however, and you force yourself to turn away from him in the hopes it will alleviate that pain. Instead, your eyes travel to a head of bright red hair that is so starkly different than anything else in the room that you have to stare right at it. It would be nothing odd or out of the ordinary to you since the crew you are now part of has such a wide array of hair colors. It would be something you look right past without much thought.

And yet you find yourself staring right at it. Right at the girl who turns to look around the lounge with red hair sweeping through the air.

You jolt.

Something hits your shoulder hard enough to tip your drink over and spill some of the red wine onto the floor. Your hand retracts from Jongho’s arm to touch the knife hidden behind the fabric of your skirt. You’re forced to pull your gaze away from the girl, finding the man who bumped into you to just be a stumbling drunk man with little sense for spatial awareness and direction. Jongho wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you a bit closer to his body. The man continues on without any regard for you or the wine he just spilled. Jongho takes your glass with his free hand, discarding it at the nearest flat surface before redirecting his focus back to you.

“It’s okay, Y/N, everything is okay.”

“I’m fine,” you murmur back, but your gaze goes straight back to where that redhead just stood.

“You look like you just saw a ghost.”

Instinct tells you to stay put and continue on with the mission, putting that familiar face to the back of your mind. But again your heart is clenching painfully in your chest, racing so fast that you feel the pounds echoing in your ears, and you know you can’t let go of her that easily. Not when she’s this close to you.

“I think I did.” You pull away from Jongho to go chasing through the crowd after that red hair, but the Berserker moves with you in a rush.

“Y/N, we can’t get off track. There’s only six minutes until it’s your turn to go to the counter.”

You wave him off with a dismissive hand rather than responding with words. Moments later, you find your target again, just as she is turning to head for the hallway that Yeosang went down not too long ago.

“Soojin?” You throw the name out as a last resort, mostly a desperate attempt to see if you are right and your eyes aren’t playing tricks on you in this heady yellow haze.

She freezes in place. It gives you just enough time to shove past the crowd and get closer to where she stands. You close your fingers around her shoulder, tugging with as little force as possible so that she turns to face you. There’s not a doubt in your mind when you see her face. She seems to recognize you as well based on the way her eyes are blown wide as saucers. The girl — well, you suppose she would be a woman by now — glances past your shoulder to look at Jongho. Her throat rolls as she swallows around nothing.

“You must have me mistaken for someone else,” Soojin whispers, bringing her gaze back down to you. She dips her head a bit then pulls away from you to head down the hall. You think back to Jisung — the threats and odd comments he made combined with the newly resurfaced memories of Hyunwoo lingering at the forefront of your mind, and you know without a shadow of a doubt that you can’t let her go this easily.

“P-Please, Soojin — I need to talk with you. It’s important, please, I have so many questions and no one else to ask.”

“I’m sure you do, little scapegoat,” she huffs back. “I actually have work to do though and a client waiting for me, so I’m not all too inclined to speak with you. I’m not sure why you came here, but I don’t think I have the answers you’re looking for either.” You don’t have a chance to keep her from leaving after that because she turns and leaves so quickly that it leaves you reeling. Jongho tugs you back by the arm, pulling you from the hallway and out into the lounge again before you can chase after her.

“What the hell was that?” He hisses under his breath.

“She — I-I knew her. She w-was my teammate, one of the p-people assigned to my unit in the military. I… I had no idea she ended up here of all places. Jongho, I have to talk to her, please, I have to. This c-could be what I need! If Jisung won’t tell me the truth, then maybe she knows something. She has to know something o-or else I—”

Your voice dies in your throat, but your unspoken desperation seems to reach Jongho nonetheless. The key to whatever memories you lost could lie in Soojin. Things happened so quickly at the end, perhaps she learned of something before leaving Eros with the others.

“She called you a scapegoat,” Jongho says. He swallows hard, Adam’s Apple bobbing with the motion. “What was that about?”

Truthfully, you hadn’t gotten that far. You didn’t even think to question that part but it is odd and not something you recall her calling you in the past.

“I’m not sure why she would say that. All the more reason to speak to her and ask. Jongho, please!” You attempt to pull away from his grip as you speak. The Berserker doesn’t budge, too strong for you to fight like this, and he doesn’t let up even when you try to slap his hand away.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” He yanks you back to him and brings his free hand up to rest on your forehead. This time, you can physically feel the panic in your bones ebbing away and being pulled to your forehead where Jongho touches you. It’s a frightening sensation but the influence he has over you takes that fear away as well, leaving you in a daze of confusion because you know you should feel bothered right now but you cannot bring yourself to feel that way even as Jongho pulls away from you. His jaw twitches just a hair, not moving much beyond that, then he grits his teeth to hiss out his next words. “Wooyoung is our mission. You have to focus. You have two minutes to get up to that counter and do your job. We can try to track down your teammate later, but not on a mission like this.”

You have it in you to at least be angry enough to tug your arm out of his grasp.

“Don’t touch my emotions like that again. I understand you trying to take my pain, and as much as I hate that and despite the thought of you taking my pains for me, this is different. Emotionally sedating me for the sake of completing a mission better is different.”

You don’t give him a chance to reply before you’re heading off for the counter where Yeosang stood not too long ago. The woman who previously occupied the space behind it has disappeared, now replaced by a young man who must be younger than you from the looks of it.

“How can I help you, ma’am?” He asks as you sidle up to the desk.

“I’d like a room, an hour’s worth.” You fumble a bit with your pockets as you try to fish a credit chip out without exposing the knife strapped to your thigh, but the boy doesn’t look up until you slide the chip across the counter.

“Of course, of course,” he hums. “Do you have any preferences for pleasure tonight?”

“A male short in stature with black hair and tanned skin,” you recite back, forcing a smile onto your lips when the boy glances up at you. He tilts his head to the side. You swallow the saliva gathering in your mouth as the stare grows unsettling then he shakes his head and speaks again.

“Would you like someone more submissive or dominant?”

“Hm? Oh, um…” That wasn’t part of the plan. Surely Yeosang would have mentioned it if he had known they would ask. But what would he have said if they asked him the same? “Um, submissive is fine, I suppose?” The boy hums again then motions towards the hallway where Yeosang and Soojin both headed down.

“Your room will be on the second floor, Room 213. Please take the stairs at the end of the hall.” He passes a keycard your way along with your credit chip, leaving you with a grin and a soft-spoken, “Your courtesan will join you shortly. Enjoy.” You bristle at his words but manage to smile a little bit as you take both the card and your chip back. You leave the counter to head for the hallway, not pausing to look back at where Jongho might be, but you ping your wristband as you go. Nothing has come in from Yeosang’s side again so it’s safe to assume he doesn’t have Wooyoung with him by now. It leaves you and Jongho with more pressure and either more or less of a chance to recover him, so you can only hope for the best as you climb the stairs to the second floor.

Room 213 is empty as expected when you slip inside, and it’s free from that odd yellow fog outside as well, so you bask in the freedom and breathe fresh air deeply while you can. It’s a basic and standard room — much more like a small hotel room than anything else from the cabinet near the door and the double bed pushed up against the wall. There’s a metal sink as well close to the window but nothing else adorns the room leaving it rather dismal and simple. Not that you expected these people to treat the courtesans with even an ounce of respect; it’s still disheartening to think of Wooyoung being stuck in such a small and cramped space without a choice.

Whatever peace you thought you could have is cruelly interrupted less than five minutes later as a series of shy knocks reach your door. You blink up from where you sit perched on the edge of the neatly made bed. Is this how Yeosang felt waiting for his door to open? You inhale sharply, heart pounding mercilessly in your throat and choking you with the strength of an actual hand. And shamefully, you can’t even bring yourself to look at the door when it slides open, too afraid of not seeing Wooyoung standing behind it.

“Y-Y/N?”

You snap your head towards the door so quickly that your neck pops with the effort, eyes blinking open faster than ever, and even when your gaze settles on him, you still can’t quite believe he’s really before you. In that moment, the two of you merely regard each other with stunned stares like neither of you can believe this is possible, and in that time, the door slides shut again to leave you together in the all too small room.

“Wooyoung.” You bring yourself to your feet, standing on shaky legs as you face him. “W-Woo—”

He cuts you short by barreling into you with such force that it knocks the air out of your lungs. The metal around his neck scrapes against your skin hard enough to cut but you pay it no mind as he squeezes his arms around your waist and releases a heart-wrenching sob into your shoulder. Reason returns to you then, bringing you to ping your wristband again; although this time you tap it three times to alert the others that you have Wooyoung with you now. There is nothing more to do after that other than to hug him back as his tears soak your neck and shoulder.

“I-I didn’t — I di-didn’t want to lose hope b-but… fuck it was s-so hard not to and I was st-starting to think I wouldn’t ever s-see you again,” Wooyoung sobs. You almost want to cry with him if not for the small blinking light in the upper corner of the room that catches your eye and sends a surge of panic through you.

“The cameras, Wooyoung. They’re still on, we need to—”

“Y-Yeah, they’re — they only c-check if you hit the button by the bed.” Wooyoung pulls back from your shoulder, at last, rubbing at his tear-stricken cheeks so hard it makes his skin blossom with red. He pauses to catch his breath, or at least steady himself enough to speak without choking on his words. “That si-signals that you’re unsatisfied so they’ll c-check and see what’s — what’s wrong before sending a new courtesan.” Wooyoung puts his hand in yours and laces your fingers without hesitation. The touch seems to offer him some more comfort that helps calm his small hiccups and cries. “Is Y-Yeosang okay?”

“He’s alright, yeah,” you whisper back through a smile. “Misses you something awful, but he’s here too. He tried to get to you first, but they must have sent someone else to him. Jongho came as well. To get you. We came to get you, Wooyoung.”

Those words make Wooyoung’s eyes well up with sickening haste. He sinks to the bed before another sob forces its way out, and you sit down beside him like the mattress might collapse if you move too quickly.

“I’m so glad. So fucking g-glad. Being in a pl-place like this without Yeosang — it’s fucking hell.” Wooyoung sinks his teeth into his lower lip just to keep it from trembling.

“Have you…” Surely it’s not a question you have any right to ask, and part of you feels like Wooyoung did need your help but merely did not want to bring you to this place, even if just to watch through his eyes. Still, you swallow the nerves and force the question out. “Have they made you work yet?”

“It’s not important whether they did or not,” Wooyoung says through a weak smile, but that tells you all you need to know. It sounds too rehearsed and monotonous, like he’s been told to say this even if only by himself. “B-But what’s the plan? How are we getting out? Is someone coming to get us?”

“Um, we’re to wait the allotted time here until we get news from one of Hongjoong’s contacts here. He’s a hacker, and he’ll take care of the surveillance system so that we can open the window and get out that way. We’ll meet Yeosang and Jongho in an alleyway not too far from here after that. Then head back to the ship on a transport car.”

“Thought of everything, huh?”

“I sure hope so.”

“It should work just fine. We’re on the second floor though, so it’ll be quite the fall. Just remember to not go face-first.” Wooyoung’s smile is infectious, and you laugh along with his jest, hand squeezing around his. “How is Seonghwa doing?”

“A-Ah, I nearly forgot you knew about that. Um, he’s alright but Hongjoong didn’t think he was well enough to come on the mission with us.”

“Captain is up then? Yeosang mentioned he’d been out for quite some time because of his injuries. That’s great news that he’s up! I — he’ll be happy to hear that I have some info about where Mingi and San are being held too. I can tell him when we’re back on the ship. B-But Seonghwa is okay otherwise?”

“Yunho said there’s no lingering signs of health issues so he’ll be okay physically. I… I have so many questions that I don’t even know where to begin.” Wooyoung’s smile stretches a bit wider.

“I assumed you would. That’s okay though; we have a full hour to use anyways, so you can ask me anything while we have the time to be alone together. I would say we could do it later when we’re back on the ship but Yeosang probably won’t let me out of his sight for even two seconds from now on. It’d be best for us to get it all out now so we don’t have to hear him scribbling in that damn notebook of his.” Wooyoung can’t hide his elation despite the teasing words, and you know that getting to see Yeosang again soon means more to him than you could ever understand. Yeosang must be feeling the same way himself, waiting out this hour with painstaking patience.

“What happened in the days you didn’t let me in? You went quiet for so long I was getting worried.”

“Ah, we shouldn’t start there,” Wooyoung murmurs, glancing down at the floor. He pauses. The breath of hesitation leaves your stomach in knots. “Nothing you want to hear, I promise. That’s why I didn’t try to bring you in. It wasn’t anything pretty, but I assure you there was nothing they could do to hurt me physically. I’m too far gone for that sort of torture. It’s… over and done with now. More scars to add to my collection, and more for Yeosang to cry over probably. We’ll both be fine. You’re probably wondering about the whole connection thing and us both being Sirens and such, right?”

“I — admittedly yes, but looking back now it seems almost obvious? I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner, I guess. But yeah, specifically that connection or whatever it is. Yeosang said he didn’t know much at all about it.”

“Right, yeah, I don’t know much myself either, to be honest.” Wooyoung presses his lips into a pout. “It’s hard to say what exactly it is. Seonghwa’s books don’t really have anything about this sort of occurrence, but what I’ve gathered from it so far is probably all that Yeosang told you. ‘There’s no place in the universe that you can hide from each other’. Daichi told me that once.”

“He told me the same actually.”

“Mhm, I think he knows a bit more about it than he claims to. For me, I can almost hear you in my head when you’re in distress, even when you’re far away. Except it doesn’t sound like you’re scared or anything like that. It almost sounds as though you’re softly singing to me? Like… I’m on a boat with gentle waves and you’re singing to me through the water. When I’m asleep and dreaming and you reach out to me for help, I can close my eyes and find myself on a boat like that. A white boat on a black lake. And I hear you singing to me in the water, look down, and see a tiny flickering light through the darkness. For years I’ve had that dream.”

“Yeosang… he talked about you having such a dream. Swimming in a black lake and trying to reach someone but not being able to?”

“Yeah! Um, I’ve woken him up so much because of that very dream. I would have that dream time and time again before you joined the crew, desperately swimming to reach you but it was like something was blocking me from getting to you. Like I could never reach you no matter how fast I was. I would never be able to get in. Then suddenly — one night I did, and I woke up in a box of fabrics in the cargo bay.” Wooyoung shifts to look you in the eye, a weak laugh slipping through his lips. “That feels so long ago now.”

“I’ve been wondering how to thank you for that,” you murmur. “If not for that moment, I would have died.” The skin around your nails suddenly seems a lot more interesting, and you busy yourself with picking at it mindlessly rather than looking back in Wooyoung’s direction. He doesn’t let your hand drift far from his though before he’s tugging it right back into his grasp. His other hand finds its way atop yours as well, holding your joined ones together tightly.

“I didn’t do it to get a thank you. It was just… the right thing to do. It’s sad that we live in such a bad and awful society where you feel the need to thank me for doing something as simple as that.”

“Did you not thank Yeosang for saving his life once upon a time?” You dare to ask. Wooyoung is a bit startled at first, caught off-guard by both your sudden question and the content behind it, but he laughs loud and clear without restraint.

“For someone who claims to hate talking about his life, he sure does talk a lot, doesn’t he?” Wooyoung brushes his bang out of his eyes, pushing the strands that have quickly grown unruly and long to the side. “Yeosang never lets me thank him. Any time I’ve tried, he shut me down before I could finish. Honestly, he saved my life twice. Once when he chose me from that lineup of slaves and spared me a crueler fate, and once when he broke those chains and set me free.”

Chose… me…? Then it wasn’t Yeosang’s mother who picked Wooyoung out for him?

You don’t get to dwell on that thought for long because Wooyoung simply continues to ramble, more and more peace coming to his shoulders as he calms down further.

“Yeosang only ever thanks me. As odd as that is.”

“Did you — have you ever saved his life then?” You already know the answer to that question, but it’s already hanging in the air between you by the time you catch yourself.

“Yes.” Wooyoung is beaming by now, lips stretched wide as he grins. “I got him out of prison when they charged him with treason.”

“And that’s what he thanks you for?”

Wooyoung’s smile doesn’t falter even as he shakes his head in denial.

“He never claims to have saved me, not even once. Instead, Yeosang says that I saved him.”

“B-But why? Objectively he did save you, so why does he not acknowledge that?”

“Because, Y/N, there’s a difference between loving someone and being in love with someone. Yeosang and I loved each other for many years before. But just loving each other wasn’t enough for Crown Prince Kang Minhee to break my chains and commit treason. When ”I love you“ turns into ”I am in love with you“ and ”I am in love with the mere idea of you“, then Yeosang set me free. Even though I would never have asked him to do it, he chose to on his own accord. So he thanks me and says that I saved him because of that. Because I trusted him enough to put my life in his hands time and time again and let him fall in love with me. He claims it to be a difficult thing — allowing an Elitist to fall in love with you. But with Yeosang… he has only ever made it easy. There are times where it is difficult and frustrating, where I wish that he could be anything other than an Elitist, for fuck’s sake, times when I would rather break his neck in an absolutely non-sexy kind of way, but that’s part of love and loving someone. That’s why he’s grateful to me. It sounds selfish and egotistical to say, but after having him repeat himself for so many years, I’ve grown to accept that even if I don’t believe I deserve it.” Wooyoung speaks with a raw conviction that you’ve heard before. It’s the same tone Hongjoong used when speaking to Seonghwa in the medbay, the same tone Yeosang used when talking about Wooyoung and their past together.

Even if you wanted to formulate a response, you don’t think you would be able to because of how overwhelming the emotion in Wooyoung’s voice is. He’s had every opportunity to blame Yeosang for the misfortune in his life, claim that if only Yeosang hadn’t picked him from the start he would be better off, claim that Yeosang got him out of being a slave only to put him in a more dangerous position. Wooyoung could even blame Yeosang for not protecting him well enough to keep him from being kidnapped and tortured.

Yet not once has Wooyoung blamed him.

Perhaps you were being unfair in pushing the blame onto Seonghwa’s shoulders when he didn’t fight your decision to go with Jisung. Is it so wrong to want someone to fight for you? Yet Yeosang has fought every day for Wooyoung and continues to do so. Wooyoung, who has been through hell and tortures he does not wish to speak about, asked about Yeosang’s well-being before anything else. Yet if they were in your position — if Wooyoung were the one agreeing to go with Jisung to save the others, would Yeosang not drop everything to fight for him?

Your mind screams back at you, telling you that it’s different, the situations aren’t the same, the relationships aren’t the same, and you cannot compare yourself to people like Wooyoung and Yeosang who have had years to figure this out. And so, you don’t compare yourself to them.

Rather you compare Seonghwa and Hongjoong to them. How Seonghwa’s worst nightmare is not being able to save Hongjoong from himself. The sheer will and determination in Hongjoong’s eyes when he said he would never let Seonghwa’s demons overtake him. You can’t help but wonder if perhaps that is similar to what Wooyoung and Yeosang have. Neither are anything remotely close to what you have — had, your mind suggests ever so helpfully — with Seonghwa yourself.

“It may be selfish, but I don’t want you to push me away. I would rather be hurt and still have you in my life rather than to be perfectly fine without you.”

That memory slips through unannounced and unasked for, and the mere prospect of why it’s coming back to you while you’re having such thoughts scares you so much that you slam the door in that memory’s face and throw away the key before it breaks loose.

“But anyway that’s — I rambled a bit too much, that’s not the point, um, have you ever had similar dreams like those? The ones I had, I mean? Before waking up in my body or before you came to the crew, any time you can remember. I know you haven’t had much opportunity yet, but you’ve had a few experiences by now.”

“I can’t recall ever having those sorts of dreams. That dream you mentioned about the lake — I had a dream that I was drowning in a black lake the night you came to save Seonghwa, but when I wake up in your body, it’s simply that. All I know is falling asleep and waking up like a passenger in your consciousness. I don’t have any control like you’ve had over my body.” Wooyoung’s eyes are oh so expectant and pleading, and it twists something painful in your gut. You want so badly to have information for him, to be able to give him answers or even a hint as to what could be going on, but frankly, you have nothing to offer. “I’m sorry, Wooyoung. I-I feel utterly useless in this whole situation. I d-don’t know what’s wrong with me or my head, I just can’t remember at all and I don’t… You and Seonghwa seem to have this whole Siren thing figured out, how it works, what sort of abilities you have, how to use them. I, on the other hand, have so many gaps and missing pieces in my memories. I’ve had one or two moments where I consciously used some sort of ability, then Seonghwa tried to help me learn, but other than that I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“It’s okay!” Wooyoung rushes to reassure you, squeezing his hand tight around yours as he smiles again. “Y/N, please don’t worry about that. I don’t expect you to have an answer right now, it’s really okay. We’re gonna figure this out together now that you finally know what I am and we’ll be back on the ship soon. And I can help you understand more about being a Siren in general too! If we can get to the Dreamscape together, maybe Daichi will be willing to talk.”

“Last time I was there, he tried to kill me and told me that if I kept asking questions he would end my life,” you snort. Wooyoung’s smile drops into a grave expression that doesn’t fit his features.

“In the beginning — when I first started seeing Daichi, that is — he wasn’t like that. He wanted me to find other Sirens. That’s what ultimately made Yeosang choose Captain’s crew because Daichi had told me there was a Siren there. Then as more time went on, Daichi seemed to get more and more frightened by the idea of Sirens finding each other. He started telling me that someone dangerous would find me, someone I should guard myself from.”

“He warned me of the same when I first came aboard. But Seonghwa mentioned how Daichi’s job is to guide Sirens to each other?”

“That’s true, yes, but Daichi seems to have changed his mind along the way. I can’t understand why, but I’m sure it will make it a lot more difficult to find two more for Captain.” Your conversation dies a bit there, leaving both you and Wooyoung to stew over the predicament. According to Daichi, you spent years denying your identity and refusing to listen to him, so you never made an effort to find any Sirens like both Wooyoung and Seonghwa have been apparently. Still, it leaves you more curious than before, especially given what all happened in your latest escapade in the Dreamscape.

“Tsukio can find you anywhere, even while far away! This mental connection you share, this link — the two of you are a dyad, a yin and a yang, a pair that cannot be severed. No matter how far apart you are, the two of you will always be able to come back to each other.”

“Did he ever tell you that we will always be able to come back to each other?”

“Come… back to each other? No, I’ve never heard him say such a thing before.”

“I remember seeing you in a dream before, not the Dreamscape but an actual dream. But that dream felt more like a memory, and I asked you about it once in the medbay. I know you told me no then, but does it have anything to do with what Daichi said possibly?”

“Hm, I suppose it could?” Wooyoung leans back and looks up at the ceiling. You can’t figure out what’s on his mind just through his expression, and what he says next doesn’t help much either. “But I don’t have any sort of memory like that.”

“You — you were wiped with a serum too, weren’t you?”

“Did Yeosang tell you that as well?” Wooyoung asks through a frown. “Did he mention how guilty he feels about that too? Probably, that would be very much like him to do so. Guilty for things that aren’t even his fault… but yes. Yes, my memories were wiped too.”

“I have another question. I’m sorry for asking so much all at once. Yeosang never gave me a clear answer though, so I’m still curious, but why haven’t you told Hongjoong about this?” Wooyoung doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he sinks his teeth into his lower lip and refuses to look your way for a bit. The silence drags but it’s nothing uncomfortable or unsettling. It isn’t like you’re on a time crunch right now either, so you’re more than willing to wait until he is ready to speak.

“It’s something stupid and selfish honestly,” he whispers after a bit. His other hand finds purchase on the bed, picking at a loose thread hanging off the sheets. “I didn’t expect Yeosang to take it so seriously, but now he’s adamant even when I try to tell him otherwise. Really it’s just that when I was still a slave, I didn’t always have to wear the collar. It dampened and muted my abilities so I couldn’t use them freely. Shocked me a lot too whenever I foolishly tried to use them without permission, leaving some really ugly and awful scars. Yeosang always treated the wounds when that would happen.”

His hand travels up to touch the band of metal hanging about his neck. You follow the movement with your eyes. You can’t miss the spreading scars underneath the metal as he shifts it, like little lightning bolts of pale skin hiding beneath it, and you wonder if that’s what you felt the first time you woke up in his body.

“I have a lot of scars from lots of different things. It shouldn’t be any different, and it shouldn’t even matter because it’s stupid and childish and I need to get over it. Even though the collar is dead and doesn’t work, like it doesn’t mute my abilities anymore or anything like that, just the idea of having it on keeps me sane. Being a Siren is both a blessing and a curse. Some abilities you’re born with are crueler than imaginable and can be used to do horrific things. The things I was forced to do with mine are not something I ever want to revisit again. So… I keep the collar on because the trauma I suffered while wearing it for so many years keeps me sane. Merely the idea of wearing it prevents me from using my abilities because I was conditioned into a state where if I tried doing anything while the collar was on, I would be hurt. When it comes to visiting you, it’s different because I’m asleep when that happens. And whenever people other than Yeosang or myself try to touch it, I get thrown back into the memories of his father taking it off me to use me as a weapon and I-I can’t — it’s too much to bear.

“I trust Hongjoong. I really trust him and admire him and respect him so much. As much as I do Yeosang even if it’s in a different way. But I have an innate fear of authority that tells me no matter who it is, the people who have power over me will abuse it. That if anyone above me knows I’m a Siren, I’ll be used again, and I’m afraid of that. So it’s not that I don’t want to tell Hongjoong. Just that as long as I have this collar on and as long as these demons linger at the edge of my mind, I don’t think I can ever tell him what I am.”

You want to express an apology for bringing those memories back or at least offer an ounce of consolation because you can almost feel the pain radiating off his body in waves. But the moment you reach out to pull him into a hug, the door to your room slides open out of nowhere. You jerk, and Wooyoung lifts an arm to protect the both of you, but you take the initiative in pushing him down to the bed. In one swift movement, you climb in front of him, one knee down on the mattress and the other stretched out in front of Wooyoung’s body. The blade against your thigh is cool on your fingertips, but you don’t pull it out quite yet. The flash of red hair before you stops you at the last second.

Soojin?

The girl is already halfway in the room, door sliding shut behind her, and the second it’s fully closed, she turns to twist the lock into place.

“W-Wait, we’re n-not supposed to lock the doors!” Wooyoung protests, leaning up over your shoulder to see better. Soojin levels him with a sharp glare. You reach behind you to push Wooyoung back enough so that he’s hidden behind your shoulder, matching Soojin’s stare with equal intensity. The girl steps closer to you, draws a single finger up, and stabs you hard in the chest with her dull nail.

“You and me need to have a chat after all it seems.”

“What do you mean?” You clench your fingers around the handle of your knife, still not completely at ease with the woman standing in front of you.

“What do I mean? I mean that my fucking client downstairs just tried to fucking murder me and gave me a message from Han Jisung of all people! Seeing you and hearing from that bastard on the same day after being free from that past for several years? That’s no fucking coincidence, Y/N.”

“Murder!? How did you — how did you get away?”

A laugh of disbelief escapes Soojin’s lips as she pulls back a few feet.

“I killed him, of course! What else was I supposed to do? I dumped the fucker’s body out the window for staff to clean up later. This sort of thing happens frequently enough for them not to question it, and besides, I told them it was a jealous worker so they won’t really care all too much about him. But what the fuck is going on? Why are you here and why did Han Jisung just tell me my time is up and try to have me killed?”

“I… I-I don’t — I’m not with Jisung, I know nothing about that at all. He—” You cut yourself short with a sharp inhale, eyes darting across the floor like it has all the answers in it. “Wait, he knew I would be coming here though. Did he know that you worked here?”

“Unfortunately, not by choice though. We ran across each other around a year ago in the city, and I mentioned working at the House in passing.”

You shift to motion back at Wooyoung and pull your hand off the knife on your leg at last.

“He was brought here against his will by Jisung. Well, whoever Jisung is working with at least. I only came to get him out. We’re — he’s part of the crew I’m working with now. Jisung knew where he would be and that I would come to get him.”

“And he’s still a psychopath when it comes to you then?” Soojin scoffs, brows knitting together to accentuate her disbelief. “He tried to have me killed just so that I would stay out of your business?”

“I don’t know, Soojin,” you exhale. “It doesn’t make any sense why he would do that. I already made a deal with him and he’ll get to take me regardless of what happens here.”

“T-Take you?” Wooyoung interjects. “Take you where?” His hand latches around your elbow and squeezes hard. You ignore the man in favor of maintaining your focus on Soojin, however, much to his dismay.

“Unless you know something Jisung wouldn’t want me to know and he couldn’t even risk the thought of us running into each other and speaking.” At that, Soojin tilts her head to the side in confusion.

“What could I possibly know that you don’t?”

“What happened before you left the crew?” Her confusion intensifies to a dramatic degree.

“Have you gone mad? Do you not remember or something? You were always a bit bad with memory, yeah, but has it gotten this bad?”

“Please, Soojin, I’m begging you please just tell me what happened before the crew fell apart. I know you called me a scapegoat for a reason, please.” You reach out across the empty space between your bodies, having to stand to reach her, but when you do, you close a hand around her wrist. Soojin blinks between where you hold her and your face without speaking for so long that you think she’s going to refuse you again.

“I called you a scapegoat because I thought you were in on Jisung’s plan at the time,” she says finally, pulling her other hand up to run through her hair. “You would’ve done anything for him so I thought that was just another part of it.”

“What did I do?”

“I should be asking what you remember happening instead.”

“What I remember is stealing documents and plotting to dismantle the military from the inside out with you guys but I fucked up. I know I fucked up and got caught and Hyunwoo took the blame for me and it got him fucking executed.” Soojin leans back, hand tugging out of your light grip.

“I know nothing of what happened after Ash, Juyeon, and I left Eros. But before we left…” It’s her turn to hold you by the wrist. She turns your arm over and exposes the inside of your left arm, right where that damned brand sits against your raised skin. “You didn’t deserve this. It wasn’t your burden to bear. You were the scapegoat, and that’s why the team fell apart, that’s why we all broke up and ran away. You didn’t plan to steal anything, nor did you plot a thing. Neither did Hyunwoo. It was all Jisung; Jisung wanted to dismantle the military and kill the king. When Juyeon, Ash, and I found out what he was planning to do, we brought it to Hyunwoo. All Hyunwoo said was that stopping Jisung wasn’t something he could do. So he told us to leave while we still had the chance and that he would take care of things. He would take the blame so that no one else would have to get hurt. But you didn’t want him to do that, so you ran off and carried out Jisung’s plan for him.”

“Which part? Did I k-kill the king… before Hyunwoo died?”

Soojin heaves a deep sigh.

“The last night we were all together as a team, you snuck out of the barracks and infiltrated the palace. You stole the documents Jisung wanted — whatever the fuck they were because I don’t even know why he wanted them in the first place if he was going to kill the king anyways — and you killed the king that night too. Everything went to shit. It all happened too fast for the rest of us to know what was really going on. You just came back to the barracks and turned the lights on and…”

You don’t realize how hard your head is pounding until the woman trails off, voice dying in her throat, and then it hits you will so much force that you feel your body beginning to lurch. You would fall over, most likely smack your head on the sink as well, if not for Wooyoung jumping up and catching you by the waist before you can fully go down. And thanks to him, all you do is hunch over and hold your head in your hands as a stab of pain sears through your skull.

“Breathe, Y/N, breathe for me,” he urges as you slump your weight back against him. “You need to breathe, okay? You’re hyperventilating. One breath every five seconds, slow it down, you’re okay.”

“Th-There was blood. There was blood, wasn’t there?” Looking at Soojin fills your vision with pure crimson, but it’s not because of her hair this time.

“Yes,” she whispers back, not daring to speak any louder than that. “You were… drenched in blood that wasn’t yours. And we were so scared you had been hurt somehow. I carried you to the bath and cleaned you but you didn’t have a single scratch on you.”

“O-Oh god,” you choke out. The red in your vision turns coppery as a different image takes over and a new memory swarms your head.

“What the fuck did you do!?”

Hands squeezing hard around your throat, shoving you under bloody waters.

“Let her go!”

“You ruined everything! How could you do this? Why are you so fucking useless? I told you to sit still and not do anything!”

The water spread to your nostrils and forced its way in as you struggled to find air.

“Jisung, release her right this instant!”

The hands around your throat just grew tighter.

Wooyoung eases you down to the floor when the rest of your strength leaves you. He keeps a hand at your waist, using the other to hold your head to his chest in a desperate attempt to control the wild tremors shooting through your body. You keep a hand pressed to your throbbing temple but it does nothing to alleviate the pain you’re in, one that feels as though something is trying to rip your head in half with their bare hands.

“C-Can’t remember more. I can’t, I do-don’t want to remember anymore, I — it hurts. It hurts too much, it hurts so much.”

“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay. You don’t have to remember anymore, okay? You’re good, you’re done, no more. No more.” Even through the pain, you can’t miss the desperation in Wooyoung’s tone. His hand moves for your arm where your wristband sits, buzzing uselessly against your skin. “Y/N, what does this mean? Is something happening?”

You want to answer, You even open your mouth to do so. Yet the moment you do, the taste of that metallic soapy water fills your mouth and you choke on air.

“Y/N, please, what does it mean? Are we in trouble?” You think you shake your head but the panic in Wooyoung’s eyes isn’t reassuring and you aren’t sure you have any hold over the muscles in your body right now. “Please, do you know where our friend is?” He asks, directing his focus to where Soojin kneels in front of you.

“The brunette?”

“Brunette? No, no, I’m talking a blond?”

“J-Jongho,” you force out, gritting your teeth until your jaw hurts from the force. “Jongho… here too.”

“I saw that name on the register,” Soojin cuts in. “I checked it to find what room you were in and saw his name further down on the list.”

“Please get him and bring him. Please, I know you — we just need your help right now, please,” Wooyoung begs. His grip on your waist tightens a little as Soojin hesitates, and it doesn’t let up until the girl nods and leaves the room in haste. Wooyoung brings you back to his chest once she’s gone, matching your shaky breaths as he gently rocks you back and forth. “I can’t… know your memories or the pain you’re feeling right now, but I know what it’s like to suddenly be hit with memories you forgot you had. Ones that were suppressed behind an iron wall. I know what it’s like to have it slip out and hit you.”

“It fucking hurts.” You clench your jaw again, feeling a burn of pain up the side of your face with the movement. “Like someone is stabbing my b-brain with a da-damn icepick.”

“Are the memories painful?”

“I d-don’t know. I can hardly think straight. My head hurts. That’s all I can think about.”

“The serum… I’m assuming it’s the same one I was given back then. It can’t take away memories. Yeah, they tell you that it’s a wipe, but that’s only because they don’t want you trying to find those old memories. It can’t remove parts of the brain like that. They just use it to lock away memories but there’s no guarantee of it being permanent, so when you do remember something they tried to lock away, it hurts.”

“D-Does it hurt you like this too?”

“Yes, but I’m — pain isn’t something that bothers me all too much, and I’m lucky enough to have Yeosang nearby when it happens. I’ve got a prescription for the pain from Yunho too. We can… we can get you something long-term back on the ship.”

Another stab of pain hits as the door slides open, metal grating hard on your ears, but this time Jongho stands with Soojin. He rushes over to join you and Wooyoung on the floor in a panic, obviously torn between being excited to see Wooyoung again and your current crumpled state.

“Yeosang’s hour is up and he’s waiting at the meeting point. Captain hasn’t buzzed in on the contact yet.” Jongho reaches down to lay a hand against your forehead. You’re quick enough to turn your face further into Wooyoung’s shirt, inhaling the sickening floral scent that clings to his skin.

“Don’t even think about trying to take it away,” you hiss.

“I can’t take physical pain, don’t worry. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“Here, something for the pain.” Soojin interrupts the moment to lean over you with a cup of unknown contents. “Fast-acting pain reliever. Every room has some in it just in case patrons get too out of hand. We keep it in the cabinets, I promise it’s nothing bad. It’ll numb you and make you a bit sluggish for a while, but it’ll also take the pain away.”

“Thank you,” Wooyoung murmurs as he takes the cup from her hands. He helps bring the cup to your lips, pushing some of the murky grey liquid inside into your mouth, and you struggle not to gag around the taste of it. He doesn’t stop until the entirety of its contents are drained into your mouth then tilts your head back to keep it down when some threatens to drip out the corners of your lips. An unknown hand comes down on your knee.

“Y/N, I’m so sorry.” Soojin. “I didn’t mean to hurt you with this information.” You swallow hard only to choke a second later on the putrid aftertaste clinging to your tongue. Wooyoung lets you cough into his shoulder without complaint, passing the now empty cup back to Soojin.

“You couldn’t have known,” you murmur after escaping the coughing fit. “It’s not your fault.”

“I didn’t know what they would do to you after we left the planet,” she sighs through the quiet of the room. “I should have expected it honestly, knowing Jisung, but maybe I hoped he would be better than that. He always manipulated you so it only makes sense that he would try to manipulate your memories too. Do you at least know what happened a little bit better now?”

“Y-Yeah, yeah.” You try to pull away from Wooyoung and get up but his grip on you doesn’t let up. “My memories were taken away for a second time and replaced with something else. So instead of only losing fourteen years of my life, I lost eighteen and spent the last three years believing those manipulated memories to be real. I’m peachy.”

Another buzz from your wristband pulls your attention away, and Jongho glances down at his own too.

“Cameras are down.”

“Let’s go then,” you mutter.

“Are you okay to move? Don’t push it if you’re not strong enough.”

“We need to go now while we still can,” you protect, letting Wooyoung help you to your feet even if it’s on shaky legs. Jongho gives a curt nod then heads for the window, no doubt to pry it open. Soojin catches you by the arm before you can fully turn away.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. Even if you can’t remember all of it, there are still things I regret saying and doing to you. I should have known back then how much Jisung was manipulating you and not pushed so much blame onto your shoulders.”

“You can get out now with us, Soojin. While you have the chance.”

“And do what with that freedom?” She huffs out a dry and lifeless laugh. “Wander aimlessly? Ash and Juyeon are both missing in action. I have no clues or leads on where they might be or if they’re even alive. I don’t have anything left out there beyond the House.”

“I… if I hear anything out there about them, I promise I’ll send you a message. I’ll find a way to get news to you, maybe through my captain’s contact or something. I swear if I can help you get out of this hellhole I will.”

Soojin reaches up to ruffle her hand through your hair, mussing the loose locks more.

“You always were a good kid, Y/N. Too good for the life you were forced to live.” It hurts to watch her smile. It hurts even more to let Wooyoung guide you to where Jongho waits by the now open window. “Go while you can, you three. The medicine will wear off in a few hours, but hopefully, you’ll have access to something better by then. I’ll make sure you get out safely.”

Jongho dips through the open space first, hopping down to the pristine streets below with little issue.

“Send Y/N down next!”

You can’t tear your gaze off Soojin. You don’t know when you might see her again or if you even will, and it hurts to leave her behind like this but she just keeps smiling at you with bright eyes and blinding hair.

“T-Thank you, Soojin. Please stay safe, if you can.”

“Always.”

With that, Wooyoung hoists you over the ledge of the window and dangles you far enough down so that your fall is softened a bit. Jongho catches you by the legs, taking the brunt of your weight before you hit the ground. Wooyoung drops down beside you without warning a second later. As Jongho eases you down, you dare to glance up at the window you just left from, and it shuts slowly without a sign from Soojin inside.

Wooyoung rushes back to your side and loops an arm back around your waist when you start to slump forward again.

“That’s — that’ll look too suspicious,” you mutter, pulling his arm back to his own side.

“We just dropped out a fucking window. I’m sure that would look more suspicious.”

“I’ll be okay.”

Yet two steps later, you’re stumbling over your heels and Jongho comes to your rescue this time. He tugs your arm through his own as he walks forward without saying a word. You can only lean your weight on him and slump your chin against his shoulder.

“Thank you…”

Silence drapes over the three of you as you make your way to the meeting point with Yeosang. You aren’t in as much pain as you were earlier (Soojin wasn’t bluffing when she said fast-acting) but the medicine is already making you a bit groggy. It feels a bit like you’re wading through sludge just trying to walk a few steps, and frankly, Jongho is the only thing keeping you going at this point. Wooyoung lingers at your other side. Every once in a while, you feel his worried gaze find its way to your form. He might even be speaking to you at some point because you hear something that sounds vaguely like his voice through the radio static in your ears, but there is far too much on your mind and too much to think about right now for you to pay any attention to that.

If… if I killed the king before Hyunwoo’s execution, then who did I kill that night? Did I kill anyone at all? Was that memory fabricated? What have I been working towards all these years if that’s a lie?

Funny how your search for answers only left you with more questions instead. There are too many questions to keep track of and not remotely enough answers to them. You know you won’t be able to have those answers yet either, not while San and Mingi are still missing and Jisung is bothering you. Where would you even look for answers now? Jisung would never tell you a thing, Hyunwoo is dead and gone, and now you’re leaving Soojin behind.

The one thing that reaches your brain through the static in your ears is a dry and choked sob. You pull yourself out of your thoughts as Wooyoung disappears from your side. It doesn’t take much to guess why. You’ve reached the meeting point, the all too small alleyway where Yeosang waits for you three, and Wooyoung is running straight to him with reckless abandon.

“Y-Yeosang, angel, Yeosang, my god I’m—” Wooyoung’s voice dies in a cracked sob when he reaches the Elitist. His hands barely brush the man’s shoulders because Yeosang drops to his knees in front of Wooyoung, face hidden but no doubt bearing tears, and he balls his fists around the flimsy material of Wooyoung’s pants. He presses his forehead to Wooyoung’s hip, hands traveling further up to press against the small of his back. Wooyoung can only card a hand through Yeosang’s hair in response, but it’s enough for now. It’s enough for both of them like this, with Yeosang’s knuckles white from the pressure of clinging to Wooyoung, and you and Jongho maintain your distance as best you can to give them this moment.

“Are they happy?” You whisper to Jongho even though the answer is blindingly obvious before you. The Berserker’s lips twist into a small grin.

“I don’t think there’s a word strong enough to describe how they’re feeling right now.”

Yeosang pulls his head off Wooyoung’s hip and stares up at the man with tears on his cheeks and stars in his eyes. Wooyoung dips down to the Elitist’s height, pulling his face up to his own and slotting their lips together like nothing else in the universe exists around them. Again, it’s raw, as all emotions between these two seem to be, but it belongs to them and it’s something you can’t take away from them. When they part lips to gulp in desperate breaths of fresh air, Wooyoung places his forehead over Yeosang’s and takes the breath from his lungs like that. They don’t exchange words but there doesn’t seem to be a need for words either, not until Yeosang seems to catch hold of himself and come back to his senses.

“The car is waiting for us at the other end of the alley. Driver’s already pulled up.” Jongho nods when the Elitist drags his gaze over to where the two of you stand. Yeosang lets Wooyoung pull him back into space after that, unable to contain a smile as the Siren continues to press more kisses to his cheeks. You and Jongho trail behind them to the other end of the alleyway. Seeing them together like this makes it worth it. You knew it would and you were striving to bring them this moment, but seeing it unfold before you like this increases that feeling tenfold.

Once in the car, Yeosang sits Wooyoung down in one of the cushioned seats then drops to the floor between his legs even when Wooyoung protests and tells him to get up.

“Stop, that’s weird! It looks weird, Yeo, please! It looks like you’re trying to su—”

“Shut up,” Yeosang mumbles back as he drops his head to rest against Wooyoung’s thigh. “You’re the one who makes everything dirty. Get your head out of the gutter.”

Wooyoung obviously doesn’t mind all too much because he returns to toying with the Elitist’s blond locks moments later as you and Jongho settle into the seats beside the pair. And from where you’re sitting, they really do look like young boys again, more than just a former slave and ex-prince but also less than that. Just… boys who fell in love despite the odds set against them.

“I’m sorry, Woo, I’m so sorry.”

“Shh, angel, I know. It’s okay. We’re okay.”

You tune out of the conversation there. It’s far too intimate and personal for you to encroach on, and the medicine has you falling asleep in your seat anyways. Jongho seems to pick up on that, reaching over to pat your leg.

“Rest while you can.”

A hum comes as your reply as you slump to the side, head hitting the side of the car with a loud thud. Jongho exhales a quiet laugh and pulls you over to rest against his shoulder instead.

“’m sorry for snapping at you,” you murmur. You’re forcing your eyes to stay open long enough to get the apology out but it’s growing more difficult by the second. “I didn’t mean to, I was afraid… of her slipping out of my grasp but… that’s no excuse.”

Your fluttering eyes snap wide open when something presses down hard on your nose. You blink uselessly at Jongho and the finger he hovers over your face.

“Stop talking nonsense, yeah? Rest. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re not?”

“Hm, no, I’m not.”

“Promise.”

“I promise I’m staying right here.”

“And we’ll get San back?” You mumble just before the drowsiness wins.

“We’ll get your San back too, I promise.”

✧✧✧ a/n: yall imma be honest this chapter feels like a whole fever dream and a half but i love it nonetheless she’s my Baby i hope you guys love her just as much and enjoy her <3 lots happened but also not a lot happened? i feel like the wc is so dramatic for Not A Lot but yaknow that’s life ! next chapter we’re getting juicy and bringing a part 16 move back bc teehee that’s what i do best u know me anywho let me know what u think as always i love u all im so happy to bring u guys this chapter and so excited for the coming ones!

taglist: @faeriewoobin​​ @sugarrimajins​​ @atinyinwonderland​​ ​@sparklychangbin​ @jeong-uwu​​ @jeonartemis​​ @anothershorthuman​​ @xxbluestrifexx​​​ @haotheheckk​​ @noonawriter​​ @lostscenarios​​ @nlost21​​ @mirror-juliet​​ @okokokok123-45​ @purple-aeon​ @theoinkypiglet​ @toothlessshiber​ @atinyarmyx1​ @simpforhyunjin​ @hwangwoosan​ @vampire-jimin​ @softyubi​ @drumboydowoon​ @chatsgotmytongue​ @just-a-starfruit​ @babydolljo​ @scintillating-souls​ @khjssss​​ @rawrrainn​ @hewwo-from-the-other-side​ @icekdy​ @eggteez​​ @bangtanxberm​​ @uglychildd​ @lucymultistan​​​​

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[the-stressmushroom]

AFTG Headcanon #2

(I’m gonna be doing a few more of these for writing/idea practice)

TW: canon typical violence, blood

Neil, while being very attractive, does not have a perfect face. And I don’t mean the scars. Whenever I see fan art of Neil, he always has this super symmetrical and straight nose, and I just cannot believe that is the case.

Neil’s nose is crooked and has a large bump in the middle.

He first broke his nose when he was 8. He had been running around the kitchen, experiencing a rare moment of genuine childlike joy in the Baltimore house. His father was away for business and had taken Lola, Romero, and Patrick with him, leaving Neil alone with Mary and only Jackson guarding them. Neil didn’t pose much of a threat so Jackson stayed practically glued to Mary’s side. There was soft music playing throughout the house and Neil, Nathaniel then, was happily humming along as he did laps around the kitchen island. However, as one song bled into the next, he heard Mary shout followed by a big crash. As he whipped his head around to find the source of the noise, he lost his balance and fell headfirst into the marble counter top. His nose cracked, and he felt himself begin to cry. Mary had told him to stay out of trouble though, and he didn’t want to make her mad, so he went to the bathroom closest to his bedroom and locked himself inside. He tried desperately to keep the blood off of any light materials and sat prodding at his injured nose for about an hour before he squeezed it tightly, and tugged it straight. It hurt, but not nearly as much as his fathers hands or lolas knives. The bleeding stopped, so Neil did his best to clean up his mess and carry on with the rest of his day. His mom didn’t even question it when he came down for dinner that evening with swollen eyes and a purple nose; she couldn’t really talk with the bruises around her throat left by Plank.

The second time he broke his nose, it wasn’t his fault, and his name was Stefan. They were driving through the Swiss alps when a member of the Moriyama’s syndicate caught up with them. The roads were snowy and the 1972 Volvo they were stuck with did not make the best get away car. Despite Mary’s skill, the car spun out after hitting a patch of black ice on a particularly winding road. Neil couldn’t remember the car colliding with the tree, but he could remember the feeling of his mother’s freezing fingers snapping the cartilage back into place. He could remember the scream he tried and failed to bite back, and the slap he received for making too much noise. The slap jostled his nose and though it had been properly reset, that break never quite healed properly.

There was a third, fourth, and fifth time; all on the run as well, but the first time he broke his nose as a fox was different.

It was the second game of his Sophomore season. The Jackals had put up a hell of a fight, but the foxes had managed to pull out a win. When the final buzzer sounded, Neil pulled off his helmet and shook out his sweaty hair before looking to the score board; the 8-5 he saw there put a smile on his face. If he hadn’t been quite so distracted, he might have noticed the angry looking backliner for the jackals watching him. He might have noticed the ball being tossed in the air, and he might have noticed the racket swing that sent the ball hurdling towards his face. Andrew noticed. He noticed immediately but didn’t quite make it to Neil in time to push him out of the way. The court rang out with a deafening crack as the ball connected directly with the bridge of his nose. Andrew was over him as soon as he hit the ground, muttering a quick yes or no before pulling Neil’s head into his lap. The other foxes had thrown themselves at the Jackal player in question as soon as they saw Neil fall, but Andrew couldn’t be bothered. He gently touched Neil’s nose and dabbed at it slightly, trying to stop the blood from going into his mouth. Neil groaned and sat up, leaning back on his hands. The fight between the jackals and the foxes had ended with the offending jackal player being benched for the next two games thanks to a much deserved red card.

As his teammates began to circle him, checking in, asking him questions, Neil put a hand up to quiet them.

“Guys, I’m fine, I swear,” Neil said before reaching up and resetting his broken nose without so much as a flinch. “See, all good.” The foxes went deadly quiet.

“Neil,” Matt said softly, “that’s not all good. How do you know how to reset a broken nose?”

Neil blinked at Matt owlishly before responding, “cause I’ve done it a dozen times? To my mom and myself. Couldn’t go to hospitals while on the run and the nose is a very delicate part of the body.” This wasn’t the first time the foxes had heard something like this from Neil, but it didn’t make it any less heart breaking. Neil began to shift around in discomfort from all the eyes on him, and Andrew, as always, noticed right away.

“Come on junkie, you and I are doing press duty.” Neil nodded, his face blank, but he found himself able to breath easier thanks to the distraction. Andrew always knew exactly what Neil needed, always.

As the press conference came to an end, a lingering journalist asked for Neil’s opinion of the Jackals player who had, quite literally, taken a shot at him. Neil’s composure slipped slightly and he let out a laugh at the question before answering,

“If only they had aimed that well during the game, they might have won”

Andrew let out an exasperated sigh beside him and grabbed Neil’s wrist before pulling him out of the press room, leaving the wrap up to Wymack.

“207%”

“Okay, but was I wrong?”

“208%, thin ice junkie.” Andrew said, before turning and pressing a soft kiss to the tip of Neil’s very crooked and very swollen nose. “It’s time for you to go see Abby.”

Years down the line, Neil is having a particularly bad day and Andrew sits down next to him in their shared bathroom. He had found Neil on the bathroom floor with a hand mirror, a box of black hair dye and a fifth of whiskey, and decided enough was enough.

“Neil, you look nothing like your father.”

“Yes I do Andrew. Every time I look in the mirror, I see him. His eyes, his jaw, his hair-“

“Neil, I have an eidetic memory, I know what he looks like and I know what you look like. You do not look the same. The nose is all wrong.”

This puzzles Neil, he’d never really taken the time to look at his nose. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, your nose is completely different from his. It throws off the resemblance completely. You do not look like him, and you never will.”

Neil signs, letting his head drop between his knees before bringing his fingers up to dance carefully across the bridge of his nose. “It is a little crooked isn’t he?” He says with a slight chuckle.

“Yes,” Andrew responds before taking Neil’s chin in the palms of his hands and bringing his face up so their eyes meet. “It’s perfect.”

Neil smiles at that, a soft smile that is typically only reserved for Andrew.

“Yes or no, Neil?” the words are softly muttered into the mere inches of space separating their lips.

“Yes,” Neil murmurs in response, closing his eyes and leaning forward into Andrew’s space. He’s expecting a kiss on the lips, so is surprised when Andrew delicately kisses his nose instead. He smiles and Andrew’s lip twitches upward in response.

“511% junkie.”

[elizabeethan]

Watch The Sunlight Fade: 3 / 18

Emma Swan finds out that her boyfriend has been hiding something from her: he’s in a gang and trying to get out. Reluctantly, she decides to support him, sticking it out with him until they have enough money to flee to Florida. All she has to do is wait and ignore that feeling in her gut that something is seriously wrong. With the help of a kind and handsome stranger, she just might make it out alive.

Or, alternate summary: I’m horrible at summaries, please just read it.

Something of a cross between a What Still Remains AU and a Sons of Anarchy AU.

A/N: You may have noticed a chapter count! It’s subject to change, but I’ve outlined the whole story and have written halfway through chapter 12, so we’re getting there, friends. Reminder to check warnings and tags and message me if you have questions. There will be depictions of violence, domestic violence, very very brief discussions of non-con (kind of) and psychological abuse throughout this story.

Rated M

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Read my Other Stuff

Read on Ao3

~~~~

The door to his apartment slams behind her as she stumbles in, the alcohol in her veins obviously taking over as he helps to steady her. “Easy,” he warns, hand on her waist as he guides her towards the guest room. 

 “You’re not gonna let me stay in bed with you, big guy?” she slurs, giving him a flirty smile. 

 “No, love,” he answers softly. “You need rest.”

 With a giggle, she answers, “I get paid to have sex with people. Shouldn’t you be flattered that I’m soliciting you?”

 “Tink,” he laughs, “I am very flattered. But you need to go to bed.”

 “I can still give you a good time even though I’m drunk, you know,” she promises, letting her fingers dance along the lapels of his jacket. 

 “I know that, love. I just think… perhaps it’s time to… bring this arrangement to a close.”

She pouts, her bottom lip popping out and her brows furrowing. “Something I said?” she asks. 

 With a slight shake to his head, he smiles shyly down at her and brushes a wayward strand of her honey locks out of her eye. “No, but perhaps we can finish this tomorrow morning when you’re sober?”

 Tink shrugs, letting her heavy kids fall closed and turning around to stumble down the hall. “It’s okay,” she says as she finds the doorknob. “I know it’s that blonde girl.”

 “Liv…” he starts, although he isn’t sure where he’s going as he begins to speak. It’s not the blonde girl, not really. Although he felt a connection to her from the moment he saw her, he also knows that his and Tink’s fling is just that: a fling. It can’t last, and while he likes her well enough, he thinks it unfair to continue on with something to which he isn’t fully dedicated. “It’s not you.” 

 She snorts and nods her head lazily, letting it flop a bit too freely on her neck. “It’s not you, it’s me. I get it.” 

 “Hey,” he tries again, giving her a soft smile as he tucks away the same defiant strand of her hair. “I’ll always be here for you, you know that. I’ll always have love for you.”

 “Yeah,” she smiles with a soft blush, her lids looking heavier and heavier with each passing moment. “I love you, too, bud. It was probably a bad idea to sleep with your best friend anyway.” 

 “I’m not sleeping with Robin,” he deadpans, knowing with certainty that it’ll draw a hearty laugh from her. She pushes against his shoulder with more force that she was likely expecting and turns around to open the door to his guest room. 

 “You dolt.” Once she’s in the room, just as she’s about to shut the door behind her, she spins quickly to face him once more. “By the way, you’re a total idiot if you go after her.” 

 “Bloody hell, not you too,” he complains as he scratches behind his ear. 

 “She belongs to Cassidy and you know it. You know what’ll happen if you pursue her.” 

 “Aye, that’s why I have no intention of doing so. Now, go to bed, Olivia.” 

 “Ooh,” she fakes a shudder, “full name; I must've been naughty.” 

 “Aye, you were. Goodnight, love.” 

 “Night, KJ.” 

 He listens to her giggle as she stumbles through the room, one she’s stayed in countless times before. She’s right; they probably never should’ve started their affair in the first place. Sleeping with your best friend is bound to end badly. But they understand each other, each of them here with hardly a choice on whether they stay or go. It isn’t as if they’re being held against their will, but the implication is that they’ll seriously regret it if they try to leave, one way or another. They simply both took comfort in knowing that someone else felt as they did. 

 He’s about to go to bed himself, ready to rid himself of the guilt that came along with the events of the day, but he pauses as he walks by his front door just in time to hear a resounding thud coming from across the hall. He panics and swings his own door open when he hears the terrified cry in response. He heard something earlier today that sounded exactly like that terrified cry. 

 Rushing over to Neal’s apartment, he places his hand on the knob and presses his ear to the door. He doesn’t want to burst in with haste since he has no idea what he actually heard, and the door must be locked anyway. But he can’t help but recall the image of her pressed to the door looking horrified, two knives on either side of her throat. He can’t get the look in her eyes out of his head. 

 There aren’t anymore sounds resonating from the apartment, silence falling over him as he attempts to listen out for signs of trouble. After a moment, all he hears are soft, painful sobs coming from the other side of the door. 

 ~~~~

 It’s surprisingly even more terrifying to be in the shop during the day than it was at night. At least when she was here last night, the shadows kept the frightening details of the space hidden, but now that the sun is up and streaming through the small basement windows, she’s able to see too much. 

 She can see the aged and worn paint on the walls, giving her an automatic and infallible feeling of unease. She can see the decorative weapons proudly displayed on every inch of every wall. She can see the rugged violence on each of the men’s faces so clearly in the sunlight. Being here terrifies her. 

 “Morning, Miss Swan,” Peter greets as Neal leads her into the large meeting room. He’s already sitting at the table waiting for them, Gold at his right and two empty seats to his left. There are several other members at the table as well, and she can’t help but notice how bright Killian’s eyes look in the sun streaming through the windows. “Welcome to your first real family meeting.” 

 The others around the table laugh, everyone but Jones seeming to find his joke about her near death experience to be funny. “Aren’t you going to say hello?” Neal asks in her ear, his voice low and his teeth clearly clenched. 

 She clears her throat and gives Peter the fakest smile she can muster. “Good morning.”

 “That’s a good lass,” he praises, setting free a flock of anxious butterflies in her stomach. “Come sit. We saved you a seat by Neal.” 

 They sit side by side, and it’s becoming easier and easier to question his ranking within the group of men at the table. She finds it impossible to see him as a simple lackey when his name is carved into the table in intricate lettering in front of his chair, directly to the left of Peter's seat at the head. 

 There are talks of their plans, and she gathers some information easily while they seem to go to great lengths to keep other things hidden from her based on the threatening glances Peter doles out from time to time. There’s a trip coming up, and it’s automatically assumed that Neal will be going with Peter and Gold will be staying behind, as if this arrangement was made and agreed upon a lifetime ago. Once the other attendees are determined, Peter turns to face her and gives her a smile. 

 “Now, a job for you, my dear. Neal tells us you have a talent in finding people.” 

 “She can find anyone,” Neal says proudly, referring to her short stint as a bail bondsperson back when she lived in Boston. When she had met Neal after he witnessed her taking down a skip, he took her under his wing and told her she didn’t have to live such a dangerous lifestyle anymore. “Well, almost anyone.” 

 Her stomach flips at his hint; at his willingness to bring up one of the most painful memories she has. She’s great at finding people, but in 25 years, she still hasn’t been able to find her parents. 

 Pan hums. “We can look past a few failed attempts. What we need from you now, Emma, is your skillset to find a certain someone who deserted our cause.”

 She gulps. “You want me to hunt down someone who doesn’t agree with you?” 

 “No love,” he laughs, and Neal’s grip on her hand tightens just a notch. “I want you to find someone who has valuable information and won’t hesitate to hand it over to a rival.” Emma bites her lip in thought, concern likely colored across her face. She hadn’t considered the existence of a rival gang before this moment, and she becomes frightened to think of there being more than one set of men like them. The thought that another gang is out there and considers themselves rivals to The Lost Boys means she’s potentially putting herself in even more danger by becoming associated with them. What will another gang do to the girlfriend of one of their rival’s members, especially a member whom she suspects is higher up in the rankings than he’s letting on? 

 “It’s not lost on me that you’re feeling uncomfortable here, Emma. The tension between you and Neal is perfectly palpable. But I’d implore you to let go of your fears; no one here will harm you. We’re here to protect you. By simply being associated with Neal, you have the protection of everyone in this club. And I’m sure it makes perfect sense that we would expect something of you in return for our unquestioning devotion to your safety.” 

 Although something about his words makes her suspicious, she suddenly feels a sense of strength at his claim that she’s a part of the group now. It’s as if he’s telling her that her thoughts and opinions matter, so she makes a bold choice and speaks up. “Can I clarify something?” she asks. 

 “Of course.” 

 “What are you protecting me from, exactly?” 

 Peter smirks and shakes his head, giving Neal a look that she can’t quite read. “I suppose Neal hasn’t informed you of how dangerous a place this world can be for a woman like you, Miss Swan. Your love for Neal makes you a target, as does Neal’s love for you. By falling for him, you’ve also fallen into our world. And because we’re so devoted to what you have to offer, we will protect you from everyone who may want to hurt Neal.” 

 “Just because I can find people pretty easily?” she asks doubtfully. His explanation isn’t making any sense to her. She can’t rectify in her head how loving Neal can equate to requiring constant protection, especially based on his claim that he’s going to be leaving soon. 

 “No, Emma,” he laughs condescendingly, as if he were talking to a child who couldn’t handle the truth. She wonders if he’s right. “Worry not; all will make sense to you as time goes by. For now, let's get started with your first assignment. Hook, show the lady to her office.” 

 ~~~~

 “Most sites are blocked here,” he explains as he powers up the old desktop, groaning softly as he stands again. “You’ll likely run into trouble if you try to find him on Facebook or anything.” 

 “Why?” she asks, and although she immediately regrets opening her mouth, the look he gives her feels more amused than anything. 

 “Why?” 

 “Um… why are they blocked?” 

 He breathes out a laugh, shaking his head and looking away from her once he notices that the computer has booted up. “To keep you out of trouble, I suppose.” 

 She bites her bottom lip, squeezing her fists until she feels the sting of her nails digging into her palm. She isn’t sure that, in the last day since she’s come here, she’s been kept out of trouble at all. She’s been in trouble-- in danger-- since she heard those bikes pulling up behind her and Neal. 

 “Right,” she says softly, sarcastically, and again, she kicks herself for opening her mouth. She wonders what would have happened to her by now if she was with anyone but Jones in this moment. 

 “Love,” he starts, his voice soft and tender, and she almost wonders if he intends to step close to her. Perhaps he means to comfort her. “I’m--” he clears his throat, “If you need anything…” 

 Their eyes meet, and it’s like the first time again. His azure stare bores into her in a way that makes her shudder, but not out of fear this time. She feels seen, understood, and while it’s only been a day since her traumatic greeting from the club, it feels like a lifetime since she’s felt a sense of safety. It feels comforting to meet his gaze, and she suddenly lets her breathing steady and her heart rate settle. “Thank you,” she whispers genuinely. She isn’t sure how she could relay it to him if she does need something, but the way he looks at her tells her that he’ll know. 

 For the first time since she’s been here, her safety appears to be a priority to someone. Relief washes over her and she lets it, despite knowing that it will dissipate the moment he walks out the door.

 ~~~~

 “How’s it goin’ in here, my little worker bee?”

 She looks up from the computer she’s been staring at, met by Neal leaning against the door jamb with his arms crossed. The dinosaur she’s working on is hardly functioning, most sites she’s tried blocked and inaccessible and the speed at which it loads each page almost painful. After almost a week of working on the assignment they’ve given her, she’s found almost nothing.

 “Hi,” she mumbles, turning back to the screen. All they had given her was a name and a last known location, and she’s struggling to find more.

 “Doing alright?”

 “I can’t find much,” she says. 

 “You’ll find him; you’re smart. I wonder if that’s genetic,” he says with a laugh and a smirk in her direction. She isn’t sure what he means or how to respond, so she simply smiles somewhat awkwardly and moves on. She refuses to let herself wonder if this is another dig at her for being parentless. 

 “It just feels impossible. This guy, Graham… are you sure he even exists?” she jokes. 

 He laughs, but it’s forced and she doesn't detect a genuine smile. “Are you doubting Peter?” 

 Emma looks up at him, meeting his eyes with confusion colored in her own. “No,” she starts, although she isn’t sure if she’s being truthful in her answer. “It’s just…”

 Neal shoves away from the door and slinks closer to her, bending at his knees and squatting until his eyes meet her level. “Ems,” he starts, his hand landing on hers and applying what she thinks is meant to be a comforting amount of pressure. “Don’t start.” 

 “What…?” 

 He groans and leans away from her. “It's not a damn secret that you aren’t happy to be here. I need you to be better about that.” 

 She lets her jaw hang open for a bit longer than she means to, shock taking over her as he confirms what she’s been suspecting since the meeting she attended. “Neal,” she starts, “you’re the one who said you want to get out. You said we could leave after a few weeks.” 

 “And?” 

 “Uh… and… it’s been a week and you don’t seem like you’re… I mean… it seems like you're happy here.” 

 “So what?” 

 “What do you-- so what? You said we were leaving and now it’s like they're your family!” 

 Neal stands quickly, spinning from her in exasperation as he thrusts his hands into his hair. “You’re being so-- stop judging me! What do you even have to complain about?! They’re being nothing but nice to you. You have a home now, I feed you, I love you, we protect you… I don’t get what your damn problem is!” 

 “The knives, Neal!” she shouts, unable to hold back the emotional response to his nonsensical claims. “You threw knives at my head!” 

 There's a loud smack against the desk she sits at, and she’s brought back to the reality of her experience and out of the false sense of control that she let herself believe she had. She has to force herself to move on from the thought that she and Neal are able to have a conversation. When she looks down to where his hand met the surface, she sees his gun held beneath his palm. She pales. 

 “It’s time to move on,” he hisses quietly, his voice taking over the silence of the room. It’s another threat. Another convenient way to show her that he has power over her. That he can take everything away from her, even her life, in a second if she gives him a reason to. “You weren’t in danger, baby,” he says, his voice more soothing this time, drawing from her that feeling again. The feeling that she’s overreacting. “I had it under control, remember?” he asks, pressing a kiss to her cheek. 

 She sighs heavily at the feeling of his lips tracing along her jaw until he reaches her neck. “You did?” she asks weakly. With his sudden change in demeanor, his obvious desire not to make her feel unsafe anymore, she feels something shift between them. 

 “Of course I did; don’t be stupid. You know I did.” 

 It feels good, she lets herself realize. As her eyes slip closed and a soft breath escapes her lips, she makes herself relax into his touch. With her sense of sight cut off, she feels herself giving in to his touch in favor of feeling some sense of relaxation after a week of hypervigilance. His rough stubble scratches at her skin, something she normally doesn’t like, but right now, she doesn’t think she minds too much. With her eyes shut, the rest of the world closed off from her mind, she thinks she could appreciate some stubble. 

 She feels the smooth leather of his sleeve under her fingertips and she likes it. Sure, she’s always thought the leather jackets were sexy, but here and now, something about him in it becomes more appealing. But when his hand creeps up her waist, his touch a bit too rough, too domineering, she flinches. 

 “Shh,” he hisses softly, attempting to soothe her. “It’s alright.” 

 At the sound of his voice, something snaps within her and she stiffens. It sounds wrong, she realizes. “Wait,” she murmurs as his hand creeps under her shirt. 

 He breathes out a disbelieving laugh. “Seriously?”

 “I just,” she starts, nervous as he pushes away. “We’re… I mean, we’re here.” She gestures around the room, hopeful that her discomfort at the thought of sleeping with him in this office where anyone could walk in is clear. 

 “Right. So when we get home, you’ll be more than willing?” he asks doubtfully, rolling his eyes. 

 “Neal,” she begs softly, unsure of where she went wrong. She’s unsure of how she could have messed this up when she was the one to express her own discomfort. “Please.” 

 “Please,” he mimics, his voice rising in pitch. “I’ll see you in a week.” 

 With that, confusing words exchanged between them, he’s out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him. 

@courtorderedcake​​​​ @kmomof4​​​​ @stahlop​​​​ @klynn-stormz​​​​ @laschatzi​​​​ @emelizabeth88​​​​ @lfh1226-linda​​​​ @kday426​​​​ @elisethewritingbeast @timeless-love-story​​​​ @captain-emmajones​​​​ @gingerpolyglot​​​​​ @ebcaver​​​​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​​​​ @teamhook​​​​​ @superchocovian​​​​​ @itsfabianadocarmo​​​​​ @tiganasummertree​​​​​ @gingerchangeling​​​​​ @jrob64​​​​​ @onceratheart18​​​​​ @xhookswenchx​​​​​ @winterbaby89​​​​​ @swampmedusa​​​​​ @ultraluckycatnd​​​​​ @dancingnancyy​​​​​ @love-with-you-i-have-everything​​​​​ @shireness-says​​​​​ @snowbellewells​​​​​ @hollyethecurious​​​​​ @ouatpost​​​​​ @daxx04​​​​​ @the-darkdragonfly​​​​​ @donteattheappleshook​​​​​ @therooksshiningknight @eeteeaytay​​​​​ @xsajx​​​​​ @itsfridaysomewhere​​​​​ @alexa-fangirl-forever​​​​​ @jonesfandomfanatic​​​​​ @wefoundloveunderthelight​​​​​ @qualitycoffeethings​​​​​ @rapunzelsghosts​​​​​ @spaceconveyor @badcats-andmice​​​​​ @batana54​​​​ @sailtoafarawayland​​ @deckerstarblanche​​ @zaharadessert​​ @xarandomdreamx @pirateprincessofpizza

[genuineformality]

Febuwhump Day 4: Nightmares

Six of Crows, Inej Ghafa

In her dream, Inej is in the caravan again. 

The dream caravan is not like the real one. The wagon she shares with her parents is simultaneously too large and too small, too bright and too dark. It is always twilight, the liminal space between day and night. The dream caravan is a real place and it is nowhere. 

Caravan dreams have a rhythm. Inej wanders through the lanes the tidy rows of wagons make, but the wagons are infinite and stretch on to the horizon. She sees aunts and cousins, raises a hand to greet them, but when she tries to catch sight of their faces, their features slip away, sliding like wet paint. She knows them all and yet they remain strangers. 

She searches for someone she recognizes, whose countenance does not fade when she looks directly at them, but the effort is futile. Dream Inej doesn’t know this and she runs through the neat lanes and tidy rows, recognizing the painted patterns on the sides of wagons, knowing that this one belonged to her aunt, another to an uncle. Like the faces, though, the patterns change when she looks too closely; painted flowers and vines writhe like snakes, turning the familiar foreign. 

The dreams always start with Inej in her own body, but as she runs faster and faster, searching, always searching, she feels herself leave, disembodied and helpless to do anything but watch. She can see her body, a marionette on strings. When she follows the strings up, up into the colorless sky, she sees black gloves on slender, lockpick’s fingers, and a pair of coffee-brown eyes hidden in misty nothingness. 

-=-=-=-=-=-

Inej doesn’t scream when she wakes; she can’t. Whatever holds her mind from her body prevents her from being able to make a noise, even if she wanted to. Instead, she gasps, tries to make some sound come forth between panting breaths. She wants to make noise, to hear herself, to know that she cannot be silenced should she choose to be heard, but nothing comes. 

“Hey,” a voice says from her side. 

Inej rolls away from it, hits a wall. She grasps for any of her knives and finds one sheathed under her pillow. Only with a knife in her hand does her mind finally come fully into her body again.

Jesper is a few feet away, both hands held up in surrender. “Hey, it’s me, Inej. You’re safe.” 

She tests the balance of the knife before daring to look around. She’s crouched on a pallet on a wooden floor. Jesper’s seated on a pillow, and she recognizes Kaz’s makeshift desk, the door on a couple of stacked fruit crates. Just past the desk is Kaz’s bed, and in it is a figure whose head is swathed in bandages. She’d know that nose anywhere, though.  

“Where… What…?” 

Jesper keeps his hands up, his voice low. “You were both in bad shape. Healer’s been to see you, bribed him to keep quiet.”

Inej tries to remember what happened and finds a confusing jumble of memories. “Kaz?” 

“Apparently has a hard head. He’ll be alright,” Jesper says quietly. “Healer said your shoulder should be good in a few more days.” 

She glances at her left shoulder to see it bandaged, but feels little pain. Rolling it experimentally proves to be more than she can easily take, though, and she sinks back down to the pallet, loosening the death grip she has on her blade. She’s grateful to find she’s still mostly clothed; only the tunic where she was shot has been cut away. 

“Why am I here?” she gestures to the room. 

“I needed to keep an eye on both of you,” Jesper mutters. Inej realizes then that the Dregs must know; the idea that any of them have seen her, touched her- her stomach turns a somersault.

“I told the Dregs that you and Kaz are on a job. Anika and Pim are running interference, but even they don’t know. Only the healer’s been in.” 

Saints. “How long have you been…?” Inej asks, terrified to know the answer. 

“Only a day.” He flashes a dazzling smile. “You and Kaz have been easy convalescents. I’ve been getting plenty of beauty sleep,” he gestures to his own pallet on the floor on the opposite side of the attic room. 

The flood of relief Inej feels leaves her feeling faint. Jesper seems to notice, but he doesn’t come closer. “You should get some more sleep. Healer says it’s the best thing for you.” 

“I should get back to my room.” Even as she says it, the idea of trying to stand up, let alone move, is overwhelming. 

“And deprive me of the easiest job I’ve had in months?” Jesper retreats to his bedroll.  

Inej takes a deep breath. She’s safe. Jesper is safe. Kaz is… as safe as he ever is. She nods, resheathes her knife and places it back under her pillow. 

As she lowers herself back to her thin mattress, Jesper murmurs, “sweet dreams”.

They never are, not anymore. But she appreciates the sentiment.

[inviouswriting]

Arjuna smut alphabet

Under the cut of course.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

An angel when it comes to aftercare. He can get rambunctious in the moment, so after the roles come off and highs calm down. He is right there soothing marks, bringing you back down, petting your head, getting water/snacks. Tending to anything that hurts and is sore. He lives to see a smile cross your face after. Will talk softer and simply lay with you.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

On his partner, probably their face, he loves seeing the range of emotions you show him. Arjuna will safeguard the embarrassing ones, maybe tease you a few times if you make such a haughty and erotic one. On himself he takes pride in his hands. For multitude of reasons, from his archery skills to how under his touch he makes you lose yourself. That he has the ability to make you come undone from specific touches or how he uses his touch to calm you.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He might be a bit sweet, volume of it is good. He likes seeing your face covered or your back, stomach with a few strips of it. Might lead him into more romps.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Arjuna likes to watch you alone once in a while. Perhaps when you think he is asleep, or when you are in the shower by yourself for “time” to yourself. He will be as quiet as possible to hear your voice plead for him. Though if you touch yourself next to him, he’ll join you. Maybe chide you for not waking him up if you felt this way. 

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Arjuna has had four wives and a child from each of them. He’s experienced. If you are not, then he’ll guide you in how to please him, and how to please yourself. He enjoys the times you learn each others bodies, what you like best and what he enjoys best. 

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Lotus - sitting position. It allows him to be deep, while also facing him. Arjuna loves to catch every expression you make, commit it to memory at every plea you make with your eyes or see them close when lost in pure pleasure. The position allows you both to work together, and enables you to hold onto him for dear life when things are rough.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Arjuna can be either serious or enjoy it so much that a laugh out of you makes it feel like he is with you, instead of just “with” you. A break in the stoic nature, if you try crawling away from him he’ll drag you back by your feet, tease you about escaping and show you why you wouldn’t want to. Though he won’t forget the time you fell off the bed. He chases you across any surface and off them.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He’s neat, the fact he is practically devoid of hair speaks well that he is either trimmed neat or hairless beneath the underwear.  He’s immensely clean, he bathes often if his love of saunas and hot springs are to go by. I would like to think he prefers his partner the same way. Clean and well kept in that regard.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Arjuna is always romantic at first, to get the mood going, from massages, to gentle words in your ear. His kisses make your head spin and he’s good at any affection that leads to it. Depending on how he is, romantic at first then in the middle outright passionate.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Arjuna does it more often than he lets on, specially after the first time you are intimate with him. Though he can’t help it with the memories of how you look underneath him calling for him.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Cockwarming. He finds it very intimate, to be able to be seated inside and either chilling like that while you adjust to him, or let him tease you without moving makes it interesting. 

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

For Arjuna, I want to think location doesn’t matter, it’s other people. He’s very much a demisexual, and it shows in when and where. He’s not against a sly public romp somewhere. The thrill might even make him enjoy it more, but there are namely people he doesn’t want to see you or him in this state. Namely Karna. He would 100% have sex in a hot spring, and steam room. Steam room he finds more fun as seeing how long you both last. His favorite place is outdoors, somewhere secluded where he can listen to every word and sound that comes from you both.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Telling him, he won’t act on his urges unless he knows you after a while. Arjuna prefers to be told when you want to directly. Though if you touch his back lightly enough to see him shiver it’s enough to drive him wild. Tug his hair and he has you on the ground already. Grind his lap while kissing him and he’s doing it back.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Forced. He will never do anything against your will, and you agree to the same with him. Anything neither you agree with is off the table period. He won’t engage in disgusting plays, anything that belongs in a toilet stays there. He won’t do anything that causes major harm to you, so extreme blood play is a no. 

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Arjuna loves giving and receiving. Giving more as it is one of the few times he knows he will make you weak on your feet and knees. He’s very good, he’ll grin everytime you cum from his ministrations. He’s vocal when receiving, one of the few times he will be loud, giving praise in how he feels good. Specially when your tongue encounters that sensitive spot on the underside.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Slow and sensual at the start then fast and rough later. He’s gentle at first when working you up to wanting him. At first he’s slower when first penetrating, but after you’ve established comfort and rhythm he increases the pace and gets rougher till you are both lost to wanting relief.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Arjuna enjoys them, perhaps in the morning before you’re expected to be around others. In a shower, either him joining you or you joining him as a good way to wake up. Catching you on a counter of your room, against a wall, a hasty closet perhaps. The need to have you higher, specially if you keep your clothes on.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Always depends on his partner, if they’re into it, he tries it. Except what is disgusting and would cause great harm to you or himself. He isn’t against using knives but rather didn’t as a slip up can mean a permanent reminder of an accident. He will experiment well with other things like ropes, bondage and slave and master play. Elements that play with trust being granted and he never forsakes it.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He’s an archer, he has stamina to burn. He can go for hours with you before he even remotely starts getting tired. He is proud of his endurance, he even asks after a romp if you want to go again. When you agree and he grins you know you are in for a good time.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Arjuna loves them, he loves using them on you, and he lets you use certain ones on him as well. He favors ones that make you squirm, picks vibrators and dildos that are slightly slimmer than his own cock so he is the one that satisfies you most. He doesn’t mind them used on him as well, will assume his female side and share toys between you both. He picks out plugs that have tails, he will match them to himself and the time you used a tenga on him he lost his mind with pleasure. But only you get to see him in this state, and only after you secure a place away from other servants. He rather others did not hear his moans knowing he’s letting you use a strap-on with him. When he finds something new to try you find him so eager to engage. His favorite toy to use on you is a remote controlled bullet. While he likes it when you use a cock ring on him.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He is unfair with teasing. When he is allowed to go all out, he does. He teases with his fingers, mouth, while having you seated on him full and not moving till you tell him what he wants to hear for your commands.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He’s quiet save for a few groans or moans when he feels good. If you are topping him, he’s very vocal, more out of embarrassment if you use a plug or a cock ring on him. He makes a variety of low moans or few hisses but nearing climax he can be heard murmuring your name under his breath.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He likes costumes, and getting you into them. He likes seeing you in outfits like a bunny or indulging him by wearing his red outfit. 

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He’s confirmed to being big, in length and girth. He would also be uncut, length 9 1/2 and girth  2 1/2 almost 3. He’s got enough to be the reason he teases you or uses alot of lubricant. With being uncut he’s very sensitive and blushes easier if you are giving him oral around it.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Fairly high with someone he loves and is shown the mutual respect. Once he has had a taste with toys however, he is insatiable trying to get you to make more noise than him. 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

As stated earlier, he has stamina to burn through. He lasts longer than you, and on the rare times you wear him out, he is still the last to fall asleep between you both. He takes care of you, cleaning you and himself up then settles for watching you sleep satisfied.

[reveriequill-rai]

Shroud: Withered Soul

A/N: Sorry it’s been a while. As of right now I’ve just been uploading stories I’ve written in my newspaper club, and now that I’ve graduated I hope that can now expand to short stories generally. I’m not gonna promise that posts from now on will be more consistent, but I would like to at least speed up my uploads a bit before they actually wind down, as I imagine I will be working on more stories in the future. Everything being uploaded right now is previous work, but nothing too old--probably like, from last year tops. This was completed sometime in May, I believe. 

This is an introduction to a character I created called ‘Shroud,’ an amateur self-proclaimed ‘detective’ who exclusively investigates occult-based crimes and malefic.

Content Warning: death, descriptions of corpses, graphic descriptions of violence and pain, cults 

[My blog will usually contain PG-13 stories, and as of right now I am writing some darker content, but I will tag anything that may be especially disturbing or uncomfortable. I’ll include this warning in my bio, too.]

----------

The corpse in front of me wasn’t all that disturbing by itself. I had seen dead people before–comes with the territory. I had been dead before. Murder rates in Twilight were, naturally, much higher than any other district in New Fable–especially further south of the district where I was–considering how much wild magic was around, and not even the police force sent here from the northern district of Bastion could do anything about it. So the corpse itself didn’t bother me, all things considered.

What did disturb me, though, was a number of other things.

For one, the corpse just being there was a problem. They weren’t stopping, and they were getting far too close to home.

Its eyes were still open, for another thing, and nearly colorless, and looking at me specifically, and I can swear to you that had not happened when I first laid eyes on it. Even worse, like me, the man lying dead in front of me appeared to be wearing a few bandages like I was, perhaps just recovering from an injury.

And for yet another thing, and perhaps the worst part of this, was the connection I felt with this dead man. Something about the state he was in struck a familiar chord that only I and a select unlucky others knew. As if we were kindred spirits–undergoing the same fate, yet with (probably) different outcomes.

I had been at this–whatever you would call tracking down cults as someone with zero prior detective experience with the help of almost no one–for…a few months now? And I’ve made a bit less progress than would be expected from someone who has seen just about everything the darker sides of magic had to offer. I did have one solid lead, though, and hopefully one that would lead me to exactly who I was looking for.

“Everyone move,” I ordered, pushing my way through the crowd.

Ignoring their complaints, I made my way over toward the body and began to examine it, hoping for any hint of who had done this, and more importantly, if it was exactly who I had suspected. There didn’t appear to be much damage, but what first caught my attention was the note tucked into the man’s pocket. I took it out and unfolded it, and immediately flinched.

Demon tongue.

Hellish whispers ran through my head, and I wasn’t sure if they were just in my head or not. It was hard to tell these days.

I honed in on the note, written on some old paper as if torn from an ancient book. The more I stared, the louder the whispers got. I ignored the throbbing in my head as best as I could–humans were not mentally equipped to engage with the infernal language at all, and I much less so. My hands shook as I read the brief message, which I must have read dozens and dozens of times already; I wasn’t counting and didn’t care to.

Some people studied demon tongue despite…well…everything, even the illegality. It probably didn’t matter to them. It didn’t matter to me, either, but someone had spoken to me in demon tongue before–though, in their defense, likely not out of their own volition–and the trembling and rapid heart rate was not worth the ability to communicate with infernals. (Nothing was, honestly.)

For these reasons–and also not wanting to be arrested or have my mage license revoked–I personally didn’t speak or write demon tongue, but I at least knew a little bit and could recognize some of the infernal runes. And those runes were enough for me to know that this was the exact same message that the abyss had been trying to send me in my last moments.

—

Can’t run home, I thought. They’ll follow me.

Just gotta run until I find a phone booth.

I ran until I finally spotted one on the street corner near a bridge. I let out a sigh of relief, taking a quick moment to catch my breath. Then, I quickly crossed the street and ran toward the phone booth, quickly dialing the police station.

“Hello?” I said into the phone as quietly as I could manage. “My name is [……………………………] I’m at the corner of Coral Avenue by the Armada IV Memorial Bridge. I’m being pursued by a group of kids in demon-charmed cloaks and shawls, please I need your help they have knives and they’re trying to kill me-“

The tears stinging at the edge of my eyes began to overflow as a human voice at the end of the line responded in perfect, uncharacteristically calm demon tongue. It was a short sentence, repeated over and over again, but with the little knowledge I *did* have, I could translate it by about the sixth loop:

“You are going to hell.”

I hung up the phone immediately, resisting the urge to yell, “I KNOW” directly into the phone.

Humans can’t speak demon tongue here. It’s illegal.

So how did an officer know demon tongue?

—

Unsurprisingly, the body was still in semi-good condition. After all, little damage was done to the body—only the soul. The only physical marks I could make out were marks around the wrist and neck, likely to restrain the victim. Couple of bruises here and there, too, but nothing was broken.

This…disturbed me, to say the least.

Cults around here were usually known to be violent. After all, a lot of them stood for violent causes–executing the ‘impure,’ plunging everyone into the dreams of a volatile eldritch creature, usurping the throne and forcing everyone to convert, rallying the youth to their bloody cause with claims that they alone possessed special powers…I had heard it all, all of them violent to some degree. But the ones that had gotten me…they seemed to worship oblivion itself. Or maybe whatever was in it. That was beyond even my knowledge.

But…even then, they still had arguably the least violent cause. The deadliest, yes–they seemed to just be destroying souls–but strangely not as bloody. Yet their means of carrying out this objective has historically been, well, bloody.

Or maybe that was just me.

Either way, this victim had certainly not gotten the worst of it. There were no twisted limbs, no bloodied nose, no wounds from blade or bullet, basically no magic-driven attacks aside from the terminating consumption of the soul…only marks of the initial restraint, bruises from the subduing, and the abyss claiming and destroying the soul.

I could almost picture it in my head: they likely jumped him in the middle of the street, kicking him around a bit to possibly weaken him, throw him off balance, but not too much as to rouse resistance, then restraining him–to the floor? A wall? I couldn’t tell, but there were no rope burns so they must have done this by hand–and calling, somehow, for their god, for lack of a better word, to devour its newest victim’s soul.

What did he see as he died? Did their eyes turn as colorless as his would become? Had they shown any sign of enjoying his torment? I doubt it; it didn’t seem like a very ‘fun’ kill. And likely not as personal as it was for me.

They were getting much better at their kills. It probably wasn’t as fun, but more precise.

And a lot less violent than I had gotten.

—

I caught a glimpse of the charm from earlier out of the corner of my eye, but just as I looked it vanished. Just then a cold breeze hit me as the door behind me opened, and I was yanked out onto the street, leaving the phone dangling by the cord. The book dropped from my hands.

The four delinquents appeared in front of me from nowhere, likely having turned off their Moonlight Shroud charms.

“Gotcha,” Ransley said, smiling as he picked up the book.

“Give it BACK!” I roared, lunging for him. Ransley hit me hard across the face with the book, sending me flying a few feet back onto the brick road. Quickly I realized that my safety was not worth keeping that book. I didn’t know where or how Ransley learned to hit that hard but I wasn’t going to stick around to find out. As he and the others examined the book, I began to scurry away as Ransley gave an order to the others:

“Get him.”

An instant later, I heard something click far behind me, and a sharp pain ripped through my knee. I collapsed to the floor, letting out an agonized cry. I examined my knee, and saw a hole much bigger than a bullet hole should be. I looked up at my attackers.

A gun?!

“What the HELL?!” I shouted. “You’ve already got what you want! LEAVE ME ALO-“

Ardent appeared behind me and punched me square in the face. I held my probably-broken nose as a muffled shriek of pain escaped me. Each of them vanished and took turns raining blows and slashes on me as I tried to step back and run. They gave me almost no chance to react. My body ached everywhere; the knife wounds, though shallow, stung just as bad, if not worse, as any bee. I could barely stand. I used my remaining strength to try and push them off of me whenever I felt them, but I stumbled each time I did, giving them room to knock me around further. Finally I collapsed, and Ardent grabbed my shirt and dragged me to the bridge.

“W-wait-“ I cried, still wincing and crying from my bruises and decayed knee. “STOP IT!-”

—

I examined the bandages on my hand and knee. The ones from that night must’ve been amateurs, or at least new to the cult’s way of doing things.

Focus, Shroud.

The victim’s eyes were still open, and almost completely empty.

Almost.

The body must not be entirely empty, then. This wasn’t exactly a kill—whoever this person was, they would not be dead for much longer, or at least depending on your definition of ‘dead.’

How long ago had this attack been, then? I touched the skin—still warm-ish. This had to be recent.

By that logic, if this was meant not as a lethal attack, but as one of induction into their group…

I wasn’t sure how long I had been out, but I at least knew it wasn’t for very long.

So…I didn’t have much longer, then.

I instinctively jerked away from the body. Would he come back? He wouldn’t be under anyone’s control, at least for the first few minutes–how long does it take to kill someone? Would it be long enough for him to kill me?–no, he probably wouldn’t go after me; I had barely any soul left for him to long for…unless he’s just that desperate enough to take scraps from a near-husk.

What would he do when he came back? Would he wander around, lost, confused, until they welcomed him with false promises of salvation and freedom from the ‘burden’ of having a judgement-tied soul? Would he be violent, as they had been to him?

Then again…I came back after one of their attacks, but with a will of my own. Did they want me to come back? Why would they want me of all people to come back?

—

“You know how much trouble you caused us, […….…]?!” Ransley shouted as he kicked me in my injured leg. “Don’t act like you didn’t have this coming, you little weasel.”

“I didn’t-“ I tried to say.

Ransley propped me up on the sidewalk, just by the edge of the bridge, right above the river. He placed his hand on my bruised shoulder, looking at me with a bone-chilling grin.

Again, I got a good look at his eyes. This time, everything except the pupils was entirely white. As I looked I almost felt like I was staring at something beyond; further, even. But the harder I looked the more I could see how much nothing there was. And yet, in spite of that, this nothing seemed to be staring back at me.

The others had the same white eyes too, looking on with a horrible satisfaction.

“What…” I barely managed to say, “…what are y-you…?”

“Free,” Ransley answered, without his usual cruelty and instead with an uncharacteristically sanctimonious tone. “And with our help, so too will you be free.”

With a hard shove, I was pushed off the bridge.

I grabbed onto the edge with my hand, barely having the strength to pull myself up.

“T-this is insane-!” I cried. “Ransley! Please! Y-you can keep the book; I won’t call the police, just help me up-“

Ransley frowned and put his boot on my hand. He leaned in as he brought his foot down harder, crushing my hand. Bone splintered and crumbled under the weight of the shoe, and I let out a shriek as a cold look crossed his face.

“You really should stop holding on so much,” he said. “That’s your problem. That’s why you’re here. Just let go, and face oblivion.”

Ransley took his foot off finally, but my hand had run out of strength. I slipped, and fell into the river.

—

Either way, I had to work fast.

“Hey, kid!” Someone from the crowd called. “What’re you doing? Leave this to the professionals.”

I turned around, and maybe it was the speed at which I had whirled around to face them, or he did just flinch.

Was it my eyes?

“The police won’t find them,” I explained. “I know what I’m doing. I’ve studied demonology for a few years.”

I went back to the body.

“You mean you know who did this?” he asked.

“Maybe,” I answered. “I just wanna be sure…”

I pressed down on the bruises on their shoulder and arms. Hollow. I felt no bone or extra layer of skin or muscle underneath.

Just as I suspected, I thought. Soul devouring.

My only question now was, how much of the soul was left?

—-

The bridge wasn’t particularly tall; just enough for any small cargo ships to run under. But the fall felt much longer than it had any right to.

I never hit the water. I was swallowed by something but it certainly wasn’t the river. It was as cold and sharp but nothing wet ever touched my skin or clothes.

I did not fall into water. I fell into something foreign, something dark, something alive, something evil.

Its eyes were beady and attentive, focused, eager, and it had long rows of sharp fangs. It appeared to smile at me, expecting me, welcoming me. Whispers in demon-tongue surrounded me, and I overwhelmed myself trying to find a single word I could understand. The only thing I could catch was “going to hell” again…was this it? Was this hell? What circle was this?

I was immobile, unable to look away from the creature in front of me, unable to scream as it opened its fang-filled mouth. I couldn’t even let out a scream of protest; no, not against this, as it brought down its jaws and took a large bite out of a deep part of me even I could never access. The pain from my bruises and wounds no longer burned; only ached, as if the pain had been there forever.

I was hollow. If there was anything left, I barely even felt it. My wounds glowed a hot white color and became shallow. I felt nothing but an aching nigh-emptiness that seemed to have no origin I could place; no past; only a present and a long future.

I didn’t know how long I was in that void. But as much as I despised that thing for robbing me of my life, I was grateful that it chose to let me go.

—-


I took out my pen from my pocket and a couple of mini-candles from my satchel. I flicked a lighter and lit the candles, surrounding them at different points around the body. I began to draw an evocation circle around the body. I’m not sure what had stopped this cult from performing forced evocations as opposed to beating everyone into submission until they blacked out enough to face the abyss and have their soul devoured, but I wasn’t about to find any sense in a group of people who literally worship the abyss.

I took my time with the intricate webs of the circle, carefully connecting whatever remained of the soul to the points where I would draw in the runes, and connected those to the candles.

I then drew in symbols in the language of the spirits at the different sub-points that would draw up souls from the afterlife, adding a desperate prayer in each pen stroke that I evoke the right thing and not something unwelcome. I had to steady my hand as I did this, reminding myself that this was merely a human soul who was recently killed, so the chances of him having ended up in hell – was he that kind of person? – were slim; they had to be, of course they were; there was no need to panic so stop panicking. Yet knowing I was drawing the same symbols, the same webs, lighting the same candles as the deadly evokers around town who would break into people’s houses and draw evocation circles under their beds to call up who-knows-what from the pits of hell to torment the living…to think I was drawing the same circle that I checked for every night when I went to sleep…

The pen snapped in my shaking hand against the concrete, getting ink all over my hand. I swore, and rubbed some on my finger tip so I could start to finish the circle.

“What the hell are you doing, kid?!” someone cried, making me jump. “You’re tampering with evidence! That’s illegal!”

“You’re gonna screw up the investigation!” someone else shouted.

I steadied myself from being startled.

“This…this is the investigation,” I replied bluntly.

“Wh–okay…? Are you a detective or something?” the first guy asked.

I shrugged.

“I think so,” I said.

“You think-”

I could hear further shouts from the crowd as I turned the body over to draw the rest of the circle underneath, but I held up my hand to stop them from getting closer.

“Just let me work!” I cried without looking back.

That’s when I noticed some of the rapidly-decaying skin near the shoulder and side of the ankles. The skin had withered and given way to bone, the effect cutting through flesh and muscle. Even the bone had begun to decay.

Well, so much for minimal damage.  

I unzipped the victim’s jacket and pulled back the shirt just slightly to get a better look at the damage. The withering had spread further—the entire shoulder seemed about ready to decay. I took a camera out of my bag and took a picture of the decaying wounds.

With the remaining ink, I drew another sigil on the bandage of my injured hand, a heart-shaped eye-like symbol with two lines running up my index and middle finger. It was a painful process and I was just careful enough to have the pen not tear through the bandage, and I placed my shaking hand on the decaying shoulder and closed my eyes. I saw all of the injuries on the man’s body, including where he had been injured–he had a broken arm that had almost finished recovering, and a fractured foot that was also healing, but wasn’t as near completion as his arms. Either way, both of these had stopped healing, and had actually gotten worse, with the bones beginning to decay in both areas.

What was the point of beating people up, breaking them, letting them decay, and then expecting them to join you after you had broken them? My attackers probably went through the same thing as this man had–as I had, if this cult was larger than them. So why do the same thing to others?

But that was just it, though, wasn’t it?

They knew what it was like to be soulless, and only they knew not only how to recover from the injuries suffered, but how to disguise themselves as living to avoid trouble with the law.

I looked again at the bandages on my hand, and unraveled it slightly, careful not to let the crowd see. There, too, did my flesh begin to decay. This was the primary issue with not having a soul: without the very essence that gives us life, our bodies aren’t capable of self-healing anymore. Any injuries are permanent unless fixed by a doctor, or if we tend our own wounds.

Fortunately my bones—at least in my hand—hadn’t completely withered away. I managed to revive just in time, fortunately.

Just in time.

——

I don’t remember much about the day I woke up. Just the excruciating, aching pain.

What I did know was I had washed up on the shore of the city, and I couldn’t stand up for a very long time. A burning sensation enveloped my entire hand and knee, and I felt a throbbing sensation in both areas. The bruises from the beatdown stuck on me like a leech, but most vividly, my chest felt hollow. And it hurt. The emptiness gnawed at the inside of my chest, and it, too, burned and ached. Like a stomach ache in the wrong place.

With my good hand I crawled my way off of the shore until I found a lamppost. I grabbed onto it, and propped up my good knee. I swung my arm toward the lamppost, grabbing onto it with my bad hand, shocks of pain running through my body. I tried to haul myself up, but the weight of my body caved my knee in, and I collapsed. That’s when I got a good look at my hand.

Bits of skin had completely come off, seeming to have withered away. Pieces of bone underneath had chipped off.

I grew nauseous and I felt the blood drain from my face. I let out some inhuman noise that I reckoned was some attempt at a scream but came out as a cross between that and a moan of agony.

How had this happened?

It was a horrible sound, but at least I had been found. Otherwise, who knows what would’ve happened?

Or who else would’ve found me?

——

Finishing the circle grew tricky as my hand trembled, though I was unsure if it was from the injury or from the reality of the process itself.

“Kid, we don’t even know who you are,” the guy from earlier said. “Are you even a licensed detective?”

I ignored him and wiped some of the ink from my pen on my hand, pressing my hands together to activate the circle. As the soul fire candles flared, what little color was left in their eyes drained slowly, and a small, glowing, deteriorated wisp of a soul rose out of the victim’s body.

This was all that was left…

Somehow this dead man was just the same as I, who could still breath, still walk, still talk, still live—but only just.

What had this man’s soul seen before it was decimated? If, in fact, the same people who killed me are responsible for this, did he, too, see the same grinning face in the abyss that I had? Was he as afraid as I was? Or did he accept this as death?

I took my mage’s license out of my pocket and showed it to the crowd.

“I’m a licensed magic user,” I said, “is that enough?”

“…that’s not a detective license,” the same guy said. “I’m calling the police.”

“Great!” I said. “Tell them the Brotherhood of Abyss Walkers did this.” At this point it was all but confirmed.

“The…what?”

“The cult that keeps tormenting this forsaken town,” I explained. “The one behind all the unexplained murders.”

The guy—along with the rest of the crowd—stifled a laugh. Some of them couldn’t hold it in.

“There’s no cult in New Lumanore,” someone else said. “Our security’s airtight; no way they would’ve been able to form a guild without a license.”

“Just call the authorities, Aaron,” a lady in the crowd said. “This kid isn’t worth persuading.”

“W-wait-“ I said before letting out a resigned sigh. I packed up the candles and pocketed my pen, and took off. I knew who the culprit was. What the police had to say didn’t bother me.

They’ll believe me when I put the culprit behind bars.

—————

In previous investigations I managed to pin down the general area where the Abyss Walkers operate. Prior murders took place at least within a mile’s range of Eclipse Avenue, an area further south of New Lumanore. It was a relatively quiet and empty area; there were quite a bit of shops and buildings of unknown function that no one ever seemed to go into, not even during the day.

The entire place screamed occult activity.

Sure enough, just as I hit the corner of the avenue I caught a glimpse of a Moonlight Shroud charm, pinned to the outwear of a hooded figure. They were walking along the other side of the street, hanging close to the bare wall of a wide building.

Once they were some distance along I crossed the street quickly and began tailing them.

Confrontation wasn’t new to me, just…unfavorable. Is that why I trembled? Either way I knew the procedure: Walk with the same beat. Same path, same pattern of step. Stop when he stops. Walk like this until the shadow is close enough for contact.

Once I did I took out a capsule from my coat. It contained shadow ink, allowing me to either create my own shadow, or to hide within someone else’s. I didn’t have enough of a soul to perform any magical feats on my own–whatever I could do would probably just come out as sparks–so this was the best I could work with. Unfortunately the capsule was nearly empty, and I made a mental note to contact my supplier after I was finished. In the meantime, I used what was left to lather my hand in ink as I silently crept behind the lone cultist, and pressed my hand against his shadow. I latched on and eventually got pulled in. Inside the shadow realm, I had a black-and-white view of the street from inside the wall. I couldn’t breathe, though, and I couldn’t hold my breath for very long so I knew I had to jump him sooner rather than later.

I took a coin out of my pocket and tossed it outside behind the cultist. He stopped and turned around, as expected, and I took the moment to lunge out and grab him by the throat.

—————

The cultist narrowed his eyes, and an amused smirk came on his face.

“Hey…” he said. “I know you.”

I flinched. How?

He kicked me off and stood up.

“You…you’re the kid we got that book from!” He chuckled. “You don’t quit, do you? This is really what you chose to do after death? Vigilante work?”

I felt the blood drained from my face.

“…what are you talking about?” I lied. “What book?”

“The demonology book, stupid,” he said. “The thing damning you to begin with. You forgot already? Or did you lose your memories alongside almost all your soul somehow?”

I clenched my fist, resisting the urge to charge at him again. I couldn’t take him in a head-on fight. I was too weak for that.

“Tell me,” he said. “How’s it feel? Being so close to freedom, so close to ridding yourself of that moral creed weighing you down…no fear of rapture…just your life and your…well, I suppose now broken…body, and your heart and mind.”

“Shut up,” I snapped.

“Good thing you came back, though. We’ve been slacking on our initiations recently…Ardent went a little too hard on too many people. We’re behind on our quota.”

“Wait a sec…” I took a step back. “What do you mean ‘too hard?’ Aren’t they supposed to come back?”

“The idiot decided to use magic to slow the initiates down,” the cultist explained. “As if that wouldn’t damage the soul at all. I’m sure you of all people know. You’ve taken enough beatings form him, right, D–“

I punched him in the face. The second I made contact I realized I had used my bad hand without thinking. Bone snapped, collapsed, and even shifted through the hole in my hand. I let out a far-too-loud shriek of agony as I recoiled and caressed my hand, trying to relocate the bone.

The cultist looked at me and laughed, and I raised a finger on my good hand and threatened him:

“Don’t try that again,” I said. “I’ve still got one—ahh…—perfectly functioning hand.”

“Fine by me,” he replied. “You hit hard for a dead person…”

My hand still ached from the punch. I imagine it probably hurt me way more than it hurt him.

“Do you mean to turn me in, Shroud?” the cultist hissed. “Just try it. I know who you are. They’ll find out you’re undead and investigate you to hell and back. Whatever decimal of a soul you have left won’t save you. Not even close.”

“I can’t trust you with that information even if I let you go,” I said. “But even if you do…I’ll know sooner or later if you’ve said something. You best not try it if you don’t wanna die twice.”

The cultist grinned.

“I’m shaking,” he said, deadpan. “I’ll just come back again.”

“What, are there no revival limits in your little group?”

“Nope. He’ll bring us back again and again as long as he needs us.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“Oh, you’ve only been resurrected once, you big baby,” the cultist said. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I’m not joining you.”

“You have no reason not to,” the cultist said. “We can fix your broken body; make you look and seem as alive as the next person. Those remnants of a soul may not matter to the police, who’ll mark you as soulless anyway, but you know who it does matter to?” He pointed at the sky and at the group. “Them. Someone like you, who’s spent hours learning about heaven’s enemies…you think you have any chance of reaching heaven? HA!”

I fell silent. Just when I thought being registered as ‘dead’ to everyone you know meant they wouldn’t bother you about being a (rookie) demonologist anymore. That reminder worked my last nerve, yet every time it was brought up I could never muster up a proper defense.

“…I’m aware,” I mumbled.

“Besides, I’m sure you’re just livid at the police, who never caught who got you. I’m sure you’d like your vengeance against them for failing you…we can help you out with that, if you’d like. After all, why should we fear death, or judgement, from this life or the next? Like I’ve said, we’ve got no soul to weigh us down to heaven or hell. No death, no judgment. Just you, whatever you wanna do, and a welcoming oblivion who’ll spit you back out as many times as needed. As long as you keep it fed, that is.”

“It doesn’t matter if the police know or if they don’t know,” I said. “I know. And I’ll know more than they ever will. Besides, why the hell would I trust you to give me closure about my death–the death YOU caused?!”

The cultist frowned.

“And that’s just the trouble, isn’t it…you’re just about soulless, and the only soulless person New Lumanore who isn’t with us and…for what? You lose nothing by joining us!”

“First of all,” I shouted. “I am not soulless. Your stupid demon didn’t take all of it.”

“Yeah. Still not sure why that happened,” the cultist replied, “but who am I to question the great abyss–”

“Oh, shut up. And second of all–just in case you forgot–YOU KILLED ME! I don’t owe you loyalty, or gratitude, or mercy…I owe you nothing.”

“You may be upset now,” the cultist said, “but you’ll learn to thank us later.”

“I will not.”

His frown turned into a scowl. He took out a small cylinder from his pocket.

“I was gonna use this the day of the attack,” he said, “but I didn’t see any point. Seemed like the others were doing just fine without the staff.”

Sure enough, the cylinder popped open into a metal bo-staff. He walked towards me, twirling it through his fingers.

“You’ve been chasing the wrong thing, Shroud,” he said. “You think you need vengeance, but what you really need is security. We all know what being soulless is like. You’re weaker, you can’t heal your wounds, you can’t do magic, and it’s pretty obvious when you’ve just come back from the dead. I don’t care what three-percent of a soul you do have; it’s nowhere near enough for you to enjoy all the privileges of being fully human. Face it. You’re basically the same as us.”

As I stepped back, he stopped spinning the staff and instead gripped it with both hands.

“So you can either let go of those remnants you have the audacity to still call a soul, then come with us and let us give you the safety you so desperately need,” he said, rearing the staff back, “…or we’ll just break you further and let oblivion do what it wishes with your remains.”

He started to bring the staff down.

“WAIT!” I yelled, bringing my hands to my face.

Surprisingly enough, he actually froze, the staff a couple inches from my face.

“Okay…I get it…” I said. “You’re right. I won’t turn you in. Just…promise me you won’t tell anyone who I am.”

“What’s stopping me?” the cultist asked, cocking his head slightly and raising an eyebrow.

“Look. I didn’t turn you in,” I said. “You owe me.”

“No I don’t. I’m not tied to anything but oblivion.”

I let out an annoyed huff.

“Like I said. I’ll know if you exposed me,” I reminded him. “I don’t care if that scares you or not, just…let me go.”

“Let YOU go?! You jumped ME!”

“And I had—I…thought…I had the right to. Look…I’m backing down. You go about your night. I go about mine. We don’t speak of this.”

The cultist hesitated, then put the staff away.

“Fine,” he said. “But we’ll still come back for you. Whether or not your initiation goes smoothly is entirely on you.”

With that, he pulled out the same charm he had on the day of the attack, and vanished.

“See you around,” he said.

That was the last I heard of him that night.

Once I thought I was safe, I let out a loud groan of annoyance.

I had him. He was literally a few feet away. If I *just* had more shadow ink that would’ve been it for him.

But…he was right. I was at every possible disadvantage. And I couldn’t work like that. I shouldn’t have jumped him. I should’ve just taken note of his appearance and went from there. That was foolish on my part.

But…I did have his appearance now.

But he had my identity.

I still wasn’t at a complete advantage. And I couldn’t work like that. I had to lay low, and rebuild. My hand was wounded and I was lucky I didn’t get my skull bashed in. There was no way I could have recovered from that. But I wouldn’t give up. I had a lead and I wasn’t letting go of it.

I didn’t care about their ‘freedom’ or ‘not being tied down’ or anything like that. Fact of the matter is, they were hurting people, and their demon lord had more control over them than they’d realize.

They were beyond redemption. The demon didn’t bind them through any soul manipulation or contract–it was some weird combination of free will, gratitude, and the threat of permanent death.

These cultists had to go, and quickly. They had to pay, and dearly.

I know I’m weak, but once I’m back up and running I would do as much damage from the shadows as humanly possible.

They weren’t bound by any rules, so why should I have to be?

I didn’t care how many times I would get hurt. They ruined my life, and I was going to pay them back tenfold.