#literally you can just run fist or unbound

[tunaculosis]

Dimension 20 has a chance to be unfathomably based so soon, or it has a chance to become the worst version of itself yet.

[cynettic]

I just read Kitsune reader x yan Scaramouche's fic, may I have gotten hooked on it? and of course, it's just perfect and that's why I'm here to lose a part two with nsfw, thank you in advance and understand if you refuse:3

Link to Part 1

Summary - Taking you captive, Scaramouche continues to see you as a pillar of support. Coming back home to have you there, always. Even if it meant chaining you up.

Pairings - F!Kitsune!Reader x Yan!Scaramouche

Warnings - Smut, slight noncon ( I tried to make it as consensual as possible but its difficult with yandere themes ), fingering, electricity play

Rating - NSFW

Penpal - Ahhh I'm actually beginning to get attached to this series, might end up writing a couple more posts with different hc and stuff. I hope you liked the post though, have a great day <3

A/N - The literal definition of the ‘stoic cruel boy who’s mean to everyone but you.’ Oh well, Scaramouche is ooc af, but I did change a few things in his backstory so its supposed to make sense for this story ;) Also- since we dont know Scaramouche’s actual name, I have the reader still… yknow, call him Scaramouche. Which is kinda weird cause its his harbinger name but oh well. Also, credit to @cycletr4in for proofreading it ;3

Taglist - @cursedraiden

Stay with Me pt.2

Scaramouche was a gentle captor.

In contrast to piercing eyes and harsh stares when it came to others, he had a soft spot for you. Like the ice that encased him whole melted at your touch, craving for the warmth only you could give him. For your arms around him, to play pretend and imagine he were a child, free, fearless, unbound. A child in your arms, safe and protected.

But you were held hostage, which meant that the chains around your wrists and legs held you down and secured you. Like you were bound to one spot like you’d always been, except this time you didn't have a choice.

You weren't waiting for the Kitsune Saiguu.

Hell, you didn't even have your vision.

This brought on resentment for the dark haired boy. You hated him, you despised him for holding you down under his own judgment. But at the same time, all you saw in him was a child, a little kid who hadn't had the time to grow up. The one who refused to do so because it was his only way to survive in the type of world he lived in. Hide behind that same facade he developed as a kid, snide remarks and unrelenting cruelty.

Just to come back to your arms, sobbing because he was still that child. Sobbing because he was still hurt. Sobbing because you were still his beacon of light, of hope.

He depended on you.

And as much as you built up harsh words to use against him, they dissolved in your mouth when you saw him. His vulnerability that he saved for you and you only. A deep part of you cared for him, a little too much.

Gentle fingers brushed through the locks of Scaramouche’s hair, twirling it around and playing with the strands. It was smooth, a small detail no one would have the chance to notice from the distance he put around himself and others. A quiet hum left his lips as he leaned against your chest, eyes fluttering closed against the soothing feeling of you against him.

The lavish silk sheets were soft against your skin, pillow pushing your form to sit up. Just enough to have Scaramouche in your arms, knees on either side of his body as his head rested under your chin. His chest rose and descended, almost on beat with yours, if not just a tad slower.

You hoped he wouldn't hear the way your heart thrummed against your chest.

Warmth, his body flushed against yours, the luxury of a bed and the small candlelight on your bedside. Different from what you’d grown into just on the side of the trail, sitting for decades. Or with your time with the Kitsune Saiguu, it was never this warm, never this gentle.

But this warmth ended at your beating heart, furiously blazing. Sending an urge of adrenaline through your body, whispering ‘run’ through your veins. A primal urge that would've had your hands around Scaramouche’s neck, till he was wrangling and dead.

Till you could escape.

Hand slowly sliding down his jawline, you let your gentle fingers ghost along the soft skin of his neck. Claws outstretched and ready, sharp and pointed with a deadly intent to kill. You could end him so quickly, overturn his trust and make an escape. You deserved it, you deserved freedom. Not a delusional boy who thought himself protector against someone who’s lived decades more than him.

Jolting at the sensation of a soft grip on your wrist, you watched with idle fascination as he simply cupped your wrist in his hold. Not stopping you, not restraining you, he simply brought your hand to his face. To his lips where he pressed the softest of kisses into your palm. So heartfelt and genuine that all you could do was freeze, not even considering clawing his face.

“I love you.”

You both stayed in that position for a few moments more, silence cradling the tension that slowly dissipated from your body. Forlorn eyes watching as he shift the angle of your wrist to kiss your fingertips. He wasn't waiting for an answer, basking in these soft moments where he could hide in your hold. Like a child, forced to grow up too quickly, yearning back for his foolish naivety, yearning for the childhood he missed.

You were that childhood.

Which is why he clung to you so dearly, showed expressions he didnt know he could make, hold you captive under the impression that it was ‘right.’ What he was doing was okay.

Claws retracted, you pursued your lips, holding back the tears of frustration that burned at your eyes. You hated him, hated him for the chains on your wrists, for the disappearance of your vision that you’d given so much value to. Hated him for the warmth he still made you feel.

You hated him.

You felt like a housewife in some respects. Not with the cleaning and cooking part, and of course no children were part of the equation. But in terms of support, you stayed rooted to that room, loose chains too strong for you to break or tug holding you down. Window was too far, and you were stuck moving around the bed and the desk that sat just a little farther away.

Attempts at having your vision back or more freedom in movement had been discussed with Scaramouche, but as childlike and free as he acted with you, he was not an idiot.

“I don’t plan on underestimating you,” was his answer, head resting on the plush of your chest. “You’re strong, always were. But I have to take extremes to make sure you don’t get hurt, some people out there are stronger than you.”

You wanted to point out that there were a ton of people stronger than him as well, but you kept your mouth shut. “Can I at least see the house? I’ve been cooped up here for so long…”

And he cant say no to such an innocent request as that right?

So he unlocks the chains, the vision at his side reminding you that he was strong. You solely knew that he’d been tough as a kid, and under the intensive training he’d seemed to endure, he was much much stronger. You werent willing to give it a go and lose his trust just yet.

Not like he really trusted you anyways-

At the very least, you’d hoped to get some sort of blueprint of the house, and all you’d received was confusion and your mind making up that the house itself was a maze.

“Didnt we… just pass through here?”

Glancing at the obvious frustration on your face, Scaramouche chuckled, pulling your arm through the hallways you swear you’d seen three times prior. “Nope, most of the hallways look pretty similar. The house wasn't built for dumbasses.”

You flashed him a look and were about to make some snideish rebuttal before you saw the smirk. You knew what he was doing, trying to comfort you with casual arguments you both used to have. Consisting of you telling him to work on his people skills, and him calling you a lazy ass. Of course you missed it, but you also knew you couldn't go back to it.

And then there was the issue when you learned that he was a harbinger.

A scene you didnt want to replay in your head, when a maid burst into your room, Scaramouche acting a tad more intimate. He had an awful tendency to do that, hug your waist and press his face against the crook of your neck. Press gentle kisses down the length of your shoulder that had you shuddering. You weren't used to intimacy, and considering you’d watched him grow up, it was just weird.

Stuttering, the maid had demanded that he was requested by the Tsarista. You’d seen the fear in her eyes when Scaramouche slowly turned to her, seen the unshakable immobility of standing under his gaze.

“Do not enter.” He said, “It’s on the door.”

That was the first time you’d seen Scaramouche kill.

You hoped it’d be the last.

But you’d seen death before, so much death in the time of the Kitsune Saiguu. And for a few seconds, you found yourself fearless as you yanked against the chains, yelling at his figure at the doorway.

“Tsarista?” You snarled, standing just a few feet away from him. His hand on the girls neck, clenching around the pretty skin of hers. Disgusted, the chains that held you back from closing the gap and throwing the girl away from him were impossible to overcome. “Why the hell does she need you?!”

‘Let go,’ you wanted to say. ‘Let her go, she’s going to die.’

It worked, because the ironclad grip was gone, the maid tumbling to the ground lifelessly. You’d been too late, and now her blood was on his hands, your hands. This was your fault and you had half the self control not to thrash against the chains with sharp claws, hands on his neck.

The hard steel gaze vanished in an instant, and like he’d regained his senses, he took a few steps to you. Hands clenching to fists before loosening to fingertips brushing against his palms. Confusion, regret and guilt clouded his features like a child waiting to be reprimanded. You didn't back away, stood firm and fierce when standing and keeping a tough front.

You wanted to cry.

“Its… its a long story.” He finally stated to your question, and when you didnt budge, he took a deep breath. In control again, he closed the distance between the two of you, “I’m sorry.” And that same thrum of electricity jolted through your body, sending you into a spiral of the girls lifeless eyes and Scaramouche’s childlike eyes. Till everything went black.

You woke up with the body gone. Scaramouche was gone as well.

You learned that Scaramouche liked to have things his way. Which meant that he was always in control, always had control of every situation.

Even in those short stretches of vulnerability when he rested in your arms, he still held something over you. And you had to adapt, shift for his wishes, coddle him and stay as his beacon. Because he was stronger, and even if you’d find some way to escape, he would find you.

It was odd, and you slowly let go of the image of him as a child, you knew he was a lot older. He’d probably reached the age your body was stuck in, and with every sweet kiss he pressed to your lips, you knew he saw you as some sort of lover. But as someone who wasn't in control, you simply had to play along, just until you found some way to make your escape.

Without killing him.

_-_-_-_-_

“Strip.”

Laying on one side of the bed, your eyes jolted open at the commanding voice. Slowly, you sat up, eyeing the dim figure at the doorway. Without the help of a candle or the moonlight at the window, you could distinguish Scaramouche at the doorway, taking off the large headpiece as he flung it to the ground.

“Excuse me…?” Your voice was soft, rusty after an evening nap.

“I’ll make you feel good,” was his only answer. Slowly making his way to the bedside till he could properly face you. His eyes were soft, but there was an odd sort of determination that you hadnt seen before. You held back his stare, confusion lacing your features when he suddenly started pulling off loose decorations that hung on his clothes. Just till he unlaced the vest and slid off his shirt. “Don’t worry.” But you didnt know quite what he meant until he leaned further to you, catching you off guard.

So you yelped when his hands suddenly slammed down on your shoulders, shifting you to have access to the buttons of your top layer. He was quick when undoing them, simply swatting away at your hands when you protested and tried to pull him away. Throwing it to the edge of the room when he was done, you could only thrash in horror when he undid your trousers just as quickly, pulling them down before you could grab them back up.

“Scaramouche? Hey-”

And then he threw you down on the bed, exposing you in your undergarments in the cool air of the room. Shivers crept up your spine and bristled across your skin, and before you could curl up to at the very least hide away, you felt a tug at your chains. Fear finally settled in when you saw Scaramouche attach the chain to the bedpost, until your hand was lifted up and he began to do the same to the other.

“Wait wait wait, stop and explain what you’re-”

Only then did he pause from what he was doing, slowly looking down to properly face you. His eyes slid up and down your body, and he took a step towards you. “I’ll make you feel good,” were his only words, and you were forced to take them as all he was planning on giving you. Only when he sat on the bed next to you did you realize what he meant, hand settling on your shoulder, waiting.

“Alright,” you said slowly. Painfully, the words bit your tongue, but you were merciless against someone who had control against the situation. You could say no and you knew Scaramouche would stop, he was gentle to you and you only. And even if he’d been firm just before, you knew that he’d still stop if you asked him to.

A part of you felt thrilled to have that power over him.

Another part of you just wanted to escape.

But you didnt have any hope to do so unless you were willing too give him everything. Because he expected everything and would do anything in his power to obtain it. You’d let him fiddle around with this delusion, thinking that he had control. Until he didnt.

Which is why you didnt flinch when his hand gently slid up your stomach, cold against the warmth you’d had under the blankets. Rubbing gingerly against your skin and drawing smooth shapes over before he slowly slid over your body. His eyes seemed to glint under the darkness of the room, lust filled and wanting.

You didnt shift uncomfortably, you pretended to be that doll he expected you to be.

Just staring up at him as he slowly leaned down to kiss you. His lips felt like snowflakes on a winters day, idly swaying side to side to catch one in your mouth. Jolting like electricity when they melted into your touch, red and swollen when he pulled back. You now vividly felt every touch, as if a current flowed and static jittered in the places he briefly brushed his fingertips.

“You always take such good care of me,” he breathed, lips slowly drifting down your chin. Just past your jawline and right on your neck. The space between your head and shoulder, a soft vulnerable spot that had your lips humming at the affectionate pressure. “Its my turn to take care of you.”

And then his lips were everywhere, collarbone, shoulders, cleavage. Just until his teeth were tugging off your bra, face nuzzled in between both breasts. Both of his hands now resided on your hips, grabbing both thighs to hold them up and against him. You could feel him hard, pressing so close to your heated core.

You managed to keep your reactions in check.

Just until he slowly grinded against you, mouth on your breasts as he again pecked the soft mounds, molding his lips against them as if he could remember the texture, memorize the feel. It was just to that point that mindless sounds slipped past your lips, turning to gasps when his hands on your thighs suddenly buzzed, and static rushed in. Your legs felt weak, entire body thrumming in response to the electricity he sent jolting.

He was using his vision.

The realization was numb against his lips on your breasts, hands slowly stroking the skin of your sides, travelling up. He hovered over you for mere seconds before mashing his lips against you once more, different. He was no longer gentle, and it was with the contact on your tail that you lost all control. When he gently moved it out of the way, backing up.

You were a mess.

Not that you tried to be, you’d been doing your best not to enjoy his touch. But it was hard when your core heated up so fast, mashing both legs together in hopes he wouldn't notice. You knew he would, any action beyond that was just you trying to save your dignity.

He sat there like he was enjoying the sight, the first time you’d seen him actually portray any visual confirmation of satisfaction towards the chains. He’d drink dry any ounce of control you gave him, and it was impossible not to give him it all when you were visionless and vulnerable.

But the dignity you struggled so hard to keep shattered when his hands brushed against your inner thigh.

Fingers slowly made their way to the padded fabric of your undergarments, two digits rubbing the area slowly with expertise. You bit your lip, muffling any groan of anticipation, hiding the way your hips tried to rock back into the gesture. Desperate, oh so desperate. Hiding back the whimpers as he slowly quickened the pace of his fingers against your garments. “Archons Y/n,” he murmured. “I haven't even put anything in and you’re already a squirming mess.”

“Shut u-up,” was all you managed, trying to shift away from the pressure against your clit. But his other hand was on your hip, holding in place. You could only watch and press your thighs tightly together as he slowly slid down your panties, resuming hovering over you. Distracting you with kisses, his fingers gently stroked your core, two fingers slowly sliding into your cunt using your juices.

He was gentle when pumping both fingers in and out, too slow when you thrust your hips to meet his fingers, pleading for him to go faster. But he liked hearing your cries, slowing down when you begged, quickening when you whined and just lay there, taking it.

You shuddered the first time electricity jolted from his digits.

It was when he had three fingers that he sent the static up your body, back arching with such intensity that it even had him chuckling. “Oh? You like it that much?” And then it is like something buzzed against your body, fingers vibrating against your clit as your thighs tightened around his hand. So much that you thought you’d crush it, but it didn't matter, not with the electrifying feeling against your body. It felt so odd, so overwhelmingly good that it had your legs sliding up and down the bedside, toes curling as the static grew and you fell paralyzed to his touch.

It didn't take long with his fingers thrusting in and out of you to cum. Moaning mess when he gave you the time to breathe, teeth biting your bottom lip and then mashing against yours. Your eyes grew fuzzy and most happened in a haze, and all you knew the entire time was that you’d given yourself to him, and that it felt good. You couldn't see the childlike wonder in his eyes anymore, not the need of a beacon or of support. No, the look he shared was feral, the smile tinting his lips almost scary. But it felt too good to care, and you let yourself enjoy his ministrations.

He pulled out and suddenly his own shorts were undone, boxers thrown to the side of the room just like all your other clothing. You didn't see how big he was, just felt his hard shaft against your throbbing cunt, pussy dripping and legs open wide and tired after your first go at it.

You expected him to be gentle like he’d been with his fingers. But he pressed the tip against your core, and in one full motion he was in. Teeth grinding against each other, you held back a scream, shock coursing through your body, overwhelmed with pain and discomfort. It hurt. But it was quickly overshadowed by his movements as he slid in and out of you, slow when pulling his hips back, and rocking himself completely inside you each time. A pattern that let you catch your breath and lose it all the same. Like he was continuously having a go at hitting the deepest parts of you, pulling back before fully thrusting into you and sending waves of pleasure and pain alike.

It was expected, but you couldnt hear yourself.

Not with your mind trapped in a haze of how he felt, body still buzzing after how he’d pulsed his vision through you. And now you were at the mercy of his member, hips swaying along with his, no energy for you to rock with him and try to push him deeper.

Archons, you didn't even think he could go deeper.

But you were proven wrong again and again as he kept the steady pace, hands clawing at your ass and hips. Stabilizing himself and trying to press himself against you, as far as he could go. Slowly, his hands drifted up to your hair, playing with the soft sensation of your furry ears. Pinching and rubbing, fingers coaxing the back of them like a massage. So gentle, but it paled in comparison to the harsh treatment of his dick.

You came first, gripping the chain with your hands in an attempt to stay stable. Walls clenching around him one last time before you got your release, your moans turning into cries when he continued to thrust into you. Your body felt numb, all nerves centred on the way he pounded into you, chasing his own release.

When he did, he pressed his head into your chest, his own breaths heavy with pleasure. Not pulling out, you could only lay there helplessly as his seed filled you, warm in contrast to the electricity he’d shot up your body just earlier. He didnt pull out, and laying in your chest, your heavy breathing didnt stop until he was asleep, collapsing on you and using you as support yet again.

Taking only a minute later to regain control of your senses, you shifted uncontrollably at his member inside of you, sending waves of pleasure every time you moved. Your wrists were restrained and you were stuck in this position till morning.

Achingly, you looked down at the boy, wondering how you would ever manage to escape.

[gryfon-spanish-werewolf]

Update to Soft Cover: Of A Feather, a story about an ice church at the bottom of the world and some angels, one fallen, one demoted. Request by @snowmanmelting that I am very VERY late on, but hopefully that will all be forgiven after reading xD

Can also be read below

Anna breathes deeply in the freezing, near arctic air of the church around her. The chill settles in her lungs, pooling in swirls before the heat of her body changes her exhale into a foggy cloud. She repeats the action again, focusing on the divine energy in her veins, the radiance of her feathers, and the glow of the halo above her head.

Anything to distract her from how ungodly cold her butt is on this literal ice floor.

Distracted, a chill leaps up Anna’s spine. Goosebumps shiver down her arms and she sighs, opening her eyes. The deep blue of the ice encompasses her, a place of worship carved from the glacier itself. Marvelous and stunning, a true feat of engineering, sculpting, and faith. Remarkable, beautiful.

Cold.

As more shivers rack her celestial body, Anna’s teeth begin to chatter. Repositioning herself a little, Anna attempts to resume her solitary meditation and prayer, but with a glum pout, she recalls instead the warmth of summer air and rustle of leaves in trees full of life and vigor. So different from her current surroundings - where once she enjoyed a place of open space and sunlight against skin, now Anna trembles in the cold and dark, where the sun holds no warmth and blinds instead of caresses.

And it’s all her fault.

But it’s fine. A century or so of consistent devotion and guidance for humanity will put Anna right back where she was, enjoying the breeze under her wings and the sparkles of the stars over the water. Patience is a virtue, she reminds herself as she closes her eyes once more, one that she has in spades. Or she will if she simply asks - being an angel and all, it would be granted immediately. Anna reaches for the tether to her divinity, a golden Light in her mind’s eye, feeling herself settle back to recharging the church with holy presence and serenity.

Until the resounding clack of steel-toed boots echoes throughout the chamber, shattering her focus and winking out the Light like a candle.

Anna scrambles to her feet, heart in her throat. Quickly she checks her glamor (a hand at her head, wrist, and knee) and adjusts the hang of her clothes. Simple white cloth, pinned at her shoulder, cinched at her waist. Her feet are bare as they press against the ice floor. The echoes continue and a shadow moves down the hall where the main room becomes a long hallway leading to the outside. The church is hardly ever  closed and people come and go as they please in the days between services, but it is unusual that Anna would not sense them. Unusual also to not hear the heavy wooden doors groan open to admit the visitor.

Regardless, Anna concentrates on making herself presentable. Be they godly, then Anna is prepared; be they human they will find an empty hall for them to do what they need, unaware of the angel in the room, ready to assist.

The shadow proceeds across the wall, closer with every step. Anna tilts her head at a curious sound. Thick boots for crunching through ice and snow are typical this far beneath Earth’s equator, but these shoes don’t sound… right. They are loud for certain, but light, with a rhythmic one-two as opposed to the heavy clump of the whole boot. Perhaps a wanderer, Anna thinks, or a tourist.

But tourists typically gasp and “ooooh” and “aaaah” at the decor, walls, and sacred objects on display.

Not hopscotch back and forth on their toes while muttering curses.

Suddenly, Anna knows who this is. It’s really a shame she didn’t get around to asking for that Patience, because right now, she’s going to need every ounce that God has ever produced.

“Helloooooo!” Comes a cheery, high pitched voice. “Anyone home?”

A woman arrives around the corner. About average in height, slim in build, with pale skin, gleeful blue eyes, and long, unbound white hair. The strange footfall Anna had heard made perfect sense now as the woman steps further into the room, head turning this way and that, as her heels click and rebound in the icy chamber. She is certainly NOT dressed for the weather. No thick coat or furred gloves, no goggles or padded leggings - nothing at all remarkable - in fact she wears a similar outfit to Anna’s except in black. Simple cloth, pinned at her shoulder, cinched at her waist, baring her arms and calves.

No. Not a visitor at all.

A trespasser.

Anna folds her arms and scowls. With a mighty and decisive huff of air, she drags the Light from within her and fills the chamber with holy energy.

The woman notices immediately, yelping in surprise as though she’s been pinched.

“Unnecessary,” the woman grouses, her eyes tightening slightly in pain, “but I knew you’d be here. Hiding as usual.” She scans the room again, eyes roaming past Anna once, then twice, before a grin breaks out on the woman’s face. “Where are you, little angel?”

Anna will not play this game. This woman’s actions and appearance bely her nature, and her presence in this place is not only unwelcome but forbidden. Ire rises in Anna and she pushes it out, raising the temperature in the room and causing the interloper peering between the pews to wince.

Even a demoted angel does not allow a demon to wander into her home so casually.

The woman continues her search, even as the seconds tick by and the energy in the room gives the icy walls an ethereal inner glow. The floor becomes too hot for her tastes and she hops up on a pew, balancing herself, arms out to her sides as she continues wandering around the room, making smaller and smaller concentric circles. She gets closer, despite the angel’s best efforts. With one last shove, Anna manifests her wings, all seven feet of bright white glory nearly burning to the touch, fills the room with crackling energy - and this time the woman does stop. She loses her footing mid-step, dropping to one knee. Sweat beads on her brow and as Anna watches the trespasser struggles briefly to raise her eyes in Anna’s general direction.

“Ah, there you are,” she gasps, grunting as she rises and makes her way forward. Anna’s focus drops for a moment, surprised, and this is all the confirmation the woman needs. In hardly a moment, she is right before Anna, nearly eye to eye, though she looks right through the angel because of her glamor. Invisible. Unbreachable. Unflappable.

“Hello, angel,” the woman says, raising her hand and pressing her pointer finger smartly on the tip of Anna’s nose.

Not un-boopable, apparently.

In an instant Anna’s glamor falls away, the heat and energy she’d gathered flooding into the floors and walls.

“What’s with that face?” The woman smiles with good humored teasing.

Anna shakes her touch off and backs up a step. “How did you know where I was?”

The woman shrugs carelessly, “You were the angriest spot in the room. Pretty easy, all things considered.”

Anna bites her tongue, a boiling explicative at it’s tip. Swearing isn’t particularly Godly, and it would probably just make the woman laugh.

“I thought I would come and check up on you,” the demon continues, “because I haven’t seen you in some time. Not since the penguins had their chicks.” Anna looks down, pretending to find some interesting crack in the ice floor.

So she’d noticed Anna’s presence back then. Watching over a bouldered hill as the demon meandered around the flock like they were her own family and neighbors. Huh…

“Well it’s been nice seeing you,” Anna replies abruptly, “but you’d better leave.”

“So soon?” The woman blinks innocently. “But I just got here.”

“You’re not even allowed in here. Besides, I’m busy,” Anna scowls. She hopes her expression is enough to convince the demon to leave her, and this place, alone. Still waiting on that Patience virtue, and Anna’s personal reserves are already running on empty.

The woman tilts her head, and Anna has to remind herself that any compassion she might see in those eyes is a lie. “Still trying to summon enough power to charge this place? You’ve been trying for, let’s see, a few months now? With how low attendance has been lately, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Church is more than just a place, but one of it’s core requirements is members. People who come and go and frequent, creating a routine, a rhythm, a recognized space. A guardian angel assigned to a church takes over for generating that energy when the members are gone. The ice church had very few visitors to begin with, and tourists didn’t tend to devote time to energizing a place. So Anna often spent her days locked in meditation, channeling her divinity into the ice around her.

A grueling, thankless task.

“Well you should be done by now,” the woman muses aloud, taking stock of the room.

“I would be,” Anna growls, her hands balling into fists, “if someone didn’t keep interrupting me!”

“If you just looked--”

Anna sighs and draws her hand down her face. “Elsa…” Then she flinches. Between her fingers, Anna peeks at the woman in front of her.

Oh, if that was ever a Chesire grin.

“In honor of you using my name, I’ll stop beating around the snow mound,” Elsa beams, her ice blue eyes sparkling with merriment and cheer. She points to the ceiling, other hand cocked confidently on her hip. “See anything new up there, angel?”

Surely this demon has to be pulling her wing, but Anna complies and looks up, expecting the blank, dark surface of the thick oceanic ice.

Not so.

The ceiling is alive with Light, shimmering like the Aurora Australis. The ice seems lit from within by winking stars, the deep blue shot through with purples and greens and golds. The greatest Light of them all gathers in the center of the ceiling above their heads, bright and full. The sign of a fully charged house.

“When did…?” Anna murmurs.

“You always have trouble focusing,” Elsa says, turning Anna’s attention back to her. “Except for when you’re trying to kick me out.” The demon holds up her hands, “Rules are rules, I get it, but I thought, ‘Why not give her a little nudge and see if that helps.’” She looks up at the ceiling again, a soft expression on her face. “Seems like a resounding success.”

Anna doesn’t have an argument, so she stays quiet. Giving Elsa the satisfaction of thinking she played a part in divine dealings may be a mistake, one she doesn’t want to make.

“Now that you’re done,” Elsa turned and beckoned over her shoulder. “How about a break?”

“Angels don’t take breaks,” Anna says haughtily, crossing her arms. “Demons might: Disconnected and all that, aimless. But  we have more important things to do.”

Elsa pouts, her lower lip full and pitiful. “Trying to hurt my feelings, angel? Think I’ll try something if you step one foot out of here? You give me too much credit.”

“What would I even do ‘taking a break’? Walk around the ice until the frozen wind takes my wings?” Anna shakes her head. “No thank you. It might not always be warm in here, but it’s way better than out there.”

Elsa regards Anna over her shoulder before turning back. “You don’t like it here, that much is clear. And I know you’re trying to leave.” Anna darts her eyes away. “You hate it down here. Cold and dark, the sun only shining a few months out of the year. You’re lonely--”

“And it’s none of your business!” Anna snaps. This demon was edging dangerously close to a wound that was still fresh, even after all these years, all this time. A memory of warm sunlight dances in Anna’s mind and she wills herself to believe it’s just the wings on her back.

“Don’t lie,” Elsa says gently, “we can both feel it.”

Anna takes a deep breath in through her nose and exhales out her mouth. Steadily, she says, “Get out, demon.”

“Come with me, Anna.”

Her name echoes between them. Anger bubbles in Anna’s chest but dies just as quickly. She’s tired. Wary, but tired of always trying, always watching her best not being enough. But she has to push through, endure.

“I haven’t seen any other angel but you in one hundred years, Anna.” The demon turns her back and begins walking down the hall towards the entrance. “You don’t have to take up my offer, but know that I have no other motive than seeing you achieve your goal. I just want you to be able to enjoy it when that reward finally comes, and not be a burnt out pile of nerves and worry. I’ll be outside.”

Anna watches her go, heels clicking against the ice until they don’t. Silence descends again, absolute.

She should let her go, Anna thinks.

And she continues to think, even as her feet move and fingers trace the walls to check that the energy in the room won’t dissipate when she leaves. Not too much anyway. While the demon’s methods may annoy Anna to no end, she can’t ignore their effectiveness.

The wind howls outside, ripping at the fabric of Anna’s clothing in swift gusts. She slams the heavy door shut and shields her eyes with a hand, looking around for the demon who enticed her out here. Anna’s regret is immediate and grand. She’s stationed in the arctic, or practically anyway. Sunlight a few hours a day when they get it, or all day, never once setting, without the heat to match. Shadows rush in between bursts of snow, obscuring everything more than a few feet away.

“Demon!” Anna shouts, one eye shut as a snowflake flies in, stinging and cold. “Where are you?”

“Right here, angel.” A voice next to her says, appearing at her side almost instantly. “I must say, I knew you’d follow, but not this fast.”

“Tease me any more and you’ll enjoy this beautiful weather alone,” Anna gripes, unconsciously stepping into Elsa’s shadow. If Elsa had any opposition to Anna using her as a living snow shield, she didn’t say so. Even still, what little warmth Anna’s body had stored indoors was quickly being lost, and with the chill biting into her very bones, there was little hope of calling upon her divine power for relief.

In a last ditch effort, Anna’s wings puff up like a bird’s, thick and fluffed, blocking the majority of the wind and snow from hitting her torso. Anna didn’t bother looking at Elsa’s face. She could feel the humor in the very air itself.

“You got me out here de--.... Elsa. What now?”

“I thought perhaps a change of scenery would do you good,” Elsa shouts above the wind, close to Anna’s ear.

Guarded, Anna asks, “Where to?”

Elsa nudges Anna’s shoulder with her own, then walks a few steps out into the weather before facing the church entrance. “I was thinking up there,” Elsa points. Anna frowns, walking out to join her, realizing that Elsa had indicated a spot far above the gables and eaves of the church roof.

“You’re joking.”

“I am not,” Elsa responds flatly. “Have you ever been up there? Perhaps the view won’t be all that much right now, but I promise, it has it’s value, just out of sight.” Anna eyes her skeptically, but she supposed if Elsa did anything odd, she could alway just ask God to smite her. A few extra feet up may actually just make the shot easier.

Satisfied, Anna steps away from Elsa, fanning out her wings in preparation to jump. No more than a story or two, a leap as easy as breathing for someone used to soaring higher than clouds.

A quiet cough stops her short. “I’m happy that you’re eager, angel,” Elsa squints against the snow. It blows around her in circles, almost a bubble, unable to pass too close. A control Anna doesn’t have, or perhaps a tactic she would only resort to without her Light. “But if you want company, you’ll have to stoop low and assist the enemy.”

Behind her back something appears, like watercolor paint bleeding and blooming into shape, spreading out from her clothed shoulders to the ground. Feathers the color of oil, of moonless nights and obsidian shards. They weigh heavy against the demon, dragging beyond her feet, stuck marred and running with clumps of snow.

The chains of course, don’t make them any lighter.

Binding and unbreakable, the unearthly metal presses tightly against every shift the wings make, the occasional clink heard even over the gale. The limbs are lashed close to Elsa’s spine, tight and uncomfortable with no padlock to be seen, no reference to freedom or release, and Anna knows that there never will be.

Once fallen, always Bound.

“Dead weight,” Elsa says with a nonchalance that doesn’t quite meet her eyes. She flexes the muscles in her flightless wings, which rise an inch or two before dropping laboriously. “But their weight is only mine to bear. Carry me up, and I’ll show you what I meant earlier about there being more to this place than meets the eye. Heavenly or otherwise.”

Anna looks between their destination and her companion, then back again. “Alright,” she says at length, “but only this once. And it better be worth it.”

“Excellent!” Elsa drapes an arm suddenly around Anna’s shoulders and grips her tightly before kicking both feet off the ground. On reflex, Anna widens her stance and gets an arm under Elsa’s legs so she doesn’t get pulled down by Elsa’s gravity. She stumbles a bit under the weight of a body in her arms, relief washing through her that she’d managed to catch Elsa before they both fell… until she realizes  exactly  how Elsa desires to be carried, and dumps the demon unceremoniously to the ice cold ground.

“Ow!” Elsa gripes, rubbing her lower back. “What was that for?”

“No way,” Anna cuts her hands decisively through the air. “Absolutely no way am I carrying you like that.”

“Have a problem with bridal style, angel?” Elsa asks with a raised eyebrow, wiping snow from her black tunic. “Honestly, I thought it was just efficient.”

“Oh,” Anna’s mouth curls mischievously. “If it’s efficiency you’re looking for then how about this?” Without waiting for an answer, Anna hitches Elsa bodily over her shoulder, the demon’s legs kicking wildly in her face. As she grinds her feet into the ice, Anna thinks she hears a shout of protest but it is lost to the whistle of wind during take off.

Perhaps she should have taken heed, because Anna only gets about one floor up before Elsa’s heel smacks against the underside of her chin with force, snapping her head up and making her vision go even whiter than the blizzard outside. They crash into a snowdrift that had accumulated on the side of the church, dense, freezing, and muffled. Well, except for the grunting and digging to get back to the surface.

“What’s your problem!?” Anna bursts out, wiping snow out of her hair.

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Elsa spits back, breathing heavily as she hauls herself out onto flat ground. Her shoulders slump with effort, and for the first time, Anna can see how much Elsa’s bound wings affect her. Like she can’t get enough air, or stand to her full height. How their presence smothers her, a weighted blanket with hundred pound plates, constricting her spine and dragging her down, down, down. Chained to the earth, shackled from the sky.

“I think break time is over,” Elsa says, adjusting her clothing back to rights, or as right as they could get for now. “I’ll let you get back to your study and meditation, since that seems to be what you’d prefer.”

“No I--, I’m sorry,” Anna stammers. Elsa seems surprised by her confession, and if Anna’s honest, so is she. “I want to see this view you speak so highly of. It must be… special.”

Elsa accepts her words with a nod. A beat passes before she asks, “So, how are we getting up there?”

“You’ll have to climb.” Anna smiles softly at Elsa’s weary expression. “Don’t worry, I’ll be with you.”

The slope of the snow bank makes the first part fairly simple, and before too long, Elsa is scaling the side of the building as quickly, though carefully, as she can. Every handhold is slick with ice, but Anna melts and evaporates them in quick succession so Elsa doesn’t slip. Certainly slower than flying, but it’s a decent compromise.

And… it gives Anna some time to think.

Why does Elsa care that Anna succeeds? In her tasks, her goals. In leaving this place behind for good. Elsa is a demon, she should be trying to pull Anna further, demotion after demotion until there was nothing less but the permanent boot down to hell. A great achievement that would be, felling an angel. Perhaps Elsa is playing the long game, biding her time, but Anna was stuck in this lonely, frozen landscape anyway, shouldn’t that make Elsa’s job easier? To prey on the mortals that came here, less guarded if their protector angel was distracted?

Anna unfreezes and dries another foothold for Elsa, hovering just behind her in case she falls. Elsa flashes her a grateful smile before concentrating once more. Anna remembers that demons lie, are expert deceivers, and will tell you anything you want to get you to slip, to tempt and to taunt.

But… everything? Even the small things, the inconsequential? The silent ‘thank yous’ for doing a favor?

These thoughts swirl around Anna’s head until Elsa clears her throat, breaking through the fog. She sits atop the roof, safely ascended. “We’re here.”

There is a valley, a cubby really, made between three steeply slanted roofs. Were this the type of geographic location to have a rainy season, this would most certainly be the most uncomfortable place to be - slick with water and grime that washed off the tiles. But with densely packed snow and ice creating a buffer, it’s actually rather quaint. Elsa walks forward, the snow lifting up in glittering heaps of flakes. A space is carved before Anna’s eyes, just big enough for the two of them. “I used to come up here all the time,” Elsa says as the hovering snowflakes settle among the rest of the rooftop piles. “When it was first settled and built. I liked to hear people's voices from below, even if it was faint. The energy of their Light wasn’t small by any means, but it was human, and easier to bear. Of course, with the arrival of a certain someone, I wasn’t quite so cozy anymore, unless I wanted to feel like my clothing was burning off.” Elsa tosses a forgiving look behind her. “Don’t worry, I’d say the price of meeting you was well worth losing a little hang out spot.”

She motions for Anna to sit down. As she does, Anna feels the chill of the air seep into her bones again. Exhaustion has crept up on her; using her power to charge the church, then fly, then help Elsa climb, had been more taxing than she’d realized. She settles in the crux of the roofs, surprisingly snug and comfortable. And on any other day, it might have been.

But the below freezing temperatures send shivers down Anna’s spine and raise gooseflesh on her skin. She grits her teeth and closes her eyes, looking for that tether of Light, that candle of warmth within her. But it’s gone, or so low it hides. Even her wings barely glow anymore, their protection offered only in the fluff of celestial feathers. Cold wraps around her, its erratic touch scattering every attempt at concentrating.

Punishment. For taking pity on the enemy. For failing her duties. For falling from grace. That sunlight in Anna’s memory would stay there, forever.

Suddenly Elsa is beside her, blocking the wind with her body and more. Her wings, damaged and curtailed, stretch over their heads to the extent that they could, chains restricting more than the bare minimum of mobility. They take up the spaces that Anna’s wings cannot fill, a black and white barrier against the storm. Free from the brunt of the gale, warmth seeps back into Anna’s limbs and her breath begins to fog in the air.

“Better, angel?” Elsa asks without looking at her. Her expression is inscrutable, and it's all Anna can do to nod and try looking for her Light once more. The candle catches faintly in her chest, further heating the air around them. She lowers it gently as she hears Elsa’s breath hitch next to her, unwilling to harm the demon anymore.

The world outside shrinks away, the space inside quiet and content. Not perfect, but comfortable enough. “I can see why you’d like it up here,” Anna comments. “Like this it’s almost serene.”

“I thought you’d like it, too,” and Elsa’s tone of voice is knowing, back to light teasing. “Did you really think I’d drag you all the way up here for some scheme? As you could see, it would have hardly been worth the effort on my part.”

“Perhaps,” Anna replies, “but you never know with demons.”

"You never know with demons, but that’s a conversation for another day.” Elsa settles again, their sides touching. “Now I really do think break time is over. You should try meditating up here, perhaps it will be easier.”

Anna laughs. “Trying to find a partner for eternity, are we, Elsa?”

Elsa doesn’t respond to the jest, merely reiterating that Anna should try meditating again.

Anna tries...but she doesn’t succeed. Instead those thoughts from before return to her, about Elsa, about what the demon means to her. About what Elsa wants. What she, Anna,… wants.

To leave, right? Go back to favored, back to freedom and the Earth stretching beneath her wings. To the warmth and the sun.

Actually… now that she thinks about it, she’s pretty warm. The clouds part overhead and the sun’s light filters through their feathers, shining on her skin instead of being blocked by ten layers of ocean ice. She’s warm, and as Anna relishes that feeling she sinks further into her meditative posture until there’s nothing but soft, comfortable darkness.

--

Elsa feels Anna drift off under her wing. The angel’s breath ruffles the dead feathers, mimicking a flight long forgotten. Anna’s soft exhales flee into the surrounding winds but Elsa hears them in the cocoon on their own making. As Anna succumbs to sleep her head rests on Elsa’s shoulder.

“Even angels need to rest,” she says quietly, tucking Anna more securely against her. Sleep laps at her too, the climb taking more out of her than she’d bargained for. She’d hoped for… well, she wasn’t entirely sure. A conversation. A common moment. A shared space. Elsa supposes she has that last one, just not how she’d expected.

But she learned long ago that the world didn’t always work on expectations.

Before too much longer, Elsa is asleep as well, her head on top of Anna’s, feathers fluttering in the wind. Two detach and dance in a shared current. One black, one white. They disappear amongst the ice.

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 41

Read on AO3. Part 40 here. Part 42 here.

Summary: You need Kylo Ren to understand. He needs you to understand, too.

Words: 3900

Warnings: an attempt at emotions

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: Is this angst? Is this how you write angst? Is it angsty enough? Hahaha.

Thank you all very much for reading. Only four chapters left, and I am honestly terrified! Haha. I really hope you enjoyed this chapter, I tend to like the ones where I can attempt something new. I want the emotional beats to feel correct. 

I love y'all very very much. THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU. 

You were awake.

Your bed was stone, a slab that poked through your flesh into the bone, forcing adjustments between tired sighs. Even though this movement exhausted you, you found it impossible to sleep.

It couldn’t have been the baby. After all, it was blueberry-sized at this stage, a time when most women didn’t even know they were pregnant. And it couldn’t have been pain, as most of it had subsided, or faded to a pleasant, ambient hum in your nerves, far more comforting than distressing. It couldn’t have been hunger, either--at least not anymore. Sneaking food from the kitchen after sunset had quelled your raging stomach.

But you still found it impossible to sleep. 

It was obvious, of course, why you couldn’t, but it was a memory you wanted to avoid processing. Johana’s tattered voice, gleaming tears, her admission--I give up, you won--played in your head like a busted cassette tape, rewinding with a sickening click every five seconds. Your Commander’s decision, his cruelty, that remained unprocessed too, a willing rejection of his apparent reckless obsession. You would not, could not consider just how deep, how desperate this obsession was, would and could not consider the urgency of its terrible course.

If you considered it too long, you would feel its twin, the ache in your blood, the silver pulse of your own mirrored need--and know its depth and its desperation as easily as you knew to breathe.

You sat up in a sigh. Beyond your porthole window, the quarter-moon was an opal shimmer over the garden, and the only stirring residents outside were crickets, grasses shifting with the whispered wind. If you were going to be awake and miserable, you could at least gaze into something other than your own empty ceiling--so you rolled out of bed with a groan, deciding bare feet and a nightgown were plenty appropriate for a time where you planned for no one else to see you.

On your tip-toes, the creak of wood could be mistaken for the settling of an old home, your fingers skimming the walls for stability while you crept down the steps and through the darkened halls. You weren’t sure what time it was, but you knew your Commander to be a man of little sleep and littler compromise--seeing him was the last thing you wanted at this moment. When you reached the back door, you held your breath, flipping the lock and easing the knob to the left, prying it open, only to be greeted with a huge black shadow.

“Jesus Christ!” You bit a scream between your teeth, stumbling back--as your vision focused, heat rushed you. It was a Knight Templar. “Um. Hello.”

“What are you doing here?” This was Ushar again--you recognized his voice from earlier--and you relaxed, slightly. Your awkward moment with him was already addressed. “You’re not permitted to leave the premises.”

Another sigh escaped you, and you crossed your arms. You would’ve felt more embarrassed to be only in your nightgown if he hadn’t already seen everything else. 

“I’m not leaving,” you replied. “I just want to be outside for a second.”

Ushar glanced into the garden, then back to you. Or at least, you thought he did. Helmet and all of that. “It’s late. The Commander will expect you to be sleeping.”

“Well, to be honest, I don’t really care about that right now.” You went to push past him, and he side-stepped to follow you. “Oh, come on,” you said, “why are you even here? He’s home, he shouldn’t need you.”

“We’re on duty until his meeting with the Council tomorrow.”

You blinked. “Oh. I thought all of that was today.”

He shook his head. “Preparation. Tomorrow is execution.” A pause. “Figuratively speaking.”

Dread sank its tiny teeth into your stomach. “Or maybe literally, knowing him.”

Ushar cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. “Well.”

Silence settled between you. Strange, to speak with a man who had, less than 24 hours ago, stood in a circlejerk to spatter you with sperm, and stranger still to converse casually with him about the fact that your mutual Commander’s preferred solution to any issue was to blow its brains out.

“Well.” You cleared your throat, too, as if this would ease the tension in any meaningful way. “Look. I just want to walk around the garden a little bit. You can stand and watch me the whole time.” Half-grinning, you held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh. Um. Boy Scouts?” Your shoulders sagged. More heat at your face. Perhaps the strangest thing of all was the reminder that anything and everything familiar had been razed like a forest by Gilead’s flame. “They were like. A thing. Before…” 

“Never heard of them.” Ushar paused, and pivoted to the side. “Go ahead. Don’t be long.”

“Thank you.”

Pinching your lips between your teeth, you slipped outside, neglecting the stone pathway and cutting into the grass. The little blades were fuzzy at your feet, wedging between your toes, and the air cleaned your lungs, the sky a lonely galaxy beyond the hedges and the yard. Gold twinkle lightning bugs flickered between the flowers, hovered above the pond, the sole source of light outside of the sterling moon and stars. You peeked over your shoulder at your sentinel--but he was motionless, observing you in silence.

Your feet carried you past the bench into the mini-maze, catching sight of the birdfeeder, the bag of seed. The Marthas hadn’t gotten to it, yet--not that they would have had time to--and in its day and a half of neglect, the bag had toppled over, spewing seed onto the ground, the feeder abandoned in two pieces by its side. It seemed almost rude, now, to see this mess and decide it was a job for someone else. With a shrug, you strode over, heaved the bag onto its bottom and started scooping handfuls of tiny kernels, dumping them back in.

They spilled like water through your fingers, raining onto your feet and the dirt--you seemed no closer to your goal with the next scoop than you had with the one previous. Another one, and another, and still the seed scattered, palms empty before you reached the bag. Sighing, you gave up, choosing instead to grab the feeder and pop on its top. As you gathered both halves in your hands, the backdoor opened, and you froze. 

“Where is she.”

Your throat thickened. You dropped the feeder. He was here.

“She’s beyond the hedges, sir,” Ushar replied. “She just--”

Scuffing soles on stone cut him off, storming toward you--and you remained, unflinching. Even if you wanted to run, there was nowhere for you to go.

Kylo charged the corner into the maze, still dressed in black, his shirt unbuttoned low enough to expose his clavicles, which you hated to acknowledge. At the sight of you, he stalled, capturing you in his gaze, focusing on your figure, curves draped in your white nightgown, your breasts unbound, your hair wild vines over your shoulders. He swallowed, air rolling through him, attention drifting to your face. The muscle under his eye fluttered, his fists furled.

“You weren’t in your room.”

You knew hadn’t imagined it--the tremor in his voice, the quiver at his chin. He didn’t sound angry. He sounded scared.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Kylo took a single step--the distance between you seemed at once too great and too smothering, and he stopped, drawing a long breath through his nose. He stared, held it, chest rising, then released it, hands relaxing as he exhaled. His gaze slid to the hedge, tracing the woven ropes of leaves through the trimmed branches, wandering to the grass and landing there. The crickets hummed in the void. You would’ve asked why he had headed to your room if he hadn’t made the answer so plain to your eyes.

“The first time we met here,” he began, “I said I wanted to know you.”

You offered a slight shrug. “We’ve definitely become more familiar.”

“I do know you.” He glanced up. “I know that there’s a part of you that wants to stay.”

“Really.” Frowning, you shifted on your feet, ignoring the warmth at your cheeks. “You know that.”

Kylo stole a step. “Yes.” Another, and another. “I do know that.” Two more, and his long legs had brought him within arm’s length, his pupils wide in the night. “Because there’s a part of me that wants to leave.”

Oxygen escaped you, and you shook your head, averting your gaze. Crackled embers glowed in your heart; given his hesitations, his strangled frustrations, and your own inability to find resolve, this had been a part of him you’d already known. But to hear it from his mouth, given life on his lips, it was palpable. Tangible. You met his eyes again, paralyzed by their power--they were endless, brimming with emotion even you yourself had never been asked to name. 

For a second, you forgot to speak, wondering how you could snatch this moment like spun glass in the air. Then you stepped closer, and grabbed his large, strong hand.

“Then why don’t we?” you murmured. “We can go. Just be. We can forget all of this.”

Kylo fled--for only a millimeter--before steeling himself, curling his hand around yours, and bringing it up to his face. He examined your thumb--now scabbed, but still sore, and stroked it with his own. Satisfied, he wove his fingers between yours, pulled you to his chest. 

“All of this,” he said, “is under my control, now. I can keep you safe.” His other hand cupped your cheek, fingers coasting over your skin. “Make you want for nothing.”

Staring into him, into the vortex of his gaze, you tried to swallow the thickening desire to admit the only thing you did not want him to know.

“You keep saying that,” you replied, tugging his hand from your face. “But as long as I’m in Gilead, I will never want for nothing.”

His hand squeezed yours. “There’s more I need to do.”

You shook your head again. “Well, even if you could make that happen--”

“I can.”

“Even if you could.” You unwound your grip from his, stepping away. “What about everyone else?” The Resistance, the car chase, Poe’s head, Snoke’s mansion, the dress, the party, Tera Jackson, the Widows, the Wives, Johana--all dangled above your brain, a broken mobile composed of the casualties of your affair. “It’s not enough, it’s not fair to change my life when it makes everyone else suffer,” you said. “Why not just live a life where you don’t have anything you need to change?”

He raised a brow, as if he hadn’t understood the question. “Because I need to.”

You sighed. “But why?”

Kylo’s gaze broke from yours, aiming beyond you as his tongue traced his teeth in thought. A soft exhale, and his attention returned. “The world was flawed, before Gilead.”

“Gilead has only made the world more flawed.”

He grumbled. “Do you understand what happens to those without direction?” he asked. “Without order?” You were silent, waiting for him to continue--he speared you with his stare. “Chaos.” A tension in his throat. “Suffering.”

“Those without direction…” Head tilting, you searched his face. Puzzle pieces shifted close, edges locking--his rage, the graveyard, his terror, his Wife’s own words. “If the world wasn’t flawed, you wouldn’t have been abandoned,” you said. “That’s what you think.”

His eye twitched, jaw rigid. “It made sense.” Blowing air through his nose, he paced around you, fingers curling in and out of fists. “Snoke made sense. At first.”  He huffed. “But he was just as flawed.” Steady and still, you watched him, watched his thoughts race through his mind, watched while he struggled to match them with words he had never had to speak.  “Only I understand the consequences of chaos. Only I have the capability to perfect this.”

It emptied you, his hopelessness, his resignation that the only way out of his depthless hatred was to drown it in a void of control. You knew another way--knew it was nested within the words you couldn’t say.

You sighed. “You think that will fix it?” you asked, folding your arms over your chest. “You think that will make you satisfied? More whole?”

Kylo rounded, shoulders pinned back, a predatory curve to his spine. “Were you satisfied with life before Gilead?” he asked. “The loneliness. The uncertainty.” He drew closer, trapping you in his gaze. “Falling asleep empty. Waking up in agony.” Inches from you, he clutched your shoulder, turning you toward him, brushing your hair to your back. “I know your life, little bird.” His hand pinched your chin, his tone tinged with ire. “I know it because it was mine.” 

Heat flashed through your spine. “It still is your life,” you growled, swatting his wrist and backing away, “you’re still miserable. And it’s still my life too, and it will be as long as you keep me!”

“You’re miserable,” he said, following you step for step. “You are the one who said you wanted all of me.” He was chasing you, stalking you as you retreated further into the maze, eyes rimmed gold in anguish. “And now you want to leave. Like everyone else.”

Your heart fractured. “Kylo--”

“I will end the Council if I need to.” He was black-winged in the moon’s shadow, a luminous Lucifer. “I will tear out every tongue that threatens your life if it will keep you here.”

A branch caught your sleeve, and you stumbled for only a moment, chin stiff. The threat was not hollow, but it was equally not wise. In his wrath, Kylo Ren did not believe there was a fight he could lose. In your sanity, you did not believe there was even a fight to be had.

“You can't do that. You know you can't.” A curly finger of the maze tugged you into the vines--you shrugged it off. “You know you won't be able to keep me safe forever.” There was no cease to his advance, no glimmer of cessation. “Johana is right.” The words flew from your mouth in a bid to convince him. “The Council won't stand by this. There's no such thing as divorce--”

“I don’t care.”

“--there’s no such thing as living with your Handmaid, I mean, do you expect us to get married--”

“I don’t care!”

Rapt in his gaze, you stumbled again, back flush with a wall of leaves, and Kylo consumed you, a silhouette against the sky, swallowing your sight. One hand grasped your wrist, the other pressed to your cheek, his palm smooth, your skin hot at his touch. You resisted the urge to melt into it.

“I want you,” he breathed, your name a ghost on his tongue. “I need you.” His lips trembled. “You are the only thing that makes sense.”

You were trembling too, quaking as you struggled to restrain the inevitability forming in your throat. Kylo Ren had been your Commander, the architect of your suffering. And he had been the only one in over three years to stir you, save you, see you--to care if you lived or died, to truly and genuinely desire not just your mouth, but the thoughts that came with it. 

He had found you. You didn’t want to be lost again.

“I want you, too.” You nuzzled his hand, and he led you closer. “I need you, too.”

Kylo gathered you against his body, the hand at your wrist sneaking to caress your back, his fingers carding through your hair. There was no vacancy in his eyes; they were flooded, overflowing with warmth, with worship. You felt it--the thump of that silver pulse, the genesis of a clandestine reality you wanted, with every screaming cell in your body, to speak into existence--felt its weight as an echo on his tongue. His lips parted, his focus falling over your face. 

Words would damn you. So you thrust your hands in his hair and pulled him into a kiss instead. 

He enveloped you, mouth meeting yours as if it’d been years, a tender groan cresting in his chest while his grip clung to you, seeking your flesh through cloth. Humming in bliss, you sketched over his scalp with your nails, basking when he gasped and shivered at your touch, your tongue slipping past his teeth and sliding over his own. He moaned into you, pressing you to his frame, breaking off only to kiss you again, lips touching once, twice, before his full, plush mouth massaged yours and his tongue returned. There was no fury, no primal insistence--Kylo cradled you and contained you, held you like a man who was terrified to lose you, terrified to let you go.

Soft lips skimmed yours, and he stepped between your legs, pressure digging the hedges into your back. You whimpered in shock--he stopped and snatched you to his heaving chest, seeking the origin of your pain. It almost made you laugh, this protective urge, when you still bore the bruises and bumps from the previous night. Grinning, you eased away, catching his face in your hand and forcing him to meet your gaze. His eyes swam, spinning oceans, eager and alive. Your breath hitched. It left your mouth without even trying.

“I don’t want to leave you,” you said. “Leave with me.”

Kylo paused--you could almost see his mind reeling--as he stared at you. His chest fell with dejected air, and he held you closer, tighter. A strong hand returned, cupping your face again. His head offered the tiniest shake.

“It’s too late.”

Your heart fractured further. “No, it’s not.”

His hold left you, then, comfort torn like skin from your bones when he stepped back. In summer air, you froze, icy without his embrace.

“What I’ve done…” He glanced to the side, pacing away, steps taking him a slow circle while he gazed into the corners of the mini-maze. “What I’ve done cannot be undone.” Looking back to you, the knot in his throat bobbed. “Even if I wanted it.” His hands clenched, unclenched, and he approached you again. “If I leave,” he said, “it won’t be with you. I will be arrested.” The severity in his expression petrified you. “Or I will be dead.”

Perhaps, in the back of your head, you’d always known this, always known that escape was not a simple solution for a Commander, and certainly not a man like Kylo Ren. But to hear him acknowledge it too, to seal himself to his own inexorable conclusion--it decimated you.

“Oh,” you said, as it was the only sound you could make for a moment. “War crimes.”

Kylo’s head dipped in acknowledgement. “Yes.” A pause, and he turned, thoughts cast across the yard, before swiveling back to you. “To stay is the only way,” he said. “For you to be mine.” He gestured to the garden. “For this to be ours.”

You frowned. “Ours?”

His hand dove into his pocket, plucked his wallet free. Stone-faced, he flipped it open, fished into the slot and produced a folded piece of paper, presenting it to you as an answer. Cocking a brow, you pinched an edge, looking between him and the little note as you unfolded it.

One corner was swathed in smooth, swooping ink, the opposite end festering with wobbly attempts at leaved-lines. In the middle, they met, blooming into a tiny Eden--beautiful, borne from the hallowed recognition that suffocated, unspoken between your mouths.

“Kylo…” Chin quivering, you suppressed a laugh. “You think,” you said, “after all of this, what I want is,  is… to what, control this with you?”

“No.” His tone was serious. Sincere. “You want freedom. You want me.” Stepping toward you, he took your hand, dwarfing it in his own. The heat of his body choked you. “But we don't get to choose what we're owed, little bird. Destiny decides it for us.” His attention flitted to you and the drawing. “I know what roles we are meant to fulfill. This is not just mine.” His gaze bored into you, chaining you in a plea. “It’s yours.”

Kylo Ren did not want to leave. He wanted you with him. In power. In whatever capacity he decided. 

The offer was not only disappointing, it was insulting. To think you would want to stay in a land where you’d watched women hang, to remain in a nation where, without him, you could never hope to survive. No matter what route you chose, with him, you lost. There would be no agency for you in a world where you reigned standing on cadavers. And for your child--there was no purity coming home to a burial ground. 

You glanced at the drawing, mapping it to memory, imagining it in his pocket while he met with Council members, ferreted threats, worked late into the night--pictured it tucked away at his hip in the Audi, stowed somewhere safe on the Buzzard when he was with his men. And your fractured heart splintered into scarlet shards.

Meeting his eyes, you shook him free, taking the sheet in two hands. Without a blink, you shredded it in half, layered it, ripped again. You caged him in your stare, unflinching, as you turned the paper into flakes, tear by tear, and littered them across the grass. Kylo watched, carved from redwood: large and flushed and eerily still, until his gaze dropped to the ground. He was speechless--and the inevitable words burgeoned, a tangled mass in your throat again. This time, you said them.

“I hate you.” 

His eyes snapped to yours, struck black with horror--but before he could think to respond, or you could take it back, you fled, sprinting through the maze with your nightgown hiked to your knees. 

There was no sound behind you, not even the crunch of boots, and you were grateful for it, grateful as you skipped past the pond and up the stone path, as Ushar veered to the side, as you pounded the halls and up the steps to the annex. You were grateful that you hated Kylo Ren, grateful that it would not hurt when you rended him from your heart, grateful that whatever route you chose, without him, you’d win.

It was gratitude, certainly, you felt when you opened the door to your room, an empty hole and empty bed. It was gratitude, too, that flooded you when you collapsed onto the mattress with a groan, and gratitude that stung your sight, flowed past your cheeks, stained your pillowcase. Thank God, thank God you hated Kylo Ren, thank God he was so easy to hate, thank God you would not ache when you left him behind, made a home without him, or gave birth to his child. 

A tiny knock on your door. You stopped, cries arrested in your chest, as you cranked your neck to the threshold. Were it not for this timid request for permission, you would’ve ignored it in belief it was the only person you did not want to see. Clearing your throat, you straightened and hopped onto your feet, wiping your face clear--not of tears, but gratitude--while you turned the knob and cracked it open an inch.

Johana, cloaked in a frilly blue robe, stood anxious in the hall. Her face twitched with fear, her eyes stark, her mouth tight. In silence, she held out her fist, and opened her palm. 

The switchblade.

[raendown]

I think tumblr blocked the original post from being searched but this is just a little thingy for Valen-tied Day. 

Pairing: IzunaKagami Word count: 2654 Rated: M Summary: Kagami follows his dreams to try something new. Izuna sets everything back to where it should be. They both come away completely satisfied.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI and commission info in the header! 

(In)Subordinate

“I really hope you’re sure about this.” Kagami was perfectly aware of the strange dichotomy between his words and his actions, thank you very much. But really it was no less than normal to be worried about one’s first time for anything.

His first foray in to bondage, of all things, was definitely something he was allowed to be nervous about. Especially considering it was also his first attempt at dominating another person in any way.

Not that he was scared or anything. It wasn’t his ankles currently being strapped in to sturdy cuffs with chakra suppressant seals painstakingly carved in to the leather. That honor went to his partner of four months, the only man alive who had the ability to make him simultaneously melt in to a puddle and run for the hills. Fumbling his way through asking Izuna on that first date was both the best and worst decision of his entire life. He had yet to actually regret it.

“Get out of your head,” Izuna tried for a soothing tone, marred only slightly by breathy arousal. “You’re the one that keeps having wet dreams about this, you’re not allowed to have second thoughts.”

“I just want to make sure this is okay! They’re not too tight, are they?”

With a pensive expression Izuna wriggled. “No. They’re perfect.”

Kagami straightened and stepped around in front of the other man to admire his work. He had to admit that reality turned out to be even better than his recurring dreams, quite a feat considering how hard he always woke up afterwards. Izuna looked like a delicious meal like this, kneeling on the floor with his back arched, arms tucked in behind himself, both wrists bounds and secured to the cuffs circling his ankles as well. The restraints left him completely at Kagami’s mercy.

To be trusted so completely by a man so famous for his inability to trust anyone was…there were no words for how deeply it had touched him when Izuna was the one to suggest they try out the scene that kept waking him up at night. Even now as he tested the chakra seals and realized that he wasn’t able to so much as sense his own presence he still remained perfectly calm, looking back up at Kagami with nothing but love and the banked arousal from slowly peeling each other out of their clothes, trading kisses and gentle touches as they went.

“May I service the master please?” he asked in a low, sultry voice. Kagami swallowed thickly. Role play wasn’t something he had much experience with either but he did understand the general concept and damn if the very thought of being Izuna’s master wasn’t already sending spikes of lust to his core.

“I suppose you’ve earned a treat,” he heard himself say. In that tone it was hard to recognize his own voice. His cock was already hard and jutting out proudly as he stepped forward and took a fistful of Izuna’s hair to pull his face forward. “Suck,” he commanded. “If you do well I might let you come too.”

His partner wasted no time shifting back as far as the grip on his head would allow and lipping at the cock almost literally shoved in his face. It was a bit of an awkward struggle chasing it down and fitting his mouth around it without hands but finally he had the head in his mouth, suckling gently and making a show of rolling his eyes back with pleasure.

Kagami fought back a groan. If he was the master in this situation then he needed to stay in control and remain strong in the face of the glorious pleasure bursting through him every time Izuna bent forward to take as much cock in his mouth as he could. His tongue came in to play a moment later, sliding along the underside of the shaft with each bob, and it was clear by the look in his eyes that the restraints had already begun to frustrate him. His blowjobs were usually accompanied by wandering hands that always knew just how and where to touch to drive his partner out of his mind. To be denied his usual tricks and forced to rely only on that clever mouth of his had him furrowing his brows in determination.

Should it be this sexy knowing someone wanted to put so much effort in to pleasuring you? Because Kagami definitely found it very sexy.

It was a bit of a fight not to rock his hips forward – until he wondered why he was bothering to restrain himself. This entire scene was supposed to be about him dominating his usually dominant partner, after all, and he was smart enough to spot any possible signs that Izuna wasn’t enjoying something he was doing. A smirk quirked his already breathless lips as he petted the silky hair unbound and spilling over the older man’s shoulders. He waited until Izuna lifted his eyes just enough to peek up at him curiously before taking a handful in a tight grip and guiding him deeper, hips pressing forward just far enough that he knew he wouldn’t cause any surprise choking.

Getting nothing but a soft moan in response almost ended things right then and there. When his fingers released Izuna all but dove forward to ride the thrust of his hips. Sage, what good deed had he done in a previous life to deserve this? On visuals alone this whole venture was even better than he’d thought it would be. His dreams had always been vague, sort of hazy around the edges and unclear on some parts, and Kagami realized a little too late that he had activated his Sharingan to capture every detail of the delicious portrait before him.

Wrist bindings just barely visible from this angle, arms held straight and back, long neck exposed with the way his chin was lifted and his eyelids fluttering as he swallowed around the cock in his mouth like a tasty treat. Each time he managed to lift his eyes his gaze was an intoxicating mixture of heat and barely contained submission. Izuna would never make a very good submissive, they both knew that very well. That he had agreed to this at all was surprising but that didn’t change the fact that he looked amazing in the role he had deigned to fill for at least one evening. Yet as amazing as he looked Kagami was startled to realize how enticed he was by the idea of filling that role himself. Those dreams that woke him night after night with their blurry details made clear only by the lewd sounds that always chased him in to waking again, could he have interpreted them wrongly?

His thoughts scattered like ephemeral fragments when Izuna moaned around him in that dirty way of his that always shut down Kagami’s brain. Was he excited by the idea of being the one on his knees, restrained and used for the other’s pleasure? Absolutely he was. Did he have the ability to concentrate on that possibility at the moment? He very much did not. The rest of the world was very rapidly falling away until all that existed was the perfect heat surrounding him and the eager body all tied up in such a pretty package at his feet.  

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, tracing the bulge of Izuna’s cheeks and trying to sound much more confident than he actually felt. “I’m so close, pet. So close. Think you can make me come without your hands?”

Izuna didn’t even bother to pull away to make room for speech, his answer clear in the doubled enthusiasm and the moan of arousal.

“So good for your master,” Kagami murmured absently. His own tongue yearned for the weight of Izuna in his mouth, for the triumph of bitter seed spilling down his throat. Thinking about it sent shivers down his spine and he had to fight to keep his eyes open and focused on the man kneeling at his feet.

Embarrassingly, he was pretty sure Izuna could tell what thoughts were running through his mind. The dark eyes watching him were half-lidded and wicked as he continued his work and the more Kagami’s façade of control crumbled the harder Izuna worked to tear him down even faster, tongue working in ways that should be impossible but felt much too good to question. The heat and the slick glide of his mouth, the eyes that now refused to look away, the way his body seemed to project absolute submission at the same time that he seemed to realize he was still somehow the one in control, it was all too much.

Kagami came with one hand in his partner’s hair and the other on the man’s shoulder, bearing his own weight as he bowed under the intensity of the pleasure. Short noises muffled by the clench of his teeth made a mirror of the way his hips stuttered and jerked. Under the guise of being a proper submissive Izuna worked him through his orgasm until he was forced to pull the other away with both hands just to prevent himself from collapsing entirely or anything else that would have been equally as embarrassing.

“Fuck,” he whined as the head of his cock slipped out from between Izuna’s lips, the cool evening air sending shudders down his back. “That was…wow. Okay. Yeah. Definitely your turn.”

“Have I pleased the master?” Izuna purred. His voice carried a very distinct note of teasing.

“Gods yes,” was all Kagami could say.

On shaking knees he fumbled his way around to sink to the ground at Izuna’s back. Trembling hands traced the arms he had bound, following them up to thin shoulders and around to the chest panting in anticipation. His thumbs paused to trace circles around sensitive nipples and he stopped only when Izuna’s head snapped to the side to pin him in place as surely as if he were the one bound and helpless.

“Touch me,” his partner demanded.

Kagami could do nothing but comply. Knowing the other could order him around even when he was the one tied up had his spent cock twitching with interest already, an idea to be explored later. One hand remained where it was to pinch and tease while the other descended quickly to wrap his fingers around the neglected length waiting so patiently for his touch. Izuna let out a pleased sigh and let his head drop back to rest on Kagami’s shoulder, hips rolling in to the pressure of a firm grip, just the way he liked it.

“Yeah, like that,” he murmured. “Faster.”

At his back, Kagami buried his face in the other’s neck and whined. His hand followed the order without thought.

“Perfect, that feels perfect,” Izuna praised him. As they always did, the words went straight through him until he had to concentrate a little harder to keep his hand steady. Burying his face a little farther still didn’t do much to stop him from gasping with want at the sound of another quiet moan.

“I-is it good?” he asked, desperate to hear more of that silky voice.

“So good. Just a little tighter – that’s it, yes. Don’t stop, pet.” If he hadn’t already suspected then that emphasis would have been enough to tell him Izuna knew exactly what had been going on in his head and yet Kagami couldn’t even bring himself to be embarrassed anymore. He shuffled closer to fit his body against Izuna’s and sank his teeth in to pale flesh as he listened for every word, every sigh his partner granted him.

He didn’t have to listen very hard.

Praise and encouragement dripped from Izuna’s lips like fine wine, telling him how well he was doing and how good his touch felt, how he had behaved so perfectly. It didn’t take very much to have him rutting uselessly against the body in front of him as well as he could despite knowing it wouldn’t accomplish much, not when he could hardly maneuver around the bound limbs and it was still too soon for his cock to fully harden again.

It was almost a pity that Izuna was even more worked up than him and unable to draw it out any longer. When his partner crashed over the edge still spilling honeyed words Kagami found himself both relieved and disappointed, wishing he had to time to chase that same high again for himself. A little greedy, perhaps, but no one had ever accused him of being a saint no matter how innocent he was capable of acting. He certainly felt anything but innocent as he continued to stroke Izuna through the pleasure and shivered at the feeling of hot seed spilling over his fingers.

“Don’t stop,” his partner gasped. Izuna loved riding that edge of too much, too bright, and Kagami loved nothing more than giving the man what he asked for.

Only when the high started bleeding in to discomfort did Izuna shakily command him to stop. He did not tell him to let go, however. Kagami kept his face buried in the pale shoulder to muffle his helpless noises and did his best to convince his hips to go still, behaving without even needing to be told to do so. The hand still wrapped around a softening cock twitched with the desire to go on.

“Was it a dream come true just like you hoped it would be?” Izuna asked him in a tone that was both gently mocking and genuinely curious.

“Uh-huh.”

“You enjoyed yourself?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you want to untie me so I can tie you to the bed and spread you open?”

Kagami tried to respond, he honestly did, but it was lost in broken stuttering while his fingers scrabbled to unlock the cuffs holding Izuna’s wrists to his ankles. That probably made his answer fairly clear anyway though so he didn’t worry about it too much. It took only a few seconds to have everything undone and he waited with baited breath as his partner rubbed at his limbs to get the feeling back in to them after being restrained for so long. When dark eyes turned to look at him he felt his breath catch in his throat. He knew that look. That was definitely the same look that had led them to quite a few discoveries in the bedroom over the past four months.

Within a minute he found himself hauled over to the bed and pushed down on his back, wrists pulled above his head and cuffed to the headboard with the same restraints he had just untied. That was all his body needed to kick back in to high gear again. Izuna leered at the hardening cock he had been sucking on a few minutes before as he crawled up the mattress to settle in between Kagami’s thighs, smug satisfaction clear in every line of his gorgeous body.

“Now,” he murmured. “Who’s a good boy?”

“I am,” Kagami breathed without a single thought for disputing it.

“Ah, how the tables have turned. How about I show you what a real fantasy looks like?”

Closing his eyes with a frantic nod, Kagami made a mental note to interpret his dreams a little better in the future. Having Izuna at his mercy had been fun for sure but there was no denying his true nature in the bedroom, the role he was all too eager to fill.

“Yes master,” he whispered. “Yes please.”

Some people were just born to serve. And if he was one of them, well, Kagami had always tried to do his best at the tasks expected of him. If Izuna wanted to help him chase his dreams then he was ready and willing to follow where his partner wanted to lead.

[jeremy-ken-anderson]

Celestial

The following is a work of fiction.

Celestial was not like other wrestlers in the WWF. Most of the time his fighting style was fairly standard, and he suffered an early lack of popularity like a lot of wrestlers who are trying to be the “good boy” wrestler do.

But Celestial was very different from, say, Dwayne Johnson’s early “nice guy” days as a wrestler. From the very start he had the gimmick that would give him his meteoric rise to wrestling fame, and losing and even being unpopular - being ignored, was part of it. He expressed it with every fiber of his being from the first matches he was in. For those of you who aren’t obsessive WWF fans, this is Celestial’s gimmick:

Celestial was a beast, some kind of holy battling god, who used a pair of long leather gloves to bind his power so that he could have fair fights against mortals. Like many WWF gimmicks, it was campy and ridiculous. And he played it up.

If he could walk out of the ring at all, he walked out of the ring with a smile. People booing him after his fifth consecutive loss, he smiled. The idea was that he didn’t come here to win. He came here to play, and he was happy just to get to compete. And generally, he didn’t win. In his first ten matches he won two. If he hadn’t faced Ripper as his eleventh match he probably would have faded into obscurity. But Ripper was a wrestler whose gimmick was the extremely common one of being a monumental prick. Before the match, Ripper promised he wouldn’t just destroy Celestial’s body, he’d destroy his career. We now know this couldn’t have been further from the truth.

After a harrowing, one-sided battle that is honestly kind of hard to watch, Ripper, with his victory basically in the bag, pulled Celestial’s left glove off of him. And then, well...this happened.

[Footage shows Ripper starting to suplex Celestial. With the free left hand, Celestial catches the mat and pushes himself and Ripper off of the ground.]

In one move Celestial sold the story his gimmick had been merely telling the audience with words for the last ten matches. If you watched that fight you were suddenly a Celestial fan.

Because Celestial wasn’t done. Every movement, even his footwork, was eerie and inhuman while one of his hands was uncovered. His entire fighting style changed. He didn’t move like a wrestler. He moved like a cross between a kung fu master and a werewolf.

[Footage shows Celestial dodge under a grab and slam a hand into Ripper’s chest. Ripper flies across the entire length of the ring, bounces off of the ropes, falls flat, and lays still.]

Celestial had everyone in on his gimmick. I mean, just look at this closeup on the ref’s face as Celestial stalks toward the downed Ripper. He’s shouting to get back, but he looks terrified.

After Ripper, Celestial’s matches took on a new life and popularity with the WWF fanbase. Everyone watched with this tension; Would the gloves come off this time? There was never a question of whether Celestial would take them off himself. He refused absolutely. But would his opponent rip them off? Would his opponent have the hubris to face the battling god?

After another six matches for Celestial - two wins and four losses - Behemoth Jake would be the next to give it a try. Jake outweighed his opponent by nearly three hundred pounds, and it meant nothing. Just...Just look at this.

[Footage shows Behemoth Jake leaping from the corner of the ring toward Celestial, and being caught mid-air, practically impaled on Celestial’s arm. A moment later, he’s pushed back, hurled out of the ring over the corner]

For six years this would be the pattern. Celestial maintained a record of one win to every four losses as his total average - honestly kind of abysmal by WWF standards - but nobody cared about that record. In that same period he had a record of twelve and O for one-sided slaughters against all twelve of the fighters who tried to face him “unbound.” 

[Footage shows short half- to two-second clips of Celestial’s uncovered silver-painted hands laying waste to wrestlers in various ways]

And then came Wrestlemania 2026. The end of Celestial’s career as a pro wrestler.

Tommy Gunn was at the top of his game and starting in on a move toward film. He was the defending champion and after Celestial took three wins in a row - two close fights with gloves on and one he’d almost lost before his opponent made what fans just called “The Mistake” - Tommy wanted to face Celestial, “No gloves no tricks,” in a cage match.

At first Celestial refused. For a while it looked like he wouldn’t be competing. Then came “leaked” footage of his manager telling him his career would be over if he just refused to fight, and no he couldn’t keep the gloves on if the champion wanted them off.

The banter leading up to the fight was weird. On one side you had Tommy, giving the usual growling performance about how he’d take his enemy down, and on the other you had Celestial, whimpering, pleading, begging his opponent to let him keep the gloves and just play.

This kept up all the way to Celestial’s entrance into the arena. He entered with the gloves still on and Tommy was furious. He was not having it. This was where he planned to break that perfect twelve-zero streak on the biggest wrestling stage and raise himself to legendary status.

You can see Celestial literally weeping - tears are running down his face - as the cage is lowered over the ring. The crowd is chanting with Tommy, “Take them off! Take them off!” And then Celestial wails. It’s this excruciating wail of pure anguish, and it silences the crowd. And then, for the very first time, Celestial takes off his own gloves. First the left, then the right.

Tommy cheers, but the crowd doesn’t. That wail got to us. There’s a feeling permeating the entire arena: This is wrong. I know because I was actually there, at Wrestlemania 2026. I felt guilty for chanting “Take them off!” But more than that, I was scared. We were in uncharted territory. I know how ridiculous this sounds but I felt a very real sense that my own life was in actual danger, cage be damned.

And, well...

[Footage shows a point where Tommy dodges desperately out of the way and Celestial’s fist bends the bars of the cage out. As the camera zooms in, we can see that the bent bars seem to be glowing red-hot]

Never in the history of wrestling has a ring been so thoroughly trashed. Tommy almost immediately realized he was outgunned but there was nowhere to go. He tried his best but, just...what the hell.

[Footage shows an attempt at a body slam. Celestial wraps his ankles through the bars of the cage and, with those as a grip, lifts Tommy off the ground and body slams him instead.]

Every time Celestial punched at Tommy there was another dodge and whatever Tommy was in front of got completely obliterated. The steel cage, the padded corner of the ring, the ring’s floor. It didn’t matter. Those fists went straight through. It was terrifying. The fight ends with this: A move that’s never been seen since, where Celestial pins Tommy’s neck basically by stapling him down. It’s a hold that can only be done because Celestial punched a hole in the floor earlier.

When the match ends, Celestial, who as always has been this eerie mix of brutal and cold ever since the gloves came off, puts the gloves back on to talk. And as always as soon as the gloves are back on he’s exhausted and mournful. He’s handed the belt and he throws it into the center of the ring.

“I didn’t earn it,” he says. “I won’t take it.”

And he walks out of the ring, and out of the arena, and out of professional wrestling. Nobody has ever done this. To quit during Wrestlemania, to refuse the trophy and leave without it? But if you were a Celestial fan, this made perfect sense. Because this was who he was. He’d always shown a bitterness, a hatred for his own overwhelming “unbound” power. This had been his character since day one. We never imagined he’d play it so completely that it would be built into how he left the industry, but that’s what’s so great about him. You can tell that from the very beginning Edward Fontaine had his story - a tragedy - written out for his character Celestial, and that the story had a beginning and a middle and, unlike so many other wrestlers, an ending. Fontaine had written out the end of his own career from the start. And I think that commitment to his story, his narrative, is the reason, possibly even more than the ridiculous stunts he was able to pull in the ring, that Celestial’s legend will never be matched. To tell this story right, Fontaine had to give up what could easily have been another ten years of wrestling career. Who does that?

Well...Celestial. And that’s why I’ll always be a fan.

[lost-in-transition]

short story: deathclocked

CN: This is something new for the blog, a piece of actual fiction. I was inspired. I am not actually a blonde ex-Polish trans hitwoman.

*

I strike at his throat with knuckled fist. I move the arm up to block, programming the motion before even it has a chance to happen. I'll also step aside and put my knee between his legs. Then either head butt him or bring my elbow down in his face. I don't know yet. As a child, I never ever fought. The thought of striking back was worse. It would have made me like them, and even then I knew I feared that. Better to run away, or else to let them. They wanted me to strike back, I know that now. If I had, they would have known I was like them, and we would have been friends. And I would have been something worse than being the nothing that I was. In a sense, they were so persistent because they were concerned for me, and perhaps scared as well - my existence as an oddity raised the potential things could have been different for them, too. We all fear the thought we might not be who and what we need to be, and it drives hatred of the strange all too often.

Ironic then that now I fight so effortlessly. It does not feel like aggression. It feels like stretching out. It feels like singing out loud. I miss that very much, but as time went by, it became less and less comfortable to hear myself, especially resonating in skull. Practicing martial arts, any kind, feels freeing. I feel present and moving and unbound by everything else. I decide my movement beforehand and execute it. If I am struck, I will be hurt, and accepting that makes it something I am not afraid of. In the training ring I don't feel or express anger, and my training mates accept that. When I fight for real, like now, they don't expect me to strike. In some ways, that is the point. It is because they don't expect it that I feel at peace being the one initiating. And ending it.

The man in front of me, I think of him as Boss Man, he wears sports gear slick enough for clubbing and laid back enough no-one will think he is gay or anything. God forbid. Sweatpants showing boxers. Tattoos, expensive wrist watch. He didn't have to queue to get into this club, which already sets him apart from 999 of 1000 people anywhere. There are several ways in which each of us stand out so. He and I share some, including, for me in recent years at least, spending significant time in the company of organized criminals. Boss Man is a criminal organizer, and I can only imagine this is why he passed the doorman directly whereas I stood in line. This place started as a gay club and in many ways still is, men give each other blow jobs among the smoky labyrinths that are the chill out area, the beat of a DJ I don't recognize but do like there in the background like a storm. Boss Man is the type of the leather bear doorman no more than I am in my skimpy sundress, but either he has the money or the fear capital from being a known gang leader that he gets in anyway. Even so, he still passes through the coat check, which means he has no weapon tonight and no body armour. Otherwise typically he does, and this is why I planned to take him down in here tonight. I too am unarmed, but as I now set out to demonstrate, this need not mean much.

I got close enough in the otherwise empty passage, so that first strike goes fine. He staggers, but he's been boxing; now he goes back and into something like stance. He'll strike next. Or will he? He backs up and stares at me. I followed him in here, when he was going to snort or inject I assume, or make a phone call. But when I did, he leered at me, smiling as I approached. Maybe he had not expected to, but he was fine with it, up until the point where I struck. There's enough of a code that he saw my following him as safe. It's what a girl would do if she was aware of his status and wanted him to share something of his - drugs, kisses, cock, recognition in some circles, though I don't know exactly which one. This city has several separate gang environments and they are not all hanging out. "My" criminals are part of other networks than his are. More to the point, "my" criminals live in little circles of salt surrounding a few people who also post on TOR-accessible truly anonymous forums.

Boss Man is an awful person. I know this because I read some of the police reports on things that happened with some girls who spent some time with him. None went to trial, and a few years back they stopped coming because none of them would risk filing one. This isn't why I'm here seeking him out. I'm not a vigilante, I just checked that before I decided to pursue the contract on him. Back in the old days, there were brokers who could connect clients and contract killers anonymously, for a cut. Apparently. They still exist, now they too are on the dark net. It works like a betting service, using crypto currencies and everything. Someone puts out a contract on a mark by anonymously depositing the prize with the broker. The broker verifies the money is legit and makes a bet on when the mark will die. Whoever comes closest wins the money, also anonymously. In theory someone could "kill steal" if they witness a contract killing, but the system works well enough. I was spending a lot of time on the dark web.

This also means that in principle a mark can know there's a contract on them. But in reality, most people where some shadowy figure want them dead will be just like Boss Man, a career criminal who is not all that computer savvy but rather very invested in his offline social network. I have no idea who wants him dead, I just looked into him enough to see if it was at all possible, and also on whether he has any redeeming traits that would make me feel guilty for it. I've cashed in contracts on people who were not gangsters too, some domestic abusers mostly. Still no idea on the client. Boss Man is just always paranoid, when on the streets he has a gun. His driver keeps that for him now I guess. If I guess closest for when he's dead, that's about 40K worth of bitcoins. The call was out for six months already. So either there aren't so many assassins around who'd take it, or some did and failed for whatever reason. I've tried and given up with several marks, sometimes others got them later. No idea on which other, either. I don't think I know any other contract killers, but then again, would I even know?

The thought strikes me that I should make a smartwatch app that bets on my time of death should my pulse stop, in case I find anyone contracting me. That way at least my death can be my own kill. But honestly, if my actual identity ended up there, something already is wrong. No one should know who I am. Heh. They'd have to use my deadname, since the road to a legal name change in my country of citizenship is... long. How fucking appropriate. Ha ha. Like cancer, fun for the whole family. I literally would have to sue my parents, which means I'd have to meet them again. It's been seven years now. They're still around in Krakow, I know, and my little brother hasn't moved out yet. He and I still talk every now and then. I wonder how he's going to make it.

Boss Man isn't going to shout, is he? Not that it makes all that much difference in this loud environment. No. He needs to do this himself or he'll lose face. He stares at me incredulously, already pretty coked up I guess, and leaps at me, all 95 kilo of muscle and bone and Axe bodyspray. I'm in the motion, I sidestep and rotate. Detachedly, I wonder again what precisely is wrong with me. I don't think I'm a sociopath. Is that even possible for me? If I were then surely I wouldn't have all these social anxieties, or feelings of inadequacy, and I wouldn't end up crying over youtube clips where little ugly fruits find other little ugly fruit friends. I do have empathy, for all that everyone tried to grind it out of me, growing up. I couldn't cry for years and years, it took me doubling the recommended dosage to get there finally. Now, it's not so much a matter on if something will make me cry, but when. I used to simply be unable. Now I cannot decide the "if", but I can delay it if I have to. There has to be something that I'm processing here though, it can't be just for the money. Maybe I'm processing my feelings of being an outsider by ensuring I must always be, that there is (yet another?) thing in my life that no-one ever will understand? Some sort of reaction formation? Or am I an adrenaline junkie?

"What the... fucking bitch! Fucking cunt!" he exclaims, slamming against the wall. I swing my fist at the back of Boss Man's head but he's already turned back and lifted a meaty arm for blocking. He has a tattoo of an eagle. He's in stance now. No more surprises.

He stares at me. With a sickening dread my guts recognize that look before my brain does. I shiver. He blinks. "What the fuck? You're a fucking man in a dress? A fucking tranny faggot?" Boss Man laughs. "That's why you fight like that. No fucking real girl could land a hit like that on me! Fuck! I can see it now, look at you, full of makeup and shit. But you've got balls, right? Show me you've got balls, man!" He takes fighting stance again, like he's challenging me. He smiles like a maniac. I'm staggering. It's like I'm split in two pictures like with those old 3D images, floating in different directions, none of them me. I can't sense my body, but it's like I see it from the outside. Tall, flat-chested. Tuck isn't perfect, is it? And I'm blonde, so plenty of electrolysis left before any kind of smoothness. Would any cis woman do contract killings like this? He's implying that, isn't he? That only someone incurably steeped in toxic masculinity would be a... a... hitman.

This is so dangerous, I know it. It feels like those times after meeting that support group when I couldn't stop idly thinking as the train approached the platform that it would be so easy to solve everything by just stepping in front. One part of me is deep in, one is detached. Neither really cares how this goes, right now. Am I angry with him? No way to tell. The important thing is, how dangerous to my beliefs about my identity are these implications? And are those just beliefs? He clocked me in a dark club corridor without me even speaking, so that horrible voice I have isn't it. What's wrong with me? I feel like I'm already dead. A waterlogged corpse having rotted, the bones move through soft flesh-mud. I freeze.

Boss man knocks me over and I feel a sharp pain as I hit the floor. Only luck it was not head first. Then again, if that damn head with it's fucking brow ridge and big nose cracked like a melon, then it would be over. He's on top of me. "What the fuck is this about, you little faggot? Huh? Did you really think you could fool me, you fucking ugly little cocksucker bitch?" I know it's over. I won't have to worry again on whether I'm actually just a sad, misandrist failure of a man, someone who still ticks off all the boxes of male stereotype and socialization. It'll be like with the train. Eventually it will all be over. Pain for a while. But only one outcome. It will be over.

He puts his hand on my left breast and there's another look of surprise on his face. Then his mouth is at the side of my neck. I feel rough, raspy stubble and smell the sour musk of his sweat and breath. He bites my neck hard and grunts. I feel his cock quickly growing hard against my thigh. Another rough hand moves up my thigh. He has to make sure now. The smell, I can't let it go. I remember my old training clothes. Four years ago? Before HRT. I used to smell like this. There is sausage on his breath, and beer. The stubble. When my hands had eczemas because I didn't moisturize, and they itched, I would scratch them against the stubble of the cheek of the body that I was in. The skin would eventually blister and bleed and get sticky, and it would hurt more and longer.

That's not me anymore.

That's who he is. I'm different. I always was. That never was me. That surface was no-one. I'm the will to motion. I'm the choice I made. I am me.

Boss Man isn't holding my hands in place because he's too busy groping at my tuck. So I press them against the veins at the side of the neck, holding and twisting as if I was opening a jar of pickles. I hear his neck snap, and slowly he goes limp on top of me. My head is spinning and for a moment I forget who I am, where I am, what I am. There is only the naked tube lights of the ceiling high above and the graffiti on the concrete walls. My back hurts.

I turn to get him off me. I squeeze his neck again to be sure, check the pupils. I kick Boss Man in the side of the head, first gingerly, carefully. Then again, harder. Again. A dozen times, with the hard toes of my pumps. I take out the phone, choose the camera settings to ensure there is a time stamp watermark as well as a GPS watermark. Then I remember. I have to remove the little coloured sticker they put over the camera lenses on your phone in this club. Check. Filter settings. Check. I upload an image of Boss Man's vacant gaze as he lies there to the server, through the TOR client app. It's done.

I hurry down to the bathroom, one floor down. I shy away from the mirror image because I can already guess what it would show, and I go in to hide in a stall. I lock the door carefully. Then I let the tears come.

[dyke-remy]

Live And Let Die, part 6

Part 1      Part 2      Part 3     Part 4     Part 5 

Description: Agent 008 and Agent 009, professional spies for the MI6 with liscense to kill. Partners in both work and love. After an agent goes missing the partners have to once more go out into the field. (It’s a James Bond AU)

You don’t need to know anything about James Bond to be able to read this fic, trust me

Tw: Accidental misgendering here and there, some light torture

Words: 3611

Remus woke up in a cold sweat. His body ached and his head seemed to be banging in rhytm with his heart. He was staring into a grey concrete wall but it was weird because the ceiling looked like the floor and the floor looked like the-

Oh. Oh he was hanging upside down. He strained himself to look upwards and there was indeed rope all around his limbs that tied him to the ceiling. He could barely even move his fingers, much less his head.

"009?" He called out. He tried not to sound too worried but failed miserably.

"008!" Remy exclaimed back. To both of their's relief it didn't sound like they were far apart.

"I'm right here. Are you okay?"

"It doesn't matter but yes I'm tots 100% good"

"It matters to me!"

Remus swung a bit back and forth in the air and to his surprise his head struck something else. "009 are you-"

"That's me alright" Remy leaned their head back so they felt each other's warmth.

For a few moments they stayed like that without saying anything. As long as they could touch each other, as long as they knew the other were there, everything felt safe.

"You're okay right? Nothing happened after I blacked out?" Remy asked.

"Nothing too bad...but...I....I think I might have been hit by Jaws. Didn't see his face though"

Remy let out a quiet gasp "Jesus fuck. The bitchy brat got Jaws and everything on his side huh"

"I'm not a brat!" Virgil's voice came from somewhere Remus couldn't see.

The agent felt hands grab his shoulders and force him around. He saw Virgil with his back turned to him, he was turning Remy around the same way so the agents were looking at each other. The enby was tied to a steel chair. There even was a rope around their neck so they could barely turn their head.

"You gonna torture us? Gonna torture us with your lil baby hands?" Remy asked with a shit eating grin. In response they got a back handed slap to the face.

Remus tried to glance around. They were in what looked like a garage that had been turned into an improptu torture chamber. Tools (knifes, hammers, guns) laid on a table and next to it stood Theo, the bodyguard.

His eyes stagnated on Virgil. His hands began to shake.

"Where you hiding your lil Jawsie now tho? Aint so scary without him" Remy continued to tease.

"Do you seriously think the two of you pose enough of a threat to need Jaws here" Virgil rolled his eyes "I'm sure he's in his box or something-"

"You- You're-"

Remus' voice was shaky as he stuttered it out. He was staring at Virgil as if he was looking at a ghost.

"I know you"

Virgil glanced at him before looking over to Theo. He let out a few dry chuckles and the bodyguard laughed along.

"You're- Virgil- You're the kid- you were there when Ro- my brother died"

A sick smile spread over his lips "Of course I was. And you're Remus. And Roman is dead"

He expected the agent to lash out. To scream and shout and try to claw his way out of the ropes just to hurt him. Virgil knew he was the reason the previous 009 got killed. It was the only logical reaction.

"I'm sorry" The genuine, nearly tearfilled, tone on Remus' voice caught him off guard "You were just a kid. I'm sorry we weren't able to help you. We- I saw how your dad treated you. Me and my brother wanted to get you out of there I promise"

The teenager took a step back. He closed his hands into fists. His nails pierced into his skin until blood dripped out.

Remus lowered his voice and tried to keep eyecontact with him "We can help you now though. If you unbound us we can knock out that big stupid bodyguard and take you somewhere safe. No one will hurt you again. I'll make sure of it"

Virgil stared at him with rage in his eyes. He grabbed onto the agent's jaw and forced his head closer. "Your brother dying was a good thing"

Remus tried to say something back but it was as if his mouth had stopped listening to his brain.

"Y'know when I was younger I would always cry like a baby whenever I saw my dad kill someone" Virgil continued in a low voice "But your brother looked so Pathetic when he died that I never cried over another death again. That was the only thing he was ever good for. Just a maggot to look disgustingly pathetic before being crushed to death"

"Shut up" Remus growled out.

"And wow! Running away like a coward was a truly amazing move! The moment you left your brother started to sob. That bastard begged my dad to let him live and everything! He just kept going until-"

"Shut up!"

"-Until his voice was so hoarse and he was so close to death all he could do was keep crying out for you. I don't even think he was aware of it! It was all just sobs about hugging you and your mom until he died! Just as he deserved!"

"HE DIDN'T DESERVE ANYTHING LIKE THAT!" Remus yelled out "HE DESERVED A LIFE MUCH MORE THAN I DO! YOU DON'T-"

"Darling. Darling look at me" Remy said calmly.

Remus stopped and glanced over at them. Tears were welling up in his eyes. "I deserve to die more than he did-"

"Babe that doesn't matter right now. Virgil is just trying to get you emotional so you'll be more likely to say what he wants you to say. Just follow my breathing okay? In for 4. Hold for 7-"

"Out for 8. I know. I know" Remus forced out between short breaths.

"It's okay babe just-"

"You shut the fuck up!" Virgil shouted "Theo make him shut up!"

The bodyguard promptly went up behind Remy and forced their mouth open. They tried to bit his hand but was stopped when a piece of barbed wire was pulled around their head so the largest part of it laid dangerously in their mouth.

"Thanks" Virgil took a deep breathe to try and not explode with annoyance "So Remus. 008. Whatever. You got the privilege of hanging upside down because you were such a heartless Bitch and killed 3 of my spiders! That's like killing 3 baby puppies you monster!!"

He went over to the table filled with tools and picked up a crowbar. It looked a bit too heavy in his hands. He rolled up the sleeves of his hoodie and took a firm grip on the weapon, clearly ready to swing it at the agent.

"Your brother's life was worth less than my spiders, you realize that right. So you'll pay for it" He lifted the crowbar above his head "This is for-"

"Sir!" Theo interrupted "You're holding it wrong. You'll easily hurt your wrists unless you shift your right wrist and move your left hand a bit up. It'll hurt the cretin more as well"

Virgil sent him a small smile and shifted how he held the crowbar "Thanks"

He slammed it into Remus' ribcage.  "This is for Max!" The next hit landed on the side of his hip "This is for Dante!" The last one landed on his arm "And this is for Charlotte!"

He lowered the crowbar while letting out heavy breathes. His black hair had fallen in front of his eyes and his mouth was twitching upwards into a smile. Remus didn't even seem bothered by the hits. It really had felt like being hit by a kid. If anything the reminder of his brother's death hurt more than Virgil beating him ever could.

"So now when we all agree that your brother deserved to die and all 00 agent's lives are worthless we can continue onto the interrogation! Theo please let the maggot speak again so I can beat the answers out of both of them"

Theo made sure the barbedwire dragged into Remy's skin as he dragged it out of their mouth. Their teeth were colored red from blood. They immediately tried to spit the blood into Theo's face and let out a fake moan when he slapped them in return.

Virgil dropped the weapon on the ground and instead pulled out two rings from his hoodie pocket "So I found these matching rings on your fingers and with my deducting skills I've come to the conclusion that they are rings made for 00 agenst and therefore super impor-"

"Ehm sir I believe those are wedding rings" Theo interrupted.

"But- but they're guys" He pointed at the agents as if Theo had missed it somehow. Virgil slumped his shoulders forward and grumbled something under his breathe "Anyhow! They're still important! So if you two don't tell me the info I want I will smash them with a hammer!!"

"You want info on how to deal with acne or something?? 'Cause girl it looks like you need it" Remy replied.

Virgil's cheeks went bright red "Shut up! What I want is M's real name! And Where MI6 keeps all their documents and files because I know you have info about me and my dad there and I want to destroy it!"

"M's real name is Gilbert Dickface!" Remus loudly announced. He forced a fake smile on.

"That's not a real name you...you....idiot!"

He held out his hands while an angry grimace played on his face. Theo happily handed him a large hammer. The teenager laid out the rings on the table and made sure the agents were looking at them before smashing them to bits.

Neither of them even winced. Remus' mom was literally a jewel smuggler. This just meant they got to have yet another romantic ring choosing date.

"Want to try some malachite stones this time 009?"

"I would love to 008"

Virgil pouted and dropped the hammer on the floor. He picked up a knife instead. He grabbed onto Remy's jaw and pulled their head close.

"Alright you're going to tell me or I will cut up your stupid Remus"

Remy had a smug smile on their face "Sure Jan"

"Can I request a cooler torture scene?" Remus asked "Maybe a shark pool....red laser table.....giant hotel slowly being put on fire....Being strapped to a rocket and launched into space without a space suit if I don't say the info sounds cool! Just some suggestion! Totally brainstorming here!"

Virgil hit him over the face with the back of the knife. "Maggots like the people at MI6 don't deserve to have info about me or my dad. I want it gone as soon as possible so tell me!"

"Your bitch of a dad can go shove a cactus so far up his ass it comes out of his nose!" It'd hadn't been that hard for Remus to put together that if Virgil was the kid who'd been there when Roman died then his dad had to be the leader of Enfuel...Aka the man who'd murdered his brother.

"Shut up!!"

"Girl Isn't that like the opposite of what you want us to do. Real bad interrogation you got going on otherwise. Can't even call this torture"

"I'll hurt Remus if you don't stop saying such stupid things you maggot!"

"Maybe your daddio should have sent out someone better to interrogate us. I mean like no offense girl but you aint exactly threatening. You're as short as like a 12 year old and your voice is cracking like supa intensly"

Virgil didn't even bother to reply. He sent them an angry look while cutting the knife deep into Remus' shoulder. The agent tried to focus on the sight of Remy to ignore the pain.

"Sorry babe" 009 said.

"It's okay dear. I've had worse. I'll just get another sick scar!"

Remy looked over to the teen "What I'm wondering more is how the hell you know 008's name but you don't know mine"

Virgil stagnated and glanced over to Theo. His smile grew a bit, showing off his sharp yellow teeth. Theo broke out into a laugh. A cold and controlled one. The kind you could imagine hearing before being shot to death.

"Oh you can't be serious" Theo exclaimed between chuckles "How can you expect your husband to be a 00 agent and not be known among the underworld when he's the son of James Bond!"

Remus froze "Exscuse you I don't acknowledge that cunt as my parent! I've never even met the guy! I was raised by 1 mother and her many many girlfriends and wifes! If anything you should know my name 'cause of my link to the Octopussy conglomerate!"

"You mister should be happy I don't know you because you're an octopus pussy or whatever" Theo replied "Literally every professional henchman I've met at least knows someone who's been fucked over by the Bond bitch before he disppeared. I know at leats 2 guys! One of which is dead because of him!"

"Exactly!" Virgil added "Honeslty when Theo told me about this Bond guy I thought you would be harder to catch. But nope! Easy as murdering a baby!"

"I'm glad I'm nothing like my 'dad'!" Remus spat back "For one I'm gay so I won't go around and imprenate women I don't give a shit about! And secondly I'm ace so I won't be impregnating anyone!"

"I literally do not give a flying fuck!" Virgil replied "All I care about is getting you two to talk"

Virgil's eyes darted around the room before stopping on Remy. He stared at them as if his eyes would pierce through their skull.

"You know what-"

His stare was cold as he stabbed the knife deep down into Remus' thigh.

It was enough to make Remus let out a whine. He bit his tounge and gritted his teeth to keep himself silent. Blood was already running down from the wound. He could hear it dripping down onto the floor.

"Since you clearly don't care if I hurt him-"

Virgil left the knife in the agent's thigh. He moved his hand into his hoodie's inner pocket and took out a pistol. He held it up against Remus' forhead. The metal was cold against his skin.

"I'll just kill him if you don't tell me the adress of where all of MI6's info is"

Remy glanced at Remus. He was starting to look lightheaded from hanging upside down and the slow blood loss. They bit back bile that had formed in their throat from seeing their love in pain.

"You'll just kill him anyway" They replied coldly "And I doubt your bitchass could even-"

Theo hit them at the back of their head so hard it left them dizzy. He pushed past them and grabbed onto the barrel of the gun. With a twist of his wrist he'd forced it out of Virgil's hand.

"I do the killing"

"I can do it!! I'm not some wimp! They're just things in our way anyway! Their deaths mean nothing!"

Theo hunched down slightly so they were eye to eye "Kid. Go. To. Jaws. I'll come get you in 20 minutes. You can choose what's for dinner afterwards okay?"

"Even waffles?"

"Even waffles yes"

Virgil rolled his eyes "Fine. But if you don't come back with their maggot blood on your hands I'll let Jawsie chew them up!"

"Sure kid" Theo moved to ruffle his hair but Virgil had already turned to storm out of the room.

Theo waited until the sound of footsteps were further away while slowly rolling up his sleeves. Normally Remy would have made some crude joke but the numb look in the man's eyes as he checked the gun made them bite their tounge. It wasn't that he'd killed before, they all had, it was that he saw it as just another day of work.

"The address please" He said coldly. The gun was pressed to Remus' temple.

"It's up your ass!" Remus chuckled out. His eyes were blood shot from hanging upside down.

Without hesitating Theo picked up the crowbar and slammed it into Remus' ribs. He hit hard enough so even Remy could hear a bone break in two. The agent bit into his cheek to keep himself quiet but pained whimpers still slipped out.

"For every thing either of you say that isn't the answer I want I will break another one of his ribs. And once I'm done with the ribs I'll move onto the fingers. You get the deal" Theo warned.

Remy gripped onto the wooden arm of the chair so hard their knuckles turned pure white. Their legs were desperatly straining against the ropes.

"You're favoriting him! You're getting your rocks off to hurting the 'son of Bond' or whatevs. Just- just don't just- You can hurt me instead!"

Theo shook his head "Didn't I just tell you what would happen-" He hit the crowbar into the agent's side once more. Remus couldn't stop a hoarse yell from leaving his mouth. "If I didn't get my answer!"

The bodyguard playfully poked at the agent's broken ribs. Remus did a feeble attempt at biting his hand which only resulted in Theo punching him so hard he got a nosebleed.

Remy glanced between Theo's stone cold expression and Remus' bloddy face and vacant eyes. They gritted their teeth together in thought.

Remus let out shallow breaths as his bones ached. With each gust of wind that rocked him back and forth in the air his ribs cracked and hurt. When he closed his eyes all he could see was Roman.

"Okay okay gal I-I-" Remy began.

Theo gripped onto the crowbar.

"WAIT NO STOP!" Remy's voice was shrill and desperate "I'll say just- just- I know once either of us says somethang you're probs gonna kill one of us and keep the other to try and I dunno torture more info out of? keep as inscurance-"

"Get to the point. I don't have all day. I have a traumatized teenager to look after"

"008 has been an agent longer than I have. He knows more. So- please- just- if you're gonna shoot someone just shoot me instead. Please" Remy begged.

Remus' eyes widened. He tried to fight himself free from the restraints "No! No! Don't hurt them!"

Theo looked between and seemed to think for a moment before turning towards Remy. He grabbed a handful of their hair and forced their head back. The barrel of the gun got pressed against their neck, his hand laid dangerously on the trigger.

Remus kept screaming for him to stop. To not hurt his lover. To please just kill him instead. Tears were rolling down his cheeks.

"Say the address" Theo said with a cold tone "Don't worry. I won't hurt your husband more than I have to. Even if he's the son of Bond, I can't imagine how I would feel if someone hurt my wife"

Remy shone up into a sly smile "Oh trust me, you won't have to apologize"

They thrust their entire body back making the chair jolt back too. Theo let go of them out of surprise. Remy took the chance and used the momentum to move themself forward. They put all their power on their toes and lunged forward.

Their forehead crashed into Theo's head. The bodyguard stumbled back as Remy, along with the chair, fell down on the ground.

Remus took his chance. Adrenaline was spearing him on as he swung forward in the air and bit onto Theo's right ear.

He didn't let go even as Theo fumbled his handss around. Remus forced his teeth down and ripped his ear straight off.

Theo let out a pained scream. Remy pushed their hands against the ground to make themself and the chair move to slam right into the back of Theo's knees. He fell down on the ground.

Remy didn't even give him a chance to get up. They landed the chair over his head. A whimper was all that got out before Theo passed out. Blood was running from where his ear used to be.

The agents looked at each other and smiled. Remus spit out the ear and it morbidly landed on the ground.

Remy managed to crawl over to the nearest knife. Their wrist nearly popped out of it's socket with the way they had to bend it to cut the ropes but it was worth it. They quickly cut the rest of the ropes and got up.

"I'm so glad you're okay honey. I love you" Remus beamed.

"Love you too. With all my heart"

They held onto his shoulders as they cut the ropes so when he fell down they lightened his fall. He tried to stand up but his knees buckled umder him. The knife was still stuck in his thigh and it felt like needles were being pressed into his ribs. Choked back whimpers left his throat.

the couple held onto each other in silence for a few seconds. Remus cupped their cheeks and kissed thier forehead while crying. Remy tried to send him a warm smile but couldn't help but worry about his injuries

"Should we kill him?" Remy whispered while glancing over at Theo.

"He has a family. We can't. We should-"

Remus never got time to finish the sentence. Loud footsteps came from the other side of the door.

[arisefairsun]

What are some things you like and dislike about Claire Danes's portrayal of Juliet?

Claire Danes is possibly my least favorite Juliet, I must say.

I do think her portrayal of the character is valid, but personally I find Shakespeare’s Juliet to be far more resolute and forceful, guided by her strong-mindedness and her unbounded desire. Her naiveté tinged with rebelliousness, she fearlessly furthers her own desire, no matter what social conventions she must break to do so. For me, a good Juliet should make be believe that the whole universe is not big enough for her, that she is too alive for life itself. I need her to burn and scream and laugh limitlessly.

Claire Danes’s Juliet, though, is rather silent, still, her shyness present all along. The quintessence of her portrayal seems to lie in her harmless innocence, her softness, her quality as ‘a snowy dove’. She is (literally, at the ball) an angel, the extremity of her passion hidden beneath her bashfulness and delicacy. She blushes continually, laughs silently, always speaks in a sweet, high-pitched voice, smiles nervously, etc. She seems to be dominated by insecurity, her character defined by her maiden qualities. Of course, these attributes befit her wonderfully at the beginning of the play, when she is still an obedient daughter and talks to Romeo in a formal and maidenly fashion. But I believe she gets rid of such restraints as the story advances.

Looking at the lines Luhrmann decided to keep in his movie and the lines he decided to remove, he does not seem to be particularly interested in portraying Juliet as a decisive young girl. There is the pool scene, for instance. ‘If they do see thee, they will murder thee’, she says concernedly, but what she does not say is that ‘I would not for the world they saw thee here’. There’s her boldness, her inexorable resolution to defend and love Romeo, and what she is willing to do to protect him. (All the moments when she exposes her protectiveness of Romeo were cut out, i.e., drinking the friar’s potion to save Romeo from Tybalt’s ghost, telling her mother she will ‘temper’ the poison to kill Romeo in Mantua herself, etc.)

Although she does say ‘farewell compliment’, suggesting that she wishes to speak artlessly about their love, her next line, ‘dost thou love me?’ is a mere whisper. The last part of her speech, in which she not only emphasizes the depth of her passion but also warns Romeo that she will not let him fool her, was completely removed:

… if thou think'st I am too quickly won,I’ll frown and be perverse an say thee nay,So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world.In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond,And therefore thou mayst think my ‘havior light:But trust me, gentleman, I’ll prove more trueThan those that have more cunning to be strange.I should have been more strange, I must confess,But that thou overheard'st, ere I was ware,My true love’s passion: therefore pardon me,And not impute this yielding to light love,Which the dark night hath so discovered.

For a moment she takes the initiative after Romeo asks for ‘the exchange’ of their vows: she finally speaks loudly, runs toward him and pushes him in the pool again as she says, ‘I gave thee mine before thou didst request it’. But unlike Shakespeare’s Juliet, that’s all she says. She doesn’t elaborate on the immeasurability of her love, on the liberty of her passion: ‘My bounty is as boundless as the sea, / My love as deep; the more I give to thee / The more I have, for both are infinite.’ It’s a pity, truly, because this passage would have been very suitable for Luhrmann’s scene, given that it’s set in a pool.

So Claire Danes doesn’t express her feelings so fearlessly and limitlessly as Shakespeare’s Juliet does; the former is far more passive. She happily says she will follow Romeo: ‘All my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay, / And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world’, but what she doesn’t say is that she wishes he were her little bird so that she could ‘let him hop a little from her hand, / Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, / And with a silk thread pluck him back again, / So loving-jealous of his liberty.’ In the play, she literally says she could kill him ‘with much cherishing’, were he her bird. She openly says she ‘shall forget’ why she called Romeo back simply ‘to have thee still stand there, / Remembering how I love thy company.’ So she actively, willingly expands on her own desire in Romeo’s presence. Claire Danes, though, was removed the majority of Juliet’s strong lines—but those she did say were filled with delicacy and timidness. Even the well-known line ‘parting is such sweet sorrow’ was just a mere whisper, and I’m not even sure Romeo is supposed to hear it.

This is, unfortunately, a Juliet that is prone to concealing her emotions. In the play, it is only her father that prevents her from freeing her passion: 'Bondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud.’ She is trapped within the confines of the Capulet house, otherwise, she assures, she would 'tear the cave where Echo lies / And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine / With repetition of “my Romeo!”’. But when I watch Luhrmann’s movie, it seems to me that what prevents his Juliet from expressing the depth of her 'boundless sea’ is her own shyness and insecurity.

Juliet might have to be decorous and submissive in her parents’s presence indeed, but in the Nurse’s and Romeo’s company she becomes bolder, confident, finally revealing her real self. She does not hesitate to share the infinity of her feelings with Romeo, which make her immeasurably rich: ‘My true love has grown to such excess,’ she rejoices in the wedding scene, 'I cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.’ She expresses her own desire artlessly, openly, even proudly: 'They are but beggars that can count their worth’, she brags of the excess of her passion. She feels triumphant. But Claire Danes was cut out these lines as well.

Actually, in the wedding scene, when she looks at Romeo as she walks down the aisle she looks away for a moment, clearly nervous and uncomfortable. She remains calm all along, smiling but without saying a word. Friar Lawrence’s line, ‘Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both’, becomes Romeo and Juliet’s wedding kiss, indicating that Juliet is to be passive, of course, while her new husband kisses her. In Shakespeare’s play, however, that line is said by the friar at Juliet’s arrival, and so Romeo kisses her. But look at her answer:

As much to him, else is his thanks too much.She returns his kiss.

Again, what Luhrmann decided to include in the movie and what he decided to remove says a lot about his possible lack of interest in the idea of an active, determined Juliet.

Now compare that to Zeffirelli’s Juliet. She comes in the church running, crosses herself quickly, and then runs again toward Romeo, her arms stretched out to him. They embrace and kiss each other incessantly until the friar attempts to separate them. But in spite of the friar’s efforts, they still try to get rid of him and kiss each other, hold their hands, their passionate, restless youth guiding them all along—both equally willing to touch each other. The friar then manages to depart them, not without difficulty, and takes Juliet away. Interestingly, it is Romeo that walks down the aisle, Juliet waiting for him at the altar. (I thought this was a wonderful decision, given that it is Romeo who is to ‘deny thy father and refuse thy name’ and ‘be new baptized’. He is, in many ways, a pilgrim to Juliet’s being; the play emphasizes continually that he finds a new identity in Juliet’s company, consequently distancing himself from the Montague surname. Not only do they consummate their marriage in Capulet’s house, but he also comes back to Verona, opens the vault of the Capulets, and sets up his everlasting rest on Juliet’s chest.) Then they are serious while waiting for the friar to begin the ceremony—in spite of their playfulness they also think of their marriage as a serious matter. But it doesn’t take Romeo long to nudge her and share a smile with her, and in the last shot of the scene we see both of them giggling again.

What Zeffirelli’s scene conveys to me is that the lovers are two restless kids full of enthusiasm, unable and unwilling to repress their passion and their youth. They are irresistible to each other. Luhrmann’s scene, though, is far more passionless and stereotyped.

Another thing that saddens me about this Juliet is that not even impatience can abate her softness. Luhrmann cut out the entirety of Juliet’s soliloquy at 2.5, in which she shows her annoyance at the Nurse’s slowness first, and then applies it to all ‘unwieldy, slow, heavy’ old folks, who ‘feign as they were dead’. She’s literally bashing old people, which is not particularly sweet. Luhrmann’s Juliet, however, is only slightly annoyed at the Nurse. She complains to her in a rather soft voice, smiling in an impatient but resigned fashion while the Nurse goes on delaying her message.

Now compare that to Olivia Hussey’s performance. She mocks the Nurse and old people, kicks out Peter and impatiently puts her hands on her waist while she waits for him to leave, throws her flowers at the table, what have you. For a moment she tries to control her temper, but fails at once: 'Sweet, sweet… SWEET NURSE! TELL ME!!!!! WHAT SAYS MY LOVE?!???’ (I love Olivia Hussey). She basically just yells at the Nurse all along, clenches her fists on the table, and even angrily takes away the fruit the Nurse is grabbing in her teeth. If possible, watch the two versions of the scene in a row, and you’ll find that Claire isn’t half as threatening and angry as Olivia. I personally wouldn’t mess with Olivia’s Juliet, but Claire’s will always do her best to look like a sweet angel.

There is also the way Claire’s Juliet laughs when the Nurse praises Romeo’s physical attributes. She does so nervously, as if she weren’t allowed to rejoice in such matters. Her sexual awareness is blurred even in her epithalamion, the most overtly sexual speech about the lovers’ amorousness. Claire Danes looks excited, fascinated by the idea of cutting Romeo 'in little stars’, sweetly impatient again—but the sensuality of the speech was omitted. Compare to Lily James’s portrayal, who did succeed in merging Juliet’s naiveté with her sensuality.

I do not mean to suggest that Luhrmann’s Juliet is passionless. She does actively take part in their kissing, and looks rather eager to be with him—especially in that new scene in which we see Romeo arriving at her room on their wedding night. However, I believe this new addition has such a weakening effect on Juliet’s character. Both her criticism and her subsequent defense of Romeo when the Nurse delivers the news of Tybalt’s death become Juliet’s inward thoughts as she awaits Romeo’s arrival. She keeps criticizing his 'serpent heart’, wondering whether or not she should defend him. 'Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband?’, she seems to ask herself. 'Wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin?’ is her last thought before she turns around to find Leonardo DiCaprio waiting for her. She then seems to forget about her previous struggle with the nature of her new husband, smiles widely, and proceeds to embrace him happily. It is not like that in the play. Juliet draws her own conclusions, presuming that it was Tybalt who started the fight. That’s when she forgives Romeo: 'That villain cousin would have killed my husband … My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain; / And Tybalt’s dead, that would have slain my husband: / All this is comfort.’ (Looking at the way she conceives Tybalt’s ghost later on, it seems that she was aware of how 'fiery’ and violent Tybalt was, in spite of her loving him fondly.)

I think, in short, that she is a rather silent Juliet. This is particularly evident in the death scene—and that is probably my main problem with the movie. Where is the friar and his last attempt to save Juliet’s life? In suggesting that she hide at a convent, he offers Juliet a very suitable future insofar as religion is concerned. Juliet rejects the offer, and prefers to stay there and take her own life. It would have been such a powerful moment, considering that Luhrmann set the scene in a church. Instead, she wakes before Romeo’s death, and doesn’t say a word after he passes away. She only cries, covers her face, takes the gun, and commits suicide silently. For me, this is a very forceful way to silence her, to diminish her vigor and suppress her rebellion. Considering that her last words are replete with potency, it saddens me enormously that Luhrmann decided to silence Juliet this way. Where is her brave resolution, her boldness? We don’t truly see the moment she shoots herself—right before she triggers the gun, the camera distances itself from her so that we don’t see the violence of her death. This, I believe, is yet another way of silencing her. Let me share this passage from Romeo and Juliet: A Critical Reader:

Such changes partly derive from a desire to curb the radical agencies of Shakespeare’s play, especially when it comes to Juliet. In Shakespeare’s script, Juliet’s suicide is subversive of her expected gender role in that it is unprompted in any way by Romeo’s words or story. The Juliet of Garrick’s play, or the Maria of West Side Story, barred from such destabilizing actions, is thus recuperated to a more traditional gender position, responding rather than acting. Even in Luhrmann’s film, where Juliet does not throw the gun aside (pointedly unlike Maria), the violence of her death is tastefully obscured by switching to a long shot and positioning the bodies of the dead lovers so that no blood is visible. Even versions that reject such revisions to the text often find ways to minimize or contain Juliet.

I believe the inevitability of Juliet’s stabbing and the subsequent blood that comes out of her chest should not be eluded. It is both the culmination of all the violence of Verona and the longed freedom that Juliet seeks. Her own father is disturbed by his daughter’s blood: 'O heavens, O wife! Look how our daughter bleeds.’ Her suicide is the utmost expression of her indomitable soul; it is yet another act of unrestrained rebellion, marked by a kind of force that is diminished in Luhrmann’s movie. ’O happy dagger! This is thy sheath; / There rust and let me die.’ How full of vigor is that! It is moreover sexually suggestive: in taking Romeo’s dagger and inciting it to 'let me die’ ('to die’ meaning not only to lose her life but to reach sexual fulfillment), she is freeing her sexuality, actively claiming her desire to become his everlasting sheath. That’s yet another thing that’s lost in Claire Dane’s shooting herself in the temple.

I do love her acting in her confrontation with her parents. The way she yells, already in a broken voice, 'Proud I can never be of what I hate’ is very powerful. For me, her best moment in the movie is perhaps 4.1, when she asks Friar Lawrence for help. She looks desperate, wild, tears streaming down her face as she holds the gun firmly, thoroughly determined to avoid her arranged marriage. But in spite of this, I think she is too silent, insecure, and passive altogether.

I do not mean to say that Juliet should never blush and be sweet—that’s part of her character. What I mean is that there is also another side of her character, one that’s angry and restless and unstoppable, one that expresses her own passions artlessly, endlessly, and one that also deserves to be shown. I think she can be more complex than a blushing, timid young maid. This is mainly why I worship Olivia Hussey’s Juliet: she denotes weakness, she cries, and is often confined to decorum. But she is also brave and resolute, her deep eyes denoting such intelligence, her strong voice conveying such force, her vibrant laughter expressing such extreme delight, that she seems to me to be the sun of Verona in many ways.

[mrevaunit42]

Reckless heroing (Boku no academia AU) part 2

and here it is, part two of the star vs my hero academia au. I hope you all enjoy it, have an amazing week! the link for part one is below. this means narration and this means flashback

https://mrevaunit42.tumblr.com/post/162853635472/im-going-to-be-a-hero-boku-no-academia-au-part 

nofifcation squad: @artgirllullaby @isolated-frequencies @hipster-rapunzel @minthia-ren @thefandombytes if you want to be a part of the notify squad, let me know 

Marco could feel how frayed his nerves were, a sickening numb feeling mixing with the unsettling emptiness deep inside his stomach.

The protractor of the exam stood at the podium in the center of the stage, her piercing light blue eyes scanning over the auditorium carefully, studying and taking in each of the heroic hopefuls that filled the room.

She brushed her braided periwinkle blue hair behind her shoulder, coughing lightly into the microphone in hopes of getting everyone's attention.

“I will not waste time with what we already know” she spoke softly yet firmly into the microphone “The exam will be conducted in 2 phases: The written and the practical exam. I hope you did well to study. The test will now begin. If anyone is caught cheating, you will be removed from the premises and automatically disqualified. I will also be very crossed and I rather not be today. You may now begin.”

Marco gulped, taking his pencil into his shaky grip.

Marco could feel the relief slide out of his bones as a group of students followed behind the periwinkle haired protractor while exciting murmurs and worrisome chatting filled the air.

Marco was sure he did well but at the same time there was some post test nagging biting at his resolve: Was it more important to fill out the UA report first or the police one? Running blindly into a burning house was a poorly thought plan, right? Right. Right? Right! Umm maybe.

“Sooooo how'd you do?”

Marco jumped, dropping into a fighting position only to notice Star's beaming face

“S-Star!” he coughed, straightening up and scratching at his cheek “Sorry, I....”

“So, did you pass, did you pass, did you pass?” Star cheerfully asked, wrapping an arm around Marco's neck.

“I think so...” Marco willed his blush away to prevent further embarrassment “How about you?”

Star gave a shrug “I probably didn't get them all right but that's okay, the practical exam is where I'm going to shine! HI YAH!”

Star gave a theoretical karate chop and threw in a kick for good measure.

“Man, I wish I had your confidence.”

Star tilted her head cutely “Well, why not?”

Marco blinked in confusion “Umm...well....”

“You just need to believe in yourself buddy and I believe in you, go Marco!”

“Aww thanks Star, I'll bet you'll do great!”

“Aww Marco, hugs!”

and just like, without a second thought or pause in her step, Star wrapped her arms around Marco tightly.  

“am I interrupting anything Star?”

Marco could feel his heart crawl to a stop as dozens of eyes landed on him and Star, an awkward tense silence as the blue haired protractor gaze focused squarely on his face.  

Marco motioned to pull free of Star's grip but she refused to let go.

“Nope, I'm listening mom!”

Moon rolled her eyes at her daughter's antics but kept leading everyone to the next location.

“Mom? Wait! That's your mom?!”

Star shrugged “Yeah, so what?”

“Wow” Ferguson eyed the couple carefully “You got a girlfriend Marco?”

Marco sighed “No Ferguson, she's not my girlfriend.”

“ooooh” Stars eyes widen with curiosity “Who's that?”

“Hey, I'm the Ferg” Ferguson clicked his tongue and pointed at Star “coolest guy around and soon to be hero extraordinaire”

“She knows your name is Ferguson, I just said it” Marco answered as deadpanned as he could “He's one of my classmates and friends. He doesn't think quite....realistically”  

“Don't be jelly Marco”

“I'm not.”

“oooo hi Ferguson!” Star gave a cheery wave “Nice to meet you”

“Star, focus?” Moon called outstretched

“Sorry mom!”

Moon gave a tired sigh as she gestured behind her.

The group stood in the shadow of two massive gates towering high above and wedged in between two ends of a circular concrete wall.

“This is our training ground” Moon explained “It is a recreation of Echo city. Our students learn how to deal with urban environments in various combat, pursuit and other varying situations and scenarios. This is where you will be taking the practical examination.”

The hushed murmurs and excited whispers broke out at once.

“The examination will be a test of your quirks and general heroic abilities” Moon continued over the chatter “Set loose within these walls are three types of enemies, all robotic so you need not worry about hurting anyone. Each robot has a point value attached to them worth 1, 2 or 3 points depending on the difficulty. Simply put, your job is to destroy as many as these foes as you can as these points, alongside your written score, will determine if you will be accepted into the U.A. Oh and as a side note, there is a fourth enemy but it's more of a distraction than anything. It's worth 0 points and isn't worth your time. We will begin in a moment, please prepare yourself. You will have 10 minutes to gain as many points as you can.”

Marco felt a cold wave of dread overtake him, his concern drowned out by the more eager teens.

Could he do this? He literally just got his power this morning and while River explained how it theoretically worked, he had no chance to actually test out the application or even how to active it. And he had to take on various enemies while competing against people who've had years to master and learn their quirks. Every second Marco thought about it, the more dire it became. There's no way he could do this, his dream of being a hero was about end right here, right...

“Marco”

Marco snapped out of his thought and turned to find Star staring at him, determination burning in her eyes.

“We can do this.”

“Star, I...”

“We can do this”

Marco could feel Star's conviction and belief in her words. He could feel the faith she had in him. that they would both make the hero class. that they would both save the world one day.

Pride and hope swelled in Marco's chest and for a brief moment he could see how Star was River's daughter. Their unbound happiness and faith in people was incredibly infectious.

“Right, I got this!” Marco nodded to himself.

“I don't got this” Marco muttered in a defeated tone, his face sagging at the chaotic sight of the mass combat that took place.

The robots did in fact come in three different sizes, from tiny bots that were hardly bigger than a scooter to a 6 foot tall, vaguely humanoid shape with spindly arms and legs. For things determining if they were going to be a hero or not, they were pretty underwhelming.

What was overwhelming was the ferocity the other potential heroes fought with. He had never seen his classmates (and strangers) fight with such reckless and frightening abandon.

Tom the jerk was calmly walking through the hordes of robotic opponents, the bright orange flames burning with an intensity greater than the sun. Any robot foolish enough to try to engage him head on quickly turned into a liquid, metal slop on the pavement. Robots that stayed away didn't fair much better as he lobbed fireballs recklessly into as many of them as he could, burning a fist sized hole in their centers as they crumbled.

Janna was being Janna, cockily gesturing to any and all helpless prey she found. A black rune would form onto the surface of the enemy then fade quickly. The robots glanced quizzically at the beanie wearing girl who clicked her tongue mischievously. Sparks covered their metallic bodies but before they could react, their limbs would loosen from their sockets, their optics popped and broke and without warning, they would simply shut down with Janna's cackling the last sound each robotic foe heard.

As expected from The Queen's and All Might's daughter, Star was a naturally gifted combatant. When she wasn't smashing bots faces against the floor, she was sweeping them off their feet with a well placed kick and for the studier metallic foes, she would karate throw them over her shoulder, releasing a bloodthirsty warcry before moving onto the next unfortunate enemy on her list.

Jackie (Marco let out a dreamy sigh) slid around on her skateboard, a laidback smile on her face as she lazily sailed through the battlefield, lightly tapping any target she came across. A thin layer of frost would spread from the point of contact, enveloping the hapless robotic foe until they were completely encased in ice.

“Hey Marco!” Jackie called out to the petrified teen“You gotta move if you want to stay in the game”

Marco gave a shy nod as she made her way past before shaking himself out of his stupor. He couldn't just sit here and let his chance slip away!

But it was hard. Every time he found a perfect target, they would flattened, shredded, crushed, snapped, blown up or just ripped apart without warning. The points were being snatched up and the enemies were dwindling quickly. At this rate, he'd never get even a single point! All his hard work would be for nothing.

Marco blinked as the world began shake in a strange pattern: A boom followed by a shake followed by another boom, repeating over and over again almost like they were...

The sound of battle was quickly drowned out by the shattering of glass, the crunching thuds of concrete and the bending of metal girders under some heavy weight.

A plume of smoked rose as one of the 20 story buildings fell without warning and in its place stood an impossibly gigantic robot that made the remaining buildings look tiny.

Marco stood there slack-jawed at mechanical marvel that towered over all of them “I-is that the...?”

“The distraction mom mentioned?” Star finished while standing next to Marco “It has to be, it's the only thing we haven't seen.”

“She did mention it was distracting. I guess I'm surprised how much so”

“Why is something like that worth zero points?” Star wondered outloud.

“Maybe...” Marco began

“HELP! LIKE DUDES HELP!”

Marco and Star were pulled from their thoughts. Someone was in trouble.

The pair searched the surrounding area but aside from the now still test takers and scattered debris of what were formerly training bots, no one seemed to be in any sort of danger.

“Wait” Marco gently patted Star's shoulder “there!”

Star squinted where Marco pointed and the circular object she saw earlier wasn't an object at all, it was Ferguson!

“What? Ferguson?”

“HELP DUDES!” Ferguson waved his arms frantically “I can't change back!”

“What's he talking about?”

Marco thought back to his notebook of quirks he studied, pulling up the information he observed from all his years of school with the orange haired teen “Ferg's quirk lets him expand parts of his body, adding more weight and mass to whatever he does. However, when he gets nervous or scared, his whole body puffs up like a puffer fish as a defense mechanism. Until he calms down, he won't be able to return to normal”

“Why would he freak out?”

The ground shook once more as the giant mech took a step closer, easily clearing the half of mile between it and the testers. What was once a massive shape in the distance now basked them in its shadow.

It's amazing that with how diverse and varied humanity was as a whole, only one thought filled the minds of the hopeful students which was to run as fast as they could away from the metal tower.

Everyone scattered, putting as much distance as they could between them and the 0 point giant robot.

Star turned to leave only for her to notice Marco hadn't moved from his spot, his body trembling out of fear. For a moment she thought he was too afraid to escape, that a deep sense of despair overtook him and held him in rooted to the spot. Then she realized while he was shaking due to fear, his face was set in a grim determination.

“HELP!” Ferguson cried out once more.

Star gasped upon realizing Ferguson was still frightened and helpless. Not that she could blame him, the massive bot was just behind him and Star's heart fell when she saw it raise its foot once more to take another step with Ferguson still trapped underneath.

Star desperately looked for her mother. She had to find her and stop this test before Ferguson was seriously injured.

She had to find a way to stop this tragedy from happening.

“Mom!” Star yelled, eyes darting back and forth “MOM! MOM STOP THE TEST! STOP THE TEST! Marco, have you seen...?”

Star turned back to her new friend only to find a crater dug deeply into the ground, the once smooth surface of the asphalt cracked and broken with Marco nowhere in sight.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHH”

The fierce scream caught Star's ears and her gaze shifted to the source of the sound, the one place she would've never thought to look: skyward.

Her blue pupils widened as she saw Marco rising through the air quickly: 10, 15, 20, 50 feet into the air. Rising and rising with his fist pulled back almost like he was planning on striking the robot down.

Marco sailed through the air, the howling of the wind nearly muted as blood thundered in his ears. He couldn't let Ferguson get hurt. Even if he didn't get any points, even if he came all this way for nothing, he couldn't sit there and watch as one of his closest friends was crushed under the foot of some idiotic, mindless robot! He wouldn't let that happen.

Ever

The robot grew in size rapidly as Marco closed the distance, fully intending to smash his fist as hard as he could into its stupid face.

Marco was too caught up in his rage to realize a flaw in his plan. The fact he was now 50 feet in the air was lost on him. The idea that he was about to try and punch out a several ton robot that toppled a building by leaning on it didn't seem to register. All he felt was a desire to save his friend.

Marco could see the wide, human sized optic condense and narrow its focus on him. The robot cutely tilted its head sideways, almost like it was silently asking him “What are you planning silly human?”

Marco's response was the punch.

There was a tense moment of silence as Marco's fist connected directly in the center of the robot's face, unmoving and still while a reverberating thrum echoed deep inside the metallic body of his enemy.

Then Marco was shoved backwards from the force of the attack and for one picturesque moment, he floated there, weightless and still.  

A groaning ripple began to spread out from where Marco landed his blow, racing throughout the giant machine's body like a wave, lifting and lowering the armor plates into a disorganized mess. The sound of crunching and broken metal filled the silence as the ripple made its way through every inch of the robotic body.

Then Marco fell, gravity finally solidifying its hold on him and pulling him straight down.

Back of the bot's head exploded, spraying coils of wires, gears, random chunks of metal across the empty street as it leaned forward and fell backwards, crashing against the ground with an earth rumbling thud.

Marco clutched his right arm, eyes watering as sharp pains began to ache through his body. His arm and legs were badly broken and flailed loosely against the raging air current.

“Indeed but before we go, there's something I need to tell you about One for All and your current state. This is important, so you need to listen carefully.”

Marco turned back to River, his face serious and full of concern.

“Just because you have One for All does not mean you cannot use it freely” River explained “Even after all your training and getting you ready to inherit the power was to only prevent you from dying when you use it.”

Marco's face paled “Dying?! What, I could die using it?”

“Not anymore” River chuckled “However I must warn you. In your current state, using One for All will have serious consequences. At very least you will dislocate, if not break your bones. Think carefully Marco when you decide to use it.”

Marco mentally scolded himself. Everything had happen so suddenly, he hadn't even thought about what he was doing. He just reacted and apparently used One for All without realizing it.

And now he was going to die. Zero points and with 3 broken limbs. What a way to go.

The ground was quickly approaching but no matter how hard he tried, Marco couldn't find a way to stop himself without becoming a splat on the ground.

Marco shut his eyes, too scared to see what would happen next.

The howling of the wind stopped and slowed as bopped up and down for a moment.  what was a harsh gale was now a gentle if uneasy breeze. The fluttering of wings could be heard and for a moment, he wondered if he had died and gone to heaven.

He opened his eyes and realized while he hadn't died, he was looking at an angel.

Star Butterfly was carrying him bridal style, a relived smile on her lips though she couldn't keep the worry out of those bright big blue orbs of hers.

“S-Star?” Marco stuttered “you're flying? You're flying! How?”

“My quirk silly” She motioned to her back “I can fly!”

Marco glanced backwards and found two pinkish purple butterfly wings sticking out of Star's back, beating back and forth rapidly as the duo made their descent.

“That...” Marco muttered tiredly “is so....cool...”

“Marco?”

Star looked at Marco only to find him fast asleep, his breath slow and steady.

“Hee, I knew you were special.”

“He's as heroically reckless as you dear” Moon spoke, watching the medical team's arrival on the monitor. Luckily for Marco, the UA had some of the best medical heroes in the world. His broken limbs would be fixed soon enough.

“A little. But he's got heart and the spirit of a true hero” River commented, stroking his beard thoughtfully

Moon sighed “Well he's lucky he is. Thanks to that heroic action, he's the only participant who will receive full rescue points. He'll be admitted into the school for sure.”

River gave a good nature laugh “Rescue points. I love them so. It's easy to get caught up in the glory of combat and heroing but true heroes never forget.”

The monitor focused on the sleeping Diaz, his face relaxed as the medical team carried him away on a stretcher.

“It's not just about fighting evil, it's about saving people.”

“Well spoken” Moon concurred “you may tell him whenever you feel like but please don't let the poor boy go too long without knowing he's been accepted. He will no doubt feel terrible that he didn't score any points.”

“Psst, who do you think I am dear?” River scoffed “I will be sure to tell him when he returns home tonight.”

I remember nearly killing River for waiting 5 whole days to tell me I made it into the academy. Seriously, who does that? But it was the happiest day of my life. My first real step on my journey in becoming the greatest hero that's ever lived.

[baepsaetan]

A Bad Hand (Namjoon)

Summary: It’s not every day that looking similar to a potential kidnapping victim ends so poorly for you. Then again, it’s not every day you’re kidnapped by a gang called Bangtan. 

Genre: A/U, action, fluff and smut to-be

Warnings: Swearing, some violence, darker themes

Length: 9.4k words

A/N: See end of fic

Hot and frantic, your harsh breath warms the burlap material that rests against your face, and with the bag obscuring your sight you have no idea where you’re being taken. The hands that guide you on either side aren’t cruel, but whenever you hesitate or try to pull away they tighten with a strength you can’t hope to break. Your hand is still throbbing from punching one of them before they managed to get the bag over your head, the material around your wrists, but panic is a far more overwhelming force than pain at the moment. What the hell is going on? You’re being kidnapped – that would have been obvious even without a strangely lighthearted voice exclaiming, “Don’t worry, we’re just kidnapping you!” at the start of this all – but you have no idea why. You’re not wealthy, or influential, or well known, or –

“Watch your step.”

Instinctively you slow down, and an impatient snort accompanies you being bodily lifted, presumably up a short set of stairs. You can’t help the gasp that catches in your throat, but you’re honestly not surprised they can heft you like a sack of grain. Both of your kidnappers are taller than you, and though between swinging a fist and trying to kick the other guy you hadn’t gotten a great look at them, they certainly weren’t scrawny. Shockingly young, and a bit bumbling, but not scrawny.

The aimless thoughts chase each other around your head, and you let them because you’re too afraid to think of anything else. The terror swarms in your chest, just a centimeter below hysteria, and you don’t want to consider anything that will cause a meltdown. You don’t want to think about why they might have grabbed you, shoved you unceremoniously into a vehicle as you walked home from work. You don’t want to think about your cat, waiting at home for her dinner, or your parents, who were supposed to visit you on Tuesday. With the weekend looming, you probably won’t be missed until at least Monday when you don’t show up at work. You don’t want to think about any of that. You just want it to stop.

“Ow, shit!” The exclamation is almost as satisfying as your foot connecting with someone’s shin, but your frantic kick doesn’t do much; your kidnappers stop, but they don’t let go. Your desperate squirming just makes them tighten their grip, fingers digging into your shoulders, and the hysteria rises like an ominous tidal wave on the horizon. Fluttering, laboring, your heart is struggling so much that you force yourself to stop twisting against the hands that hold you, to stop futilely jerking at the tape tying your wrists together. The bag crowds your mouth as you gasp, taking shallow, rapid breaths as you attempt to calm down before you have a heart attack, and the fingers pressing into your skin loosen slightly.

“Is she going to be alright?” That the oddly bright voice, coming from your left.

“Hell V, she punches you and nearly breaks my ankle, and you’re wondering if she’s okay?” That voice is… not deeper, but rougher. Almost harsh. Without any doubt, you know which one you’re more afraid of.

“Well… I wouldn’t want to be kidnapped. It seems a bit unfair, since she’s not even a part of this…”

Another unimpressed snort is the only response, and when you find yourself pulled into motion again you go meekly, still alarmed by the weak feeling of your heart. The words have set your mind racing, but more analytically this time. Not even a part of it? What did that mean? Hours spent watching crime dramas on your worn but comfortable couch hover in your head, making ridiculous speculations. What if you’re unknowingly related to someone in a gang? Or you saw something you shouldn’t have and didn’t realize it? What if you know some vital information these thugs are determined to get from you? What if…

It turns out “what if” is an exceptionally good game to play if you want to pass the time and/or drive yourself crazy. By the time the two boys jerk you to a halt some minutes later, you feel numb – literally so, in the case of your tingling fingers. The tape has started to cut off your circulation. You haven’t been paying much attention ever since they hustled you out of the car, but now you realize you can hear things beyond the rumble of distant traffic. Voices – low, quiet, like they’re coming from other rooms in the same building – and an electric hum that you can’t quite place.

“Go find him, alright? I’ll look after her.”

One hand leaves your shoulder – the one belonging to the harsher voice, you think – and you find the other gently pushing you down. Cautiously you bend your knees, expecting to fall over, but with some support you settle into a stiff-backed chair. It occurs to you that now would be a good time to try to escape, with one of your kidnappers gone, but your courage isn’t up to the challenge and besides, those voices seem ominous, not hopeful. If you had to guess – and, still blindfolded, you kind of do – you’d say they’ve brought you to some kind of base. Chances of getting out? Zero to none.

Your mom is always saying you’re too pessimistic. Maybe she’s right.

Doesn’t mean you’re going to try another physical attempt, though. Something else, though…

Your throat is so dry it’s hard to slip any words out. Screaming hadn’t worked before, and they’d ignored your questions, but maybe with the other guy gone… “Please,” you can barely hear your own voice, and try again. “Please. I don’t – who are you? Why are doing this?” You’d like to lie and say each syllable doesn’t shake like a thin branch in the wind, but you’ve never been much of a liar. You’re just so scared. “Please…”

At first, silence is your only answer, and you can’t help the little, tearful gasp that makes it out before you bite your lip. The tears press at the corner of your eyes, but you swallow hard, breathing in broken fragments to keep the pressure from spilling over. Your heart flutters like a broken bird, weakly beating against your chest, and you’ve resigned yourself to silence. Except then you feel hands, deft and light, prying the tape away from your wrists, and as soon as you’re free you bring them in front of you, rubbing at your fingers, mouth a silent circle of pain as pins and needles overtake the deadened area. Tears threaten harder now, simple relief becoming overwhelming in the face of so much fear, and it only gets harder to keep back when you find the boy – V? – pulling the bag away from your head.

And suddenly you can see again. The light slices at your watery eyes, making you duck your chin to your chest, an almost-flinch, and instantly you find that voice reassuringly issuing out. “No, no, it’s okay. We’re not going to hurt you, okay? It’s not about you, so…”

You look up, the tangle of hair that’s fallen across your face obscuring your view somewhat, and the boy falls silent, staring at you with a slightly open mouth. Something tells you that’s more a constant state of being for him, nothing to do with you, but his staring is instantly uncomfortable and you look away, breathing through your nose. His words knead at the hardened fear in your heart, insisting that it soften, but even unbound and unblindfolded, you can’t seem to make yourself calm down. You’ve always had heart problems – that’s why sports were out, despite how you enjoyed exercising – and it feels like your chest has chosen this moment to file every complaint its ever had against you.

Needing a distraction, you look around. The room you’re in is bare but clean. There’s not much in it beyond the chair you’re seated on, a plain dresser and a small bed with blue covers to the left. A door’s ajar on the opposite side of the room, and you’re pretty sure it leads to a bathroom. There are no paintings or personal touches or windows. All in all, not the warmest room, or one to inspire much comfort, and you shift, glancing at the person you’re currently sharing the room with from the corner of your eye. With shaggy brown hair, dressed in a baggy red sweater and jeans, he looks like any kid you might spot in your slightly run-down neighborhood. A little intimidating at midnight in a dark alley, but otherwise…

He smiles – a boxy, childlike expression – and says, “Namjoon-hyung wanted you to be comfortable, but we didn’t have much laying around. I think we’ll try to get more stuff later. I’m Taehyung, by the way.” The last is tacked on like this is your first meeting at some extracurricular club and he’s the club president, determined to make you comfortable.

You blink, look away, hands clasped tightly in your lap. The other boy had sounded scary, but this one – Taehyung – is unnerving in his own way. He sounds too upbeat to be talking to a kidnapping victim, too casual, and yet it doesn’t escape your notice that he’s placed himself close to the door, and his eyes don’t really leave you. Maybe this would be the best time to run, with the door open and only one person left – you’re kind of agile – but you’re shaking so badly it feels like any attempt to stand, let alone run, will end in you falling on your butt. Humiliating and also pointless, so you stay seated and try your other approach.

“I… I think you’re – that there’s been a mistake. I -” What can you say? ‘I can’t be kidnapped’ seems a little bit heavy-handed. Your hands twist convulsively in your lap, and they tighten to white-knuckled definition when Taehyung laughs, a deep, rolling sound.

“Ah, I don’t think so.” He looks at you earnestly, smile almost winsome, like he wants to apologize for disagreeing. “We have your picture and everything, and the boss said you’d be where we found you. No, we didn’t make a mistake. It’s you Jungkookie and I were supposed to pick up, Amelia.”

Your heart does a strange flip-flop, a leap and a stagger, and it feels like you’ve been punched in the stomach even as the tight know of anxiety somewhere behind your ribs loosens. “Oh,” you say, breathless with relief, and then louder, “Oh. But I’m not-”

His raised hand stops you, and his head tilts, foxlike, some of the cuteness fading from his demeanor and making him seem… sharper. Seconds later you become aware of footsteps in the hallway outside accompanied by the low murmur of voices. Like some necromantic corpse, the anxiety shuffles to life all over again as two men round the corner into the room. Well, you say two men, but in reality, one looks about as young as Taehyung, with darker brown hair and a stoic expression that doesn’t survive the blush that creeps up his neck when he notices you watching him. The white t-shirt and black sweats he’s clothed in are just short of sloppy, but present situation aside, you’re pretty sure the guy could wear a garbage bag and still look good. He tosses his head, abruptly impatient, and glances at his silent companion.

Who is staring at you very, very hard.

It’s your turn to blush, hot and scared, and eventually you look down. There’s no doubt in your mind that this is Namjoon, the boss. The sleek purple of his hair, nestled underneath a black cap, might have taken you aback, but the casual confidence, the intelligent furrow of his eyebrows as he examines you, it all screams of someone used to being in control. Besides, Taehyung and the other boy give way to him, crowding aside in the small room to give him space, their silence the expectation of children being graded on a class project.

You’re not entirely sure, gaze fixed on a small chip in the concrete at your feet, but you think he’s still staring.

“What is it, hyung?” The honorific is said more like a challenge than a gesture of respect, the unnamed boy’s voice just a little edgy, and you risk a quick glance up in time to see the oldest of them pulling a contemplative finger over his lip, seemingly unfazed by the tone. Eventually he speaks.

“This isn’t Amelia.” His voice is soft, calm, but there’s a note of finality in it that has your mouth closing over the outraged ‘of course I’m not!’ building in your throat. Still with that controlled demeanor, he reaches into the back pocket of his ripped and too large jeans and pulls out a wallet. From the wallet, he takes a small picture and gestures to the two other males, including you coincidentally. You can’t help but stare. The girl he’s showing… she does look like you. A lot like you. Her hair is longer, and might be a bit darker. You’ve never looked that flatly at a camera in your entire life and she carries herself differently, shoulders squared, arms not crossed over her chest. But the similarity in the face, the eyes… Well, still, it’s not you.  

It’s almost satisfying to see the two boys react, given their part in grabbing you. They look at each other, and the one in white – Jungkookie? – shakes his head, a quick, sharp denial that doesn’t last when Namjoon raises an eyebrow at him, tucking the photo away. Taehyung stares at you like he’s imploring you to become Amelia, and Jungkookie glares like he’s accusing you of switching out with her when he wasn’t looking. It’s a vindictive kind of spite that propels you to meet their confused eyes, set in abruptly pale faces, and shrug helplessly. You wish you could say something – like a forceful ‘duh!’ – but, initial relief aside, you’re not entirely sure how safe not being their target is.

They’ll probably return you straight home… or they’ll dump your lifeless body in the river… or something worse… While his face doesn’t seem cruel – can anyone be truly evil with dimples like that? – there’s a calculating coolness in Namjoon’s unnerving blue eyes when you get the courage to meet them, something that warns you’re not out of the danger zone just yet.

Wiping sweating palms on your clothes, you break the silence. “I – I’m really not her. Amelia. She’s – I don’t even know who that is. I couldn’t tell her about -” About this. About you sketchy as hell individuals with your sketchy as hell base and sketchy as hell plans. “I couldn’t tell her anything,” you finish weakly, and wonder suddenly if you should be making plans to tell her, whoever she is.

If you have the chance. If they don’t just kill you. If if if if. Far too many ifs are dancing around the horribly empty space that’s supposed to be holding your brain.

Namjoon examines you a moment more before he transfers his gaze to the other two boys, who abruptly seem smaller in front of the taller male. “Did you cover her eyes the entire way? Make sure to travel here via an indirect route?” Though his voice doesn’t rise, there’s a snap to it that indicates he isn’t exactly thrilled at this development.

Jungkookie’s chin rises, but it’s Tae who answers, once again all earnest goodwill. You have a sneaking suspicion he’s very good at turning on the puppy switch whenever he messes up. “Yes hyung, she didn’t see anything. Doesn’t know where we are right now.”

Again the tall, intimidating man runs his fingers over his lips, silent and contemplative, and then his shoulders shift just slightly. You can feel yourself beginning to relax even as he answers Taehyung. “Good. Then blindfold her again, and take her out.” He turns to you, and there’s something softer, almost amused in the slight quirk of his mouth. “Miss, my apologies. Truly one wonders how such things can occur despite very explicit instructions being given. I hope we haven’t inconvenienced you too greatly.”  

You don’t smile. The sudden mass of solemnly formal words is starkly out of place in the dingy room, and besides, you’re still not entirely sure your heart isn’t going to abruptly give out after all of this. Ducking your head, you bite your lip and just nod, and he makes a quiet sound – it’s hard to tell if it’s a sigh or a muffled laugh. Without saying anything, he waves, almost brusquely, and Taehyung jumps forward while Jungkookie follows slowly after. After a moment of hesitation, your jaw tightening in a thin line of tension, you offer up your wrists to be bound by the tape Tae’s produced from the baggy depths of his hoodie.

“Don’t worry,” the boy says in a low, conspiratorial whisper, “I won’t put it on too tightly.”

Your lips twitch into a weak smile, and your reply is also quiet. “Thank you… Taehyung.”

There’s a sudden thud and you flinch, eyes darting to Namjoon. He’s bent over, hastily picking up the wallet he must have dropped, and when he straightens some of the calm has leeched from his expression. You're not entirely sure if he's embarrassed - there's a faint pinkish tinge that creeps across his neck, peaking up from the collar of his shirt, but that could be from rage or something else entirely. Your head drops again but you can't yank your gaze away as he straightens and strides towards Taehyung, grabs him by the arm. "You told her?" he says over the boy’s startled yelp, and you start to think that the red is definitely from anger and not embarrassment. "You told her your name?"

Taehyung makes no attempt to move away, but for some reason his puppy dog face has melted away, leaving something leaner and warier but confused. "I... yeah, I did," he replies quietly, and when you look at Jungkookie he seems equally confused and just a bit concerned. Even that small emotion from the stoic boy is enough to make your stomach tighten, and when Namjoon's hand flies up you flinch, expecting the smack of flesh on flesh. You're wrong - the leader doesn't hit Taehyung but only pinches the bridge of his own nose, fiercely rubbing it like he needs the movement to contain himself.

"Can you imagine," Namjoon drawls softly, disbelievingly, "why that might not have been the best idea?" After a moment, the healthy colour in Taehyung's face drains, leaving him even less childish, and he looks away from Namjoon as understanding begins to settle on your lungs like a lead weight.

It hadn't really occurred to you that Taehyung might be his real name, and it hadn't occurred to you to think of it much at all, really. But if you did decide to go to the police - if you did spill everything - a real name would probably be very, very helpful in identifying the kidnappers. Even just a first name, especially belonging to someone involved in a gang, could be used to locate suspects. Once again sweat breaks out across your forehead, sliding slick and hot against your palms, and you curse yourself for saying anything at all. Why thank him, anyways? For not being an utter asshole while tying you up? It was an ingrained response, nothing more, but you can't help but regret the words as Namjoon slowly lets Taehyung go.

"Did you tell her any other names?" he asks, his fingers curling and uncurling with a rigidity that suggests he’s not fully aware of it. Taehyung licks his lips, a quick, guilty rasp, and you honestly expect a lie to issue from him, he looks so shifty. But you’ve misjudged; he says, “Yes, hyung,” and as Namjoon’s eyes flicker closed he adds in a strained voice, “I’m sorry, hyung. I – she knows your name. And Jungkookie. I – sorry.” You can’t tell if it’s fear or guilt that’s put such tension in his words, but it’s enough that you find yourself holding your breath, eyes anxiously set on the scene being played in front of you, wondering if you’re about to see some kind of beating – or worse.

Namjoon is quiet for a long moment, his eyes still closed, the silence stretching out like thin metal wires across the room, slender yet impossible to break. Abruptly he exhales, so loudly everyone in the room jumps, yourself included. (You send a quick prayer of thanks to whoever’s listening when you manage to stop from tipping out of the chair.) Penetrating eyes sliding open, he rolls his shoulders, one quick motion, almost but not quite a shrug. “You should have known,” he tells Taehyung, and when the boy flinches his stern expression doesn’t lift. “I’ve told you before that you’re too friendly; I didn’t think I’d need to specify that you shouldn’t speak our names. You’ve made this situation incredibly more complicated than it has to be, and it may change what we need to do to her.”

You’re so involved in the lecture you don’t even realize who Namjoon is talking about until Taehyung’s gaze skips to you, a wrinkle appearing across his forehead, his mouth a tight line. After a second he jerks his head back around, like he’s afraid to look away from his leader for too long, and you cross your hands across your chest, fingers digging into one of your upper arms. To her, he’d said. Not with her. That… didn’t seem good. Taehyung sounds like he’s choking when he manages to speak. “Hyung… I’m sorry. I – it wasn’t her fault, though. Please don’t hurt her for something she didn’t do. You can do anything to me, I deserve it, but -”

Jungkookie shifts at that, a quickly stifled motion that doesn’t draw Namjoon’s attention. Instead the leader stares at Taehyung. You notice something; his hands have stopped curling, and instead rest easily at his side. “I need to teach you not to make such a mistake again,” he sighs, and your blood curdles, your nails beginning to draw little pinpricks of pain from where they press into your skin, a hollow ringing beginning in your ears. “I know what the most effective punishment would be,” Namjoon continues flatly, and you let out a sound somewhere between a cough and a gasp, a slender line of blood trickling down your arm as your skin breaks under your nails. Now Namjoon and Tae glance at you, one expression a subdued mixture of guilt and alarm, one expression so, so mild, and then Namjoon shakes his head. “Unfortunately, I am unable to teach you that lesson at this time. I can only hope you’re smart enough to learn from this, Taehyung. For the next three weeks, you’ll take extra watches, and you may not eat in the hall during that time, nor may anyone eat with you. Let’s see if you can learn silence from that.”

What little colour that was left in Taehyung flees at that, and some of his spirit does, too. You have an inkling that this boy thrives on being with others, and while short of – of – your mind shies away from the thought of being murdered – and while short of more drastic measures, you’re quite sure this is a punishment likely to hit the boy straight in the heart. For yourself, the icy fear has only crept further along your veins, numbing everything until it’s hard to react to it anymore, and it’s starting to feel like this isn’t happening to you. Like you’re watching it from somewhere far away.  

It seems like Namjoon is done for the moment. “Get out,” he tells the boy, and less like a puppy and more like a kicked dog, Taehyung hurries out, his shoulders hunched, never looking at you. When Jungkookie tries to grab at him he wrenches his arm away and bolts. You might have felt bad for him, in a different circumstance, but even with him speaking up for you, you can’t find anything in the horrible detachment draping itself over you.

Again Jungkookie shifts, and there’s a trace of self-reproach in his voice when he speaks, a tendril of something like wounded pride. “Hyung, I… messed up, too. It wasn’t just Taetae. We both grabbed the wrong girl.”

Namjoon raises an eyebrow at that. “Jungkook-ah,” he says mildly, “are you asking me to punish you, too?”

One hand bunches up the bottom of his white shirt, tugging at it mutinously, and eventually – so it’s Jungkook? – the boy nods, biting at his bottom lip and revealing a small overbite that quite shockingly transforms his face from cool to cute. His stiffness might have been due to apprehension, but you think with some vague annoyance that it’s more from shame than anything else. Like grabbing you, thinking you were the other, harder girl, was something more embarrassing than he could bear. In your current state the prickle of irritation is neither rational or long-lasting, and you find yourself unable to think about or hold onto anything for very long.

Middle finger once again brushing his mouth in thought, the gesture making something smolder low in your stomach, another irrational reaction, eventually Namjoon comes to a decision. “As you’d like. For the next three weeks, any time any of your hyungs give you an order you’ll get to your knees, give them a bow and thank them for their guidance.” Red – dark, angry – flushes across Jungkook’s neck, a vein popping amidst the mottled colour, and as he opens his mouth Namjoon cuts him off. “Yes, even to Taehyung. Yes, even if they start making ridiculous requests of you. Maybe this will teach you to listen attentively to orders instead of focusing on your damnable pride.”

You’re not sure you’ve ever seen anyone regretting a decision quite so immediately and intensely as Jungkook clearly is at this moment, and the sidelong glance he sends you makes you realize the flush isn’t just from anger. Clearly your presence to witness his humiliation makes it all that much worse, and you can only dully wish that you cared enough to be spiteful about it. What a strange boy, to have so much pride that he needed to ask for a punishment – even when his pride clearly made it hard to swallow once given. Namjoon’s lips are curled, just a little, and if he’s not a bit amused by Jungkook’s reaction in spite of his anger, you’ll admit to Mina that Tony Stark is a better fighter than the Hulk.

Evidently, though, Namjoon has decided to wrap up this fiasco. He makes a noise, deep and impatient, and gestures at Jungkookie. "Leave," he tells the other male, and Jungkook hesitates, a moment of rebellion that vanishes when Namjoon swipes off his hat, runs his hand through lilac locks. Slowly, so as to seem less like he's fleeing, the boy lags to the door, and halts only when Namjoon speak again. “Jungkook.” Another cascade of scarlet crowds the back of the boy’s neck, and the pause – to your confused mind – lasts an eternity. Eventually Jungkook turns, drops to his knees, his jaw grinding so hard you can see muscles jumping in the sharp lines of his face. Inclining himself into a bow, the boy’s surly voice issues up from the floor. “Thank you for your instruction, hyung.”

And abruptly, a tiger surging, the boy finds his feet in an impressive leap and stalks from the room without another word. It feels… better… to have less threatening presences in the room, but that feeling doesn’t last long.

Namjoon turns back to you and your heart lurches painfully, your feet pushing at the ground so that your back settles more firmly against the back of the chair. Your fear hasn't done anything but ooze sluggishly for some time now, so much terror piled up on top of terror that it can’t move very sharply. Even the rigidity of Namjoon's expression isn't enough to snap you out of your haze - if anything you sink deeper, desperate for an escape from this nightmare.

He looms over you, and you're struck once again by how tall he is. His low timbre voice slips out, and it could have been soothing if it didn’t feel like velvet laid over a butcher's knife, deceptively pleasant. “I understand you're afraid, and I understand that you want to do what is best for yourself. I’m sorry that this misunderstanding has occurred, but I’ll need to take certain steps to insure this doesn’t become a bigger problem. I don't want to hurt you – it would be pointless - and I won't, as long as I get what I need from you right now."

...as long as I get what I need... That's almost enough to cut at you, and you swallow again, shaking your head. Not in denial, but in something close to disbelief. How could this be happening? How could you be being threatened when only an hour ago you were heading home to feed Haru? And what could he want from you now that you’re not the person they were supposed to be nabbing? You’re so numb, the throbbing pain in your arm doing nothing to wake you up to the danger you’re in, the specks of wet blood on your fingertips barely registering as you pull your hands into your lap.

His hand is suddenly under your chin, forcing your face up, and you meet his piercing eyes with nothing like defiance. He studies you for a moment, and you can tell he's trying to do something with that silence, with that connection, though whether it's supposed to be intimidating or reassuring you're not really sure. Eventually he sighs. "Where do you live?"

Confusion and an automatic resistance skips through your mind. Why did he care where you lived? And what the hell business of it was his, anyways? Mechanically you crane your neck back, trying to free yourself from his hand. His grip tightens until it's just shy of painful, thumb and middle finger digging into the outline of your jaw, and he repeats more forcefully, "Where do you live?"

Which is when, overwhelmed, exhausted, you give in. You don't know if he'll kill you once he knows, you don't know what will happen, but you can't stand the tension seeping through the very marrow of your bones anymore. "I live in an apartment," you admit, strained and breathless like you've just been running. “245, Apartment B, 146 Sunfair Road South. I - it doesn't matter, though. If you let me go I won't tell anyone anything. I swear to God I won't tell anyone. Please..."

Maybe your emotions aren't quite gone, because you find your vision blurry with tears, and when his hand slips away your breath hitches like you're choking, terror swarming up in a metallic tide across your tongue. It feels like his touch was a benediction and he's just revoked it, taken away your protection, and you can only think of Haru, waiting at home for a dinner that will never come. She'll sit at the door like she always does, waiting for you, her small white paws tucked under her, and she'll wait, and wait, and wait...

The words surge out, unchecked, and for the first time you barely stutter. "Please, even if you need to kill me, please don't leave my cat. She's all alone at home, and - and I'm not sure if anyone will remember her. I could - I could give you my key and you could just let her out." She'd been on the streets before you enticed her into your little apartment with daily pieces of cheap ham, and she'd survive better there than in a house with no way for her to get food or water. The ridiculousness of your pleading echoes hollowly in the back of your mind, but it doesn't do much in the face of your hysteria. And it is definitely, definitely hysteria. You’re almost surprised you didn’t physically hear the crack of your composure snapping.

His hand crumples his cap as his other hand runs through his hair again, though this time the movement seems less intimidating for some reason. It's hard to tell if your desperate words have done anything to him - impossible, actually, in your current state - so when he moves forward, holding out his hand, you just stare at it uncomprehendingly for a moment.

"Your key," Namjoon prompts patiently, and with a slight, dazed nod you fumble in your pockets, taking several moments to fish out the key from the myriad of other objects that have taken up residence in your jeans. Letting a receipt for MacDonald's drift to the floor - you have one cheat night a week, usually - you finally manage to wrap your sweaty fingers around the cold metal and withdraw it from your pocket. It takes something to open up your hand to him, holding it out like a peace offering, but you're too tired to care at this point. He could steal everything - everything being your couch and TV, a beaten up mattress and several half-way-to-the-trash appliances, mostly - and you might not have even noticed if you got home right at this moment.

When his hand, warm and smooth, catches the key from yours, Namjoon repeats thoughtfully, “245, Apartment B, 146 Sunfair Road South,” in a voice that seems very far away, and you feel the faintest flicker of relief. They'll probably let Haru out, even if they do end up stealing all of your stuff. At least there's that to hold on to. As to why they want in your apartment in the first place… you haven’t the faintest.

Namjoon slides the key into a jacket pocket, pulling the black material more tightly around his bulky white sweater as he does so. On a different day, you might have wondered why he's dressed in so many layers - it's only early fall, after all, the days still balmy with the memory of summer - but frankly he could have been parading around naked at this point and it wouldn't have made a difference. Well - you're not quite gone enough to stop the heat that rushes, warm and somehow relieving into the pit of your stomach. If he had no clothes on, it might have made a very, very slight difference.

"I'll be back," Namjoon says, the words an oddly earnest promise, and abruptly he's smiling at you, a dimpled, wide grin that sends another cascade of unthinking warmth to chase away the icy disinterest freezing your guts. Without another word, he swivels and is gone, the door shutting behind him with a decisive click. A moment later you hear a scraping, probably the bolt being pushed home. You're locked in the room, but it's nicer to be by yourself, even if you can't leave.

You're in shock. Intellectually you're well aware of that fact, but the knowledge isn't enough to push you into breaking free from its clutches. Woodenly you stand, vaguely surprised your legs don't immediately crumple beneath you, and shuffle around the small prison, trying to take stock. That's something you can do, despite the shock; it doesn't require as much emotion as thinking ahead does, anyways. And there's a restless, piercing feeling pacing at the corner of your mind, crackling and wild, and you have a feeling that if you let it take control you'll end up screaming yourself raw and pounding on the door until your hands break.

So. The room. It takes about six steps one way to cross from wall to wall, five the other way. Like you suspected, there’s a small bathroom off to the side with a toilet and shower, but it also has no windows, and the door doesn’t lock. The bed, when you press a careful hand on it, sags under even that weight and has clearly seen better days, but the sheets are clean. You drop to your knees, trying to see if there's something useful hidden underneath either the bed or dresser, but the concrete floor's been recently swept and there's nothing there of interest - a lost Licorice Twist or Red Vine or something doesn't count as useful. The roof is too high for your short height to reach, and the unbroken surface doesn't suggest you'd be able to break into an air vent or something like in the movies, anyways. There's nothing in the drawer, either, except another blanket, and that's not going to be helpful unless you want to make a rope. Which might be fun for arts and crafts, but since there's no window to shimmy out of...

A frustrated exhalation blows out in an irritable huff and you stop, straightening, your hands clenched into fists tight enough that your nails are digging into your palms. You're not dead. Not yet. For whatever reason, Namjoon hasn't decided to kill you, and that means hope. The hysteria has slowly drained away in the course of your search, but it lingers, hand in hand with the wildness at the edges of your mind, and you're determined that next time any of them show their faces, you're going to make a better show of it. You won't be a deer in the headlights next time. You won't.

Easier said than done, but you need the bravado right now, false or otherwise. Your hand slides back into your pocket, and a moment later you slip out the cute keychain your friend Mina gave you for your birthday a few months ago. On it, a little charmander blows a short puff of flame, its tail burning brightly. You clutch at the little charm, the cheap paint already worn in a few places where you rubbed at it a bit too hard, a bit too desperately. You've never been this anxious before, but you're certainly not a stranger to the churning panic of a situation you're certain you can't handle.

Sitting on the bed, time passes slowly and heartlessly. They could have at least left you with a clock, (your phone was taken at the very beginning and you haven’t seen it since), but all you have is your own sense of time, and that's fairly hopeless. Mina can attest to the amount of times you've accidentally been late to work, or to one of your hangouts, or (not so accidentally) to a shopping trip. Keeping your breathing even, you alternate between trying to think of something to say that will persuade them to let you go, planning a heroic and entirely unrealistic escape, and attempting to forget about the situation altogether.

Minutes slide by, slick like tar, and it must have been over an hour when you hear footsteps outside of your prison. For all that the silence of being alone played your nervousness like strings on a guitar, twangy and sharp, the sudden return of a threat has you scrambling to your feet, almost relieved to feel fear drumming against your chest. At least, with this level of apprehension, you’re able to think instead of shutting down completely. You’d already discarded trying to fight your way out, but you can’t help your shoulders tightening, hands nervously closing, as sounds come from the door and suddenly it swings open.

There’s more than one person coming into the room, you’re able to register that much before your eyes latch onto the large, lightly shaking cardboard box that Namjoon is holding, a box from which a distinctly indignant caterwauling is coming. You take a step forward as Namjoon sets the box down, the wailing quietening, and when he pulls his hands away you see his skin – hands, wrists, arms – are covered in a jagged map of scratches, inflamed pinkish red, some of them deep enough to bleed. A mixture of concern, excitement, surprise and the barest hint of amusement a rising wave in your chest, you hurry to the box even before he gestures, ignoring the other occupant of the room, someone you’ve never seen before. You hope he didn’t hurt –

When you flip open the box’s lid, Haru leaps out so powerfully she almost collides with your face, and you sprawl backwards onto your butt with a surprised yelp. From the corner of your eye you see a black and white blur hit the floor and then surge across the room, the bell on her collar chiming, taking up immediate residence under the bed. As you quickly get to your feet, ears burning, a laugh rings out, high-pitched and unrestrained, and you actually look at other person in the room, eyes narrowing. He’s chuckling so hard he can’t seem to catch his breath, his full cheeks splotched with colour, arms wrapped around his slender body, pressing his long sleeved white shirt to himself, and an irreverent thought crosses your mind as you think about this guy, about Namjoon, about the other two you’ve seen. How can a gang have this many good-looking people in it?

  You turn away to hide both your irritation and the itchy restlessness, and gradually the laughter slows, eventually dissolving into a hiccupping squeak that reminds you of a windshield wiper. Gangters shouldn’t be that good looking, and they definitely shouldn’t laugh like that. Swallowing hard, determined to ignore them for now, you drop to your knees in front of the bed, bending down to try to catch sight of your cat. She’s there, sure enough, a small bundle of bristling fur and eyes so big you can’t help the soft smile that crosses your face despite how distressed she looks. God, she’s just so cute. Behind you, silence.

Clicking your tongue, you stick your hand out just a little, an invitation. “Hey Haru,” you whisper, and she shifts, her flattened ears relaxing just a bit. “Yeah Haru, you know me,” you continue. “It’s okay baby, you’re okay. No one’s going to hurt you, I pro-” Your voice dies. Even to a stupid cat, you can’t make a promise you’re not sure you can keep, and you have no way of knowing what’s going to happen to either of you. Biting at your lip, trying to ease muscles that have suddenly cramped with tension, you try again. “It’s okay. You can come out Haru. Please baby, come out.” You find yourself suddenly desperate to have her on your lap, to have the warm comfort of her thick fur beneath your fingers, to have anything familiar and comforting in this utterly outlandish situation.

The cat slowly loosens as you whisper meaningless comforts to her, and eventually she begins to wiggle forward on her belly, her cautious progression filled with so many stops and starts that you want to just lunge forward and drag her out. She probably wouldn’t scratch you, but even so, she’s been stressed out enough as is. Remaining patient, you keep clicking your tongue, urging her out. She’s about half a foot from your reach, whiskers twitching, the vivid green of her eyes noticeable in the light, and your smile has become more genuine. “Oh, you’re so smart Haru, there’s a good girl, you’re -”

“Here, let me help y-” Crunch. The voice is overwhelmed by the sound of cardboard being crushed, and instantly Haru darts back to her corner, pressed up against the wall, well and truly out of reach.

You whip around, somehow managing to glare, but the sight that greets you makes it hard to remain angry. Namjoon is frozen, his foot resting on the mangled remains of the box that he must have stepped on while coming towards you. Once again, the unnamed man is laughing, his brown hair sweeping dramatically against his forehead as he gasps. Even as you watch, Namjoon lifts his foot and the cardboard follows, caught on the rough fabric of the sneakers he’s wearing. With an expression that’s too solemn to be anything but a really desperate grab at dignity, Namjoon gingerly shakes his foot, trying to dislodge the box. It stubbornly clings, and he’s forced to resort to vigorously moving, kicking his shoe like he’s trying out for some energetic alternative dance crew. And abruptly, with a kick that would have done a professional soccer player proud, the box flies free.

It hits you in the face.

Thankfully it’s the bed behind you and not the chair, because when you stumble back, the back of your knees hit the edge and you fall in a windmilling, slow motion collapse. You hit the bed, which is nice, but your head also grazes the wall the bed was set against, which is not as nice. Instant pain throbs against the back of your skull, and as your hand flies to your head to comfort the spot, you just lie there. You’re not dazed or confused or anything. You just can’t believe this is happening.

   “Hyung, hyung – damn it Jin, stop laughing. Jesus, do something useful.” You’re pretty sure that’s Namjoon’s voice, though it’s higher than usual. A second later you find the unfamiliar boy leaning over you, grinning widely, and you stare at him flatly, not even embarrassed at this point. He scrunches up his nose, giving you a brief once over.

“How do you feel?” he asks, and you resist the urge to give him the finger. Instead you just shrug. “Mmm… Did see stars when you hit your head? Feel anything’s broken or bleeding back there?” Cautiously you check your hand, but there’s no blood, and the pain’s already diminishing. You shrug again. He copies the motion before reaching out, grabbing your arm and unceremoniously yanking you into a sitting position, letting you go before the invasion can get your heart thumping faster. The boy – Jin? – turns back to Namjoon, who stands as far back as he can, his hands clasped behind his back in a posture that could be stern, except… except it looks like he’s just afraid of breaking something again.

“She should be fine, Namjoon,” Jin says. “Her eyes aren’t dilated, she doesn’t look shocked and I’m not seeing any trauma.” Though his voice had become almost professional, taking on a bedside manner, a strange note creeps in after a moment, and he smirks. “I have to say, though… You’re supposed to use your hands, not your feet. You’re not very good at boxing, are you?”

Namjoon makes a choked noise that could have been a laugh, a snort or a curse – or some hybrid of the three – and your mouth falls open. Was that – had that been a pun? A terrible pun? Jin chuckles with so much self-satisfaction you can’t help the groan that slips from your lips, and instantly he’s back to professionalism as he pivots back to you. “Oh? Did I speak too soon? Is your head hurting?”

Maybe you’re concussed, or maybe you’re just done with all of this, but either way you grumble, “Now it is.” It takes him a second to get the implication, but then his eyes widen, all outraged indignation, and his eyes only pop more when Namjoon lets out a sharp bark of laughter, a ha-ha that cuts off when Jin swivels to stare at him accusingly, though his smile doesn’t fade

“The disrespect!” Jin sputters. “The lack of gratitude! I’ve raised all of you – on my back, even! – and this is the thanks I get? This – this disrespect?!”

Namjoon raises his hands placatingly. “Sorry hyung, sorry. It was funny.”

From 100 to 0, abruptly the apoplectic male is back to laughing, albeit a tad severely. “It was funny,” he proclaims self-importantly, and shoots you a look like he’s daring you to argue. You shrug. He wrinkles his nose at you and turns back to Namjoon. “Anyways Joonie, I need to put the rest of the supplies away. The cat food and stuff is just outside. Once you’re done here, let me clean and bandage your scratches, yeah?” Namjoon opens his mouth, and Jin cuts him off. “Never mind your image. You can say you were in a knife fight.”

Hands only going higher in surrender, Namjoon says, “Fine, fine. I’ll need to deal with this first, though.” They both look at you, some of the electric amusement in the air dying, but this time you’re – not terrified. Because if you’ve understood everything right, they’ve brought you your cat, they’ve bought cat food for your cat, and the box assassination attempt aside, that means they’re not going to kill you. Not right now, anyways. And besides, after this whole exchange… Well, it’s just a bit hard to keep your fear clutched so close to your heart.

Jin tilts his head, blinking rapidly several times in a way that’s endearing enough to make your stomach lurch. “Okay,” he eventually says. “I’ll see you later Joonie.” Considering you, eventually he smiles, something softer than his usual high-strung amusement. “I’m Jin, the doctor and cook and supplies organizer of this group. If you’re needing something, let me know.” Then he’s smirking, and it’s without surprise that you hear him add, “It was nice meeting you… boxy lady.”

Namjoon groans and Jin leaves, a cheerful bounce in his step, shutting the door lightly behind him. Some of your certainty leaves with him, and you shift on the bed. Namjoon swipes one hand across his face as though he’s trying to get rid of something only he can see, and then his shoulders are squaring. You can almost picture the lighter emotions – embarrassment, amusement, sympathy – being brushed away, and when his hand drops his expression is back to one of cool control. He grabs the chair from where it’s been put to the side and straddles it, crossing his arms over the back as he considers you.

“I think you know we have no intention of killing you,” he eventually begins, and you suck in a deep breath through your nose before you manage to nod. “This has been an ordeal for you, and I’m sorry for that, sorry for the fact that it’s going to continue for some time.”

“You don’t sound very sorry.”

You both freeze, your words seeming to sit, heavy and accusing, in the air between you, and your fingers bunch up the bedsheets as anxiety rolls over you. Oh God. What did you just say? What – it was the stupid box, the stupid pun. It’d relaxed you, made you forget what’s happened, who’s sitting in front of you. It made you comfortable. Too comfortable.

But Namjoon doesn’t react badly. A low, sardonic laugh comes forth, and if it’s almost hard, almost mocking, he makes no movement to come closer to you. “No, I suppose I don’t. I suppose I shouldn’t try to lie to you, about that or anything. So, let me tell you how it will be, straight up. Until we can finish up our plans to get out of this city, you’re going to have to stay here. Your parents, your friends, co-workers… they’re not going to worry about you for at least awhile. I’ve made sure of that.” That makes you stiffen, your gaze jerking up as you stare at him, wondering if you’re imagining the threat in his voice, wondering how he could have managed it. You are not, it must be admitted, the most socially active person, but how could he make you disappear for even a short time?

Though his thin smile suggests he knows what you’re thinking, Namjoon doesn’t satisfy your sudden curiosity. “Until we can let you go, we’ll provide for you. Food, items… whatever. We’re not really lacking in money.” When your eyes drop to dubiously regard the somewhat shabby bed, he shrugs. “Waste not, right? If it’s too uncomfortable, we’ll get you something else. Just ask. But Y/N…”

For a second you just look at him, automatically reacting to your name, but then an uneasy feeling flickers, deep in your stomach, and before he can say anything else you blurt out, “How do you know my name?” The two boys who’d grabbed you had taken your phone, yeah, but you still had your wallet, and they hadn’t asked for your name. Him knowing it, so out of the blue, feels like an invasion of your privacy that you hadn’t expected, another nail in the coffin of your security, and you wish more than ever that Haru would come out from under the bed so that you could have something to hold onto.

Leaning back, as though a bit surprised, Namjoon shakes his head patronizingly. “Do you think we would have gone into your apartment without finding out your name? You don’t lock your laptop, you know.” That probably shouldn’t have hit you as hard as it did – you probably should have expected it – but the thought of a bunch of strangers going through your shabby apartment without your permission, of rooting through drawers and touching things that were yours and no one else’s… Swallowing dryly, you turn away, pulling up your legs so that you can sit cross legged, showing him your shoulder like that could somehow regain your lost privacy.

You don’t see his hand reach up and then hesitate before falling back down.

“Yes, we know your name.” Namjoon’s voice is neutral, giving nothing away. “We know a few other things as well, Y/N. But that doesn’t really matter. What matters is that you’re here, and you will be fine as long as you follow a few simple rules.” A few minutes ago that might have been enough to elicit some curiosity, some trepidation, but as it is you just hunch over more, your head ducked. He continues, soft but firm. “Don’t try to escape. There’s no real way for you to manage it, yet I know that’s an automatic human reaction, looking for a way to get out. If you try, we’ll have to punish you.” He says it so flatly, so reasonably, and it feels like air is leaking out of your lungs, never to return. “Don’t fight. I’ve already made it clear the boys aren’t to hassle you, so you should have no reason to attack them. Unless you’re stupid.” His voice softens. “I don’t think you are.”

You say nothing, and eventually he gets to his feet. “There’s not much else. You’ve seen the bathroom, I’m sure. Jin will have food prepared for you shortly, and Jimin will bring in the clothes we took from your house. As there’s nothing else…” He turns to go, and as he does, a soft tinkling announces Haru’s emergence from under the bed. She cautiously leaps up, landing next to you, sniffing at you, pushing her head demandingly against your fingers, and a second later she’s settled in your lap. Not purring – not yet – but it feels good to have her warmth to sink your trembling fingers into.

“We’ll speak later,” Namjoon concludes, and your soft question stops him.

“How… long? How long will I be here?”

He pauses, his back to you, and eventually twitches his hand in an uncertain motion. “It’s too hard to guess for the moment. As I’ve said, I’ve no wish to lie to you. A month? Perhaps somewhere around there.”

Biting at your lip, a sudden surge of pressure against your eyes, you lean down and nuzzle your face against Haru. “Oh…” you breathe into her fur. It’s automatic – same as thanking Taehyung was – for you to say, “Thank you for getting my cat.”

Namjoon might be staring at you, but you don’t look up. Eventually he says, his voice strained with some emotion you can’t place. “You’re welcome. It’s the least we could do. We’ll talk later.” His feet shuffle across the floor, a scrape indicating the door being opened. There’s no sound of retreating footsteps, and after a few seconds Namjoon adds, “This isn’t an ideal circumstance, I know, but please don’t despair. We’ll let you go soon enough. In the meantime… Welcome to Bangtan.”

And then he’s gone, the door closing with finality, and from her cozy perch in the depths of your lap, Haru begins to purr.        

     A/N: Aish, I’ve no idea how this got so long, or if it’s any good at all. There’ll be at least one more part, and we’ll see the other members as well as some fluff and whatnot, but in the meantime, I hope you enjoyed this! 

[notsuchasecret]

Stardust in Our Veins Day 2

@seijoh4week

Day 1 - Stormy Weather // Long Distance

Day 2 - Passing Notes // Detention

The bar where they met was every bit as seedy as the reason for the meeting. Kiertian dancers wound their way between the tables, spitting poison both verbal and literal at the wandering hands and catcalls. The walls oozed with something that may or may not have been corrosive. There were two drinks on the menu that weren’t toxic to humans, and one of them was only questionably so. It smelled.

Tooru couldn’t help but compare the place to the palace world where he’d been raised, the sweeping halls carved from diamond and pela stone, the babbling fountains and the lush carpets. He knew exactly which he would choose.

Matsukawa and Hanamaki had entered before him, and were already in their positions at the bar and the rear entrance. Iwaizumi stood at Tooru’s elbow, one hand resting on the hilt of his kefas, the other holding the strap of his bag. Tooru glanced at him, and he nodded once, curt. Tooru let that assurance settle over him like a cloak and turned back to scan the bar. He smiled, catching sight of their contact suspended against the far wall. He felt eyes on him as he passed through the room, but unlike before, when he had been a prince, these eyes felt reassuring, felt familiar, felt like love and protection and just a hint of danger. At the corner of his vision he saw Matsukawa move somewhere more strategic, and he settled his shoulders.

The Uuutn had no vocal chords, so Tooru and Iwaizumi exchanged no greetings with Raaasht as they took their seats across from vis. Tooru tapped the surface of the table, scrolling through its functions until he found a messaging system that would work for both species. Raaasht watched him tap out a sentence, resting vir single long tentacle-like appendage on the sensor port. He could all but hear Hanamaki snickering as he sent the message off.

It took a moment for the translators to convert the words into a psychic imprint that Raaasht could understand, but once it did ve clicked vir mandibles in approval. Tooru watched the table translate Raaasht’s message back, and smiled.

“Go ahead,” he said softly to Iwaizumi, who stood, pulling his bag over his shoulder. He set it below Raaasht and stepped back, shoulders tense and grip tight on his kefas. Raaasht hooked a claw through the bag, lifting it to test its weight. Vir mandibles clicked again and ve sent another message through the table. Tooru typed back his own.

It was going well. Raaasht pressed a button on the panel next to vis and a Qnn attendant, small and deadly, emerged from the crowd. She set a case on the table, facing Tooru, and at a prompt from Raaasht, flicked it open. Tooru leaned forward only enough to see the contents of the case, then nodded. He tapped out his acceptance on the table, and the Qnn closed the case, disappearing once more into the thronging people. Iwaizumi reached out to pick up the case, and Tooru made their farewells. They walked out of the bar together, Hanamaki and Matsukawa falling into step behind them.

“That went well,” Tooru sighed once they were out into the slightly-less noxious night air and well away from the bar.

“Did you see how long vir tentacle was?” Hanamaki crowed, slapping Matsukawa on the shoulder. Matsukawa rolled his eyes.

“What, is mine not long enough for you, Hiro?” he droned. “I’m hurt.”

“Will you two shut up?” snapped Iwaizumi. Tooru glanced at him, at the way he hadn’t let go of his kefas.

“Iwa-chan?” Tooru whispered. Iwaizumi glanced at him.

“Probably nothing,” he said, just as a shadow shifted beside him and a fist collided with his jaw. Iwaizumi moved with the blow, throwing the case to Tooru and drawing his kefas as he stumbled around to face his attacker. The blade glowed an eerie purple in the double moonlight as he held it in front of him. It was a weapon that would give most muggers pause, but the man standing across from Iwaizumi drew one of his own from a sheathe at his hip. Before he could do more than that, however, Hanamaki was on him, the same dagger he’d used to kidnap Tooru the day they’d met flashing as he attacked. Tooru saw the movement and opened his mouth to stop Hanamaki, but it was too late. Another guard emerged from the shadows, a Sotal pistol leveled at Iwaizumi’s head.

“Drop it,” the guard said. Hanamaki glanced over his shoulder to see two more guards, one pointing a pistol at Matsukawa, the other brandishing a third kefas. He let the knife clatter to the ground.

“He’s not alone,” Tooru said at last, the warning useless now. “They never send the elites without backup.”

“Thanks,” Hanamaki grit, watching the guard stoop to pick up the dagger. Tooru winced in sympathy; it had been Hanamaki’s mother’s.

“Let’s get this over with,” Iwaizumi sighed, handing his kefas over to the first guard and holding his hands out. The guard slapped a pair of cuffs around his wrists, and dragged him to a waiting shuttle. When he and Hanamaki and Matsukawa were all onboard, the final guard turned to Tooru.

“Are you injured, your highness?” asked the guard, careful to keep his eyes averted. Tooru huffed through his nose.

“No,” he said. “Now let’s go get these interrogations done so that you can release my friends.”

“Release…” repeated the guard. Tooru bit back a sigh; this one was obviously new.

“Yes, release,” he said. “I am here of my own volition, and they are my companions. The rest of our crew will be waiting, and I’d prefer to avoid a scuffle.” The guard almost glanced up, but caught himself in time. He bowed to Tooru, waiting for him to enter the shuttle first.

-

They took them all to separate rooms, as was protocol. Tooru, they interviewed in a lush chamber, lounging on pillows and snacking on fresh fruits from his homeworld. Iwaizumi was seated in a holding chamber, unbound but unarmed, given all the respect required of a man worthy of carrying a kefas. Matsukawa and Hanamaki, they interrogated in separate cells in the brig, chained to the walls.

“How did you meet his highness?” asked a guard.

“I was assigned to him at birth,” answered Iwaizumi.

“I robbed him at knifepoint,” said Hanamaki.

“He came to me in a dream,” said Matsukawa.

“Iwaizumi is my assigned bodyguard, and my soul companion. Hanamaki and Matsukawa attempted to rob me, but have since been absolved of those charges. I went with them willingly,” said Tooru.

“What is your business at this port?” asked the guard.

“We are here doing trade,” said Iwaizumi.

“Piracy and nefarious wrong-doing,” answered Hanamaki.

“Joining the circus,” said Matsukawa.

“We’re dropping a shipment to a client,” said Tooru. “An Uuutn named Raaasht who needed certain property returned to him. The plan was to deliver the property, then remain in port for one standard day to see if we could pick up any more work.”

“Why would the prince run away with you?” asked the guard.

“He ran, I followed. That’s how it’s always been,” said Iwaizumi.

“My roguish good looks and the promise of adventure,” said Hanamaki.

“He’s carrying my child,” answered Matsukawa.

Tooru didn’t answer, only glared petulantly.

“Your highness, your brother is worried-”

“So let him worry!” Tooru interrupted. “Go running home with your tail tucked, tell him you had me but couldn’t keep me, tell him I’m still off being a flighty child. He can run the system just fine on his own.”

“Your highness-”

“No,” Tooru snapped. “You’ve delayed us long enough. Release my companions and be on your way.”

“As you wish, your highness.” The guard bowed and shuffled backwards from the room. Tooru snorted, flopping back against the pillows. He looked around at all the riches his status had to offer and scowled, drumming his fingers impatiently against a table. The door opened and Matsukawa stumbled in, looking rumpled, but otherwise fine.

“Issei,” breathed Tooru, launching himself at Matsukawa, who caught him with an arm tight around his waist. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

“They never do,” Matsukawa murmured into Tooru’s hair. Tooru shook his head.

“They weren’t sent by my brother,” he said softly. “Two members of the elite guard, sure, but the one I talked to was surprised when I told him to release you. I think they found our ship by accident and followed it on general orders.”

The door opened again and Hanamaki limped in, a grin spread across his face, followed by a scowling Iwaizumi.

“This idiot told the truth,” he grumbled, shoving Hanamaki forward.

“Hajime kicked me,” he whined, draping himself across Tooru and Matsukawa. “It hurt.”

“You deserve it,” Matsukawa said fondly. Hanamaki grunted, nuzzling into Tooru’s shoulder.

“Come on,” Tooru said quietly. He shoved Hanamaki off so that he could bend to grab the case Raaasht had given him. “We should go.” The others must have picked up on Tooru’s mood, because they didn’t say a word as Tooru led them out of the shuttle. Iwaizumi walked at his elbow, Matsukawa and Hanamaki behind him, until they were out of sight. Then he stepped forward and tucked a hand into his pocket, bumping their shoulders together.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You’re okay.” Tooru nodded, reaching out to take Matsukawa’s hand and looking up at the Seijoh, waiting for them in her port. His family, his home. He took a deep breath of freedom and continued walking.

[itkmoonknight]

OVER THE MOON Reading Club, no. XXVI: Moon Knight Vol. 5, issue #1 + ANNOUNCEMENT: Epic Podcast Crossover for DAMNATION!

Hello hello Loonies!!

Welcome to another OVER THE MOON newsletter - this time, it's issue XXVI!

Boy oh boy - after the much entertaining issue #191 of the current run, we've decided to keep the momentum well and truly up by doing a Panel x Panel review of one of the most popular runs in Moon Knight lore:

Huston & Finch's Volume 5 run - "The Bottom"

As is with all number 1 issues, we'll go literally panel by panel and discuss everything form story, the art, the characters...to even SPECTOR-lation as to what where things are headed!

At this moment in time, we've still to just confirm whether our other High Priest of Khonshu - Rebecca - will be available to join us on this journey...! 

Issue #1 is actually titled, "The Fun Stuff" and it can be readily found in various forms - digitally on Comixology; to read on Marvel Unlimited; in trade paperback and hard cover format...and of course in single, floppy issues!

It will be great to hear your thoughts on this! So, if you want to throw your hat into the ring, we can be found at - 

Email: moonknightpodcast@gmail.com

Facebook Page: Into the Knight - A Moon Knight Podcast

Facebook Group: Into the Knight - A Moon Knight Fan Base

Twitter: @ITKmoonknight

It's an exciting time for the podcast as we've got a few things planned up ahead! After our panel by panel in the upcoming episode, we'll have a guest in on the show, Chris Jones from Defenders TV Podcast to take us through the next classic issues in Moon Knight's chronological appearances within the Marvel universe. Chris is a big Spider-man fan and so we thought it fitting that he join us to discuss Spectacular Spider-man #22 and #23! Spidey is known to have a constant flow of guest stars, and Moony is no exception!

Finally, one of Marvel's big events, "DAMNATION" is just around the corner, and as many of you Loonies know, our boy Moon Knight is featured within this mammoth event.

To celebrate that, we are teaming up with three other podcasts!

Defenders TV Podcast

Inner Demons - A Ghost Rider Podcast

Sons of the Dragon - An Immortal Iron Fist Podcast

Between the four of us, we'll be covering the entire event - core books AND tie-in books! So you'll have to be sure to listen to all four podcasts to get the entire coverage! :P

To get you started, here are the Facebook Pages to point you in the right direction!

Defenders TV Podcast - FB Page

Ghost Rider - Vengeance Unbound FB Page

The Immortal Iron Fist Podcast: Sons of the Dragon FB Page

Watch out for promos and details for this podcast crossover event on all the social media platforms all four podcasts!

Well, that's it from me for this newsletter!! Keep your eyes and ears peeled for more new on Moon Knight and the Into the Knight Podcast and as always,

May Khonshu Watch Over the Denizens of the Night

Rey

Check out this episode!

[readbookywooks]

Another Reputation Ruined

IT was not much more than three-quarters of a mile from the town to the monastery. Alyosha walked quickly along the road, at that hour deserted. It was almost night, and too dark to see anything clearly at thirty paces ahead. There were cross-roads half-way. A figure came into sight under a solitary willow at the cross-roads. As soon as Alyosha reached the cross-roads the figure moved out and rushed at him, shouting savagely: "Your money or your life!" "So it's you, Mitya," cried Alyosha, in surprise, violently startled however. "Ha ha ha! You didn't expect me? I wondered where to wait for you. By her house? There are three ways from it, and I might have missed you. At last I thought of waiting here, for you had to pass here, there's no other way to the monastery. Come, tell me the truth. Crush me like a beetle. But what's the matter?" "Nothing, brother - it's the fright you gave me. Oh, Dmitri! Father's blood just now." (Alyosha began to cry, he had been on the verge of tears for a long time, and now something seemed to snap in his soul.) "You almost killed him - cursed him - and now - here - you're making jokes - 'Your money or your life!'" "Well, what of that? It's not seemly - is that it? Not suitable in my position?" "No - I only-" "Stay. Look at the night. You see what a dark night, what clouds, what a wind has risen. I hid here under the willow waiting for you. And as God's above, I suddenly thought, why go on in misery any longer, what is there to wait for? Here I have a willow, a handkerchief, a shirt, I can twist them into a rope in a minute, and braces besides, and why go on burdening the earth, dishonouring it with my vile presence? And then I heard you coming - Heavens, it was as though something flew down to me suddenly. So there is a man, then, whom I love. Here he is, that man, my dear little brother, whom I love more than anyone in the world, the only one I love in the world. And I loved you so much, so much at that moment that I thought, 'I'll fall on his neck at once.' Then a stupid idea struck me, to have a joke with you and scare you. I shouted, like a fool, 'Your money!' Forgive my foolery - it was only nonsense, and there's nothing unseemly in my soul.... Damn it all, tell me what's happened. What did she say? Strike me, crush me, don't spare me! Was she furious?" "No, not that.... There was nothing like that, Mitya. There - I found them both there." "Both? Whom?" "Grushenka at Katerina Ivanovna's." Dmitri was struck dumb. "Impossible!" he cried. "You're raving! Grushenka with her?" Alyosha described all that had happened from the moment he went in to Katerina Ivanovna's. He was ten minutes telling his story. can't be said to have told it fluently and consecutively, but he seemed to make it clear, not omitting any word or action of significance, and vividly describing, often in one word, his own sensations. Dmitri listened in silence, gazing at him with a terrible fixed stare, but it was clear to Alyosha that he understood it all, and had grasped every point. But as the story went on, his face became not merely gloomy, but menacing. He scowled, he clenched his teeth, and his fixed stare became still more rigid, more concentrated, more terrible, when suddenly, with incredible rapidity, his wrathful, savage face changed, his tightly compressed lips parted, and Dmitri Fyodorovitch broke into uncontrolled, spontaneous laughter. He literally shook with laughter. For a long time he could not speak. "So she wouldn't kiss her hand! So she didn't kiss it; so she ran away!" he kept exclaiming with hysterical delight; insolent delight it might had been called, if it had not been so spontaneous. "So the other one called her tigress! And a tigress she is! So she ought to be flogged on a scaffold? Yes, yes, so she ought. That's just what I think; she ought to have been long ago. It's like this, brother, let her be punished, but I must get better first. I understand the queen of impudence. That's her all over! You saw her all over in that hand-kissing, the she-devil! She's magnificent in her own line! So she ran home? I'll go - ah - I'll run to her! Alyosha, don't blame me, I agree that hanging is too good for her." "But Katerina Ivanovna!" exclaimed Alyosha sorrowfully. "I see her, too! I see right through her, as I've never done before! It's a regular discovery of the four continents of the world, that is, of the five! What a thing to do! That's just like Katya, who was not afraid to face a coarse, unmannerly officer and risk a deadly insult on a generous impulse to save her father! But the pride, the recklessness, the defiance of fate, the unbounded defiance! You say that aunt tried to stop her? That aunt, you know, is overbearing, herself. She's the sister of the general's widow in Moscow, and even more stuck-up than she. But her husband was caught stealing government money. He lost everything, his estate and all, and the proud wife had to lower her colours, and hasn't raised them since. So she tried to prevent Katya, but she wouldn't listen to her! She thinks she can overcome everything, that everything will give way to her. She thought she could bewitch Grushenka if she liked, and she believed it herself: she plays a part to herself, and whose fault is it? Do you think she kissed Grushenka's hand first, on purpose, with a motive? No, she really was fascinated by Grushenka, that's to say, not by Grushenka, but by her own dream, her own delusion - because it was her dream, her delusion! Alyosha, darling, how did you escape from them, those women? Did you pick up your cassock and run? Ha ha ha!" "Brother, you don't seem to have noticed how you've insulted Katerina Ivanovna by telling Grushenka about that day. And she flung it in her face just now that she had gone to gentlemen in secret to sell her beauty! Brother, what could be worse than that insult?" What worried Alyosha more than anything was that, incredible as it seemed, his brother appeared pleased at Katerina Ivanovna's humiliation. "Bah!" Dmitri frowned fiercely, and struck his forehead with his hand. He only now realised it, though Alyosha had just told him of the insult, and Katerina Ivanovna's cry: "Your brother is a scoundrel" "Yes, perhaps, I really did tell Grushenka about that 'fatal day,' as Katya calls it. Yes, I did tell her, I remember! It was that time at Mokroe. I was drunk, the Gypsies were singing... But I was sobbing. I was sobbing then, kneeling and praying to Katya's image, and Grushenka understood it. She understood it all then. I remember, she cried herself.... Damn it all! But it's bound to be so now.... Then she cried, but now 'the dagger in the heart'! That's how women are." He looked down and sank into thought. "Yes, I am a scoundrel, a thorough scoundrel" he said suddenly, in a gloomy voice. "It doesn't matter whether I cried or not, I'm a scoundrel! Tell her I accept the name, if that's any comfort. Come, that's enough. Good-bye. It's no use talking! It's not amusing. You go your way and I mine. And I don't want to see you again except as a last resource. Good-bye, Alexey!" He warmly pressed Alyosha's hand, and still looking down, without raising his head, as though tearing himself away, turned rapidly towards the town. Alyosha looked after him, unable to believe he would go away so abruptly. "Stay, Alexey, one more confession to you alone" cried Dmitri, suddenly turning back. "Look at me. Look at me well. You see here, here -there's terrible disgrace in store for me." (As he said "here," Dmitri struck his chest with his fist with a strange air, as though the dishonour lay precisely on his chest, in some spot, in a pocket, perhaps, or hanging round his neck.) "You know me now, a scoundrel, an avowed scoundrel, but let me tell you that I've never done anything before and never shall again, anything that can compare in baseness with the dishonour which I bear now at this very minute on my breast, here, here, which will come to pass, though I'm perfectly free to stop it. I can stop it or carry it through, note that. Well, let me tell you, I shall carry it through. I shan't stop it. I told you everything just now, but I didn't tell you this, because even I had not brass enough for it. I can still pull up; if I do, I can give back the full half of my lost honour to-morrow. But I shan't pull up. I shall carry out my base plan, and you can bear witness that I told so beforehand. Darkness and destruction! No need to explain. You'll find out in due time. The filthy back-alley and the she-devil. Good-bye. Don't pray for me, I'm not worth it. And there's no need, no need at all.... I don't need it! Away!" And he suddenly retreated, this time finally. Alyosha went towards the monastery. "What? I shall never see him again! What is he saying?" he wondered wildly. "Why, I shall certainly see him to-morrow. I shall look him up. I shall make a point of it. What does he mean?" He went round the monastery, and crossed the pine-wood to the hermitage. The door was opened to him, though no one was admitted at that hour. There was a tremor in his heart as he went into Father Zossima's cell. "Why, why, had he gone forth? Why had he sent him into the world? Here was peace. Here was holiness. But there was confusion, there was darkness in which one lost one's way and went astray at once...." In the cell he found the novice Porfiry and Father Paissy, who came every hour to inquire after Father Zossima. Alyosha learnt with alarm that he was getting worse and worse. Even his usual discourse with the brothers could not take place that day. As a rule every evening after service the monks flocked into Father Zossima's cell, and all confessed aloud their sins of the day, their sinful thoughts and temptations; even their disputes, if there had been any. Some confessed kneeling. The elder absolved, reconciled, exhorted, imposed penance, blessed, and dismissed them. It was against this general "confession" that the opponents of "elders" protested, maintaining that it was a profanation of the sacrament of confession, almost a sacrilege, though this was quite a different thing. They even represented to the diocesan authorities that such confessions attained no good object, but actually to a large extent led to sin and temptation. Many of the brothers disliked going to the elder, and went against their own will because everyone went, and for fear they should be accused of pride and rebellious ideas. People said that some of the monks agreed beforehand, saying, "I'll confess I lost my temper with you this morning, and you confirm it," simply in order to have something to say. Alyosha knew that this actually happened sometimes. He knew, too, that there were among the monks some who deep resented the fact that letters from relations were habitually taken to the elder, to be opened and read by him before those to whom they were addressed. It was assumed, of course, that all this was done freely, and in good faith, by way of voluntary submission and salutary guidance. But, in fact, there was sometimes no little insincerity, and much that was false and strained in this practice. Yet the older and more experienced of the monks adhered to their opinion, arguing that "for those who have come within these walls sincerely seeking salvation, such obedience and sacrifice will certainly be salutary and of great benefit; those, on the other hand, who find it irksome, and repine, are no true monks, and have made a mistake in entering the monastery - their proper place is in the world. Even in the temple one cannot be safe from sin and the devil. So it was no good taking it too much into account." "He is weaker, a drowsiness has come over him," Father Paissy whispered to Alyosha, as he blessed him. "It's difficult to rouse him. And he must not be roused. He waked up for five minutes, sent his blessing to the brothers, and begged their prayers for him at night. He intends to take the sacrament again in the morning. He remembered you, Alexey. He asked whether you had gone away, and was told that you were in the town. 'I blessed him for that work,' he said, 'his place is there, not here, for awhile.' Those were his words about you. He remembered you lovingly, with anxiety; do you understand how he honoured you? But how is it that he has decided that you shall spend some time in the world? He must have foreseen something in your destiny! Understand, Alexey, that if you return to the world, it must be to do the duty laid upon you by your elder, and not for frivolous vanity and worldly pleasures." Father Paissy went out. Alyosha had no doubt that Father Zossima was dying, though he might live another day or two. Alyosha firmly and ardently resolved that in spite of his promises to his father, the Hohlakovs, and Katerina Ivanovna, he would not leave the monastery next day, but would remain with his elder to the end. His heart glowed with love, and he reproached himself bitterly for having been able for one instant to forget him whom he had left in the monastery on his death bed, and whom he honoured above everyone in the world. He went into Father Zossima's bedroom, knelt down, and bowed to the ground before the elder, who slept quietly without stirring, with regular, hardly audible breathing and a peaceful face. Alyosha returned to the other room, where Father Zossima received his guests in the morning. Taking off his boots, he lay down on the hard, narrow, leathern sofa, which he had long used as a bed, bringing nothing but a pillow. The mattress, about which his father had shouted to him that morning, he had long forgotten to lie on. He took off his cassock, which he used as a covering. But before going to bed, he fell on his knees and prayed a long time. In his fervent prayer he did not beseech God to lighten his darkness but only thirsted for the joyous emotion, which always visited his soul after the praise and adoration, of which his evening prayer usually consisted. That joy always brought him light untroubled sleep. As he was praying, he suddenly felt in his pocket the little pink note the servant had handed him as he left Katerina Ivanovna's. He was disturbed, but finished his prayer. Then, after some hesitation, he opened the envelope. In it was a letter to him, signed by Lise, the young daughter of Madame Hohlakov, who had laughed at him before the elder in the morning. "Alexey Fyodorovitch," she wrote, "I am writing to you without anyone's knowledge, even mamma's, and I know how wrong it is. But I cannot live without telling you the feeling that has sprung up in my heart, and this no one but us two must know for a time. But how am I to say what I want so much to tell you? Paper, they say, does not blush, but I assure you it's not true and that it's blushing just as I am now, all over. Dear Alyosha, I love you, I've loved you from my childhood, since our Moscow days, when you were very different from what you are now, and I shall love you all my life. My heart has chosen you, to unite our lives, and pass them together till our old age. Of course, on condition that you will leave the monastery. As for our age we will wait for the time fixed by the law. By that time I shall certainly be quite strong, I shall be walking and dancing. There can be no doubt of that. "You see how I've thought of everything. There's only one thing I can't imagine: what you'll think of me when you read this. I'm always laughing and being naughty. I made you angry this morning, but I assure you before I took up my pen, I prayed before the Image of the Mother of God, and now I'm praying, and almost crying. "My secret is in your hands. When you come to-morrow, I don't know how I shall look at you. Ah, Alexey Fyodorovitch, what if I can't restrain myself like a silly and laugh when I look at you as I did to-day. You'll think I'm a nasty girl making fun of you, and you won't believe my letter. And so I beg you, dear one, if you've any pity for me, when you come to-morrow, don't look me straight in the face, for if I meet your eyes, it will be sure to make me laugh, especially as you'll be in that long gown. I feel cold all over when I think of it, so when you come, don't look at me at all for a time, look at mamma or at the window.... "Here I've written you a love-letter. Oh, dear, what have I done? Alyosha, don't despise me, and if I've done something very horrid and wounded you, forgive me. Now the secret of my reputation, ruined perhaps for ever, is in your hands. "I shall certainly cry to-day. Good-bye till our meeting, our awful meeting. - Lise. "P.S. - Alyosha! You must, must, must come! - Lise. Alyosha read the note in amazement, read it through twice, thought a little, and suddenly laughed a soft, sweet laugh. He started. That laugh seemed to him sinful. But a minute later he laughed again just as softly and happily. He slowly replaced the note in the envelope, crossed himself and lay down. The agitation in his heart passed at once. "God, have mercy upon all of them, have all these unhappy and turbulent souls in Thy keeping, and set them in the right path. All ways are Thine. Save them according to Thy wisdom. Thou art love. Thou wilt send joy to all!" Alyosha murmured, crossing himself, and falling into peaceful sleep.