#lost the focus there a little bit with fear and deceit

[selenelavellan]

Hey so... in the dnd au, does Selene get a familiar? Maybe... two of them? Maybe... Fear and Deciet?

D&D AU

Dirthamen, Fear, and Deceit are @feynites

This takes place just before this piece.

Dirthamen notices many things, in thisnew plane.

He notices the different ways thatmagic moves, the ways that so many different races of people havelearned to coexist (mostly), the ways thatinteractions between people can influence their environment. The waylaughter and teasing is not always cruel and at an expense, the waybread and rations can be torn and shared, the way that a good evening of rest in an inn with friends can relax most tensions.

He notices Selene.

Often.

That is...normal, he supposes. She isthe one tethering him to this plane now, after all. He has not been apatron to very many, despite his age, and he is meant to keep acertain amount of his focus on her as a result of their pact.

He had not been expecting her, when sheappeared to him. It has been many centuries since anyone solved hispuzzles, and he had thought himself long forgotten by the mortals.Had very nearly forgotten them, in turn.

And then suddenly, there she was.Minuscule on the scale he had grown accustomed to, but warm andglowing, nearly overflowing with her own magics as she reached outfor him. Asking him for so many things, nearly greedy in her desires.

But harmless.

The most common thing people ask for,is power. To grow magic where they had none, to steal his labyrinthsto trap their enemies, to use him to raze whole civilizations andrewrite histories. And he has done it, of course, for anyone that hadsolved his puzzles. They had earned it.

Selene did not wish for power, though.And that had been enough to pique his interests.

Past pacts had begged for power,vengeance, and blood; she asked for knowledge, for freedom, forcontrol of her abilities.

For love.

He was unsure of his ability to fulfillher last wish. But she agreed, even without words. In a split secondthat spanned eons, the terms of their deal had been determined. Hewould accompany her throughout her journeys, help her learn what shewished to discover, to funnel her powers not through books andwritten words, but through a filter of his own design that wouldallow her the control over her flames that she craved so desperately.

He has noticed many things, since then.

Most worryingly, he has noticed howfragile her mortal form is.

Often times, she will wander off withother members of her party, leaving him behind to keep an eye ontheir campsite. He does not mind; it permits him time to obtain therest his form still requires. Bandits and wandering wildlife do notdraw enough of his magics from him to put a substantial damper on hisrecovery, and so he has not made a fuss at what she has asked of him.

Except that she often returns wounded.

Scraped or bloody, covered in ash orwith crossbow bolts sticking out of parts of her that are soft andshould not be struck with such things.

When she returns unconscious and slungover the back of her friend Des, he decides that something must bedone.

“You are not coming into town,” Sheargues even while her fingers stroke over the sensitive ridges aroundhis eyes.

“You let me go into the last one,”he retorts.

“And did you notice we had to leavewhen you starting turning back into a blob in front of the crownsguard?”

He had noticed.

“You require protection,” He triesinstead.

“I'll be fine,” She assures him,fingers finding the space under one of his chins that has a habit ofmaking him purr rather loudly, as he is doing now.

He does not believe her. She has arather poor habit of lying when she believes the truth mightinconvenience those around her.

…

Actually...

That might work.

He allows the matter to rest for theevening, as they relax into her bedroll and the cool balm of thenight sky settles around them.

The next morning, he summons twoaspects of himself into this plane. In smaller forms, easier tosolidify and fill with power that could be used to aid Selene in diresituations.

Deceit, to help them remain hidden, andFear, to help them remain safe.

It is quite a good idea, he thinksproudly as they spend much of the day relaying the events of Seleneback to him. Selene will not have to worry about him frightening themortals, and he will not have to worry about her mortality bringingtheir agreement to an abrupt end.

...It does not go quite as he plans, onthe second day.

Around early afternoon, Deceit decidesthey do not wish to keep their distance any longer.

They land on Selenes shoulder and beginpreening her hair, and she nearly screams in fear before they explainthe situation.

She is not pleased by their attempt tospy on her.

...But she does not push Deceit away,either.

Dirthamen watches with interest asthroughout the day, Selene offers Deceit food and water andaffectionate scritches while she is focused on other tasks. In fact,she adapts so quickly that even Fear introduces themselves to her,and ends up perching atop her new staff for much of the day.

When people ask her about theirpresence, she lies and claims they are her familiars. Another part ofher deception to claim she is still a wizard, he supposes. But not sofar off from the truth, either.

It is strange to view her spending somuch time with these pieces of himself. To be beside her, and not.Something in him stirs at the emotions it is riling in him. Things hehas not felt in quite some time, if ever. Affection, yes. He hasalready realized that he enjoys being affectionate with Selene andearning her affections in turn. A sense of protectiveness, a desireto keep her safe; also not a new feeling. It is only sensible that hewould want to keep her alive, while she is connected to him in such away. Perhaps...perhaps it is jealousy? It would not be very sensible;after all she is currently laughing and splitting her baked good witha piece of himself, and it is not sensible to be jealous of yourself.

But...

Perhaps he is less fond of being leftto watch the campsite as he had previously thought. Perhaps hewould like to be the one tucking Selenes stray curls behind her ear,or splitting a sweet tasting pastry while her eyes crinkle withlaughter.

Hm.

Perhaps...he has noticed things withouttaking full stock of them.

Dirthamen does not bring the matter upwith Selene that night. Instead he sneaks into Des's tent, whileDeceit and Fear each rest curled up against her. The tiefling man isstill awake, reading some sort of book whose cover is decorated withtwo half naked orcs on the cover by the light of his fingertips.

Des grins when he spots Dirthamen.

“Well well. Come looking forsomething new?” He teases.

“No,” Dirthamen admits. “I amhaving...troubles, with Selene. You and she seem to be fairly close.I had hoped you could assist me.”

“Am I going to have to change mymagic type to do it?”

“No.”

“Shame,” Des shrugs, closing thecover of the book before sitting up straight, legs criss crossed infront of him. Long painted fingers close over where his ankles crossas he leans in towards Dirthamen. “What can I do for you?”

“I do not think Selene approves of myform. I wish to become more pleasing to her.”

“What sort of 'pleasing' are youlooking for?”

Dirthamens heads tilt in consideration.

“You know,” Des continues “Do youwant to be soft and easy to cuddle? Do you want to spend more timewith her like your birds? Or are you looking for the best kindof pleasing?”

“There is a best kind?”

“The sexual kind of course,” Desnods, tail swishing behind him.

Dirthamen considers his options.

He does quite like cuddling withSelene, but his current form already permits that, so whatever he islooking for, it is something else. A bird might be more comfortable,and allow him the freedom to openly spend days with her as he wishes.But there is something...something....

“I wish to spend more time with her,”Dirthamen admits aloud, slowly choosing his words. “But I do notwish to be seen as a creature that is so different from her. Ihave been having many emotional reactions to her lately, and I wishto understand them.”

Des'seyebrows raise up, his golden piercings with them. “Holy shit,”He whispers. “You really dowanna be her sugar daddy.”

Dirthamenblinks. “What does that mean?”

“Youshould try being an elf,” Des says instead of directly answering.“...or a tiefling. I've seen the way she eyes my tail and hornswhen she thinks I'm not looking. Actually, she might be into you nowand just not realize it, all things considered. Although you couldstand to be a little prettier if you ask me. Which you are, so...”

“Andyou think this would allow me to obtain the sort of relationship withher I am seeking?” Dirthamen verifies.

“It'scertainly not going to hurt,” Des shrugs.

Dirthamennods to himself, decided and determined with a clear goal in mind.

Itwill take some doing; but it will be worth it, in the end.

[aminiatureworld]

Steadfast

Characters: Childe, gn!reader

Word Count: 3,241

Warnings: Swearing, Angst

Premise: He’d always assured you that he wouldn’t change, that he was still the man he was before. And yet how different things were, and how much it hurt to see what had come to pass.

In which the reader sees the changes in Childe

Author’s Note: Thank you so much for this request anon! Really from the bottom of my heart thank you. I really liked the concept of this prompt, I feel like it really gave me an opportunity to focus on how relationships change and grow, rather than always writing about new couples, or people just beginning to fall in love, although there is of course that involved. It’s interesting to see how people grow and change, even if it can be a little sad sometimes. Writing this was kind of depressing, I hope that this wasn’t too sad, considering you requested hurt comfort. I might’ve gotten a bit carried away…

Funny story, I actually hate one of the people Childe shares a name with. Look what you did to Cassandra Ajax the Lesser, look what you did… So to make up for this unfortunate coincidence I pronounce the names differently in my mind. Ajax the Lesser is pronounce “A-jack-s” and Childe’s name is pronounced “Ai-axe”.

I decided not to bullet point this, as I feel like it works better in a more “traditional format”, that being said if bullet points are easier to read I can go back and fix that.

When you’d first fallen in love with Ajax it had been before the change.

Back then everything with him had seemed so exciting, like stepping into the sea for the first time. You were a bit afraid, worried that you might be swept away all at once, but another part of you wanted to run straight ahead, to immerse yourself in this new and exciting experience. Wanted to keep going and never look back.

 You’d known Ajax since before you could remember. The two of you had grown up in the same small village, where one could hardly take five steps without bumping into someone, and being close in age had made you automatic playmates. Ajax was a brash child, not always easy to get along with, but impossible to pull away from. Even when he knocked you to the ground, or sat on you so you couldn’t move, declaring himself the winner of whatever you’d been playing, you’d still run to meet him the next day, the tears you’d shed utterly forgotten. Childhood friends might’ve been a cliché, but it was truly then that Ajax as a person had begun to stick in your mind.

This only continued throughout the course of your adolescence. Attending the same schools you two were nearly inseparable, causing you merciless teasing from the rest of your classmates. Ajax apparently got the same treatment, resulting in him decking a kid who declared you two were going to get married when you grew up. He’d been suspended for a few days, but never seemed to regret it, and when you’d gone over to his house to ask about it he’d grinned as usual, proclaiming he’d gladly do it again.

Growing up was a difficult process, so many snags and pitfalls, new anxieties, and old ones that you’d never truly worried about before. But it was all perfectly fine with Ajax there. He was always ready to pick you up, and flash you a smile to go along with his help. No wonder you found yourself hopelessly infatuated him, years of trust and affection building up to the newfound feeling of love.

 And then Ajax went missing.

You still remembered the terror that shocked your system when his mother visited, tone unnervingly light, asking if you and Ajax weren’t playing some type of game. You’d bolted outside when she’d revealed Ajax had gone missing, running towards the woods that was the only exit to the village where you lived. The adults had quickly caught up to you, but your fears had already grabbed hold, and you found yourself confronted with all you felt for him. You loved Ajax. How did this happen? Love was still so foreign, a word you could throw around but never truly catch. And yet you loved him, you loved him very much. And now he was gone.

They didn’t let you see him initially, saying he was tired, he needed rest, he’d be alright in a few days. Your imagination had run wild, your mind spinning a terrible story. Perhaps he’d been mortally wounded, perhaps he could no longer see, made blind from the snow and the cold. Perhaps he wasn’t really back, and they were simply lying to make you happy. These thoughts chased you, and it was only when you saw him again that your heart settled, even if a part of you whispered that Ajax was altogether changed.

He’d begun to leave the village. Though no one quite knew where he was you certainly knew a lot of brawling was involved. He’d sometimes sneak into your house, in a last ditch effort to keep his parents and the rest of his family from finding out how much he’d truly changed. You’d cried sometimes, seeing him with black eyes and bruising, slashes of red marring his hands, his arms, his face. He didn’t like to see you cry, would start scolding you, as if it was some fault of yours to feel worried, to care for someone who already was growing into a stranger. He always realized his fault though, and after a little while he’d pat the spot next to him. You’d sit down, head sometimes on his shoulder, listening as he spun his tales of greatness into the night, as if he were a knight fighting a great dragon and its army, rather than a troubled new adult with nowhere to turn to in terms of understanding.

 When he’d ask you to be his partner you thought you’d never feel unhappy again. You felt like you were on air, kept grounded only by his arms around you, his heart beating steadily against your ear as you nestled against his chest. You could tell he was happy too, and though it amazed you slightly that he should be as in love with you as you were with him, you could only thank the Tsaritsa and every other archon under the stars, thank them for being so generous as to give you all you ever wanted.

It seemed such a funny thought in retrospect, when it was the Tsaritsa herself who was now tearing him away from you.

 “Ajax, how could you?!” Your voice felt odd to your ears, somehow too thin, distant, as if someone else was saying it. “You knew, you knew that you’d have to join the Fatui. So why, why in the name of the Seven did you start that fight!”

“They were asking for it!” Ajax’s voice was just as raw, frustration mixed with something unknown. Entitlement perhaps, fear otherwise. “You should’ve heard the things they said about me, about my family. How they’d raised a good for nothing thief, a shithead who knew nothing more than how to swing a sword, and who would one day meet someone bigger than him, and die in the street, given to the rats, utterly forgotten. I had to prove them wrong! It was a matter of honor!”

“It was a matter of ego!” You cried, feeling the ground spin slightly underneath you. “How could you let them goad you like that Ajax, goad you when you knew exactly what was going to happen.” Sitting down you put your head in your hands. The world was shattering around you, and there was no one to blame for it except the one you loved the most.

“My darling, please, I don’t want to fight.” Ajax knelt down in front of you, taking your hands in his as you raised your head to face him.

“You always want to fight…” you replied, voice hoarse, pitched barely above a whisper. “And now you’re leaving, leaving to be part of an organization of cowardliness and deceit. What happened to the adventures you were going to have? What happened to the dragons you were going to slay?”

“I’ll get them yet.” There was amusement in Ajax’s voice, but it was clearly forced, and soon forgotten about. “I promise it’ll be alright, my darling I would never do anything to knowingly hurt you.”

And yet you have, you thought. You’ve run a dagger through my heart, and now your talking to me as if I’m not being destroyed by it. It hurts, it hurts so damn much.

“You’re going away.” You finally replied. “You’re going away to a place that will only destroy you more. And now things will never be the same again. Haven’t you wondered about what will happen to you there? If you’ll ever be allowed to return home? Haven’t you wondered whether or not you’ll ever see your family again? Things will never be the same again Ajax, never. You’ve crossed the chasm, and now you cannot return.”

“Don’t talk like that.” Ajax placed a hand on your cheek. “I promise nothing will change. I will always be myself my darling. This is only a stepping stone, a piece of my journey. I promise, I promise I will always remain as I am. And I’ll never forget about you, nor my family, nor this village. Nothing is going to change. I’ll make sure it won’t. So stop crying my darling; tears never looked good on you anyways.”

And yet, how things have already changed. Still, you said nothing, instead wiping your eyes and pressing your forehead against Ajax’s. His familiar presence was reassuring, and you thought of the years ahead of you, perhaps the eternity ahead of you, when you could no longer rely on him being there. Your eyes welled with tears again, and this time you made no move to stop them. You let yourself cry. If there was anything in the world worth crying about, surely this was one of those things.

 There was a new name signed in Ajax’s letters. “Childe” was the first name, “Tartaglia” was the second. They seemed to mar the page somewhat, written in Ajax’s – no, Childe’s – bold, slashing script. You hated the names, hated the memories they stirred up, reminders of all you’d lost in such a small amount of time.

The day you’d found out Childe was to become a Harbinger you’d raged as you’d never raged before. Locking yourself in the small apartment you’d managed to find – having moved out of Morepesok once the memories had become too oppressive – you’d spent most of your time reading the letter over and over and over.

He’d wanted you to attended, writing you were basically his family at this point, and besides, he wanted to show you to the Tsaritsa. Though the line about family filled your heart with no little affection, you’d refused flat out. It would’ve been too painful, seeing the crux of his transformation; the death of Ajax, the birth of Tartaglia. Childe had said nothing to your refusal, but he was clearly worried, and for a while afterwards the letters were more frequent. But even that stopped after a while, and now you savored what little information you could get, the torn pages of last month’s note a testimony to how much you reread them.

You wished that you could somehow end this purgatory you’d found yourself in. Though you’d begun your own career by now, pushing yourself to your limits as you were sure Childe was doing in his, nothing seemed so important as the drama that had comprised your entire life. How long had you known Childe? You could no longer remember. Long ago, so very long ago. Back when the world was simpler, comprised only of candy from one of the big cities, and fighting over the best fishing rod. Tears were shed over particularly brutal games of tag, then forgotten the next day. How odd that world seemed now, something you could never go back to.

 Every once in a while you’d be met not by a letter, but by a visit. Those were the best days. The days where you could set all your worries and your unease away. When you could once more press your ear against Childe’s chest and feel the steady beating of his heart. As long as you could do that, maybe it’d be alright.

“How’s my darling?” Childe’s voice carried down the hall of your apartment. You’d dropped the letter you’d been reading, his letter, and ran towards the entrance. Throwing yourself in his arms you wept tears of joy. Childe returned the embrace just as enthusiastically, though his eyes were dry. They’d changed, his eyes, or perhaps you’d just learned to notice the hardness that resided in them. “I’m home.” Childe murmured, eyes closed, expression one of perfect bliss. “Don’t worry beloved, I’m home.”

His presence never left yours the days he came to visit. Always there was an arm slung around your waist, or a chin resting on your shoulder or your head. His presence was as comforting as ever, and you soaked it in gladly. He’d changed. Not that you were surprised by that, of course he’d changed. His confidence was much more calculated, his words now slicked with flattery and deceit. He easily persuaded the fishmonger to give you a discount, and some sweet talk with the waiter at a café you frequented earned you a free lemon loaf. You took it, knowing that he just wanted to treat you, but the sugary confection stuck to the roof of your mouth, which had somehow developed a bitter taste.

You said nothing about it. There was no longer any point in arguing. You two were tied together by all sorts of strings. History, location, youth, love. And yet you’d gone your own separate ways. No more were the dreams of adventuring together. The real world had come along and stolen it away. The Tsaritsa had ripped that future from your grasp, and with it went your happiness.

“Are you happy, my love?” Childe asked late one evening. You were cuddled on the small couch in what comprised your living room. You nestled against Childe, breathing him in. Were you happy? No. But in that moment you weren’t unhappy either. In that moment you could forget it all.

“Do you think that sailors feel lonely?” You asked instead, drawing circles absentmindedly on the palms of Childe’s hands. He wore gloves now, expensive ones, not like the mittens that were popular in Snezhnaya. It was so odd to watch him put them on each morning. How things had changed. “They must be lonely,” you continued now, “for there’s nothing but the ship, the water, and the stars above.”

Childe paused, staring off into the distance. He did that a lot recently. You didn’t begrudge him it. Sometimes, when he was in a frank sort of mood, he admitted that he didn’t like the Fatui’s underhanded nature. Better to fight something head on than attack from the shadows. He’d quickly added on that it was the Tsaritsa’s wish, and surely she must know better than him. But it must’ve been difficult, following a path so different than the one you were born to. Betraying your nature, every day of your life.

“It must be lonely sometimes.” He finally replied, glancing back at you. “But I don’t think they’re lonely, no. The stars may be far away, but they’re steadfast, unchanging. And sailors will always be able to rely on them.” You were silent, considering his views.

“Still... stars are so very cold.”

“Perhaps, but they’re also beautiful, are they not? And like I said, who ever heard of a star changing?” A pause, as it seemed Childe was steadying himself, dipping into unpleasant territory. “I hope I will always be your star, my love. I hope you will always be able to rely on me.”

“I will.” You promised, giving Childe a quick kiss. You meant it, even if you weren’t sure that the metaphor was apt. Childe was forever changing; his mannerisms, his name, his location, his words. Sometimes it seemed as if there was nothing left of Ajax, nothing but a small sliver of light, shivering in the darkness that was fate.

“And I will always remained steadfast in my love for you.” Childe promised in return. “For there is nothing more important to me than family, and you are my family. You are that which I hold closest to my heart, and I’ll never stop loving you. I promise.”

His words were smoother than they had been before, polished by the need to be appealing to those who heard it. But you knew they were true. All throughout your life, throughout the pain, the hardship, the feeling of slowly falling off a cliff, all throughout that the one thing that remained was the love between you and Childe. Even if you had nothing, at least you had that.

“Childe?” He grimaced at the word and you paused. “Ajax,” you began again, “are you happy?”

Childe didn’t reply, instead leaning over to kiss you. You reciprocated it gladly, not truly wanting an answer to your question, although a part of you desperately needed it. Was Childe happy? You couldn’t tell. But despite your newfound hatred for the Tsaritsa, your disdain for the gods which had grown in the years of your hardship, your long abandoned faith, you still prayed to the Seven that Childe was happy. Because he deserved it. Because you loved him.

 You tried not to cry when he left, wanting to see him off with a smile and a wave, the way noble men and women would wave to the knights who were on their way to save the kingdom. But always your voice betrayed you, cracking and shaking, trembling violently against the knowledge that you wouldn’t see your loved one again, not for a very long time.

“Be careful.” You whispered, giving Childe one last hug.

“I will.” He assured you, kissing your forehead. “You be careful as well my love, I couldn’t stand it something were to happen to you. If anything happens, think of me, I’ll rush to your side immediately.”

“Don’t forget to write,” you replied, switching the subject so you didn’t have to think about the implications of Childe abandoning the Fatui, what might happen to him if he tried, “your letters are all I have.”

“I hope that’s not true!” Childe said, tone full of false mirth. “I hope you’re happy beloved, I hope you find happiness when I’m gone. Your life ought not to be spent waiting for me.”

“But you’re all I have.” You replied, staring down at the ground. “Everything has changed. My home, my work, my future. Even you’ve changed, you just keep changing and changing, running farther and farther away. But you’re still all I have. And I have to hold on to you, no matter what.”

Childe brought his hand to your cheek, raising your gaze up.

“I’m not changing my darling. No matter what I do, no matter where I go, I’m still Ajax. I’m still the man who wants to spend his life with you, who wants to travel the world with you, fighting monsters, sleeping under the stars at night. I’m still the man who wants to wake up with you every night and go to bed with you every morning. I’ll never run ahead of you, I’ll never leave you behind. Because if I’m all you have then you are what keeps me myself. You are why I can still be Ajax. And that will never change. So don’t despair, and don’t let yourself be swallowed up while I’m gone. Live your life to the fullest, I promise I’ll always be there, waiting for when you need me.”

 Childe waved from the ship he’d boarded until it disappeared over the horizon. You waved back, even as your arm ached and your hand fell asleep. “Goodbye.” You whispered to the wind. There was no reply, but then again you weren’t looking for one.

Childe, Ajax, Tartaglia. These names all belonged to the one you loved. He was a whirlwind, a rogue current which had knocked you off your feet, carrying you into uncertainty. And yet you welcomed him, longed for him, loved him with all your soul.

Even if things kept changing, even if the Fatui’s hold on him only grew stronger, you’d still believe in him. He was your star, guiding you through a desolate ocean. Even if he sometimes disappeared behind the clouds, he’d always be there. You had to believe that, had to trust him.

He was your star after all.

Your Childe.

Your Ajax.

[jooniyah]

Poison Apple

Pairing: Kim Taehyung x Fem Reader ; Min Yoongi x Fem Reader

AU: Yandere!au, Moneylender!Taehyung 

Genre: Angst, Mature, Smut

Warnings: NON CON, Hard Yandere behavior, forced witness, kidnapping, implied forced pregnancy, emotional abuse, violence, character death, voluntary starvation, degradation and physical abuse, manipulation, profanity, smut, blood, knives, guns, and murder. 

Word count: 22.35k

I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I waterd it in fears, Night & morning with my tears: And I sunned it with smiles, And with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night. Till it bore an apple bright.

                                                - William Blake

Disclaimer:  This is a work of fiction and I do not condone any of the actions of the characters in this fiction. This is to be treated as pure fantasy, and should not be misconstrued to be demeaning the idols in any way. If any of the above warnings cause you discomfort, kindly refrain from reading. 

This is a non-consensual setting, please proceed only if you are not triggered by the warnings. I repeat, please be sure to read all the warnings carefully.

 Author’s note:  This is the longest fic I’ve ever written. I’ve been mulling it over in my head for years now. Please don’t come at my throat, it is non-con yandere. Enjoy!

*****

“Baby?” you chirped, watching your husband absent-mindedly stare at the windows. You huffed, turning off the stove and brandishing the ladle at him.

    “Honey? You didn’t tell me if it tasted good.”

He didn’t respond, clutching the half-eaten pork rib, lost in thought.

    “YOONGI,” you called out, shaking him by the shoulders, “Look at me.”

He snapped out of his trance, looking at you with bewildered eyes.

    “Huh?”

The confusion on his face served to make him look even more lost.

  “So, you never listened to my rant about Hoseok’s pork ribs?” He looked blank. “What happened to you, Yoongs?” you asked, clearing out the counter and perching on top of it next to him.

He sighed heavily and hung his head with a faint “Nothing.” As you stared at the soft whorl of his thick black hair, a rising panic bubbled up in your chest. It had been so long since your husband had talked more than five syllables with you. You had jumped out of bed on finding him missing one night, only to find him curled up on the terrace in the biting cold. Over the course of days, his eyes had become bloodshot. He had suddenly become a light sleeper, waking up startled on the slightest of noises. Now, looking at him, you found he had become gaunt and morbidly pale. What was it that ate away at his soul like this? He hadn’t been to his office in days, and he had switched off his work phone. You drummed your fingers nervously on the counter. Was he… was he trying to hide something from you? If so, what was it? You couldn’t help biting your nails in apprehension. Was it an affair? Was it guilt that had made him unable to look at your face? Had he cheated on you? No. You couldn’t think of marriage-killing stuff like that ever happening between you guys.

  “Baby,” you tried again, reaching out to entwine his bony fingers in yours. “You can tell me anything, you know that, right? Just tell me, baby, it is killing me to see you like this.”

He remained silent, the only acknowledgment of your words being a slight squeeze of your fingers. You waited in companionable silence, holding his hand and looking at the rays of light flooding in through the windows. As you were watching little particles dancing in the sunlight, there was a harsh squeal of tires outside. Like a bullet from a gun, Yoongi jumped off the counter and dashed to the windows. He looked out and jumped back as if he were electrocuted. He tugged the blinds harshly and ran to you, clutching your hand and dragging you off the counter.

“Baby, wha…”

He turned around and you saw his countenance had grown paler than ever, all the blood drained from his face. He urgently shushed you, pulling you flush against his body and sprinting to the door. Just as his fingers circled the doorknob, the door flew wide open, crashing against the wall with a heavy thud.

Men kept storming in, all heavyset and brawny. As they closed in on you both, Yoongi slid himself in front of you, shielding you as much as he could. The men advanced towards him, causing him to back further until you were pressed against the wall. Suddenly there was a hush inside the room, and you peeked out to see a tall man entering your home in unhurried strides. The men parted like water, allowing him to amble easily towards Yoongi. He had a shock of dark hair, which was long enough to dance on his eyebrows as he walked. He was dressed all in black, his suit contrasting with his pale complexion and lending a mysterious air to him. He had broad shoulders and a slim waist, accentuated by the perfectly fitting suit.

One of the men brought him a chair, which he turned around and placed about an arm’s length from your husband. He draped his legs on the sides lazily, holding on to the top of the backrest and resting his chin on his forearms. He looked innocently at your husband, his dark eyebrows suddenly shooting up as he caught sight of your lithe body shielded by Yoongi’s lean frame. You had no idea who all these men were, but something told you they were not good news. You closed your eyes and held on to your husband’s shirt, wishing they would all go away quickly. There was a tense silence in the room that hung around like dark clouds. A rich sonorous voice cut through the silence, causing you to peek again to see who owned it. To your surprise, it was coming from the stranger seated on your chair, it was unbelievable that such an orotund voice could emanate from the willowy man.

 “Well, well, Min Yoongi, you seem to not own a calendar.” The man tsked in lazy irritation. “You know I hate irregulars.”

You could feel your husband tense up, and his chest heaved with his sigh.

“ I need a few more days, Taehyung.”

The stranger addressed as Taehyung threw his head back in mock surprise, widening his eyes and cupping his cheeks.

“Oh! I would have never come if I knew I could count on your word.”

The mockery in his eyes instantly morphed into a dangerous glint, and he pushed the chair away violently as he stood up. He moved forward and bunched the collar of your husband’s shirt, leering at him with rage. His eyes moved over to your terrified ones, and he whistled.

“Look what a doll we have here.”

He thrust his arm behind Yoongi and yanked you out, clutching your forearm in a painful grip.

 “No! Leave her alone!”

Yoongi was screaming, trying vainly to catch hold of you. The Taehyung guy was stronger than you thought. He never budged as you jumped and thrashed about, trying to get his hand off your arm, where you knew bruises were stirring. Yoongi charged forward with gritted teeth.

“This is only between you and me.”

Taehyung smirked. “I beg to differ.”

Two burly men clasped their arms around Yoongi’s shoulders, throwing all their weight on him to keep him locked in place. You turned to see your husband struggling against their hold, mouth snarling with his exertion. Long fingers circled the collar of your soft white nightshirt, bunching the material up and pulling you closer to their owner’s body. Taehyung’s tall frame dwarfed you, his long black bangs brushing his eyebrows as his fiery eyes stared at you. He leaned over, his nose nuzzling against yours.

“How is this just between me and him,” he breathed, eyes never leaving yours, “-when he has such a doll of a wife who clearly needs explaining?”

Your eyes quickly darted to Yoongi’s figure, when the man in black cupped your jaw and shifted your focus back to him.

“Whatever is your problem with him?” you spat at him through clenched teeth.

There was a deep hearty chuckle, which reverberated throughout his body. His eyes crinkled in amusement and he leaned back a little to survey your face.

“You don’t even know what your husband has been up to behind your back?”

You drew a sharp breath, which felt like cold ice slicing through your innards. What had Yoongi done?

  “Y/N don’t look at me like that. He makes it sound so bad. It really isn’t,” Yoongi pleaded in a hoarse voice.

  “Shut him up,” Taehyung ordered, and the command immediately earned Yoongi a box to the ears and a knife to his throat. Pulling the overturned chair back upright, Taehyung sat down in front of you. His slim legs were too long for the chair, which caused him to slide further in the seat with his legs jutting out, making him look like he was made up entirely of legs.

“Wanna sit on my lap while you listen, sugar?” he asked, patting his pants.

You crossed your arms, glaring at him. His casual tone was really riling you up.

  “Just get on with it. And don’t call me ‘sugar’ ever.”

There was another deep chuckle. He leaned back and stretched lazily, causing two legs of the chair to hover mid-air.

  “Alright, sugar. I would love to tell you all of it, but I’m in a bit of a rush.” He winked at you as he drawled, “ Pity I am not free tonight.”

Your eyes narrowed in impatience and he loved the way your face twisted in annoyance.

  “Long story short, your husband owes me 50 million dollars.”

Your mouth fell open, disbelief coursing all over you. No, this had to be a mistake. Yoongi hadn’t ever mentioned being in debt. He hadn’t even been having trouble with his company. Or had he?

  “You look surprised, honey.”

You were still frozen in place, not quite comprehending why Yoongi would have borrowed so much money. You looked at your husband, hoping that he would say that it was all a misunderstanding. But Yoongi had gone silent, his eyes were downcast.

“Yoongi?”

Nothing but a small nod to prove that Taehyung was indeed telling the truth.

  “50 million dollars, Yoongi?” you asked, your voice incredulous. “What were you even thinking?”

    “I hoped I could pay him back,“ Yoongi mumbled softly.

Taehyung crossed his legs, one hand ruffling his long unruly hair and the other gripping the chair. He gazed at you; he could almost hear the wheels turning in your head.

  “Well, sugar? Which of you two is going to give me my money back?” He flicked his wrist and looked at his watch. “I want it now.”

    “I … We don’t have that much money with us right now.“ Sweat blossomed on your forehead. “This is the first time I’m hearing about this.”

  “Sorry I broke the news that your husband doesn’t trust you, love. But I don’t give a fuck about your trust issues. I need my money. Now.”

  “Please, just give us some more time. We will pay you back somehow.”

  “And how would I trust you, considering your man is already penniless? How would you pay me back?”

  “We will … we will figure something out. Please, just trust me.”

He pursed his plump lips like a playful child, crinkling his eyebrows at you. Something about your doe-eyes softened him. He had almost skipped coming; the original plan had been to send only his men to your house. But now, watching your wide eyes pleading to him, he was glad he had decided to come himself. He remembered the loaded gun inside his coat pocket, which he had intended to use before he had set his eyes on you.

  “Alright. Let’s see how trustable you are. You have three days.”

You heaved a sigh of relief.

  “But I’ll take the bastard with me.”

The relieved smile was instantly wiped off your face.

  “But…” you sputtered, hands flailing wildly. “I don’t have any idea how I…”

  “He hid his debt from you. Now he has left you to clean up the mess all by yourself, huh sweetie?” He tilted his head to the side. “Are you really willing to do it for a man who didn’t even trust you, his wife?”

   He could see your face flinch as his words cut through you. He decided Min Yoongi was a fool to have fallen headfirst in his trap, especially with you not knowing. But then, Yoongi would probably not have borrowed as much if you had known and stepped in to curb the snowballing of his debt. It would have foiled his trap. He smiled. He was happy that Yoongi had managed to get neck-deep in trouble.

“Don’t worry, Yoongi. I will come fetch you as soon as I can, honey.”

Taehyung’s eyebrows shot up as he caught the moment’s hesitation before the word ‘honey’. He knew it was uttered for his benefit. The word was your shield, a magic circle you drew around yourself, thinking it would help ward off his flirtatious advances. Underlining you were Yoongi’s, a taken woman. You really thought you could hide behind it? His heart warmed. You were too adorable.

Swinging his feet off the chair, he rose and strode to Yoongi. He stared at the bloodshot eyes that glared back at him.

  “Let’s go, loser.”

You helplessly watched your husband being dragged out by the collar.

   "I love you, Y/N. I am sorry,“ Yoongi shouted across his shoulder, as he was manhandled roughly out of the door. All the men poured out of the apartment, leaving you standing alone. Your eyes welled up as you looked at the empty doorway.

   "I love you too.”

*****

You had no idea where to start. There were only three days to get all the money ready. Frankly, you were clueless. Yoongi had never been intent on saving. Almost all his earnings went back into his business. Your job as an interior designer paid well, but nowhere near millions of dollars.

It was a stupid idea, to begin with. Borrowing 50 million dollars from a goon? What even had got into Yoongi? How were you expected to pay all of it back within 3 days? It was absolutely impossible. That Taehyung guy was evidently setting you up to fail.

Your brain felt like it had stopped working. Nothing you thought of seemed to make sense. ‘Okay okay, Y/N,’ you told yourself, ‘fucking get it together.’ Your head was pounding. Every minute reminded you that you were getting closer to the deadline. It only made you even more nervous.

Your stomach tightened in a knot. It felt like you were going to be sick. ‘No,’ you muttered, ‘think of something that’ll help.’ You closed your eyes as you massaged your throbbing temples. You could visualize the sands of time rapidly falling down your 3-day sand clock.

Back at his office, Taehyung couldn’t stop thinking about you. He had never been a man of romance; his only encounters had been with easy women looking for hookups in bars. As a unique exception, he found himself obsessing over a woman who was neither easy nor available. He twirled his pen in his hands as he thought about your beautiful doe eyes. He could swear he could still smell the faint berry scent of your hairspray.

As he looked out the window, lost in thought, your visuals came rushing to him. He remembered your high nose, your slender neck, and the sharp angle of your chin that could cut his heart to shreds. Your full figure that the thin nightshirt had done little to hide. The faint gloss on your lips that had allured him. He couldn’t remember the last time that he had ever noticed another woman this much. Was it because he hadn’t been laid in weeks? He didn’t think so. There was something about you that not only inspired lust but also made him fiercely protective. He had never felt that way with any other woman. He was a man who fucked once and then closed the door on the woman for good. But with you, he wanted to own your pretty eyes. He wanted to be the man your eyes searched for in a crowd. He wanted his hand to be the one you reached for. He wanted to worship you and protect you with his entire being. Your heart, your smile, your soft hair, your lithe frame, he wanted all of it.

He looked at the gardener watering the lawn. As he eyed the little droplets of water spraying from the hose, his mind wandered to the fantasy of seeing you wearing that thin nightshirt, drenched in water so he could see everything you had to offer. A heady sensation overtook him so hard that his eyes rolled back in his head. He shook his head and looked down at his pants. Just thinking about you had brought on a hard-on.

*****

If someone had told you two years ago that Yoongi would fall in debt and lose all his money, you would have laughed in their face. Yoongi was not a newbie to the business. He was the son of the richest businessman in the county. His family was old money, and they were wildly popular in elite circles. There was not a party that his mother wasn’t invited to. People stood in respectful silence if his father walked past them. As the only son and the heir of the Min family fortune, Yoongi had a lot of expectations to live up to.

He had been burdened with expectations ever since he had been born. While other children went out on hikes and summer camps, he had the best tutors in the nation mercilessly hounding him with business tactics. While his friends read Rowling and discussed magic, he was forced to read dry books on management and debate with his tutors. He had found early on in his life that there were two kinds of people around him. The ones who wanted to be friends with him to bask in his achievements, and the ones who genuinely liked him for who he was. Like the boy who came every day to play Chess with him. No wait, there was only him, no one else was on that list. He wasn’t sure which category his university friends fell into. No one felt genuine, at the same time, no one felt utterly fake. That was one of the reasons Yoongi had a hard time trusting anyone. All that was set to change one day, thanks to his mom.

Yoongi had never kissed a girl in his life. It was not something he was proud of. Not that he wasn’t interested though. He had a bevy of girls swarming around him all the time, trying their best to catch his eye. To them, he was a gold mine that assured them a luxurious future. He was also exceptionally handsome and that sealed the deal. But he found none of them were really interested in him as an individual. He had once found an attractive girl in a frat party and had thought his first kiss was going to be with her. She had seemed smart and funny too. Until she had flashed him a gorgeous set of pearly whites saying “… so I heard you’re going to inherit the whole of the Min family estate, huh?”

It was on a late evening that Yoongi stood in his porch, nursing a Baccarat wine glass and wondering if he would step into his 24th year on Earth never having kissed a woman. That was when a car skidded to a halt before him, and you stepped out. He watched you alight and smooth your pencil skirt, an unhurried look on your pretty face. You reached again into the car to fetch your sleek briefcase and looked at your watch. A smile graced your features. Yoongi was impressed. A punctual woman. You walked with the brisk tap-taps of your heels and sailed past him without a glance. As you crossed him, he could smell the lingering flowery notes of your perfume. His phone dinged in his pocket announcing it was time for yet another overseas call. As he turned back to reach his room, your perfume lingered in a corner of his mind long after the traces of the scent had vanished.

Yoongi’s mother was an elite socialite. Her name was uttered with reverence in the high circles. She had a web of powerful friends which she relied on for anything of importance. Like when she wanted to re-decorate her office in alignment with the latest trends. She had asked Mrs. Park for ideas, and the lady had provided her with your number. You had been struggling to land a project fresh out of your apprenticeship. Mrs. Park had tried you out for her daughter’s new apartment and had found your work commendable. She had readily advised Mrs. Min to hire you, whispering conspiratorially into her phone, “She doesn’t charge as much for her work, but I think she should. She really is a steal at her price.” And so, Mrs. Min had called you to her place.

And that was the start of your new project. Mrs. Min was not a person who traveled to offices that didn’t belong to conglomerates. So, it came about that you visited her once in two days, bringing your designs and seeking her inputs on them. You found her very friendly, she listened to your explanations patiently without trying to interrupt like a know-it-all. She hadn’t any airs, contrary to what you had expected when you had first met her.

Yoongi hadn’t seen you on your previous visits. Understandable, considering his jam-packed schedule. But one innocent question to his mother told him who you were, and on what days you were expected to visit. It started as a mild curiosity on his part. He simply thought you were interesting and wished to see more of you. Increasingly, his schedule adjusted to your visits, and he often walked in on you, dropping business news to his mother while sneaking a look at you. He lived in a condo, away from his parents. But he needed to meet his father and discuss business several times a week. And given his sudden interest in you, it was a pleasure for him to drop by at his parents’ home.

Things came to a head on a stormy Friday night. You had stayed far too long in Mrs. Min’s chamber, poring over the plans and jotting down her suggestions. She had caught you staring at the empty glass on her table and had excused you to fetch yourself a drink.

  “Ask the maid to hand you wine, my dear,” she urged, “We have a splendid collection.”

So, you found yourself wandering to the cellar in pursuit of a drink. Maybe it wasn’t necessary to bother the maids, you were sure you could get a glass yourself. You reached the pitch-dark cellar and felt around for the light switch. When you switched it on, the lights lit up all the shelves in a wonderful ambiance. Rows and rows of bottles were stacked on the shelves, the light catching on their glossy bodies and illuminating them. Taking all of it in, you whistled under your breath as you saw bottles dating back decades.

  “I’ll be damned.”

Picking an elegant Chateau Latour, you poured some of the crimson liquid into a crystal glass and set it on the marble counter. There was a stool that you pulled and sat on, kicking off your heels. You were not a woman who wore ridiculously high heels, but the heels that day had not been exactly comfortable. You bent down, massaging your slightly sore feet, when a shadow fell on you, darkening your vision and casting a long shadow on you. You raised your head and saw a man standing before you. He hadn’t seen you; he had come in to pick a bottle for himself. You quickly rose to your feet and the sudden movement caught his attention. With a swift turn, he swung around to face you.

Yoongi had never seen you up close. It felt like a dream to him. The dim light from the shelves fell on you, highlighting your cheekbones and lending a captivating air of mystery to your features. Your eyes glinted and sparkled, the light from the bottles making it seem like you had swallowed all the stars in the sky with your eyes. He cleared his throat, running his hand through his hair as he racked his brain for a suitable line to say.

“Mr. Min, a pleasure meeting you.” Stepping forward on your naked feet, you offered him your hand.

“Likewise,” he said, giving your hand a firm shake. He smiled at you, little gummy smile and all.

“A fine collection you have here,” you ventured, nodding at the shelves.

He nodded proudly, gesturing to another row of shelves at the far back.

“We have our finest wines here, dating back centuries.”

You smiled politely, suddenly remembering your haphazardly strewn heels and the bare state of your feet. He saw you shuffling awkwardly, and his eyes landed on your feet. His eyes widened. He had never seen such dainty little toes before. With a sheepish smile, you bent down and picked up the heels, slipping your feet into them and effectively disturbing his appreciative gaze on them.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it then,” he muttered, reaching out to pick a bottle. When he turned and left, you found you had held your breath the entire time. Sighing, you finished your drink and proceeded to return to Mrs. Min’s office. A good two hours later, it was pouring with rain outside. As you filed all your papers and returned them to your briefcase, you worried about having to drive through the pounding rain. Mrs. Min seemed to read your uneasiness.

“Would you be able to ride in this downpour, dear?” She craned her head to watch the sheets of rain. “I think you’d better stay the night here.”

“Oh, that’s alright Mrs. Min, I’m sure I would be fine.”

“At least, let me send one of my people with you.” She paused and decided it wouldn’t do to send a maid or manservant with you at that hour of the night. The drivers had retired to their beds already. Wait-her son was still home.

“Let me find Min Yoongi and send him with you.”

Without waiting for an answer, she went off to her husband’s study where Yoongi usually stayed up till the wee hours of dawn, working on company matters. She was back in a couple of minutes, with Yoongi in tow.

“Allow my son to drive you,” Mrs. Min patted her son’s fine back. He nodded at you, not an over-enthusiastic nod but a crisp let’s-get-on-with-this nod. You started to feel he didn’t want to do anything with you, and it made you feel awkward.

The short ride to your apartment happened in two moods. You were nervous that Yoongi was miffed at having to drive you; Yoongi was nervous that you seemed cold and imagined you hated being alone with him. Neither of you guessed that the tension in the air between you had nothing to do with annoyance or hate.

As Yoongi nosed his car into the parking lot, you worked up the courage to say in a small voice, “Uh, would you like to come in and wait the storm out?”

Yoongi’s grip on his steering wheel tightened. He could feel his heart hammering away. The moisture in his palms started to make the steering wheel slippery. What was this? He was completely baffled. Did you want him to go in and sit with you? Or was this one of those cheeky invites to-, he shuddered, - to go in and kiss? Your intent gaze, as you waited for him to respond, was not helping his confusion in any way. Before he could think more, he found his voice saying “Sure.” He was surprised at how calm he had sounded because on the inside he was anything but.

Once inside, you made straight for the couch, nothing about your face suggested flirtation. He exhaled and calmed himself down, sitting across from you, watching you as you kicked your heels off happily. He looked around at your apartment, everything was neatly arranged, not a thing was out of place. His eyes were drawn to your biggest asset that occupied a large portion of your hall: your bookshelf.

“Virginia Woolf?” His eyebrows shot up as he scanned the shelf.

You said nothing, words refused to come out.

“Language is wine upon the lips.”

Your eyes widened in surprise, hearing those words from him, of all people. The word 'wine’ instantly took you back to that cellar, where he had stood before you, framed by that insanely beautiful light as if he were a revelation.

“Y/N?” His lips curled in a grin. “I never thought quoting Woolf was the best way to earn a woman’s reverence.”

Your cheeks flushed crimson, and you racked your brains for a witty reply.

“When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don’t seem to matter very much, do they?”

His grin widened, breaking out into a hearty chuckle. He nodded dramatically, eyes shining in amusement. You regarded him with an interested gaze.

   "I never thought you’d have read Woolf.“

He rolled his head back lazily. “Ah, you’re the first and last person to know.”

  “I’m honored.” You smiled at him as he scanned your shelf again.

  “Charlotte Bronte.” He jerked his head at you with a raised eyebrow.

  “She’s my favorite. I am crazy about Jane Eyre.”

He pursed his lips comically, pressing his index fingers together as if he were meditating.

  “She wasn’t beautiful, Rochester was not handsome, they had a 20-year age gap,” he counted out on his fingers, mischief on his face.

  “That’s the beauty, isn’t it? Heroes and heroines are usually described as beautiful and handsome respectively, but this time the book focused on love, just between two normal people.” You paused and looked ahead, stars in your eyes. “Helen was my favorite character; she was wise beyond her age. I feel so strongly drawn to such peaceful tranquility.“

He closed his eyes and decided that you were the smartest woman he had ever come across, second only to his mother. As both of you discussed more about literary characters, he found himself wishing that the storm would never abate. He wanted more of your presence, he wanted to hear your voice talk about things he had secretly loved all his life.

The time came for him to leave, and he grumblingly got up to bid good-bye.

” I’ll ask one of the drivers to fetch you your car in the morning,“ he said, slipping into his coat. “And allow me to say that this was the best night of my life.”

Blood rose to your cheeks, making you feel feverish. “That makes two of us,” you said, heart brimming with happiness on seeing him smile.

Long after he had left, you found yourself staring at the doorway. With a sigh, you closed the door, knowing that you loved every moment he had spent with you, but there was no doubt you would have loved it, even more, had things gone a little bit differently.

*****

Ever since that fateful night, Yoongi found himself making pleasant small talk with you whenever you visited Mrs. Min. And each time, he found himself wondering if he was more than just interested in you. He could feel the way his pulse quickened on seeing you, the way all the hair on his arms stood up when you brushed him accidentally. He started noticing your little habits. He loved the small twist of hair that fluttered while you walked, the little tear-shaped earrings you wore, the small jingle of your metal bracelet when it hit the table as you worked. He was amused at the way you wrote the number 5, starting at the bottom and ending at the top. The lone dimple on your left cheek that flashed only when you grinned in genuine pleasure always left his knees weak.

Yoongi had no experience with women, and he found it maddening that he didn’t know how to properly flirt. So, he turned to his chess-mate for help. The guy was quite helpful, but Yoongi was doubtful if his suggestions were a bit too cheesy. He began to panic, unsure if you preferred the corny lines his friend fed him, or the poetic ones aplenty in the old literary gold you were clearly fond of.

So, it was a very confused Yoongi that was sitting with you a few days later on the stone bench in his mother’s lawn. His mother had gone out on an urgent errand. You had already parked your car on the porch when the news of her being away reached you. It turned out you were at a free end that evening, which Yoongi decided to benefit from. The stone bench felt warm from all the sun’s rays that had fallen on it throughout the day. You had been talking about your work day, and he had been listening happily.

Suddenly, without even knowing it happened, he dipped his head down, capturing your soft lips in a hesitant kiss. It was pleasant for a moment until he realized he was supposed to deepen it. He started panicking. He knew tongues would be involved, but how on Earth was he going to achieve that feat? Sweat started running down his neck, and his breathing became labored. You noticed his discomfort and leaned back, opening your mouth to form “What…” He saw your mouth open and took the chance to dive in again, relaxing thankfully when there was no opposition from your side. When both of you finally broke the kiss, he was so embarrassed that he couldn’t bring himself to look at your eyes.

He was certain you had hated it. He knew he had been sloppy, and he vowed to blame his kissing abilities if you never wanted to see him again. While he was internally kicking himself, you put your little hand in his large ones, with a mild “Are you alright, Yoongi?” When he didn’t answer, you added wickedly, “That was a hell of a kiss.”

His head shot up, indignant at first, the annoyance quickly morphing into merriment as he took in your coy wink.

  “Trust me they’ll get better.”

When there was no reply, his confidence plummeted again. He started to stammer “I didn’t imply-” before he was silenced with another searing kiss.

*****

It was the night of your sixth date when both of you were cuddled up in one blanket, feet dangling from the roof of his balcony. Yoongi was content with you at his side, your sweet-smelling hair cascading down your shoulders and brushing against him. He wanted to say something and seal the moment. But what should he say? Taking your index finger in his hands, he started tracing the delicate bones as he worked up his nerves.

Closing his eyes, he blurted out, “Design our home.”

You looked at him, startled. “Do you want me to be your designer?”

He shook his head, pressing the bridge of his nose with his thumb. “No. I am asking you to own my home and make it beautiful by being in it.”

He was screaming at himself for not phrasing the words better. He made a mental note to go kick his chess mate’s balls off for suggesting the damned line. There was a heavy silence, so heavy that it suffocated him. He slowly opened his eyes. Just as he decided he had lost you forever, a tinkling giggle reached his ears, leaving him dumbstruck. The giggle amplified into more giggles, finally breaking out into peals of joyful laughter. As the laughter subsided, you wiped your streaming eyes and replied: “Only if you promise to remain this cute.”

*****

The next day, Yoongi took you to his parents and announced the engagement. He had proposed again properly, with a beautiful ring, but you had told him you really preferred the first version of his proposal. Mrs. Min took the news very well, she smiled as she hugged you and pecked you on the cheek. “I knew it was just a matter of time before he fell for you,” she whispered with a twinkle in her eyes.

After four glorious months of being engaged, you had a beautiful white wedding that Mrs.Min organized with aplomb. You had no parents, so your best friend Hoseok happily agreed to give you away. Your friends did everything they could to soothe the pain of your parents not being there to see your happiness. There were festoons engraved with Yoongi’s and your initials, adorning every nook and corner, declaring your love to the world.

As you walked down the aisle with a proud Hoseok beaming all over his face, Yoongi felt like he could choke with happiness. You grinned at him as you reached his side, tilting your head to allow Hoseok to peck your cheeks. Hoseok then shook hands with Yoongi, winking at him and slapping his back. And then the magic moment arrived.

All the words that the minister said felt like cotton candy. It all just blew away, and only the sweetest words remained- “I do.” You had tears in your eyes as you accepted Yoongi as your lawfully wedded husband. Yoongi’s mother passed down her own mother’s wedding ring, a beautiful solitaire diamond ring that glittered and shone. Yoongi smiled through tears, whispering “In case you ever foolishly forget: I am never not thinking of you,” as he slipped it on your finger, claiming you as his own. The wedding kiss had tears from Yoongi’s cheeks and yours falling onto the lips, strangely tasting sweeter than the choicest nectar.

As he walked out of the church, he was filled with a deep pride. You loved him. You were his. You were Mrs.Min.

*****

The Min family welcomed you as one of their own with open arms. As a wedding gift, Yoongi’s parents gifted you a charming house, a skeleton of a house really. It was yours to design and furnish, yours to apply all your designing skills and turn it into your home. Your days passed happily, enjoying the lavish affection your husband showered on you, and doing what you loved when he went away for the day.

Your clientele grew, as you were now part of the elite club. There were commissions from Mrs. Min’s friends to help alter and redecorate their offices and homes. Yoongi worked all day, managing his father’s businesses and clients. But when he came home, all his stress evaporated away, leaving only fierce embers of love. He was doting, sweet, animalistic, feral, subtle, blunt, all thrown into one perfect balance, leaving you gasping and deliciously wanting for more.

Just as life seemed that it was all sunshine and happiness, tragedy struck. Your father-in-law was involved in a bad car accident, which left him severely injured. The days were filled with frantic phone calls from investors, grim faces of doctors, alcohol-sprayed hospital rooms, and the slowly fraying nerves of your husband. Your mother-in-law never lost her composure, she went about her duties robotically. She tended to her husband, watching as his body struggled to recuperate. She witnessed his body slowly shutting down one part at a time. She read to him, prayed at his side, slept at the bedside, never leaving him. But on the day she saw him breathing his last, your mother-in-law broke.

Min Sung-Hee had been a proud woman, who had defied societal conventions and broken ties to marry the man she loved. His demise was a severe blow to her, she had never thought her husband was even capable of dying. She had clung on to the gossamer hope that he would recover, and when he failed to do so, the thread snapped. She was left unhinged.

You brought her to live with you, but nothing was helping her steer towards sanity. Each night, you were kept awake with the heart-breaking howls and sobs that reverberated through the walls. Her eyes lost their luster, tired wrinkles covered her face the way moss silently creeps on rocks and obscures them. On a particularly desolate night, you found her holding a knife, face impassive. When you tried to call her name, she paid no heed. Suddenly, with a blood-curling yowl, she hurled herself at the mirror, shattering it and sending shards flying all over the place. You screamed for Yoongi as she kept banging her head on the broken mirror. Your screams disturbed her and she flew at you, knife aimed straight at your throat.

There was a rush of footsteps behind you, and a strong hand pushed you to the side. Yoongi wrestled his fragile mother as softly as he could, prying the knife away from her and locking her in a tight hold. You were trembling when you ran down to fetch a glass of water, the eyes that had looked at you had been devoid of any recognition.

It was very painful but Yoongi knew he had no choice but to send his mother to an institution. He didn’t want you to be afraid in your own home. He was scared for you, and for his mother’s safety too. He wanted her to get the best care, and an institution seemed to be the best way to go. He reasoned with you, telling you it had to be done. It was not an easy decision, but when Yoongi saw his mother’s cold manic eyes looking back at him on the way to the institution, he knew he was doing the right thing to protect his family.

*****

Yoongi inherited his father’s businesses and everything his parents owned. Financially, you were richer, but emotionally you felt poorer. You had grown to consider Yoongi’s parents your own, and their absence scarred you deeply. The playful Yoongi was gone, replaced by a serious man who had to suddenly take charge of his father’s legacy and shoulder responsibilities that were thrust upon him.

Gone were the days when he would rush home from work to lift you as if you were his precious child. As the days passed, he became more and more trapped at his office. You longed for those magical days when there were four of you at the table, when Yoongi’s eyes had been filled with mischief and fun. It was hard to focus on your designs, but you trudged through them zealously. Yoongi still loved you, and you just had to wait for him to get a hold of his business responsibilities.

Indeed, there was a brief period when Yoongi returned early, brought you flowers, and even took you out on dinner dates. That was after he had hired Wo Bin, his new manager. For months, Yoongi was all praise for his manager. He left Wo Bin in-charge whenever he had other pressing matters to attend to. He grew to trust the man, even letting him handle a few acquisitions all by himself. He once brought Wo Bin home, and you were amused at the shy, bespectacled man who your husband had often spoken so highly of.

But it was just a matter of months before the relaxed Yoongi disappeared again, and an even more stressed husband returned to you each night. You tried asking him gently, but he remained silent, not even trying to explain. You assumed it was a deal gone bad, which your husband would surely recover from. But weeks rolled by, and Yoongi’s moodiness showed no signs of abating. If anything, he had only grown even more remote, stubbornly refusing to answer your questions, and skipping meals several days a week. You prayed and begged, but he simply shut his mouth tight, refusing to respond. That was when panic set in, gnawing at your chest. Was he guilty of something? Had he cheated on you?

Many such tumultuous thoughts had been flittering in your mind as you had grilled pork ribs on that fateful day, trying to cheer your husband up. That had been the day your world turned upside down: Taehyung had stepped into your house, tearing your husband away from you, giving you just three days to pay him fifty million dollars.

*****

“What?!”

Your scream echoed through the small glass-paneled office. Seated across you, nervously twiddling his thumbs, was Bong Ju, Yoongi’s legal advisor.

“Yes, Mrs.Min. The Min corporation has indeed filed for bankruptcy.”

You felt as if all your blood had evaporated and clouded around your face in a red haze. This was the worst thing to ever happen. Your husband was not around, the company was dying, your only relative was in an institution, and you had to cough up 50 million dollars within 68 hours. Three hours had already been wasted in Bong Ju’s explanation of the debts, there was no more time to lose.

“How the heck did the company fall so deep in debt? Last quarter’s reports were so good!”

Bong Ju shook his head vigorously. “Yes, there is nothing wrong with our company.” He paused and scratched his head. “ In fact, we would have still been an incredibly profitable company, if it weren’t for Wo Bin.”

“Wo Bin? The executive manager? What did he do?” Your knuckles were white from gripping the handles of the chair too hard.

“He struck deals with ridiculously high prices, there were so many useless acquisitions for millions of dollars. He also embezzled millions of dollars in company funds. He absconded with all the money.”

“You couldn’t trace that bastard?”

“No, Mrs.Min. He well and truly vanished. All the investors found out and they threatened to sue the company. Mr. Min had no option but to settle and avoid a legal battle. He had to file for bankruptcy, that was the only way he could pay them off.”

“And how did Taehyung come into all this?”

“He loaned Mr. Min most of the money to reach a settlement with the investors. Kim Taehyung charges exorbitant interests, but Mr. Min went ahead and borrowed huge amounts of money. He never expected to be dragged this deep into the mire.”

You buried your head in your hands. There was a serious urge to tear at your hair, which you controlled with the last of your patience. How on Earth were you expected to save the company? There was no way in Hell you could raise all the money and still salvage the company.

The man stayed mute for a few minutes, scared of setting you off again. He saw you chewing on your lip, horror written all over your face. Timidly, he cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses.

“You could… ”

“I could what?”

“Er… Mrs.Min, you could uh… try mortgaging the Min estate?”

He wiped the sweat on his forehead as he watched your face in apprehension. He was almost ready to jump out of the window than sit in that stifling atmosphere with the wife of his employer shooting daggers at him.

“Do you think that will cover it? It’s 50 MILLION dollars!” you yelled.

“Maybe, you have other assets? Like your home? I am sure you could mortgage your home too.”

You slid down a bit on your chair, massaging your temples. Your home? This man was asking you to mortgage your home? But it was your dream home! You had designed every tile on that building with love. You fanned your hot cheeks. This was about Yoongi, not the house. You could always design a new house. Swallowing the bitter taste in your mouth, you nodded. You remembered something else too.

“I have two million dollars in my savings deposit.”

You bit your lips and controlled the tears that were threatening to fall. You had put aside some of the money you earned in a deposit. It was meant to be used when you had babies. Every month, you had giggled happily while transferring money to the deposit. It had been your secret; you had never dreamt that you would be required to withdraw all of it for a reason other than your babies. It was all you had saved, just for your future children. You sniffed, deciding it had to be done to save Yoongi.

“ Withdraw the money, and start the work to mortgage our home and the Min estate.”

The man obligingly stood up, nodding.

“I will start on the course of action, Mrs.Min.”

You watched as he bowed to you, turning to leave. A thought struck you out of the blue.

“Just a minute, Bong Ju.” The tone made him turn abruptly. “Why did you not suggest mortgaging the property before, to my husband?“

There was a heavy silence. He took out his handkerchief, wiping his bald head as he licked his lips.

"Well, you see Mrs.Min,” the man advanced to you in slow steps, “Mr. Min didn’t want you to know about the financial crisis. He had hoped to resolve it before it snowballed into a full-blown nightmare.” He saw the uncertainty on your face. “You… uh, you would have come to know if he ever mortgaged the estate or the house, your signature would have been necessary.”

You deflated, wishing your husband had just believed in you and told you about his monetary struggles. Taehyung’s words repeated in your head. Had Yoongi really not trusted you enough? You shook your head. No, that couldn’t be the reason. You couldn’t lose your head over this; time was running out.

“Well, there’s one more thing, Bong Ju.” You looked at your hand, a deep sorrow weighing your heart down. With tears blurring your eyes, you slid your wedding ring off. The diamond glinted at you, looking even more radiant through your tears. You extended the ring to the man.

“Mortgage this too, it is a family treasure.”

The man looked uncomfortable. He eyed the ring on his palm warily. “Are you sure, Mrs. Min? I think-”

“Just go.”

He left without a word, leaving you alone, swirling in the emotions that were choking your lungs.

*****

You were pacing around your study, wondering what was happening to Yoongi. There had been a phone call exactly at midnight. A low raspy voice had said, “You have two days,” before cutting off abruptly. The call had left you wide-eyed and worried.

Now, as you paced impatiently, you wished you could turn to someone for help. Your mother-in-law was sure to have stowed away some money in security deposits. But how could you ask her? She barely recognized you, she would surely have no recollection of her deposits, whatsoever. On an impulse, you dialed the number of the institution in which she was housed.

You listened to the dial-back tone, nervously biting your nails. God, you smelt like a tramp. You hadn’t showered, hadn’t eaten a morsel, or even had a sip of water. The line crackled and a high-pitched voice answered.

“Klammer Institute.”

You sucked in a deep breath. “Hi, I am Min Sung-Hee’s family. How is she?”

“Oh, Good morning Mrs.Min. I am afraid she has been catatonic; Dr. Stevens upped her dosage last night to see if she responds.”

“Oh.” Your heart fell. But this was to be expected. “Is it possible for me to speak to her?”

“Let me see if she will talk, hold on.”

You waited; the answer already clear as day. It was the most foolish thing ever to expect any good outcome from this. Were you losing your mind too? It wasn’t like you to cling on to fruitless threads like this. You heard the woman speak to your mother-in-law, announcing your arrival. There was a rustle, and then silence.

“Hello?” you ventured after a few seconds of the deafening silence.

“Hm?” the voice sounded painfully feeble.

“Hey, Ma. I am Y/N. How are you?” You held your breath.

“Y/N? I don’t know any Y/N.”

“I am your daughter-in-law,” you began to explain patiently before she cut you off.

“Where is Min? Give the phone to him.”

She was asking for her husband, the poor darling. You didn’t have the heart to tell her that he had died. You were an idiot. What had you expected? A miracle?

“He… He isn’t around right now, Ma.”

“Tell him I am so lonely. Why did he leave me here? I feel so…” There was a pause. “Who are you again?”

“Never you mind, Ma. Please rest. Let me speak to the orderly.”

After inquiring more about your mother-in-law’s health, you cut the call with a sigh. There was no possible way you could ask your only relative for help. You felt even worse than when you had placed the call.

*****

There were only 12 hours left for the deadline to end. You had not showered in three days. There were tired dark circles around your eyes. You hadn’t slept in more than 30 hours, and it was making your eyes sting to look at any light. The same white nightshirt you had been wearing when Yoongi was dragged out by goons clung to your famished body. You had moved out of your house and had taken up a room in a mediocre hotel. Luxury hotels charged so much it made your ears burn.

There was an urgent knock on the door, and you sprinted to open it. Bong Ju was standing outside, a big black suitcase weighing his arm down. You practically ripped his arm off, pulling him into the room and banging the door shut.

“Well?”

You could hear your pulse throbbing in your ears. He nodded swiftly, rushing to the bed and heaving the suitcase on it. He threw it open, wiping his eyebrows in the crook of his elbow. There were stacks of crisp banknotes, arranged neatly and secured with elastic.

“There’s 50 million dollars in here, Mrs.Min.”

You looked at him with a faint sense of foreboding. “Did everything… did it all just fetch- only 50 million dollars?”

You had mortgaged your entire life. And it had all amounted to just covering your ass?

“I naturally had to avoid much negotiation, you see. Time is of the essence here and we couldn’t possibly waste it in bargaining.”

You nodded. Everything felt like water slipping through your fingers.

“And the ring?” you managed to whisper.

“It fetched 75 thousand dollars, Mrs. Min. And solely because it was an heirloom.” He lowered his voice and added, “The appraiser was an old friend of mine.”

You huffed in impatience. Who cared if he had pulled strings to get you the money? It was his job. Also, he was partly responsible for the mess your company was in. What kind of legal advisor couldn’t advise the CEO not to trust a stranger too much? You narrowed your eyes at him. It sickened you to see his greasy smile. Did he expect you to appreciate him or something? Dick.

“There’s only 11 hours and thirty minutes left.” You leaped to the bed and clamped the suitcase shut. Lugging it behind, you bolted through the door. You heard the man mutter something behind you. No time to listen. If you had turned and lent an ear, you would have heard him hiss at you:

“Mrs.Min, you are in your pajamas!”

*****

You hailed a cab, not caring in the least about the stares from all around you. A cab screeched to a halt in front of you.

“Where to, miss?” He took in your disheveled appearance. “What the hell, lady? Problems with the family?”

You jumped in and slammed the door shut. Your knuckles were aching from your hold on the suitcase. It contained your whole life.

“I need to go to the South Boulevard.”

He turned from his seat, eyeing you warily.

“That’s not a very safe neighborhood,” he shrugged, “not a place for a young woman like yourself.”

“That’s alright. I need to go there.”

“Where exactly, if I may ask?”

“Uh, Kim Taehyung’s mansion. Do you know it?”

“Oh, him.” There was a long pause. “I know that place.”

There was no more conversation after that, and you rode in silence. You chewed your nails, wondering if you should have actually counted the money for yourself. What if that sleazy Bong Ju had tried to steal some for himself? Wiping your eyebrows, you looked out the windows. Now you had no way of knowing if you really had 50 million dollars in your suitcase. It would not be safe to count the money inside the cab. You looked at the driver’s face in the rearview mirror. Suddenly you were filled with distrust that spanned to every living thing around you.

The cab ground to a halt in front of a sprawling mansion. You stumbled around with trembling fingers for change to cover the fare. As he reached his palm out to take it, the man suddenly stilled. He opened the door and stepped out, much to your alarm. He removed his coat and extended it to you.

“Take this.” He raised an eyebrow in the general direction of the mansion. “Can’t go in there in just your pajamas, lady.”

The suspicion rolled off your body and evaporated into thin air. You wrapped yourself in his coat and stammered your thanks. You stood watching the cab pull away, and shook yourself as it disappeared out of sight. 'Okay, Y/N. Time to go into the monster’s den.’

Dragging the suitcase, you charged through the gates, not paying attention to all the armed men walking around. They paused and stared, but didn’t stop you. You wouldn’t lie, all your nerves were tightly wound, almost to snapping point. You walked with your calf muscles burning, storming through the lawns and making a beeline to the enormous oak door. On reaching the door, a man with a rifle thrust his weapon at you, blocking your way.

“Where do you think you’re going, sweetmeat?”

Disgust rolled up your throat and you gritted your teeth. The man’s sweaty odor was enough to make you want to puke.

“Let me through. I need to go in to pay up my debt.”

He ran his eyes all over you, making you squirm in your nightclothes. With a sickening smirk, he lifted his rifle and allowed you to pass, calling behind you, “Boss is on the second floor. Also, nice ass.”

*****

Puffing and heaving, you reached the second floor. There were a lot of guards outside the first door, and you decided that was where Taehyung probably was. Not paying heed to the guards, you pushed the door open. Sure enough, there was the devil, his legs propped on his table, his eyes scanning a file. A gun was strewn on the table carelessly.

Taehyung looked up and saw you standing framed by the doorway. He couldn’t believe you were there, wearing the exact nightshirt that had haunted him in his dreams. He could see the damp spot on your chest, where your sweat had moistened the cloth and turned it deliciously translucent. Your hair was damp with sweat, all those little wisps of hair had stuck to your forehead like a wreath. The way your chest heaved with each breath sent a sharp ache down his groin. He looked at the suitcase in your hand, and his lips stretched in a sly smile.

“Brought my money back, huh, sugar?”

He manspread his legs on the desk, his crotch as clear as day. He was enjoying the way your eyes grew wide. The bob of your throat as you swallowed nervously sent his mind spinning with images of making you gag around him. He picked his gun and spun it as he regarded you with an arrogant smirk.

You glared at him and threw the suitcase on the table, opening it wide to show him the stacks of money.

“Take this and let Yoongi go.”

He threw his head back with a sigh. He inhaled slowly, closing his eyes. Crossing his heels on the table, he lazily toyed with his gun.

“Oh, baby doll, I wish I could.”

You tensed, electric jolts going haywire in your brain.

“What? What the fuck do you mean?”

“I don’t think I can let him go, baby girl.”

“Fucking take the money and give me my husband, KIM TAEHYUNG!”

He swung his legs off the table, watching you as he swiveled sideways on his chair. Two guards rushed in on hearing your screams. Taehyung blew on the muzzle of his gun with disinterest.

“And what if I won’t?”

You threw your hands up in despair.

“What the fuck more do you want?”

He got up and ambled around the mahogany desk. He precariously sat on the table with one leg on the floor, supporting his weight. He still had the gun in his hand, rubbing it in slow strokes on the side of his pants.

“Ah,” he said, looking beyond you at the guards in the doorway. “There’s no problem here, Wo Bin-ah. You can wait outside.”

In a flash, you spun on your heel to look at Wo Bin, standing there with a rifle. He wasn’t wearing glasses, and he towered over you, his chest puffed up.

“What? Wo Bin? You? You! You!” You lunged at him, arms outstretched in rage. He jabbed your chin with the butt of his rifle, sending shooting pain throughout your skull. Head swimming, you saw his blurred outline walk out of the room.

As you clutched your jaw, there was a deep chuckle behind you.

“Confused, honey?”

You turned and glared at Taehyung.

“What is that.. what is that scum doing here?”

“He works for me.”

“What?!”

“Hmm.” He hummed softly, rubbing his temple with the gun. He took a step towards you. “He’s been with me for years.”

“How- what was he- Where is Yoongi?” There was a sudden panic coursing through your veins. You needed to fetch Yoongi and get out of here.

“You’ll get him if you give me what I want.” He was now talking slow steps towards you.

“I already brought you the money, dickwad assbutt.”

He chuckled again, shaking his head.

“I want you.”

You froze, jaw hanging open.

He drawled lazily. “Min Yoongi is a penniless loser. He has nothing left in the world.” He came nearer. “But you just made me 50 million dollars richer. I have everything. I am so much better than him, sugar”

His eyes blazed at you. “Be mine.”

He reached out and tugged at your coat, brushing his fingers against the fabric. When you didn’t move, he circled you and stood behind you. Ghosting his arm around your waist, he spooned you from behind. He bent slightly to take a whiff of your hair. Mmm. Berries. The movement thrust his entire body snug against you.

His hands were reaching your chest, almost groping you. Suddenly, you were aware of a hard bulge pressing against you.

“NO,” you shouted shrilly at the top of your lungs, wriggling vigorously to get out of his grip. His arm tightened around your midsection and you scratched and clawed at his flesh until he hissed and released you. You pushed off his chest, screaming. His fingers clawed at the air and found your coat, holding you back as you tried to run. He held on to your coat in a vice-like grip, not allowing you to advance. With a wild shrug, you got out of the coat, catapulting to the door in the momentum. Without looking back, you ran out as if your head were on fire.

Taehyung spat out on seeing the angry red nail marks on his arms. He shouted to his men, commanding them to run after you. He would not let you get away. He ran out like a madman, slamming himself against the balcony when he saw your figure darting across the lawns. The men were chasing you, but you were running like the wind. He gritted his teeth, seeing you jump across the hedges like a hare.

He roared to a guy, shouting at him to get his car. He was going to get you, no matter what.

*****

You ran faster than you had ever run in your life. The adrenaline pushed your limits, sending you blazing through the boulevard. You cut across lanes, doing your best to not go down the obvious route. It had been almost half an hour on the run before your lungs gave out. You squinted your eyes, making out the towers of a suspension bridge that stretched over the sea, and you knew where to go.

You were thoroughly spent when you wheezed and stumbled to the bridge. The cars were whirring past, oblivious to the skimpily clad figure trudging along the bridge. It was illegal to walk on the bridge’s deck, you knew, but you didn’t care. It would be lucky for you to get into prison, at least you would be safe there. Reaching the hard left of the bridge, you gripped the railing and peered down.

The sea was lapping at the visible parts of the bridge’s foundations. The water looked frightening, stretching out in such a vast expanse that made you feel insignificant. You looked around. Cars were still moving back and forth, no one seemed to have seen you loitering on the bridge. There was no time to lose.

Throwing your leg over the railing, you hoisted yourself on the suspender cables that had the lowest elevation. You kicked your feet off the railing, resolving to not look down at the deep, deep sea splashing around down beneath. A sick panic climbed up from the pit of your stomach as you dangled from the railing, with nothing to support you but your hands. It was so hard to hold on to the metal, the afternoon sun had heated it to scalding point. Pain shot up your shoulder joints, causing you to wince in agony. The three-day starvation was quickly catching up, and you felt like you were going to pass out.

There was immediate death beckoning to you from below. The drop itself would kill you. A vague newspaper fragment floated to your mind’s eye. There had been a passage once on the newspaper about this bridge, and you knew this one was 75 feet high. Sweat rolled down your forehead, forming fat beads on your eyelashes. No, you could not let go, you would plummet to your death. The drops of sweat flowed into your eyes, stinging them and causing you to curse out loud. You had to get a move on before your arms gave out.

A few feet away, there was a small platform jutting out from under the deck of the bridge. Blinking away the salty drops blurring your vision, you swung your arm out to catch the next rail. Oh God, was it difficult. Fuck those action heroes who did it above safety nets and made it look easy as pie. You were sure your arms would tear off from all the strain. Muttering a fluent string of curse words, you heaved your body from rail to rail, never looking down.

It felt like ages before you reached the damned platform. It was made of metal, and you squealed in pain as it scorched your bottom. The thin pajamas were not helping either. Biting down on your tongue, you rolled on your bottom, wishing the heat dissipated quickly. The platform was very small, it was probably never intended to provide sanctuary for a human. The strip of metal was long, and you decided to align yourself along the length of it. There was no support on the sides, you could easily roll over and fall into the crashing waves.

You lay still, holding on to the edge of the platform for dear life. The sun was beating down on your face mercilessly. You were sure you’d be sunburnt beyond recognition if you stayed here long enough. A little farther, there were a couple of ships moving slowly against the horizon. You were watching them when you heard cars whiz past the deck, causing the platform to vibrate hard. Closing your eyes, you wondered if any of those cars carried Taehyung or his gang of goons.

*****

Taehyung couldn’t believe he had let you slip that easily. He had moved every piece in the game so carefully. How could he have lost you after so much effort? His men were combing the streets for you, dozens of his cars were patrolling the land. No one had gotten any whiff of you so far. But they would. He knew it was just a matter of hours before you would be back in his arms, nightshirt and all.

As he rode in stony anger, seated in the back of his car, he remembered the first time he had seen you.

Taehyung’s family was not old money, they had no old family ties with the rest of the elite. His father had been a part of the mafia, and the family thrived prosperously. But it still wasn’t enough to grant Taehyung the privileges Yoongi’s family enjoyed. He was invited to a lot of social gatherings, yes, but somehow he was always on a lower rung on the social ladder.

There were many events that Taehyung was excluded from. He and Yoongi never mingled. The tension in the room whenever he was in an elite gathering always made Taehyung queasy. He felt like everyone looked down on him, even if he had as much money as the rest of them. Their stares and whispers served to infuriate him, making him feel deeply resentful towards affluent families like the Min clan.

It was one such night when Taehyung had stormed out of a party hosted by one of Mrs.Min friends. He had felt passively insulted, and he had gone in an attempt to prevent screaming his head off. It had begun to drizzle, and just as he decided to turn back, he saw you.

You were walking towards the crosswalk, a book in hand. You were probably returning from a library. There was a serene vibe about you, and it drew him in completely. He watched as you waited for the light to turn green, turning your head up to feel the rain patter against your forehead. The little curve of your lips as the drops streamed down your face made his heart beat faster. Suddenly you seemed to remember about the book, and hugged it to yourself, covering it with your jacket. He stood rooted to the spot, unmindful of the rain that had begun to wet his clothes. He followed you till you reached your home, and smiled to himself after you closed the door behind you. He was going to get to know you.

It was incredibly easy to follow you around, thanks to your cute obliviousness. He soon found out all your favorite books, restaurants, coffeehouses and pubs. He never got tired of tagging behind you. It was a pleasant feeling to follow you when you flitted like a butterfly before him. Until you drove into the Min house one evening.

Taehyung parked a few blocks outside the gates, watching you each day as you drove in and out that wretched house. He was mad at you for consorting with that family. Every time, he calmed his rage by telling himself that you were just there on business. He would tell you to cut off all business ties with that snobbish family after he started dating you.

It was on a particularly windy night that he waited outside the gates, muttering impatiently under his breath. A storm was brewing, and he chided you in his mind for staying in too long. What would you do if it rained hard? The roads would be slippery, not to mention the low visibility that would threaten your safety. He was too caught up in his worry that he almost missed the sleek black car that sailed out of the gates. Just as he was about to dismiss it thinking it wasn’t your car anyway, he caught a glimpse of the riders. You. In Min Yoongi’s car.

Gripping the steering wheel tight enough to make his fingers numb, he turned on the ignition and tailed Yoongi’s car stealthily. He felt like his nerves could pop from all the rage. That was his woman in that bastard Yoongi’s car! A part of him wanted to see reason. It was raining hard, and you needed to get home. Maybe the Yoongi fellow would drop you at your house and get lost soon.

But all the amiable feelings drained out of his system when he saw Yoongi getting out and following you into the house. Hot angry tears pricked his eyes when you closed the door and locked it behind you. He ground his teeth, looking at his watch every five minutes, hoping to see Yoongi get out. Tough luck, there was no sign of Yoongi leaving in a hurry. He was shaking with anger for a good two hours before the door opened again. That was when he knew he had to destroy Min Yoongi.

Just like he had feared, you fell for that rich snob. He watched you go on dinners with Yoongi, and he knew time was running out. It was a rude shock to him when he found out you were engaged to Yoongi. So soon? God, that slimy wretch Min was moving so fast to secure you. Taehyung had no choice but to witness you grow closer and closer to Yoongi. And before he knew it, you were married. It was the first time in years he drunk himself to oblivion and passed out on the floor of his bar.

*****

Taehyung had been miserable for months after your wedding. He had been invited to the wedding of course, and he had watched another man put a ring on you and claim you as his own. There was a deep void in his heart, so deep that he couldn’t spend one waking moment without thinking of you. He wanted you, he was not going to let the wedding deter him. You had flown out of his reach, but he resolved to get you back. He was going to ruin Min Yoongi. The game had just started.

It was a stroke of luck for Taehyung when Yoongi’s father died and left his son to take care of all the businesses. Taehyung was a smart man, and he pounced on the opportunity to dig Yoongi’s trench. He plotted carefully, weighing his options. Finally, he decided to infiltrate the enemy lines and place a Trojan horse in the Min camp. That was how Wo Bin got to work in the enemy’s company.

Taehyung was proud of Wo Bin. The man was excellent at his job. He meticulously followed Taehyung’s instructions and went on to win Yoongi’s confidence. When Wo Bin completed two successful acquisitions for the Min Corporation, Taehyung knew that the time was ripe.

Slowly and steadily, Wo Bin drained the coffers, striking extravagant deals and sabotaging the company from the inside out. He convinced Yoongi that the deals were futuristic, and no harm was going to befall the company due to them. He could sense that Yoongi was uneasy, but he came up with ridiculously complex theories and shut him up for good. One weekend, when Yoongi was away at Melbourne for a deal, Wo Bin moved in for the kill.

Taehyung made sure that he was the first person who called to console Yoongi when he returned from Melbourne and found himself neck-deep in debt. Taehyung started moving with the utmost caution to secure his traps. He struck up a cordial relationship with Yoongi, calling on him and arranging friendly meetings to 'cheer him up’. That was how Yoongi wound up in a bar with Taehyung, drinking away his sorrows and slurring his words as he told Taehyung of how badly he had been cheated by his manager.

It was not until he made Yoongi sufficiently drunk that Taehyung turned on his smooth charm. He buttered up to the man, gushing on how he wished to help. He was fishing for a reaction and Yoongi promptly gave him one.

“Really? You- you will lend me money to settle off my investors?”

Taehyung smiled smoothly, turning his glass in his hand. God, the man was so gullible.

“Sure. If that’s what you want.”

“I can’t believe this. 5 million dollars? Are you sure?”

“Hey, it’s just a few millions. The important thing is that I’m getting to help you out.” He struggled to keep the victorious smirk off his face as Yoongi fell for it hard. This was going perfectly according to plan.

So Yoongi borrowed the first 5 million from Taehyung. But to his surprise, it was becoming increasingly difficult to settle all his investors. The prices kept climbing up, and within no time he found himself borrowing 5 million more. And then the 5 million turned into 10 million and he felt like it was just in a blink of an eye that his total loan amounted to 50 million.

Taehyung had finally trapped Yoongi for good. As all the memories flashed in his mind, Taehyung grinned to himself. He had succeeded in reducing his enemy to dust. And he would soon have his reward: You.

*****

You lay terribly cramped on the platform, unable to move in fear of falling down. There were sure to be sunburn on your face. The fingers that had held on to the sides of the platform were now numb and senseless. You watched the sky turn orange, pink and purple, the colors amplified by the sea. Finally, the sky wore a deep blue cloak and stars came out twinkling. A chill breeze picked up salt from the sea and blew around you, smelling like fish and seaweed. The coldness wrapped around you like a blanket, engulfing you in the overwhelming smell of the sea. You could almost taste the salt in the air. There was a ship below which looked spectacular, decked in lights. The lights made you feel warm, and you kept wondering about all the lucky people who would be in that bright, cheerful ship.

You didn’t know when you had fallen asleep. But dawn was beginning to break according to the hues of the sky. You woke with a jolt when you dreamt of falling, and it was in sheer horror that you watched your slipper drop down the platform. You peeked over the edge and saw your slipper hurtling down. It became a speck as it touched the water, and a chill ran up your back when you saw the faint ripples that swallowed it and became calm again. You had to get out of there.

Where could you go? You had no home. Taehyung probably had men at the hotel you had stayed at previously. Yoongi still was in danger. You smelt like rotten fish. God, you had to wash up. The salt in the air had made your skin annoyingly sticky. The sun would soon be up, cars would start moving, and soon the platform would heat up again. Getting up and fighting the killer cramps in your legs, you held on to the suspender cables. Balancing your weight on the tips of your toes, you scanned the deck. There was very little traffic.

Making sure to grab the cables, you jumped up and caught hold of a rail. Good. Now all you had to do was pull yourself up. Easier said than done. After 30 minutes of cussing and panting, your feet were on the deck again.

This side of the city was clearly under construction. It was probably noon, but heavy rain clouds were gathering above you. As you jogged on, you could see trenches dug out and sealed off with construction tape, probably for road works. Some of them were pretty big and connected to successive trenches, almost like a muddy subway along the road. You were too absorbed in jogging to see a car tailing you. In a couple of minutes, two more cars joined it. The first drops of rain fell, and you decided to cut across the alleyways and wait out the rain.

Just as you turned and entered a lane, you ran smack into a car. The hood was hot, and you leaped back. The headlights blinked at you through the sheets of rain.

“Sorry. My bad.”

You attempted to walk around when you saw three cars blocking your path from the back. They slowly receded to a distance and blinked their lights and you turned again to see someone stepping out from the car before you. Him.

“Well, quite the chase, baby doll.”

He draped his arm over the door, watching you. The rain made your shirt transparent, causing it to stick to your body in the most delicious ways. The cold had made your nipples harden, and the nubs were poking against the shirt. His mind went into a frenzy as he took in the way the raindrops beaded on your face.

“Let’s go home now.” He advanced towards you, extending his arm.

“No.”

“Now now, baby girl, it is useless to keep resisting.”

“I will resist until I die.” Tears mixed with the rain, flowing down your face in torrents.

“We have all the time in the world for that.”

He pulled you against him, sniffing your hair loudly, making you cringe. With a harsh shove, he sent you flying into the car.

Your wet clothes were ruining his car, but to hell with that. He had found you. Reaching over a slender finger, he clicked the lock on your side of the door in place. The outline of your body was still visible through the sheer clothes, making his mouth water. God, was he going to have fun with you.

You had no way of escaping. The door was locked and the car was zooming past the trenches. Your eyes wandered to Taehyung’s side. And then you saw it. His side was unlocked. But how to get over there? Unless… ugh. But that was the only way to do it.

It was a surprise to Taehyung when you slid closer to him, face stony. He was even more surprised when you threw a hand over his lean, firm thigh. When you threw a leg over him and made a move as if to straddle him, his eyebrows shot up. Your eyes were closed, so he could not read the expression on your face. The wet clothes soaked through his pants and gave him gooseflesh. Eyes still closed, you slowly rutted against him, holding on to both his shoulders. Oh, Sweet God, how hot you looked, grinding against him, hair plastered against your forehead and water dripping from the ends of your locks onto his shirt. A sharp pang of want shot through the length of his dick and he moaned out loud. Before he knew it, you were gone.

As soon as he had closed his eyes with a moan, you had clicked his door open and jumped out, rolling on the muddy sloshy road.

When he found out and yelled to the driver to stop, he was too late. You were nowhere to be found. The beating rain made it harder to see. Muddy rivulets were running everywhere, dark brown and dirty. His body trembled in murderous rage on realizing that you had deceived him. Bitch. He pulled out a glinting object from his coat pocket. He gritted his teeth as he twirled your wedding ring in his fingers. The diamond sparkled and glinted at him as if laughing at his folly. He could almost shoot himself for being so foolish as to believe your little stunt. When Kim Taehyung flew out of his car, he was fit to murder.

*****

It was fortunate that there was no proper road where you had fallen. You had quickly rolled into a trench and stayed there. From your vantage point, you could see the trench extending on either way like a mini subway. You couldn’t stay there; the goons might check out the trenches too. So, with your head lowered, you crawled forward, palms splashing in the mud and splattering bright brown stains all over your clothes.

A good many yard later, the trenches grew deeper, meaning that you could now stand and still not be visible by anyone who wasn’t looking into the trenches. But by now, gravity had found its way and all the runoff from the rain was pouring into the dugout pits. As you walked further, you found with growing alarm that the water level was almost to your knees and still rising. The walking turned into wading, and the water never ceased flowing into the pits. A few blocks farther, the pits came to an abrupt end. There was no way to move forward. And when you turned back, there was no way to go back either.

The open tunnel was filling fast, and the muddy walls looked like they were going to collapse and fall in, burying you alive. The road was a few feet above your head, there was no way you could jump out of this muddy maze. The water was now up to your chest. So, this was it. This was how you were going to die. Drowned in a trench, muddied beyond recognition. But hey, better than being ravaged and killed by Taehyung.

Arms outstretched, you fumbled blindly around, even as your chin dipped in the water. Just a few more minutes and you’d drown. Helplessness made you wilder, and suddenly your fingers found purchase at a rock jutting out of the mud. Stepping on it, you heaved your weight on it, launching yourself a couple of inches upwards. Okay great, your chin was out of the water. But it soon would be in the water again. Shifting all your weight on one foot, you swung the other foot hard at the crude wall on your side. No harm in seeing if you could get out. It might fall in, but you would die either way.

On the third hit, your foot lodged well into the wall. Moment of truth. You shifted your weight to the foot on the wall and heaved up. When you opened your eyes again, you were still alive, the wall supporting your body and not crumbling as you had feared. One more swing. Another. Another. In a few minutes, you were lying on the mud outside the trenches, spitting out dirt and sputtering. There was a dump truck some feet away that looked deserted. Carefully scanning the path for any suspected goons, you hurried to the truck, crawling underneath, tucking yourself there and hoping to stay hidden till the rain stopped.

From under the truck, you could see a couple of cars whizzing past on the dirt road along the trenches. Suddenly, one of them stopped and three guys got out. They walked the length of the road and turned to leave when a guy abruptly turned and peeped into the flooded trench. The howling wind made it unable to clearly hear his voice, and you could only catch “… would have drowned if she had.” The men shrugged and walked back to the car, disappearing from view a couple minutes later.

There was only blank silence in your head as you lay under the truck. There were no thoughts, your mind was completely numb. Too much had happened in too little time, so your mind just blocked all the emotions out. Every part of your body screamed in agony. Damage was a sure thing if you threw yourself out of a speeding car. Throw in a muddy adventure with a near-death experience and you had one hell of a pain cocktail. The rain started to grow lighter, and soon you had to get going again. But where to? Damn the pounding headache that kicked in to add to your misery. Where could you go?

*****

Jung Hoseok had been stirring his coffee and looking out the window for a long time. He liked the rain, but only when he was not getting wet in it. The street looked deserted, everyone was probably huddled around the fire in their homes, sipping hot drinks. He turned to his wife Bo Na, who was reading a book.

“Leaves on the trees outside are all clean and green.”

She nodded, too engrossed in her book to comment. He looked out again. “Seems like they all had a shower and dressed up fresh.” She nodded again.

“I married an idiot.”

She almost nodded, caught herself and scowled, hitting him with the book. He laughed, pulling the book playfully.

“I wanted to check if you were paying attention, hon.” He was still laughing when he looked outside again, and the smile slowly faded.

“What is it, Hobi? What do you see?” His wife was now paying him attention.

“There’s a person all muddied up, walking down the street. Poor bugger. Homeless, probably.”

“What?” His wife stood up and craned her head to see better. “Oh yes, poor thing.”

Hoseok looked at the figure as it drew closer and suddenly stood up, toppling his coffee.

“Holy shit. That’s Y/N!”

He rushed to the door, yanking it open to reveal a figure completely caked with mud, with hair matted and dried up in brown clumps.

As soon as the door opened, you fell forward, sagging against him bodily, effectively passing out.

It was eighteen hours later that you opened your eyes. You were in bed, and a dull ache in your head made you wince. When you tried to turn, a jolting pain shot through your arm, startling you. And then all the memories came flooding back. You shot up in bed, looking down at yourself. Everything was clean, your skin, palms, clothes, feet, everything. The pajamas were not yours, they were baby blue, not the soiled mess you had been wearing before. There were Band-Aids on your arms, and you smelled fresh. Your hair felt soft and mud-free and you caught the familiar whiff of coconuts. Bo Na’s shampoo.

There was a pitcher of water on the bedside table. Just as you leaned over to reach it, a man came bounding inside, crushing you in a hug.

“Y/N! You scared me shitless! Thank God!”

“Hobi,” you managed to whisper, “How long was I out?”

“18 hours. What the hell were you doing, digging a tunnel to China?”

“Hobi - I …” you paused, lowering your head. “I’m hungry. Starving.”

“Oh yes, wait a sec. Let me get you something hot.”

When he returned, Bo Na was with him, a worried look on her face. Both of them wisely held their silence as you gobbled up all the pasta ravenously. When you were done, you fell back on the pillows, sighing contentedly. But guilt immediately set in, chilling your heart. Yoongi. Would he be starving? Would those bastards have provided him food? Water? Involuntary tears welled up and rolled down your cheeks.

“Hey,” Hoseok advanced, flicking a tear away with his finger. “What is it? What happened?”

And you told your friends what had happened, not leaving out a single detail. They listened with eyes that grew wider and wider in shock. Your voice caught several times, and Hoseok sat beside you, rubbing small circles on your back. When you finished, Bo Na’s mouth was set in a straight line.

“The sick bastard.”

She reached out and took your hand, squeezing it. “We will find Yoongi, Y/N. Let us go to the police.”

Hoseok shook his head. “There’s no proof to show that Taehyung did everything Y/N just said. No offense Y/N, I believe you completely. But the police might not. There’s no proof.”

“So?” Bo Na crossed her arms. “So, what else can we do? She already paid him back.”

“No proof of that either.”

You sat up, interjecting them. “But Bong Ju is a witness. He knows I went to Taehyung and paid the money back.”

“That’s right. So, what do we do now?”

Your forehead creased in thought. “Maybe… I’ll go to him and ask him what we should do? He might suggest something.”

“That’s like relying on crumbs, Y/N. No solid plan.” Hoseok stared into your eyes with frank honesty.

“I know, Hobi. But we can’t go to the police. Taehyung might seriously injure Yoongi if he knew we went to the police.”

“True, again. Well, in that case, let’s go to Bong Ju’s. I’ll drive you there.”

“That might risk your life, Hobi.”

“No probs. You are my best friend. Now come on, get dressed. Bo Na, lend some clothes to Y/N, honey.”

*****

You didn’t have your phone to look up Bong Ju’s number. You found him on the yellow pages and called ahead to let him know. When you turned to hand back the phone to Hoseok, he looked at you quizzically.

“What was that for?”

“What was what?”

He sighed. “Why call him? You know thugs are scouring the place to find you.”

You bit your lip. “I wanted to make sure he was at his place. Didn’t want to risk your neck twice in case he wasn’t.”

“Right.” Your friend still shook his head and went to the door. “Let’s go Y/N.”

When the car pulled up outside Bong Ju’s house, you had a sudden bout of anxiety. Would there be an ambush? You weren’t even sure if Bong Ju was genuine after all. You stepped out, whispering to Hoseok to wait down the street.

“I’ll be back in a bit.”

He nodded and eased the car down the road, and you turned to look at the house. As you took a step forward, you caught a movement out of the corner of your eye. The whole street was deserted, despite it being a fine day. Something felt odd. Maybe you should turn back? What you saw next made up your mind.

The window overlooking the street was open, and there were shadows on the wall of the room. Several round ones, like human heads. And one distinct one. A gun. Time to get the hell out of the place. You turned on your heel and pelted down the street, hearing a loud crash behind you as the door swung open. Burly guys ran out, hot on your heels. Shit, how much more running could you do?

You raced to the car, but there was no Hoseok in it.

“HOSEOK??” you screamed at the top of your lungs.

The guys were closer now, you had to make a run for it. Where was Hobi? You jumped in and searched for the keys. They were gone. “Shit, shit, shit. Not now” you were boiling with rage. Where the hell was Hoseok? A guy reached the car door and thrust his hand at you. Anger made you braver than ever, and you bit his arm with all your might. Kicking the door open and hitting his groin with a hard kick, you pushed him aside and fled down the street. By then, you were familiar with fleeing successfully. Taking detours through alleys and narrow lanes, you threw the guys off your scent and hid out in an apartment’s parking lot for some time, just to make sure.

*****

You had to take elaborate round-about lanes to go back to Hoseok’s. Taehyung’s stupid sons of bitches were everywhere, cropping up like mushrooms. Maybe your friend had already returned home. But Hoseok’s car was not in the garage. He had not come back. At least his car had not.

Maybe he had called Bo Na and informed her of his whereabouts. As you stepped in, the carpet muffling your footfalls, you heard Bo Na sobbing into the phone.

“I will send - I will send her.” There was a pause to accommodate a violent fit of sobs. “Please let him go.” A longer pause. “No no no, have her, take her, do whatever you want. Just give me my Hoseok back.”

You stood rooted to the spot, stunned. She sobbed and pleaded, emphasizing how much Hoseok meant to her. To be precise, how less you meant to her. With a final nod that the caller would never see, she hung up and turned to see you staring at her, openmouthed.

“Y/N! I - I never meant…”

“Save your breath, Bo Na.” You cast a hard glare at her. But inwardly you were shriveling up with guilt. It was true that Hoseok was in danger because of you. That was a hard fact. When you spoke again, your voice was barely a whisper.

“I’m sorry I inconvenienced both of you. And I’m sorry Hobi is in trouble because of me.” You wiped the corner of your eyes. “I will go to Taehyung. I’m sorry for all this. You will never see me again.”

“Y/N, it’s not like that -”

“It’s alright. I will get going now.” You turned and made for the door, and you had cleared the doorway when she ran up behind you and clutched your arm.

“Y/N, please. Please listen to me. I’m sorry.” She pulled your arm again. “Let me help you.”

“You’ve helped me enough, Bo Na.” As you tried to shrug her off, she held her ground and hissed angrily.

“Shut UP! Fucking shut up and listen, okay?” She loosened her grip, exhaling slowly. “I talked to one of my friends who knows someone who works for Taehyung. There’s no solid proof but it seems like Yoongi is not in Taehyung’s mansion right now. He’s somewhere else, in one of Taehyung’s luxury cottages. I got the general description of the place without asking the address straight out and raising suspicion.”

There was no word to describe your feelings, so you grasped her by the shoulders and blinked away tears. “Tell me more.”

She gave you a small note on which she had scrawled her friend’s description. “Don’t go to Taehyung’s. He will never take you to Yoongi. Go to the cottage.”

You nodded, staring at the paper in your hand.

Her voice broke again, and she whispered again.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I could never apologize enough. But wait, let me get you something.” She ran off and returned with a drawstring bag. “I’ve packed a flashlight, knife and a lighter in here. Take my car.”

She held out the bag, and you accepted it wordlessly. She tossed her keys, nodding at you in silence. With a hug, you turned and walked out.

*****

It wasn’t difficult to find Taehyung’s cottage. But getting in would be a whole other story. There were armed guys outside the gates, and it was not a quaint little place you had imagined it to be. The building was massive, almost the same size as his mansion, the only difference being more trees and shrubs on the grounds. It most certainly could be called a chateau. The sun was casting long shadows, it would soon be twilight. You decided it would be easier to wait and slink in the shadows after darkness fell.

While you waited in the car, you formed a mental image of how you were going to get in. There was barbed fencing on the walls, but whatever, you could scale them. Something had changed you. Jumping over fences and tackling armed guys was completely out of your league. But you found yourself not scared in the least. The man you loved was trapped in there. Your best friend was held somewhere too. Nothing would scare you off.

It was a full moon that shone down at you when you scaled the wall, silently cursing as the barbs tore through Bo Na’s jeans and drew blood. The drop from the wall was equally efficient in drawing more curses as you limped into the shadows. Once positioned in the shadows, you slowly slunk from tree to tree, staying in the shadows and moving whenever the coast was clear. Your adrenaline made your vision crystal clear; every sense was on high alert. Hands trembling, you scaled a wall again and landed on the corridor of the second floor with a soft thud.

Digging out the flashlight, you gripped it without turning it on. Yoongi had to be somewhere dark. Maybe this place had a basement. If you ever had a captive, you would surely have him tied up in the basement. Trying to make the least sound possible, you softly padded down the stairs until there were no more steps. But this place was no basement. It was only an empty dark space with no rooms, only pillars. Just as you turned to go back up, your foot hit a hard metal object on the floor, and you had to clamp your mouth shut to avoid screaming. You knelt down to inspect, running your fingers on the floor. It was a trap door.

So, there was a basement. But there should be another entrance to the basement, you were sure. Taehyung the high-and-mighty would not prefer jumping down a trap door. An entrance had to be inside the cottage itself, from where anyone could get in. Well, in that case, maybe there wouldn’t be guards guarding the trap door. It was probable they were posted near the other entrance. It would be an advantage for you. The door was a heavy bitch that refused to budge. Your ears buzzed with the effort as you heaved it up, panting and wheezing. You peered down and saw a dim light down below, and cracked marble flooring. There was no ladder to climb down.

It was a gamble to jump down. There might be someone there, who might see or hear you. There was also the light to be wary of. Lying down, you crawled and balanced yourself on your arms till you could hang your head down the entrance. There was no one as far as you could see. It was a tough call, but you decided to jump.

The sound of your shoes hitting the marble was like a gunshot, at least to you it sounded loud enough. You ran like the wind and ducked in a corner, waiting to see if someone had heard you. The basement had a marble corridor that outlined four rooms. The doors were all shut, and a single worn-out light illuminated the whole area. The steps leading down to the basement was at the very end of the corridor, they probably led up to some unused room in the cottage. Your worry was none of these. The doors. Yoongi was behind one of them. But there were four. What if you opened the wrong door?

A quick sweep of your eyes told you there were no guards around. At least for the moment. With a beating heart, you raced through the corridor, having a quick look at all the doors and reaching the stairs at the end. You crouched under the staircase, revisiting all four doors in your mind. Two had been unbolted, so they could be eliminated. The door closest to the stairs would probably be the one. It was easier to reach from the stairs, and the bolt had looked like it had been oiled recently. You decided to risk it and open that one.

*****

Taehyung was generous with his guys; he took good care of them. It made his goons like working for him. They were unfazed by his unscrupulous deeds. Hell, he was a rich bastard who paid them well. His guys were loyal to him and were ready to move Heaven and Earth to get him what he wanted. And now he wanted you.

Taehyung’s guards were not picked easily. They were former soldiers, dishonorably discharged army men, martial artists and such. Only the best of the bad lot served him. They were already fuming that a woman had outrun them not once but thrice. They had their best men combing the county for you. And the best gunmen patrolled the corridors of the cottage.

One such guard had just finished his patrol on the first floor. He methodically went down the stairs, even if he knew there might be no one down there. He stopped in his tracks when he saw a dull light cutting through the darkness. The trap door was open.

*****

It was incredibly dark inside the room. There was an old musty smell that slapped your face as soon as you opened the door. You could not make out anything in the darkness. Should you risk using the flashlight? Just as you weighed the options, a faint clink of metal on metal reached your ears. It sounded like a metal chain. Restraints? Your heart skipped a beat and you punched on the flashlight. The bright beam illuminated a long chain of metal. You ran the beam along the chain and stopped when it hit a figure curled up in a ball.

“Yoongi?”

Your whisper caused the figure to move, and the person sat up, facing the opposite direction as the chains clinked with his movements. It was Yoongi. It was your husband. You ran towards him, a sob catching in your throat. There was a muffled mumble that sounded like your name. You raced to him, slamming onto his back in a tight hug. He was handcuffed, a gag was muffling him, and there was blindfold in place, obscuring his sight.

“Baby, baby,” you sobbed, tearing at the cloth and freeing his eyes.

The gag went flying too, as your fingers gripped it and yanked it hard. You draped yourself on his back, hugging his neck like a koala. He winced in pain, and you drew back in horror.

“Baby, I’m sorry,” you crooned, squatting before him and taking in his face.

There were ugly black bruises around his eyes and more fresh purple ones along his cheek. His shirt had dried blood stains on it, and you lifted it gently to inspect his abdomen. There were bruises all over him, fresh and old, in varying colors ranging from blue to black. Your eyes fell on the metal chains and then your heart sank. Bo Na had anticipated ropes and had armed you with a knife. But these were metal. You couldn’t cut through metal with a knife. You leaned over and nuzzled your forehead against Yoongi’s.

“I’m sorry baby. I - I thought I could save you.” You sobbed out a bitter laugh. “At least I am with you. I let you down.”

He shook his head, wincing as he did so.

“No.” His voice was raspy. “I failed you. I was a fool. I couldn’t,” his face contorted in pain, “-I couldn’t protect you.”

You set the flashlight down, pulling him gently towards you and cradling him against your bosom.

“No honey, don’t say that. I love you, baby.” His face felt so bony. “God, they’ve starved you.”

You leaned in to kiss him, and you were gently brushing his lips when the light suddenly came on, blinding you and flooding the room with radiance. A man stood framed in the doorway, looking at you with cruel eyes. A slow grin spread over his features as he took in your startled eyes. Without a word, he stepped back, closed the door and bolted it, trapping you in with Yoongi.

*****

The door closed behind the guard, leaving Yoongi and you stunned. There was a sound of metal dropping on marble. And the next thing you saw was wisps of some vapor seeping into the room, curling around, the fine mist clearly visible in flashlight’s beam. The vapor grew in volume, oppressing the air around you and making you dizzy. And that was the last thing you remembered seeing before collapsing into unconsciousness.

When you came to, you were in a different room. A bright one. Your vision was hazy, and your mind was still groggy. You could feel your body, there were no ropes or restraints. Gingerly supporting yourself on your arms, you tried to sit upright. The sudden movement gave you a terrible headrush, and the room started spinning.

“Slowly, my princess.”

That voice. That damned deep voice again. You snapped your head to the side to see Kim Taehyung standing there in a full black suit, leaning casually against a glass wall. As your vision cleared, you saw that the glass was a partition. You jumped up and pounded on the glass. There, on the other side of the glass was Yoongi, head bowed and hands restrained. A long chain was wound around his waist, and the other end was attached firmly to a loop embedded in the wall.

Taehyung looked like he was enjoying himself.

“You came for me.”

You gritted your teeth in anger and snapped, “I came for Yoongi.”

“Yoongi! Yoongi!” You yelled yourself hoarse, balling your fists and hitting the glass. But he didn’t look up. Fear crawled all over you, and you shouted even louder.

“He won’t hear you, love. The glass is soundproof.” Taehyung did not move a muscle. “Maybe you’d like if I made him look your way?”

You did not answer, lips pursing up and trembling as sobs threatened to tear out of your body.

“Well, use your words, sugar.”

“Please, please just…”

He looked down at his shoes, bored. “Please what?”

Tears blurred your vision again. “Please let him go.”

“For what in return?”

“I - I gave you the money.”

“Oh, for God’s sakes, Y/N. I don’t care about the money.”

“But… but you wanted…”

“Yeah yeah but I got more than twice my money back. You are a great borrower.”

“What?” You wished he wouldn’t talk in circles. “What do you mean?”

“Who do you think gave you the mortgage on all your estates? Your house?” He paused for dramatic effect and reached into his coat pocket, dangling his trump card with a smirk. “Who bought your ring?”

You gasped, your lips forming an O, completely unable to believe it. Kim Taehyung got you to pledge all of your worldly possessions to him, and took the money you made from pledging it too? How cruel and twisted could a man be?

He enjoyed the look on your face, letting you work out things in your head before speaking. As you stood there stunned, he typed something on his phone. In a few seconds, the door on Yoongi’s side opened, and a guy came in. He landed a swift kick on Yoongi’s middle, waking him up from unconsciousness. There were two more kicks, and then the guy went out and closed the door behind him.

You watched Yoongi raise his head and take in the surroundings. Then his eyes landed on you. He instinctively rushed to move to the glass, but the chain around his waist jerked him back, making him bend over in pain.

Taehyung didn’t want Yoongi stealing his thunder. He cleared his voice, keeping it smooth and silky.

“You know, you made it so easy for me. Bong Ju told me it was a piece of cake to get you to mortgage all the property. Pity you wouldn’t agree to mortgage yourself though.”

“Bong Ju? He’s your man too? You bastard!”

The man simply chuckled. He dug his hands into the pockets of his pants.

“The important thing you have to consider now is,” he walked a couple of steps towards you, whispering, “I bought you out.”

He paused as he swung to take a look at poor Yoongi, still fighting the chains and grimacing in pain.

“You have nothing in the world, nothing except that loser over there. And I’ll take care of that too. But trust me, you won’t be orphaned. You’ll be mine. You’ll be a queen.”

There was nothing left to do except beg. You knelt down, tears streaming down your cheeks. “Please, please just let him go, Taehyung.”

His eyes flickered and he swallowed thickly. “Oh, I love it when you say my name.”

You stayed down on your knees, clasping your palms together as if in prayer. “Please don’t do this, Taehyung. Hoseok and Yoongi did nothing to deserve this.”

He snorted. “Hoseok? Oh, that bastard is already home. And as for him,” his eyes swung at Yoongi with venom, “He has done a lot to deserve this. He stole you from me. He married you and gave you his name.” The nerve running down the middle of his forehead almost popped in his murderous rage. “I could kill him for that.”

“Please, Taehyung. I’ll never cross your path again. Please stop this. I love him, I love Yoongi.”

“SHUT UP!” His voice made you jump, as the veins of his throat stood out due to the exertion. “I had him alive for so long as leverage, to draw you here. But I don’t need him anymore.”

“But- but”

“Enough of this chit-chat. Get here, tell me you’ll be mine.”

“No.” You stood up, furiously brushing the tears from your cheeks. “I’d rather be dead.”

You took a weak karate stance, it was hopeless, but you were not going to give up. He feigned surprise, crossing his hand over his heart.

“Oh, darling. How cute you are!” He came closer, clasping your hands in his. “Don’t be naive. Let me give you a tip.” He pulled you closer, pointing his finger at the tied-up Yoongi.

“Look at his forehead. Look closely.”

Your breath hitched in your throat when you saw what Taehyung pointed at. It was a red laser dot on Yoongi’s forehead, it was certainly from a gun’s laser sight. But there was no one else in the room apart from you, Yoongi and Taehyung. Who was aiming at Yoongi?

Taehyung loved the mix of fear and confusion on your face. He pulled you snug against him, rutting his hips slowly as your husband’s mouth moved in silent screams from the other side of the glass. The sounds were completely blocked by the glass, and Yoongi’s face turned red as he yelled himself hoarse.

Taehyung enjoyed this little show. He was going to claim you before Yoongi. He was going to show that bastard who owned you. All those times his family was insulted in social gatherings came tumbling back, making him lose his mind. Min Yoongi was going to die a loser, knowing that his wife was claimed by his rival.

Yoongi started crying, trying his best to pull himself closer to the glass. His face was covered in tears, wet and red from all the struggle. He closed his eyes and pulled himself forward, trying hard to stop the chain from crushing his midsection. You could almost hear him groan in pain, teeth bared as he charged towards the glass, hitting his palms against it in helpless anger.

The hand around your waist tightened. “Poor boy. Look at him strain. I think he deserves to see a good show before dying, don’t you?”

Your voice cracked down to a whisper. “Please don’t do this, Taehyung.”

“Wow, you sound so sexy with my name rolling off your tongue.”

He pushed you against the glass so Yoongi could see you closer. Your husband could not stand up, not without the chain breaking his ribs. He remained crouched, hands against the glass and eyes pleading, hot tears streaming down. The glass was the only wall that separated Yoongi and you.

Taehyung pushed himself against you, trapping you between his body and the glass.

“Someone brought a knife in a rucksack, hmm?” His hot breath fanned the shell of your ear. Your eyes were looking down, solely focused on the man who was on the other side of the glass. A strong leg pushed your knees apart, grazing your core. “Naughty little girl.”

“Taeh-”

“Shhh.” He grabbed a fistful of hair, sniffing it with deep breaths. “You don’t want him to die, do you?” His hot tongue licked a line along your jaw. “Then stay quiet.”

His large hands roamed your upper body, finding purchase on your breasts, gently kneading them as he moaned in lust. The glass vibrated against your body, as Yoongi beat against it, mouth moving in what clearly were angry expletives. This was the worst kind of torture a man could ever be subjected through, and you wanted to die and be gone before Taehyung went any further.

Fresh hot tears rolled down your closed eyelids when you felt the bulge pressing against your back as the man ground his hips against you. His hands continued kneading the soft flesh, and he twisted the nubs of your nipples, making you gasp and keen into his chest. He trailed soft butterfly kisses on your shoulder blades, one hand reaching between your legs and cupping your hot clothed core.

“Please, please don’t do this to Yoongi.” Your voice was heavily impacted by the sobs that racked your body.

“Oh baby,” he kissed your shoulder as he murmured, “you need privacy?” His cupped hand massaged your core, making you tremble. “This is the last he’ll see of you. Do you really want to cut that time short?”

“N-No.”

“Then just be a good girl and stop talking.” His hand gripped the zipper of your jeans, and you crouched down instinctively, delaying it as much as possible. He laughed lightly. Your crouched position was in level with Yoongi’s tired body on the other side.

“Want to save his neck some pain? I’m game.”

He knelt down, pushing his body against yours, spreading your body flush against the glass. Yoongi looked so miserable that you just couldn’t face him. The laser dot was still very much in place on his forehead. Taehyung tried prying your legs apart, but you just wouldn’t budge.

“Y/N, honey, I would love more foreplay. But not now, just open your legs.”

You didn’t reply. Nor did you move. A violent push sent your head banging against the glass, and two very strong hands dragged your jeans down, ripping the zipper open in the process. Yoongi threw himself at the glass, face utterly contorted in pain, the chain taut as it cut against his flesh.

Taehyung’s hands mercilessly tore the denim away from your legs, the big palms kneading the flesh of your bottom. You pressed your forehead against the glass, looking defeatedly at your husband crying on the other side.

Taehyung was practically salivating at having you in his grasp. This was an encounter he would never forget. His cheeks flushed at the sight of your bare legs and rotund butt. The white underwear was simple, but to him, it was incredibly hot. The fact that Yoongi was just on the other side, watching all of it in humiliation made him heady with lust. He dug a finger under the waistband and ripped the underwear off. You were wriggling far too much for his liking. He thrust an arm against the back of your neck, pinning your head in position, as he took in the view. He licked his lips and aligned his hips so he was spooning you. He was aching to be inside you already. The glass was made of special reinforced material, and he smirked at Yoongi lazily as the crying man pounded against the glass, pleading him to stop.

You had no choice but to stay put. You had to distract your mind from what Taehyung was doing. Your eyes focused on the red dot on Yoongi’s forehead. You just could not look Yoongi in the eye. Not when he was crying and screaming what looked like your name from the movement of his lips. You just wished it would be over soon.

There was the unmistakable sound of fingers unbuckling a belt. And then the sound of a zipper being pulled down. Within seconds, you could feel hot muscle pressed against your back. You were amazed that you still hadn’t shriveled up and died. The hand against your neck was removed. Just as quickly, you were pulled back, dragged by the waist and pushed down on all fours. You tried to keep your hips flat against the marble, but a sharp volley of slaps rained down upon your butt before your hips were forced into position.

Taehyung’s grip on your hips were as tight and hard as iron. You tried raising your body, only to be pushed down again with brutal force. Losing no time, Taehyung rammed himself inside you. He had been hard for so long, and the relief as he plunged into you drew a feral moan deep from his chest. You were too tight, and he grabbed your hair as he hissed at you.

“Fucking let me in, Y/N.”

He received no reply, not that he expected one. He could sense your body heaving, as strong sobs shook your entire being. He saw you raise your head a teeny bit, just to look at Yoongi in dismay. He picked up his pace, sending your head banging against the glass as he dove into you with each snap of his hips. He maintained an unforgiving pace, punctuating his thrusts with moans that almost chilled your blood.

“See how well I fit you, Y/N? You were made for me, baby.”

You had to say it. You couldn’t take it anymore. You had been waiting for Yoongi to be the first one to know. But it had to be said now. It couldn’t wait longer.

“I’m pregnant.” Your whisper came out sounding incredibly hoarse.

Taehyung’s hips stilled. There was a heavy silence, Yoongi’s hands beating the glass was the only mild noise in the otherwise quiet room.

“What?”

“I’m - carrying Yoongi’s baby.”

Taehyung’s jaw clenched. “Does he know?”

“I haven’t yet-” A big hand clamped your mouth shut as he hissed urgently in your ear.

“He shouldn’t.”

You remained silent, and he started thrusting more viciously.

He punctuated each word he spoke with a thrust. “Do.you.understand?”

You had to tell Yoongi. You knew that. Taehyung might kill Yoongi anytime. You did not know what to do. Should you die too? But if you did, the only other living piece of Yoongi would die with you. Whichever way this went, Yoongi had to know.

Taehyung was watching you as he plunged himself into you. Yoongi should never know about the baby. He should die a loser. He had to make sure it remained that way. He saw the red bleary eyes of the man opposite him. He read defeat clearly in those eyes. That should not change.

You tried to make eye contact with your husband. It was incredibly mortifying to look at him as another man pounded into you. But you had to convey the message. You had meant to tell him previously, but you had been unexpectedly gassed and knocked out cold. As soon as you saw him looking at you, your heart broke into a million pieces. The man staring at you was not your husband. He was just a shell of the man he had been. All the light had gone from his eyes. He was in a way already dead.

You mouthed the words urgently, but he just stared at you blankly.

“Baby, focus.” You prayed that he could make out the words. “I’m.” You pointed at yourself. “Pregnant.”

He still looked blank, there was no recognition. Taehyung was still going at it, and you decided to hazard a mime by pointing at your belly.

Just as your hands pointed to your belly and Yoongi’s eyebrows shot up, there was a splash of red all over the glass. You recoiled in fright, confused and scared. And then you saw. The red trickled down the glass, clearing the field to reveal a sight that would be burned into your memory forever. Taehyung finished with a long drawn out moan, spilling himself inside you. His lips curled in a sick smirk. His sniper certainly deserved a raise. And a bonus.

*****

Three years later

You had grown to be scared of the bedroom. Not only because of the things Taehyung did to you but also because of the nightmares. It was always the same horrible image of Yoongi’s bloodied face maimed beyond recognition. The blood splatters on the glass. The vacant eyes and the raised eyebrows that had stilled forever. It came back to haunt you every night, there was absolutely nothing that could erase it from your mind.

Every night was a battle. The bedroom made your heart wilt, it left you scared of sleeping. Every time your head hit the pillow, it made your chest tighten and burn like it was on fire. Just the thought of the approaching nightfall made your evenings anxious and dismal. It had been three years already, but you still half-expected Yoongi to come back and hug you, quoting Woolf in your ears in the softest of whispers. The only little part of Yoongi that was still alive was your daughter. Your baby girl made with the love that overflowed between Yoongi and you.

Taehyung had originally intended to destroy the baby. He did not want that man’s child growing up in his house. Those eyes and dark hair reminded him of his enemy every time he saw the child. He did not care for the girl; she was just a nuisance for him. But he knew that she was the only thread tying you to the world. If he snapped it, he might have to lose you too. So, he gritted his teeth and bore it, trying his best to steer clear of your daughter.

He had married you and given you his name. It was forced, of course, you had had no say in it. But much to his chagrin, the little bastard girl did not take his name. You had flat out refused to give her his surname. She remained the only Min in your world, the only little comfort in your otherwise horrible life.

It made your skin crawl whenever you felt Taehyung’s touch on you. It kept reminding you of the first time he took you in that room, letting your husband watch in humiliation. You could never ever forgive Taehyung for that.

Taehyung’s patience was wearing thin. He had let you keep that little horror, the mini version of Yoongi he so despised. He had given you ample time to get adjusted to him. What more was he expected to do? Just watching you tend to your daughter made him boil in rage. It was his child that you should be tending to. He was at a loss to understand how you still were not with his child, after all his efforts and precautions. He badly wanted to trap you and make you finally his. What better than a child to seal the deal?

*****

It was a cold winter morning. The lake near Taehyung’s winter villa had frozen and become a sheet of hard ice. The ice hadn’t properly frozen yet, there were still brittle patches of ice on the lake. You had made sure to lock the doors so your daughter wouldn’t wander out. You were in the process of baking some cookies for her when you heard Taehyung, your husband, shouting for you.

“Y/N!”

The sound came from the bedroom. Untying your apron and wiping your hands, you walked automatically in the direction of his voice. Ignoring him would only result in punishments, and you weren’t in the mood for them. These days, he had also started spanking your daughter if you didn’t toe the line.

The familiar tightening of your chest made your breath catch as you entered the bedroom. You stood there in complete shock, eyes wide and jaw hanging. The whole closet had been rummaged; all the clothes were strewn on the floor. Your eyes wandered along the strewn things on the floor until they stopped on finding what they had been scared to find. Your heart started beating fast, you were sure you were going to be sick.

Lying on the floor was an old shoebox, the contents of it scattered around. You had used it to keep little odds and ends, but the main object that you had hidden in it was missing.

“Searching for something?”

Taehyung held his hand out, rattling the pills in the little pillbox. His eyes were fiery, he looked like he was about to snap. Taehyung had two distinct tempers. One was the hot rage that would make him scream, hit you, overturn tables and break everything around him. The other was a cold mean streak, the one that made him plot so vehemently for the downfall of the entire Min clan. You were fearful and frightened, at a loss to know which side of him was going to pounce on you.

He stepped towards you slowly, eyes glinting murderously.

“Three years. Three years I’ve tried and you’ve just been taking these behind my back?”

He threw the pillbox down, sending it ricocheting off the floor.

“You think I’m a fool, Y/N?” His voice was rising to a dangerously high pitch. “You had the nerve to do this? After I let you keep that - that bastard’s child?”

One thing Taehyung had accomplished in three years was making your mouth never dare to answer him back. You stood motionless, unable to get a word out. You had been so sure that he wouldn’t find those birth control pills. You had hidden them successfully for so long. How could this happen?

“You answer me right now, bitch!”

His large fingers closed around your throat, threatening to choke you.

“I- I won’t carry your child.” The hold around your throat grew tighter.

“Oh, you won’t?” He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.

“I’d rather die than have your child.”

His hands left your neck abruptly as if he had touched something disgusting. There was a mean glint in his eyes as he stepped back and stared at you without breaking eye contact.

“We’ll see about that.”

He stormed out of the room. leaving you standing amid all the mess on the floor.

*****

You were back in the kitchen, fuming at Taehyung’s audacity in asking you to have his child. Who did he think you were? It was only because of your daughter that you suffered his existence around you. You had thought of poisoning him numerous times. But the clever bastard had made sure that you would have not a penny to your name if he died before you. You couldn’t be on the streets, not with Min Yoongi’s daughter. No. A good chunk of Taehyung’s money was what he conned and acquired from the Min family. It was your money, and your daughter’s. You just had to put up with him until you found a way out of all the mess.

You were whisking eggs, muttering to yourself furiously, thinking about what would happen later with Taehyung. He would surely give you hell. It made you tremble with anger. Just then, you thought you heard something. You looked out of the window, hearing the far-off voices of Taehyung and your daughter carrying through the wind. You couldn’t see from the kitchen window, and you hurried to the porch to see.

There, walking on the frozen lake with your little daughter by his side, was Taehyung. He was laughing and smiling down at her, letting her swirl around as she held his fingers. He was leading her to the middle of the lake. The part which hadn’t frozen over completely. The part which had a thin sheet of brittle ice.

“No!” You raced out of the house, not minding the cold air biting your bare arms. “Min Ha Neul! No, no! Come back!”

Ha Neul giggled on seeing you. She probably thought you were running to play with her too. She felt Taehyung tugging at her sleeve gently, and she followed him closer to the thin expanse of ice.

You pelted down the snow at full speed, shouting at your daughter to get away from the ice. Before you could reach her, it happened. Ha Neul was standing on the ice one moment, and gone the next. The ice cracked around her feet, plunging her into the horribly cold water.

“No! Baby!” You tripped on the slippery ice and fell, your leg suffering a nasty twist in the process. You couldn’t move, and you lay on the ice, pain shooting up your ankle. Your shouts were hysterical.

“Taehyung! Please! I’ll do anything! Please!”

The man had crossed his arms, standing away from the deep icy crater. When he heard your scream, his mouth twisted in a sweet smile.

“Are you sure?”

“God, just please get her out! I’ll do anything, I promise.”

There was a splash, and Taehyung disappeared too. You dragged your leg and crawled towards the hole he had jumped through. Within seconds, he returned, carrying an unconscious Ha Neul in his arms. He looked at you and flashed you a sickly-sweet smile. He had gotten his way.

*****

“Ready?”

Taehyung was lying on his side, hand supporting his head as he looked at you from the bed. His face betrayed no sign of depravity. He looked angelic, bangs brushing his brows as he eyed you eagerly. He was wearing his boxy smile, so bright and joyful that no one could ever guess what a monster he really was.

You were standing a little farther from him, near the little wastebasket in your bedroom. You had been completely defeated. There was no point in rebelling against him. You nodded wearily.

“Do it then.”

Your eyes welled up as you opened the pillbox in your hands, emptying all the pills into the wastebasket. You idly watched all the pills fall in slow motion, it felt like they were taking away your dignity with them. Finally, you tossed the box in, turning to Taehyung and holding up your empty hands.

His smile grew even wider. He stretched his hand out, extending it to you.

“Come here, baby”

You walked into his arms, and he pulled you onto him in a tight embrace. With a deep satisfied sniff, he inhaled the smell of your hair. His palms rubbed soft circles on your back.

“We’re going to have such beautiful babies, darling.”

[dollarstoreghostie]

Can I request a headcannon with asa and jesse with a reader who has hetrochromia ( one eye piercing blue and the other piercing green ) 😊💕

Absolutely!! And my apologies for the late response, I lost my password and got locked out for a long while, but I'm back with a vengeance!! Haha

ANYWHO, A BIT OF CONTEXT

JESSE AND ASA have very very very different love styles and this translates into vastly different relationship dynamics.

FOR INSTANCE, ASA generally doesn't view people as being equal to him. Resulting from his complete disconnect and disassociation with the human race, he views people like novelties, collectables; just another predictable creature to be cataloged and added to his ever-expanding collection of life and art. But you're different- don't get him wrong, you aren't on his level, but you're not so easily replaced. You're special. There's just something about you that has him like a fly in a web. No matter how much he thrashes and tries to free himself, he becomes more entrapped in you. The way you smile and talk and the way you walk and carry yourself and care about these things he can't understand. A part of him, being the drama queen he is, longs for you to put him out of his misery and sink your fangs in— freeing him, just as the spiders do when they consume their prey, but you don't, you refuse to, he's left himself vulnerable in front of you, waiting for you to put him out of his misery.

But you never do, it infuriates him. He disconnects from you, and, in the most uncharacteristic move for him, he leaves you alone and isolates himself from you and anything that reminds him of you and it's in this self-imposed isolation that he finds life so bland without you, it's worse than just missing you, it's longing. He feels like what those old poets spoke of, you won't leave his mind, no matter how he tries, and it's even more angering, but he finds, despite his pride, just how much fondness he has come to feel for you, and love, as tacky a word as that sounds. It's all he can describe it as. Inevitably, he comes to find that despite how much he loathes being out of control that he'd prefer to keep you around. You're just, you're weird, he can't explain it or his fascination with you, but he can't get enough of you.

MEANWHILE, JESSE TAKES AN ENTIRELY STANCE; his love doesn't place you equal to him or even beneath him. You are, in many ways, viewed above him. Now- hear me out here- Jesse would never think you were capable of defending yourself, or hell, even holding your own. But you aren't a pig. You aren't disgusting. You aren't meat in the way he views his victims or nuisances in the form of the brainless yes men that surrounds him in droves, like flies above carrion hoping to have a taste of the kingdom of blood and deceit he's built for himself. You are; you're beautiful. You see things so, not simply, but guilelessly. Unlike the sheep he employs, you are kind, so kind and sweet. You would never try to use him, and he knows this. He relies on this. He can trust you, and he sees you almost like an angel, especially after the accident that disfigured him.

You didn't run from the sight of his face, and that, that did it for him. If he ever had a thought about getting rid of you beforehand. That faded the first time he melted in your hands because, through his half-blind, remaining eye, all he saw in your face was concern and empathy, not disgust, not anger, not an attempt to stay strong and hide those all-consuming, repulsive emotions. He saw the exact reason he fell so deeply for you and the same reason Jesse had spared you of a role in one of his tapes. But this kindness of yours, as much as he adores it, concerns him and infuriates him at times. In his view, HE is the only one who should be on the receiving end of your softness, HE is the only one who deserves it, and these swine, this meat, would dare try to rob him of what only he deserves. The idea is enough to make him enraged. Still, this anger is never directed at you. Instead, those around you because he views you as utterly oblivious to the disgusting habits of the meat around him. To him, you are a victim. You are so wholesome, it's the world that would try to corrupt and turn you into another pig, and he will protect you from it.

NOW, WHY BRING THIS UP, BUN? Well, the thing is, it translates directly into their very different takes on loving your beautiful and unique eyes! Because regardless of their, well, peculiarities in how they love, they will love how you look, and really your personality is what counts the most to them. REGARDLESS

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐑 / 𝐀𝐒𝐀 𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐊𝐔𝐋𝐋 / 𝐉𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀𝐍 𝐒/𝐎 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐀

ASA IS FASCINATED WITH YOUR EYES. Perhaps they were what drew him to you in the first place. Scratch that, they were definitely what drew Asa to you in the first place. He had been leaving the shitty cafe outside of his university, with his first of many drinks for the day. When he'd taken a minute to catch his breath, the watery, bland and yet strangely bitter taste of the poor excuse for coffee knocking him back when he saw you pass by.

YOU DIDN'T STRIKE HIM AT FIRST, in fact, you seemed a little bland, the shade of your hair and its texture were something he had collected in droves, similarly, your skin, though breathtaking in its own right with the occasional blemish here and there, was nothing he hadn't collected before. In fact, he wouldn't have given you a second glance, if you hadn't turned to him and given him that polite smile.

THE WAY YOUR EYES GLIMMERED IN THE SUNLIGHT, THEIR MISMATCHED HUES SEEMING TO GLISTEN AS THE SHADES FRAMED THE POLITE BEND OF YOUR LIPS. He knew he had to have them - had to have you. But it wouldn't be until he watched you closer that he realized that the way he had initially thought wouldn't suffice. No, he couldn't put you into a jar or stuff you in formaldehyde. As he watched you walk home at the end of the day, the way you bobbed your head to the music, you were endearing, he didn't understand it, but you were. He'd have to hold on for you, play the long haul, as it were. And approach you as Asa far before he would collect you. It's easier to catch flies with honey rather than vinegar after all, and he'd prefer to keep you alive for now.

WHEN HE GOT YOU THOUGH, HE COULD NOT STOP STARING, it was, strange, you'd often turn and find him staring at you, his face unreadable, but his eyes speaking nothing but quiet admiration as he rode whatever train of thought seemed to have taken him at that moment.

AND FOR A TIME, YOU THOUGHT THIS MUST BE A COINCIDENCE, he wasn't looking at you, just in your direction and was lost in thought beforehand. It was a reasonable conclusion in your mind, he was the silent, contemplative, education type. It seemed to complete the persona. But no, no matter what you were doing, he'd be quietly watching. In awe as the light bounced from your eyes, the way the colours shifted. How your face shifted into concentration. How your lips would twitch when you thought of something funny.

WHENEVER YOU TRIED TO CONFRONT HIM, JOKINGLY OR NOT, HE WOULD BRUSH OVER HOW HE WAS WATCHING YOU AND THE LOVING WAY HE SEEMED TO FOCUS ON YOUR FACE. Always an excuse it seemed, but the way he would stumble on his words when confronted, smiling nervously and almost begging you to believe him was adorable and told you more than any explanation ever could.

YOU WOULD NOTICE THOUGH THAT HE'D BECOME FAR MORE INTERESTED IN THE MAKEUP YOU'D WEAR AND THE WAY YOU'D ACCESSORIZE. You think he's trying to be helpful but speaking out of his ass, but on the contrary, Asa has done his homework, he knows how to make your eyes pop, and he would like to make sure you knew how exactly to make your most precious asset look its best.

SOMETHING IN THE VIVID, MISMATCHED HUES OF YOUR EYES BRINGS JESSE BACK TO A SIMPLER TIME. Back when the height of the excitement that came from his twisted life were the frequent visits to his father's funeral home. How his father would force teach him how to dissect women. The ringing in his ears when his little hands shook to much to properly hold the blade. The hot tears that ran down his face when he inevitably left into the back alley, humiliated and tears and the soft respect of the old alley cat that lived back there.

SHE NEVER HAD A NAME, BUT SHE DIDN'T NEED ONE, the soft tufts of orange fur, that sweet, rhythmic purr and those striking eyes. She would come to him and curl up in his lap, purring and meowing and batting at the drawstrings on his jumper. And he would forget the humiliation, he would forget his father and the women, and he would play. To this day, he could still recall the warm fuzzy feeling of weightlessness that came as that cat showed him the love and affection his father never would.

BUT EVENTUALLY, THE CAT STOPPED COMING. Logically, Jesse knew the cat had probably passed away - the last few visits, he could recall the sharp bumps of the cat's bones through its skin, how small and frail it looked. A part of him feared the worst and contemplated bringing her home, but he knew if the cat didn't pass on the streets, she would meet a far worse fate in his home. But the sting of the loss of who seemed to be his only respite from his father and the only constant in his life burned.

AS THE YEARS PASSED, HE EVENTUALLY FORGOT ABOUT THE CAT, but the feelings it gave him, the warmth and comfort he felt as that cat circled between his legs, its tail curling as though it had a mind of its own and those striking eyes staring up at him with nothing but love... that never left.

WHEN HE FIRST MET YOU, HE HAD THAT FAMILIAR RUSH, LIKE SEEING A GHOST. It took him a while to realize where it came from - after all, the years eventually blend together into this stew of anger, lashing out, the wins and the loses and the tapes. But when he gets it - he gets it. That strange little cat and you? The coincidence is impeccable, and he gives a hoarse chuckle at the thought.

HE GIVES YOU THE NICKNAME 'ALLEY' AND 'KITTY' you don't understand it, and he will never explain, lest you decide to go poking around in the oldest dredges of his family photos, but it's cute, and you can tell by the creases in the corner of his eyes and the knowing half-grins he gives at your mock offence that he means the term lovingly. As strange as that seems.

AND YOU CAN BET HE'LL BRAG ABOUT YOU TOO. No one in his 'circle' would ever be allowed to see you - let alone contact you or see you for themselves - those sheep don't need that leverage over him. But they will hear all about your eyes, your beautiful eyes, the way they smile, how they bunch up with anger, how they don't hold the same animosity, degeneracy of his past suitors. Of whom there were many.

ITS ALSO NEEDLESS TO SAY, BUT THERE WILL BE GIFTS TOO, Jesse isn't much of a gifter in general, but he makes an exception for you. He loves seeing you dressed up, fancy, like a gift, like you deserve to be. You make him so happy, after all. But there will be jewellery, earrings, maybe a necklace, bracelets, rings... Whatever you want in those colours.

[justice4harwin]

Darklina prompt

Inspired by Taylor Swift’s Champagne problems

A/N: TBH, I’m not sure this is the actual assigment, but the lines of the song that I choose are just too lovely for me and I could’t help it. It wrote itself, i swear

I don’t know if this is what you had in mind @mayatried but I hope you like it :)

Set during S&B

“Your Midas touch on the Chevy door

November flush and your flannel cure”

Alina treaded carefully through the dark. Night seemed to be abandoning its deepest cycle, but there was yet time before the sun arose. Everyone at the Little Palace slept, even Baghra in her hut -she suspected the woman slept, at least-, and Alina had begun to take advantage of such lonely hours to practice.

She walked around first, rounding part of the lake before taking a turn into a maze.

She liked the place. The polished bushes bloomed with flowers of various colors carefully planted within by the gardeners, and there were stone benches here and there.

A part of her wanted to get lost in there and never be found.

She shuddered and rubbed her arms, wishing she had taken a thicker kefta with her instead of the one currently upon her more rounded figure.

It was still strange, looking in the mirror and no longer seeing the bones of the ribs through the soft skin, or seeing her cheekbones softer and pink and full.

Her hands went up. She liked her new cheekbones. She felt pretty.

Deep into the maze, she shook her head to rid it of such frivolous thoughts and took a firm stand.

She closed her eyes and called the power inside of her. She had been able to summon after letting it all go at Baghras hut, but her progress was slow.

She supposed once couldn't heal a lifetime wound in a few weeks, but everyone had their eyes on her now, so maybe she'd have to suck it up.

A small bulb of light appeared in her hand, taking the shape of a sphere. She smiled softly, feeling its warmth.

Gently, she disentangled a hand and created another sphere of light.

Doing her best to ignore the cold and the sleepiness, she willed the spheres to stretch and join.

Trembling, they did.

It's a start.

She then forced them to unify into one long stick of light, flexible like a whip, and then she stretched her arms, elongating the light.

Next, she tried to grab a solid hold of the light with one hand and let the other drop.

To her surprise, it didn't burn her; it just filled her with a sense of power and surety.

Hesitant, lifted her arm, the light going with her, and slashed.

The flowers  on a big stone vase banished as if they had never existed, yet the stone remained practically untouched; a black, long spot its only scar.

"Impressive."

She jumped, turning to see The Darkling stepping forward, that blank expression on his face making it hard for her to believe him.

"I thought it wasn't enough." She said, remembering his words.

"It's not." He said, matter-of-factly, and Alina felt a small sting on her chest. "But you managed to get a solid, physical hold of your power already, however short lived it was, and that was impressive. It should have taken you more time."

She felt herself blushing under his praise.

"How did you find me?"

He remained silent for a moment or two, calculating probably as he always seemed to do. She couldn't really distinguish his features that well in the dark.

"Sometimes I like to sit at the edge of the lake to think. I find the still water most calming."

"You have a lot on your plate, don't you?" She asked, genuinely concerned.

He seemed to have huffed a laugh.

"You don't have to worry about me. Your only job is to strengthen your power."

"But I do!" She hurried to say,cheeks red. "I-I mean, I worry about you."

She looked down, and barely felt him approach as his boots stepped on the grass.

"You do?" She wasn't sure what to make of his tone, but Alina felt the need to reach out and take his hand.

Instead, she took a step forward and summoned her light, delicately running it over his face. He looked perfect, as usual, yet she wondered…

"When was the last time you slept?"

He chuckled, not turning away from her light.

"Do I look tired to you, Summoner?"

"No, but Genya is a miracle worker."

His lips quirked up.

"She is, indeed."

"A pity her talents are wasted on the queen and king." Alina said before she could even think of holding her tongue.

She tensed, but The Darkling nodded slowly, a shadow passing over his face.

"It is. She looks like a candle with her white kefta, but she'd be a walking flame in red."

Alina couldn't hide her surprise. Would he dare to promote her?

The Darkling stretched his arm out.

"But no more talk about that. Come, I shall teach you something."

Learning from The Darkling himself? Alina would never miss the chance. 

She eagerly followed him deeper into the maze, into a spacious area occupied only by grass.

Gracefully, he sat down.

"Next to me."

Much less gracefully, she did as he commanded, trying not to get grass or mud on her kefta. She placed her legs underneath her body and her hands on her lap, more than ready to soak in all the information he had to give.

She looked at his profile and felt her breath caught. Even in the dark, his pale face seemed perfectly clear to her.

She leaned her back against the wall of bushes, wincing only slightly as some small sticks pinched her back.

“Now what?”

“Are you afraid of your powers?” he asked.

“No.” she was too quick to reply.

“Do not lie to me, miss Starkov. I don’t take kindly to deceit.” he spoke calmly, yet she felt a small flicker of fear roll over her body.

“I am.” she muttered, so quietly she herself almost didn’t hear the words. She bit down on her lip and then opened her mouth: “I’m scared to not be enough to destroy The Fold. I feel like I’m not advancing fast enough. I’m also scared of how powerful I could get if I,...if I unleash it, and I’m scared it’ll consume me and I’ll let it.”

And that was only part of it. What if she accidentally hurt someone innocent? What if she failed? Why did people keep watching her in such various ways?

“A power, a gift like ours, is not bestowed upon just anyone. We have it because we were meant to wield it; because we are the only ones strong enough.” he leaned towards her, his expression almost gentle. “You will be magnificent, miss Starkov. I am well aware of what you could accomplish, and if you do get too lost, I’ll be right there to pull you back.”

“Do you promise?” she felt silly asking, like a child, but she needed some reassurance.

Everyone was so expectant of her, of great achievements she was terrified of, that having someone who could understand her and seemed to genuinely believe in her capabilities -without making a fuss or calling her a Saint- sent a tidal wave of reassurance that could’ve dropped her on her ass if she hadn’t been already seated.

“I do.” he replied, his voice filling the entire space they occupied. He leaned back, face blank again. “Now, close your eyes.”

Alina did as he said.

“Deep breaths.”

She slowly took in a big gulp of cold, late-autumn air. She shivered.

“Now,” he said, and his voice sounded right by her ear, his beard brushing against her soft skin and threatening to ruin the whole process. “Feel the light.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“It’s inside you, miss Starkov.”

“Alina.”

He said nothing, but she felt him tense. “Feel it.”

She reached down, deep within herself for that almost familiar warmth, and smiled softly when it answered her with an enthusiastic twinkle.

“Now, imagine it all over your body, every inch of it, warm and gold.”

That twinkle in her chest seemed to have steadied, and with the utmost focus, Alina began to picture it covering her chest, travelling down her arms and legs, all the way to the tips of her toes. 

She shivered again, the sudden change in temperature taking her body by surprise.

She opened her eyes and looked down, and found a faint glow on her hands. She felt the currents of wind but they didn’t affect her. She was as warm as if she were well sunked in a hot bath.

She looked up at The Darkling, who almost smirked; she was sure of it!

“Well, now I know I won’t freeze to death on the mountains.”

“You plan on going to the mountains?” he asked, almost amused.

She flushed.

“N-no, it was,...um, it was a joke.”

He chuckled silently, and Alina tilted her head as he shifted in his place.

“You’re cold.”

“I am perfectly fine;  thank you, Alina.” he answered, the perfect liar.

The use of her name made her falter, and after a second it made her feel more secure, however odd that may sound. She scooted closer to him and again, bought her hand up to his cheek. It was cold.

The Darkling almost seemed startled for a moment, but then, when Alina thought he might push her away, he slowly lifted his arm, bringing her to his side.

She looked up at the stars shining down on them, at the full moon, so beautiful and unreachable, just, or so she thought, as the man next to her.

“Can you feel the warmth too?” she asked softly.

A moment passed and she felt his lips ghost over her hair.

“I can feel you, Alina.”

She couldn’t help but smile and cuddle even closer, daring to press her front to his side and take a hold of his dark cloak.

Slowly, he placed his chin atop of her head.

Alina didn’t move, enjoying the moment. Cheeks red as they could be and her heart beating faster than a rabbit’s. She just enjoyed the silent environment, the quiet rustle of leaves and the voices of night.

Cuddling with the most powerful, dangerous man in all of Ravka, Alina felt the pressure set upon her shoulders since she arrived at the Little Palace fade away, like it didn’t matter. Yes, it was a tough task; but just like with anything that proved difficult, she’d advance little by little.

She dared to wrap an arm around his midsection, his own free arm engulfing her as well as he muttered something.

His breathing had slowed and steadied, his heart beat strong inside its cavity.

Carefully, she lifted her eyes as best she could without moving him, and realized he had fallen asleep.

With a contented sigh, she buried her face into his chest and closed her own eyes.

Somehow, the feel of his cloak around her, his frame against her, and her dim light keeping them warm felt far more comfortable than the luxurious bed all but forgotten in her bedroom.

[whenisitenoughtrees]

look me up and define me (please remind me) (part 2/2)

He is whatever puts Thomas first. But that changes so often that he doesn’t know what he is beyond that.

He is Janus when he is alone, but only when he is not someone else.

Janus has never minded the fact that his identity is fluid, ever-changing. He acts as whoever Thomas needs him to be in the moment, and if that means he doesn't know much about himself as an individual, well. It's never been a problem for him.

Until he gives away his name, and then it very much is.

Chapter Warnings: identity issues, body dysphoria, body horror, panic attack, self-harm (hair pulling), mild injury

Chapter Word Count: 5,947

Pairings: platonic TDLAMPR, implied Moceit

Notes: This is the second part of a two-part fic, so I’d start with part one if you haven’t read it. Also, this fic as a whole was inspired by the awesome ‘The Record Player Song’ animatic by @turbovickii, which, 10/10 would recommend if you haven’t seen it

(part one)

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

“Do you ever think about the past?” Patton asks him. It’s a gloomy day, rain beating against the mindscape’s windows to mimic the downpour keeping Thomas trapped inside his apartment. On days like these, he has learned, Patton tends toward melancholy reflection, toward sipping wine in the living room rather than attempting to cook or bake.

He has found himself glad of it, most of the time. Even on a good day, Patton is often too distractible to bake without supervision, and on these days, his eyes glaze and his movements slow as he reminisces on days long gone. Frankly, he should not be trusted anywhere near the kitchen, and they both know it.

“Not really,” he lies. “Not unless it suits. Do you?”

He already knows the answer to that, of course. Patton hums noncommittally, eyes flitting to the rain-splattered windowpane. It’s just the two of them right now; the others emerge from their rooms more often now than they did just after the wedding, but still not often enough. Patton is struggling, both with himself and with his relationships, and for that reason alone, he will do his best to support. Even if he doesn’t know quite how. Even if he himself grows more and more adrift with every passing day.

“I wish we’d been friends sooner,” Patton says. “I was pretty mean to you when we were kids.”

He sighs. “I was pretty mean right back,” he says, ignoring the implications of friends, all the meanings contained in that one word. “You don’t need to worry about it.”

Patton smiles at him, and his heart skips a beat. “Still,” he says. “I’m glad we’re friends now, Janus.”

He doesn’t have a response to that. He can’t tell Patton that their friendship is based on a lie, that who he thinks of as Janus is nothing more than a shadow, that in these moments, he is drawing on a Patton-like persona more than anything else. He can’t tell Patton that he thinks about the past far more than he should, simpler times, when he was someone else, young and fresh-eyed and hopeful, not just willing but eager to do anything and everything to help Thomas and the rest of them.

That was when the trouble started. When deception became integral to his being. When he lost himself under all the rest, if there was ever anything to be lost in the first place. Isn’t it ironic, that Thomas’ sense of self-preservation has no sense of self of his own?

I’m glad we’re friends now, Janus.

He would be, too, if Janus were real. But Janus isn’t real, and he doesn’t know how to make him so.

So, he doesn’t respond to Patton. Just smiles, smiles and smiles and smiles and hopes that he can’t see through the facade. It’s something Patton himself would do, he thinks, and pretends that the thought doesn’t make him sick.

And so the days pass. Life continues. Nothing is solved. He grows closer with the others, more welcome in their discussions, more appreciated by Thomas, even, and he would be ecstatic if it weren’t for the fact that interacting with them is like pulling teeth. They all look at him in a certain way, now, like they understand him, or want to, and it is all he can do to prevent himself from shouting at them, from telling them that they understand nothing. He is a mask built upon another mask built upon more masks, and there is nothing underneath them. Janus is the name given to the void they hide.

How could they possibly understand him when he doesn’t understand himself? When he is slowly beginning to realize that there is nothing to understand at all, that Janus is just a name, and a name means nothing at all if there is not a person behind it, attached in a way that he has never been?

Janus isn’t his name. It isn’t, and it is, but the difference between those is negligible. They all expect him to be Janus, now, but he has never known who that is, has never been anything but an amalgam of the others and of Deceit. How is he supposed to be Janus when he doesn’t--

There is a hand on his arm.

He jerks away, blinking. Virgil is standing close to him, too close, hand outstretched, but rather than his typical snarl, his face is neutral, nothing but a crease between his brows betraying his discomfort.

“You back?” he drawls, but the words are nowhere near as biting as they usually are.

He blinks again, looking around the room. Thomas’ living room. The others are all present, all but Remus, and all of their eyes are on him. They are discussing Thomas’ next creative venture, if he remembers correctly, going over potential ideas and plans, and for some reason, they wanted his input as well. He’s not sure why; they’ve gone through this perfectly well without him in the past, and once the meeting starts, he barely has anything to say. Which allows his mind to wander.

A mistake.

He steps away from Virgil, hoping that the movement comes off as casual, and brushes a bit of imaginary lint from his sleeve. “Apologies,” he says. “Lost in thought. What was the question?”

He ignores the way Virgil’s eyes narrow.

“Uh,” Thomas says, oddly hesitant. “Are you sure about that? We’ve been trying to get your attention for a few minutes now. Are you okay?”

“Perfectly fine,” he says. “A bit tired, perhaps.” Not a lie. He’s exhausted. It’s hardly the whole truth, and something in him burns to be showing any amount of weakness at all, any vulnerability, but better this than sharing any of the rest.

“Oh,” Thomas says. “Well, I just--”

“Falsehood.”

The word is quiet, but it cuts through the conversation like a hot knife through bread. Because for all that the word is Logan’s trademark phrase, it is not Logan who speaks, but Virgil. Virgil, who is still standing too near, hunched in on himself, his face set in an expression he can’t begin to interpret.

For a long moment, there is silence.

“That’s my word,” Logan says. It seems a halfhearted complaint.

“Wait, I’m confused,” Roman says. “Where’s the falsehood?”

“I’ll admit, I’m confused as well,” he says, though he’s not, though his heart is beating far too quickly, though he knows exactly what Virgil means, and both fear and betrayal swirl in his chest and stiffen his spine. His nerves rise to a crescendo, and he has to focus on his breathing to make sure his form doesn’t slip. He must remember how they view him now, how they look at him and think Janus, must remember to maintain Deceit’s face, though the anxiety flooding his senses urges him to exchange the yellow for purple, the scales for eyeshadow, because that’s what he’s always done when he feels this way, when his chest feels tight and his breaths come too short. This is a Virgil-feeling, but he can’t shift right now because he’s supposed to be Deceit, is supposed to be Janus, and if he changes now, the house of cards on which he’s built his acceptance crumbles.

He can’t let that happen. He feels terrible now, but the isolation of before was worse. Now that he’s admitted as much to himself, he wouldn’t be able to bear going back.

“Now, now,” Patton says, “let’s let Virgil speak.”

“Yeah,” Thomas says, brow furrowed. “Virgil, what do you mean?”

Virgil rolls his eyes. “Let him explain,” he says, jerking a thumb in his direction. “He’s the one lying.”

And just like that, all eyes return to him. He wonders, idly, if he could get away with summoning Remus, if he could throw a bit of chaos into the mix and watch them all scramble. They’d forget about him in the wake of that, he’s sure. But no, he can’t do it now, not when it would be so obvious. His strengths lie in his subtlety, his skill at misdirection. Remus is a blunt instrument, one not suited for this task.

He raises his hands, claps sarcastically. “Well done, Virgil,” he says. “I’m so impressed by your ability to remember my basic function. Good job. Can we refocus the conversation now?”

The sarcasm helps him focus. Helps him settle into the persona, into who he’s supposed to function as in this moment. He can lie his way out of this. He’s done it before. He can do it again.

“Okay, usually I’m all for calling him out,” Roman says, “but he’s said, like, two things this whole time.”

“Yes,” Logan adds, “and one of those was-- oh. I see.”

“What?” Thomas asks.

Patton gasps. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, no.” Patton looks at him, then, so much warmth and empathy in his gaze that he wants to die, just a little bit, because he doesn’t deserve any of it, doesn’t deserve his friendship, because the person that Patton thinks he is getting to know has never existed in the first place. “If something’s the matter, you can tell us! You know that, right?”

“Nothing’s the matter,” he grits out, but no one listens. He takes a moment to glare at Virgil, who stares back, nonplussed.

“Oh, hey,” Thomas says, looking surprised. Like he never considered the idea that something could be wrong with him. He would have liked to keep it that way, but it might be too late for that now. “Yeah, if something’s the matter, we want to hear about it. You don’t need to lie about that, Janus.”

And Thomas is so genuine in his concern, so compassionate, so kind to a side that he used to hate and fear. But it’s the name that sends him over the edge, the name that makes him flinch, hard, because he can’t escape it, can’t escape the fact that they all expect him to be something that he has never been, that he can never be.

He is whatever Thomas needs, but Thomas has never needed Janus, and he doesn’t know how to be something that Thomas doesn’t need. How to be a person in his own right, how to be the person they believe he is.

Thomas sees him flinch, because of course he does, because it was obvious. He steps forward, worry written plain on his face, but he mirrors the motion, stepping back. Thomas stops.

“Is there anything I can--”

“He doesn’t like it when you say his name,” Virgil says, and the room goes still. Virgil swallows, clearly not comfortable with the attention, but he soldiers on. “He didn’t tell me why.”

“Shut up,” he bites out, before he can stop himself.

“Is that true?” Thomas asks, asks him, all wide-eyed and hurt and he can’t take this--

“That doesn’t seem to make sense,” Logan says, and yes, please, keep talking, Logan, everyone pay attention to Logan now, thank you, “considering that he told us his name himself. Though, to be fair, the way in which he did so could be construed as an attempt to gain trust, rather than because he actually wanted to share.”

“Oh, come on,” Roman snorts. “Nobody was forcing him to say anything.”

“Oh my god, Roman, that’s not helping,” Virgil says. Defending him? That makes no sense, but alright.

“I’m just saying! He took his glove off all on his own--”

“That doesn’t mean Logan is wrong,” Patton ventures.

They just keep talking, all their voices overlapping and intermingling, talking about him, arguing about him like he’s not right here, and he backs up until he hits the wall. He needs them to stop, needs this to stop, needs to spend another week or two alone in his room before he can even think to face them again. He threads his fingers through his hair, pulling hard, but the pain does nothing to help him focus. He wishes he could cover his ears, wishes he didn’t have to hear this, wishes that today hadn’t happened at all. Wishes he could come up with an excuse, a lie to throw them off and redirect their attention, but his mind is frighteningly blank.

“Guys, enough.” Thomas’ voice silences the room, and then, Thomas turns to him. “Janus?” he prompts softly. “Are you okay?” And he means well, he does, but--

He can’t do this. Can’t do this at all, can’t think of a single lie to tell, and nothing else is helping either. He can’t think logically, and his rolling emotions are no help, and trying to summon bravado is a failure, and he is already so scared that he doesn’t see how indulging in any more anxiety could possibly help matters.

He needs--

He needs something else, anything else, anything but this, and--

He shifts before he can stop himself. And once he starts, he can’t hold back, can’t stop seeking comfort in another form because that’s what he always does when his own doesn’t cut it. He cycles through all of them, melting and changing and remaking himself with every second that passes, but nothing helps, nothing abates the buzzing under his skin or the ringing in his ears. But he keeps doing it anyway, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

And the damage is done. His eyes are screwed shut, but there’s no way they’re not all staring at him. The silence is deafening.

He stands there, trying to land on an identity, and finds nothing. Because there is nothing.

“Ja… Deceit?” someone says, and it’s Patton’s voice, trembling and unsure, and somehow, that is the breaking point.

He opens his eyes, meets Thomas’ shocked gaze. And then he sinks out.

He rises up in his room unsteadily, lurching. He almost falls, though he catches himself against a bedpost, panting. His form is still shifting, still fluid; he can feel the changes rippling across his face like rushing water, so continuous that it’s beginning to hurt. He stumbles over to the mirror and watches it, the parade of outfits and hair styles and eye colors, morphing and twisting his face into nothing he recognizes.

And then suddenly, he settles. On scaly skin, on one yellow, slit eye. On a bowler hat, on a capelet, on yellow gloves. It’s his default setting. The serpentine tempter.

He looks, and who he sees staring back at him is utterly alien. The image moves when he does, blinks when he blinks, and the same tears that he feels streaming down his cheeks are reflected there. It’s him, he knows, because it couldn’t be anyone else. But he feels so disconnected from it, feels like he’s looking at a stranger, and perhaps he is. Does he know himself? Does he have a self to know?

He stares, and the image in the mirror stares back. And then, he rears back and punches the glass.

The sound it makes when it shatters is the most satisfying thing he’s heard in a long time.

He stands there, gasping, heedless of the shards embedded in his hand. For a moment, he feels safe, feels secure, as if the enemy has been defeated, as if in shattering the image, he has shattered himself, too, and is finally free. But then, he feels himself shift, feels his body do it entirely without his permission, as if on instinct, and catches a glimpse when he can’t help but look down, a glimpse of capelet sliding into hoodie sliding into green sash into red sash into cardigan into hoodie--

His legs give out, and he lands hard. Glass digs into his hands and knees, but he can’t bring himself to move, can’t bring himself to do anything but shake and struggle for breath and hope that this will end.

He doesn’t know who he is, doesn’t know who he’s supposed to be. If he could figure it out, maybe this would stop, but he can’t think straight, can’t think about much of anything at all past the fact that it hurts, and that he’s scared, and that he feels as though his very bones are trying to burst out of his skin. It’s coming so fast now that he can barely keep track; he is Virgil, then Patton, then Roman, then Patton, then Logan then Remus then Roman then Virgil then PattonthenLoganthenRemusthen--

The door bursts open. Someone enters, black and green, and he can’t focus on their face, can’t do anything but flinch back as their footsteps approach, huddle in on himself and pray that they won’t hurt him, that they won’t exacerbate the pain.

“--ee? Dee?” The voice filters in, and it’s Remus, loud and shrill and concerned, and he wishes he had the strength to comfort him, to reassure him, but he thinks that if he opens his mouth, he’ll scream. He feels like his skin is sliding off, like it’s cracking open, and he has no way to anchor himself, no port in this storm, no control over what’s happening to him, and he’s so scared.

“--ell me what to do, what’s happening--” Remus is saying, and then there are hands on him, on his face, and he jerks away because the touch burns. Remus is still babbling: “--kay, won’t touch you, but Dee, please, you gotta tell me what to do--”

--then his room is suddenly full of people, people standing, watching, talking, saying words he can’t understand, moving toward him, and he flinches back and away, because he doesn’t want them here, doesn’t want them to see him like this, doesn’t want them near him because no doubt they’ll only make it worse and he can’t breathe and he can’t stop shifting because it’s supposed to help but it’s not, it’s hurting him, and he thinks he hears Remus shouting at them, telling them to get back, to go away, but he can’t--

Then, someone presses their hand into his, and tells him to breathe. The rest of the world dissolves into static.

It takes a long time for him to be able to follow their example, but he focuses on the point of contact, on their hand holding his, and part of him wants to jerk away as though he’s been scalded. But the touch is through his gloves, fabric separating their skin, and somehow, that makes it bearable. And the other part of his mind wants to hold on and never let go, so that’s what he does.

His breathing slows. The shifting stops, and the pain subsides into a dull ache.

He looks up, and Virgil is crouched in front of him, the rise and fall of his chest outlining a familiar pattern.

“Can you hear me?” Virgil asks, his voice quiet and the closest thing to calm he ever gets.

He nods.

Someone lets out a breath, a sigh of relief, and he looks around. They’re all here, all of them, crouching around him. Remus is closest, is right by his side, hands hovering but not touching. Patton and Logan are sitting to either side of Virgil, Logan with furrowed brow and Patton looking near tears himself. Even Roman is here, hovering over Logan’s shoulder, and though he’s keeping his distance, worry mars his face. He knows, knows he must look absolutely pitiful if Roman is worried about him.

And Thomas is here, too. Kneeling at his other side, kneeling in broken glass from the mirror, and all for him? After that wretched display, Thomas still came after him?

Thomas is looking at him. His eyes are shiny.

“Sorry,” he rasps, and then frowns. His voice is lower, rougher than he anticipated, and glancing at himself, it is easy to determine the reason. His hands are gloved, but purple-patched sleeves cover his arms. He’s Virgil right now, Virgil, even though the real Virgil is sitting right in front of him, is still, for whatever reason, holding his hand.

“Hey,” Virgil-- the real Virgil-- says, “don’t do that. C’mon.”

He pulls his hand away, trying to school his face into a glare, into any expression that would suit Virgil’s face better. He’s sure he looks miserable. His mind races, supplying him with biting words and insults, and it makes him angry, a bit, because where was this when he needed it? It’s too late, now, too late to pretend that this never happened. They’re all here, in his room, his safe place, his sanctuary.

Only, it hasn’t been that for a long time, has it? How long has it been since he was comfortable here? Since he was comfortable anywhere?

The realization makes him shudder, and before he knows it, he is sliding into Patton’s form instead. The grey cardigan settles around his shoulders, but it brings none of the comfort that it usually does. He just feels pathetic, and he knows the others must see it.

He can’t look at Patton. Doesn’t want to know what he’s thinking. Doesn’t think he could bear to see rejection painted there.

His breath hitches.

“Hey,” Thomas says, and he can’t help but turn to look, because he has never been able to help but do what Thomas asks of him. He turns to look, and through vision that is once again blurry with tears, he sees Thomas reach out. Slowly, accentuating the motion so that he has plenty of time to reject him, to pull away. He is tempted to smack the hand away, to gather up the strength to eject them all from his room and lock the door behind them, anything to avoid having to talk about this.

But this is Thomas, so he allows him to place a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“You’re okay,” Thomas says softly. “Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay too, but we’re here for you.”

It’s not a lie. He knows because it chimes in the air, clear and bright and true, like a clamoring of bells ringing in the morning. No tricks, no subterfuge, just the one person he would do anything for, telling him that it’s going to be alright, that everything is going to be alright.

He forces himself to shift again, forces the scales back across his face, focuses on maintaining the gloves to cover hands that are cut and bleeding and embedded with glass shards. It itches, itches and burns and doesn’t feel right at all, but if he’s going to do this, he could at least try not to look like any of them while he speaks.

“No,” he says, and jolts at the sound of his own voice, strange and foreign. “You deserve an explanation.”

“Maybe,” Virgil says suddenly, “but that doesn’t mean you owe it to us.”

He swivels his head to stare at him, and Virgil scowls, glancing away.

“Look,” he says, “I wasn’t… I wasn’t trying to hurt you, back there. It’s just, you’ve been weird and spacey ever since you came to talk to me, and I just thought that if something was wrong, and I didn’t know what to do, then maybe somebody else would. But I’m sorry for going about it like I did.”

“I--” His tongue feels clumsy, thick in his mouth. An apology from Virgil is not something he ever thought he would receive, but this, too, hangs between them like a breath of fresh air, nothing but truth in his words. “Apology accepted,” he says, and it feels lacking compared to all that still lies unvoiced between them, but Virgil visibly untenses.

“Cool,” he mutters. “Don’t read too much into it.”

Despite himself, he smiles, just a bit, an upwards twitch of his lips.

And then, Logan clears his throat. “I don’t want to put any undue pressure on you,” he says, “but if you would be willing to discuss what ails you, I am in complete agreement with Thomas. Perhaps we can help you find a solution.”

He takes a breath to steady himself, taking a brief survey of the room, watching all of them gathered around him, attentive and unsure. He… could tell them, he realizes. He could tell them, and they would listen, and they might even believe him. He could tell them, and there is nothing stopping him from doing so but himself, old habits that have been ingrained in him over years and decades, habits that insist that he cannot afford to be vulnerable, that he cannot afford to show weakness, that the moment he bares his throat to them, they will pounce.

But looking at them, at Patton, so determined to help, at Logan, face open and non-judgemental, and even at Roman, who has the least reason out of all of them to want to see him well and yet is here anyway, he wonders if that is the case at all.

Thomas’ hand is still on one shoulder, a steadying point of contact. Without looking, he reaches back and finds one of Remus��� hands, still hovering, and guides it to rest on his other. Remus makes a sound of relief and tightens his grip, and it is almost uncomfortable, but it also serves as a reminder that he is not alone, for once, and that perhaps, he can have help, if he asks for it.

Does he dare do this? It will hurt him, and it will hurt them. Will likely hurt Thomas.

But, he realizes, it’s too late to prevent that. Thomas is already hurt, is already lost and confused and worried. The least he can do is tell him why.

So, he looks to Patton. If he’s going to share this, if he truly wants them to understand, he needs to start at the beginning.

“Do you remember what I used to call myself?” he asks. “When Thomas was young, I mean, before I was labeled Deceit. Back when you were Feelings and Logan was Learning.”

“I--” Patton’s face screws up in an obvious effort to remember. “That was so long ago, I don’t--” He pauses, mouth working silently, and then, his eyes open wide. “You know, I’d forgotten that we used to call you something else,” he says. He doesn’t sound happy about it. “Weren’t you Self?”

He nods. “Self,” he repeats. It’s been so long since he said the name aloud. It’s like an old favorite shoe, well-worn but now half a dozen sizes too small. “That’s right. Back then, I was entirely about self-preservation. Anything that boosted Thomas’ sense of self, I was in charge of.” He closes his eyes, slipping back into the memories. “Deception didn’t become a major part of that until later, until there were… issues. Until Thomas began to doubt himself more, experience more internal conflict.” He opens his eyes again, meeting Patton’s once more. “Then, I did anything I could to keep things running smoothly. I was… whoever I needed to be, whenever I needed to be them, as long as it would benefit Thomas. You usually didn’t catch me.” He splays his hands, relishing the sting of his bloodied knuckles. “I’m like glue, filling in the cracks.”

“You impersonated us that much?” Virgil asks, voice strangled.

He shrugs. “For all intents and purposes, I was you,” he says quietly. “I got used to it after a while. Too used to it, I suppose.”

“What do you mean by that?”

It’s Thomas who speaks now, low and urgent and worried, and he turns to him, turns to the man he has given everything to protect.

“As best I can tell,” he says, and he is not trying to be bitter, but something of the kind leaks through anyway, “I’m a… a mimic, of a sort. Or maybe just a mirror. I’ve spent so long being whatever was needed that I never developed into anything else, and then I told you my name and you started calling me Janus, and I-- I couldn’t handle it. I can’t.” He shudders, closing his eyes. He can’t bear to meet Thomas’ gaze anymore, can’t bear to see the condemnation he knows must surely come now. “I can’t meet those expectations. At best, I’m… a fake. A sham. Janus… it’s my name, but there’s not a person attached to it. Everything I am is built on traits I’ve taken from everyone else.” He shakes his head, a sour smile curling his lips. “Take away the lies, and there’s nothing left of me.”

“That’s why you don’t like us using the name,” Thomas says. “You don’t feel like it’s yours.”

“Nothing that I am is mine,” he answers, and falls silent, waiting for the sentence to fall, the gavel to pound.

For a moment, no one says anything at all.

“That’s not true,” Patton says, and the fierceness in his voice takes him aback. His eyes snap open.

“Patton--”

But Patton shakes his head, his face flushing pink. “No, you let me talk,” he says. “That’s not true, and I’m so sorry that we’ve let you feel like it is. I should’ve--” He breaks himself off, biting his lip. “No, that’s not the point. The point is that you’re not just a mimic, or a mirror, or what have you, and you should never, ever have been made to feel like you had to be.”

He didn’t expect this, didn’t expect a passionate defense. He’s not sure where this is coming from, not sure what he did to provoke this.

“I--”

“I mean, we’ve been spending time together, right?” Patton continues. “And you’ve been enjoying that, unless you were faking, but I don’t think you were. Do you really think that you were only having fun because it was something you’d done when you were being me?”

His throat runs dry. His first instinct is to say, yes, of course, because he’s spent so long thinking this way. But instead of his usual conviction, his mind fills with a buzzing noise, and he can’t bring himself to speak.

“I agree with Patton,” Logan speaks up. “True, there may be some activities that you initially took interest in for the purpose of impersonating one of us. However, that does not make your own enjoyment of those activities any less valid, or any less a part of who you are. You, specifically, not you when you are attempting to emulate one of us. Unless you don’t actually enjoy our chess matches.”

But--

“Yeah, and you don’t have to actually be one of us in order to feel something that one of us feels, or do something that one of us does,” Virgil says. “Just because Logan is Logic doesn’t mean that you have to be Logan in order to be logical. I mean, can you imagine if Logan were the only one capable of basic logical reasoning? You dumbass,” he tacks on.

That, at least, is enough to prompt an answer out of him. “It’s a habit,” he says weakly. His head is spinning. He doesn’t know what else to do, what else to say. How can they be saying these things so easily? How can they so casually uproot the foundations that his existence is built upon?

“You are worthy of personhood in your own right,” Roman adds, quietly. “I… I know that we have had our arguments. But you are our equal, just as deserving of an individual identity. There is nothing you need do to earn that.”

“You’re my best fucking friend,” Remus says suddenly, his grasp on his shoulder tightening. “You are. Not you trying to be someone else. I like you. I’ll kill anyone who says different.”

He feels a pang at that, because that’s just it. Remus thinks he’s his friend, thinks he likes him for who he is, but how can he, when even he doesn’t know who he is himself?

“I know it hurts to not know what you’re doing,” Patton says softly, “or even who you are, or who you’re supposed to be. But you’ve got us.”

“I don’t know who I am when I’m not trying to be someone else,” he says, the admission ripped from him almost unwillingly. “I don’t know who Janus is.” The tears well up again, and he lets them fall.

Patton is so kind. They are all being so kind, even Virgil, who hates him, even Roman, who he has wronged. What has he done to deserve this kindness?

“I think,” Thomas says haltingly, “that I’m gonna hug you now, if that’s okay.”

And he startles, remembering again that Thomas is here, too, even though he’s been quiet. Though he hasn’t been quiet, exactly, has he? They are all part of him, after all; they all make up his thoughts and feelings and hopes and dreams, so in a way, Thomas doesn’t need to be vocal himself to make his opinions known.

The realization hits, then, as Thomas wraps his arms around him, that Thomas cares about him. And not just Thomas, but the rest of them, too, piling around him, Remus clinging to his back and Patton tucking himself into his side and Virgil laying a hand on his arm. They are here for him, came after him, and for the first time, he considers the idea that their regard might not be contingent on the presentation of a certain identity.

The concept is foreign to him. He has spent so long being whatever he thought they needed, thought they wanted, and that was what led him here, attached to a name with nothing behind it. He has spent so long pretending to be strong, to be cool, to be collected. There has never been time not to be, never been time to make himself vulnerable, to allow himself to discover who Janus might be, if given the chance.

He shudders, burying his face in Thomas’ shoulder.

“It’s okay not to know,” Thomas says, and the love and acceptance in his voice is so real and so true that he begins to cry harder. “You don’t need to know right now. But we can help you figure it out, alright? We’ll do this together.” His voice softens. “You’re not on your own.”

He doesn’t know who he is. Doesn’t know where to begin to find out. But that much, perhaps, he can believe.

“Okay,” he whispers, and just this once, lets himself trust.

----------

Patton is at the oven, cursing under his breath, trivial words like “shucks” and “darn” and once in a while, a particularly vehement, “Damn!” The kitchen fills with smoke and the scent of burning cookies.

He hangs in the doorway for a while before making his presence known.

“Not having any trouble at all, I see,” he says, and Patton jerks, spinning around. His face lights up upon seeing him, and he hopes the warmth in his cheeks isn’t visible.

“Hi,” Patton says, and laughs ruefully. “What, you don’t think I’m smoking hot?”

He has to bite back his instinctual response, which is just as well, because Patton continues before he can think of anything appropriate.

“I’ve still got enough dough for another try, if you wanna help,” Patton says cheerfully. “Um, is Janus okay right now or no?”

He considers. It still doesn’t fit quite right, doesn’t settle on his shoulders. But he thinks he can do this without falling into the mindset that he has to be somebody else, that he has to wrap another identity around himself. He can do this maskless, and if he finds himself faltering, Patton will help him.

He can do this. And it’s not perfect, but perhaps, here’s a start.

“Janus is fine,” he says, and steps into the kitchen.

Writing Taglist:  @just-perhaps @the-real-comically-insane @jerrysicle-tree @glitchybina @psodtqueer @mrbubbajones @snek-boii

Part 2 Taglist: @bunny222

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

Tightrope Fanfic

Title: Tightrope

Summary:  Virgil feels lost. It’s not a foreign feeling, especially when one is the embodiment of Anxiety. But it feels like one as he stares down at a sniffling Roman in his arms. He doesn’t know what has happened. One moment, the others are having their spat about the wedding. The next, Roman barges into his room mid-breakdown and hasn’t left since. 

Pairings: platonic prinixety

Word-Count: 2.9k

Warnings: Crying, Anger, Panic, Discussion of POF, Hurt/Comfort

This is a companion fic to Safety Net, but you don’t have to read that one to understand the context of this one <3

-

Virgil feels lost. It’s not a foreign feeling, especially when one is the embodiment of Anxiety. But it feels like one as he stares down at a sniffling Roman in his arms. He doesn’t know what has happened. One moment, the others are having their spat about the wedding. The next, Roman barges into his room mid-breakdown and hasn’t left since.

He keeps expecting the rug to be pulled out from under him. That perhaps this is some delayed April’s Fool joke. A ploy by Remus or one of the Others to fuck with him. His mind crafts a thousand possibilities, a thousand explanations for why this can’t be reality.

Because Virgil doesn’t know how to handle a Roman who fell from a great height and shattered completely. What if he cannot put the pieces back together again? What if he messes up and makes things worse? What if he’s the one to cause this in the first place?

No, he refuses to go down that spiraling thought pattern. Because if he unravels now, then he’ll be completely useless to Roman. He compartmentalizes the fear, stuffing it away to haunt him at a later date.

Roman’s cries have died down to a few hiccuping gasps of air. The ever-poised, ever-presentable Prince of Passion is anything but. He lays in Virgil’s arms, as limp and lifeless as a doll. His white princely jacket wrinkly and half-undone, red sash hanging loosely. Virgil cannot see his eyes from underneath his rumpled, messy hair but he’s willing to bet they’re bloodshot. Virgil bits his lips as he notes the dark ichor running down Roman’s cheeks like smeared mascara. 

Roman has been in his room for far too long. Especially for someone who was already in a fragile emotional state upon showing up. Virgil shouldn’t have allowed him to stay. But he couldn’t find in himself to deny Roman, not when he’d looked at Virgil with a helpless terror in his eyes. So he had chosen instead to hold onto a sobbing Roman while trying to figure out what the hell happened. 

The clock in his room is hardly reliable, but he’s certain at least an hour has passed and he’s still nowhere closer than he’d been at the start. Which is that it involves the stupid wedding, Patton and Deceit. The latter of which, apparently told them his actual name. He won’t know more unless Roman divulges more. And in the swirling storm of hysteria that is his room, the chances of that happening is slim.

Before he can let doubt rake its claws into him, he pulls Roman closer to his chest and syncs out. Roman realizes a moment too late what’s happening. He lets out a startled gasp, tries pushing away, but it’s too late. With a loud crackle, they appear in the gloomy fog of a dead forest.

Roman looks around, eyebrows bunched up together. If this was any other situation, Virgil might’ve smirked.

“It’s the imagination,” Virgil says, answering the question behind Roman’s bewildered gaze, “Or at least my little pocket of it. No one will find us here.”

Well maybe except Remus, the one responsible for its creation. Virgil is hoping that today will not be the day he decides to return here for the first time in years.

Roman opens his mouth to speak, yet hesitates halfway through. He turns his head away from Virgil, shrugging. Virgil’s cold dead heart plummets at this. Roman isn’t supposed to be this defeated. He’s supposed to be stubborn, obstinate, argumentative. Virgil knows how to handle that. He knows how to bait Roman into banter, to get him to admit the root of his problems. But this? He doesn’t know how to deal with a Roman this apathetic. And that scares him.

Virgil should apologize, he thinks. After everything that happened, he hunkered down in his room. He stayed away thinking his presence would only be detrimental than beneficial. He was Anxiety after all, flight or fight. In this case, he chose flight. But obviously, like everything else in his existence, that’d been the wrong choice yet again.

He inhales deeply, his breath hitching at the last moment, the words refusing to come out. They remain stuck in clumps inside his throat, refusing to solidify into verbal spoken words. The ghostly howl of the wind is the only sound between the two.

Then Roman laughs. It sounds more like a cat hacking up a hairball than his usual melodious chuckles. It’s loud, harsh and absolutely dripping with pain. Halfway through he ends up in a coughing fit. Virgil watches, unsure how to respond.

“You were right.” Roman croaks at last, sagging heavily against a tree.

Those words aren't what Virgil likes to hear. It’s never good when he, Anxiety, is right.  He’d much prefer to be proven wrong. Even if that meant Roman lording it over his head for weeks on end. It’s annoying as hell and he never thought he’d miss that until now.

Virgil swallows, pushing the sudden ache in his chest aside. He doesn’t need confirmation to know what he was right about.

 Still, his heart thudding heavily in his chest, he asks anyways, “About Janus?”

Roman nods, grimacing. 

“Ro, what happened?” Virgil asks, unable to hold that question within himself any longer.

The fanciful side doesn’t respond at first. His hand traces the grooves of the bark on the tree he’s leaned against. His lips twist and contort, as if fighting to find the words to say. Virgil isn’t sure if he’s ever seen Roman ever at a loss for words until now.

“I thought it was a villainous trick at first. Just another ploy to get us to trust him. I made fun of it, even. It wasn’t until the way you reacted when I mentioned it to you that I thought otherwise,” Roman says, breaking in mid-conscious thought. Something that is very Roman-like, forgetting other people can’t read his mind. There must be something in Virgil’s face because he clarifies, “Deceit’s name I mean.”

“I mean, I don’t blame you,” Virgil says slowly, toying with his hoodie strings, “He never told any of the Others.”

“But he told you?”

Now it’s Virgil’s turn to stare at the ground. The ache in his chest returns, except it’s different. It’s like a fire-pit at a summer camp-out. It’s warm and comfortable to linger next to, but stay too long and you’ll be sweltering in the unbearable suffocating heat. The same goes for thinking about the past. That’s why he hates getting nostalgic. It’s hard to reminisce about the good times without remembering why they ended.

The old him that hasn’t been extinguished yet, the one that called himself Janus’ friend, is indignant that Roman apparently made fun of Janus’ name. However the newer him that calls himself Virgil and wears the purple hoodie, isn’t. Good, he thinks, he deserves it. And he isn’t too ashamed of feeling that way. Not after the raging forest fire that burnt down their friendship in the first place.

“Yeah.” Virgil breaths out with stifled lungs. He can feel Roman’s eyes burning a hole in his head. He thinks he’d find an unspoken question in them if he looks up. He doesn’t elaborate. He isn’t in the mood for scorching his tongue on the ashes of a cremated friendship. Especially when it’d shift the focus onto him and not Roman. Something he’s certain Roman wants despite it being so rare for him to flinch away from the spotlight. 

For all their vast, stark differences, they aren’t really that different when it comes down to several things, one being that neither of them like showing weakness. They are also incredibly stubborn. It just so happens Virgil has the stronger resolve at this moment.

“I trusted him,” Roman says, continuing where he’d left off, “I trusted him, I thought he’d knew best and I just wanted--” 

A huff cuts off Roman’s words as he flings his arms towards the sky. He paces in front of Virgil, muttering bits and pieces too quick for him to understand. Perhaps he does need to share a little. Just to help Roman know and understand he isn’t alone. 

“Listen, I get it,” Virgil says, “I also trusted Janus once too--”

“No, it wasn’t Janus--well, yes, but--” Roman yanks at his hair, “I meant Patton!”

Patton? Virgil feels as if he'd been riding on the flying magic rug from Aladdin. Only the magic rug has been ripped from underneath him and now he’s freefalling into a waterfall full of sharp pointy rocks at the bottom.

He’d thought he knew where this conversation was heading except now he’s lost more than ever before. He needs a minute to breathe, to process what’s happening. Roman doesn’t give him that. He pushes on, shaking his head like a riled-up mistreated stallion from a horse girl movie.

“I wanted to do what was right for Thomas and--and Patton has always known what’s right, right?”

He gazes desperately at Virgil, searching for reassurance, for affirmation. Virgil’s heart sinks. He can't honestly give that to Roman, though he'd love to give Roman whatever his heart desires to stop his pain. 

Patton tries his best, he really does. But even he is wrong sometimes. He has made mistakes, ones that have hurt Virgil himself both past and present. And although Virgil has forgiven him, it doesn’t change the fact that even their softest puffball isn’t always right.

He can tell Roman realizes that by the way his scowl grows bigger.

“Am I too dimwitted?” Roman growls, “Was I the only one foolish enough to believe that? Just like believing that I could truly be--be--” 

He lets out a tormented scream, slumping down against a tree. Head bowed, knees drawn close, arms pulled tightly around himself. Virgil stands a few feet away, still so far from understanding as he was when Roman first appeared in his room. Only that apparently he needed to kick both Janus’ and Patton’s collective asses.

Virgil withholds a sigh as he crouches down next to Roman. 

A gloomy fog hardly provides the best lighting. It’s better than the dark murkiness of his room, however, and it’s here that he notices something. A blueish-purple splotch of something. Just barely poking out of Roman’s collar. It’s then, Virgil remembers that a metaphoric “bruised ego” is anything but metaphoric for one metaphysical entity such as Roman, Creativity and Ego in one.

“Princey,” Virgil says, his voice unusually level, “did you get hurt by what happened earlier?”

Roman doesn’t answer his question. Not directly at least. “Lee and Mary Lee hardly spoke to Thomas at the wedding, did you know that?”

“Yeah,” Virgil bites his lips, “I knew that.”

It’s a rhetorical question. Of course Virgil knows--he’s a part of Thomas. He’d been with Thomas during the wedding. The leg bouncing up and down in an anxious jitter. Directing the eyes away from the merriment of the wedding and towards that pointless moronic mobile game. The clenching feeling in Thomas’ throat during the brief interaction with Lee and Mary Lee. He hadn’t even been able to say hello because of Virgil.

He’d tried so hard to hold back, to not torment Thomas with his decision anymore than his host had already endured. It didn’t really matter in the end. As Thomas finally slipped away from the wedding, so had Virgil slipped into his room. He ignored the muffled noises of the debate erupting outside the mindscape. Why show his face when Thomas already knew what his input would be? Or knowing what he’d once been, for that matter? Or at least, that had been his justifications at the time.

“Which hardly seems fair! After what I--Thomas sacrificed to be there for them. B-but it’d been the right decision, right?” Roman laughs, shaking his head. He doesn’t wait for an answer as he pushes on, “Was it too selfish to expect more? To think that making the right decision would result in an award?”

Virgil stays silent. Morality isn’t his forte; sure as Anxiety he often cautioned Thomas to follow societal rules. It’s often easier to go with the current rather than fight against it. So he’s hardly the most reliable source of it. 

And as for his role, both the wedding and the call-back offered the same amount of dread. After all, he’s Anxiety. It’s literally his job to nitpick and point out every single thing a situation could go wrong, no matter how improbable or absurd. Unlike Roman, he’d be lying if he said he was surprised by the outcome of the wedding. It’s not far off from what he had predicted.

On the flipside, he could offer a million ways of how the audition could’ve ended poorly. A tear in Thomas’ pants mid-audition. Thomas blanking out on a crucial line. A meteor falling from the atmosphere and effectively crushing Thomas to death. Okay, that last one is highly improbable but it could still happen! You never know!

Regardless, he doubted any of that is what Roman needed to hear.

“I trusted him. He’d said it’d been the right decision when I made it. And I believed him.” Roman scoffs.

Virgil frowns, cautiously sitting a few feet away from Roman. He chooses not to look him in the eye, treating him as if he’s an easily-startled wild creature.

“Y’know, he and I are going through a bit of a rough patch. He’s trying his best, I know he is. But take it from me--sometimes someone’s best isn’t always good enough. And I think it’s okay if it...takes time for you to forgive Patton.”

“No!”

“No?”

“I mean,” Roman lets out a frustrated scream, “I don’t know! Before, there was a script, a stage, parts to play. Ones I had intimately memorized! But it’s as if it’s before the curtain rises before the opening show and the director has thrown out the script completely. He expects me after years of practice to perform something I’ve never seen--that even he has no concept of what it looks like and h-how is any actor expected to perform in such conditions?” 

A light-bulb finally goes off in Virgil’s head.

“You’re...angry at Thomas, aren’t you?”

Roman flinches as he’d been struck, throwing his body backwards harshly against the tree. He looks hardly affected by it as he scrambles quickly to his feet.

“Wh-what? No! That’s absurd!” Roman protests, “I’m not angry at Thomas--”

“But you are,” Virgil interrupts, rising to his feet, “You’re angry at both Patton and Janus, yeah, but they’re just targets to throw your misplaced anger at. Because you don’t want to admit it’s actually Thomas--”

“Yes, because you’re wrong, Mary Mary Q-quite Misconstrued!” Roman puffs up his chest, trying to keep his head high, “I--I’d never, I can’t hate Thomas--”

“Whoa, I didn’t say you hated him,” Virgil says, gently tugging Roman’s hands into his own, “there’s a difference between being mad at someone for something, and hating them.”

Roman looks at him with almost a wild gaze to his eyes, so close to almost hyperventilating. Virgil can almost see the invisible cracks in Roman’s skin, his multitude of facades peeling away before Virgil’s eyes. He looks at Roman and sees himself. 

“I used to think they were the same thing,” Virgil begins, “But they’re not. Hate is when you abhor ill will towards someone, when you wish them dead or worse. Anger...anger is just a form of fear. And it’s okay to feel and experience that anger, you don’t have to repress it.”

“I’m not scared of Thomas,” Roman scoffs, his gaze drawn to the forest floor rather than Virgil.

“But you are afraid that if Thomas can accept Janus and possibly Remus, then he could just as easily change his mind regarding you, right?” Virgil questions, “You’re afraid because all you've ever done has been in Thomas’ best interest and suddenly now you’re being told all it’s done is hurt him. You’re afraid but you don’t want to admit it, so you turn to anger instead because that’s better than being scared, right?”

“I’m not…” Roman trails off, clenching his jaw. Virgil is fully expecting to get punched by the way his body tenses up. Roman does lunge towards him just then, arms flailing out. Virgil doesn’t even have a chance to raise his arms up in defense before he gets an armful of blubbering prince once more.

“I’m supposed to be Thomas’ hero, he told me I was, but what if I’m not? W-what if I never was? And--and I have to be good, Virgil, I can’t be evil--”

Roman lets it all go then. It’s a tidal wave of anxiety and fears, of self-doubt and self-deprecation. Almost any other person would become overwhelmed by how much perturbation Roman’s kept hidden all these years. But Virgil is Anxiety, his realm is terror and trepidation. He’s experienced every fear-induced thought and more under the sun. He understands it better than perhaps anyone else ever could.

He knows Roman will most likely clam up after today. That later on, they’ll need to address these things in detail and take care of the bruises mottling his skin. Roman will need encouragement to rebuild his confidence and to turn away from self-destructive habits. Both of which are things that Virgil struggles with all too well. He knows it to feel as impossible as walking across a tightrope blindfolded. Right now, however, all Roman needs is for someone to listen.

And so listen Virgil does.

[the-river-person]

Interesting. Very interesting.

Alright. I was going to post the first long piece for my Fell AU sometime today, but instead I decided to play Deltarune Chapter 2.

There’s a lot to unpack here, and I’m sure people will get to it. But I wanna focus a bit on some things of particular interest to me.

Spoilers for Deltarune Chapter 2 imminent. If you continue to read and spoil the game, it’s your own fault.

•Something feels off about Ralsei. Maybe it’s just that he seems to know a lot more about prophecies and the nature of the fountains and dark world (as well as lightners) than he’s willing to tell us all right away.

•Or maybe it’s that he’s just too nice and that I no longer trust Toby after the Flowey the Flower thing.

•All I know is that something about him unsettles me.

•The Deltarune symbol in Kris’s room in the castle has the three triangles color coordinating with Susie, Ralsei, and Kris. As if they’re represented by those little triangles. Does this sort of symbolism carry over to Undertale’s rune as well? Who are our symbols? Chara? Frisk? Asriel?

• Queen has met or knows the Spade King from before the events of this. Other dialogue indicates that there is history here.

•Ralsei can travel among different Darkwprlds. His castle town may act as a kind of central hub.

•In first chapter his fountain is described as being at the center of the kingdom. What kingdom? It’s at the far edge of the one we traveled. Unless all these different dark worlds are fragments of a larger kingdom that is broken somehow??

•Ralsei adding subjects to kingdom, growing it. Unease… don’t trust that goat prince. Where is Asriel in all of this?

•Dark world…. World of story? Dreams? Imagination?? Or something that and more? The realm of fantasy and magic, a place where such figments meet and mix with reality for a time, become real?

•Ralsei’s expanded lore. Could be interpreted in several ways that I can see right this second. More interpretations might exist but these are the ones I see now. Story with a story. The dangers of immersing yourselves too deeply in fantasy and stories to the neglect of real life. You’re supposed to learn and grow from stories, but if you never return home from the fantasy to put that growth to use, then you might be lost.

•Titans. Could be a metaphor for those who would use fantasy and media and entertainment to distract and mislead and control. Could be literal monsters rising from deep within the shadows, born of dreams and dark abstractions. Fear, anger, deceit, uncertainty, insanity, paranoia, superstition, hate, etc. could be some terrible physical beast literally sleeping in the darkness waiting to be unleashed. Could be all three.

•Kris could be the Knight. But they also did just discover how to make the fountains. So it might not be them. Could still be someone else.

•don’t trust father Alvin either. Something is off. But what???

•Susie…. I want to hug you and feed you cake.

There may be more later, or I might expand on some. But these are what I’ve got in my head at the moment. Feel free reblog or to add on or mention more.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Pretty Voice

Read on Ao3

Warnings: self-doubt, self-esteem issues, all canon-typical. these are just some angsty bois sometimes, huh. other than that, none. this thing’s pretty fluffy. 

Pairings: Logince. Can be platonic or romantic you choose, I don’t know anymore. 

Word Count: 6367

The Imagination has a theatre. Roman holds concerts regularly. The others are invited to perform but Roman is the star. Today, it’s just him and Logan. Logan’s never wanted to perform. He sits a few rows back from the stage so he can see better and so his eardrums don’t get blown out. Also so Roman can’t really see Logan.

In other words: this isn't the first time Logan's made himself hard to see. It isn't the first time he's struggled to be heard either. Maybe it's time Roman did something about that.

The Imagination has a theatre. Roman holds concerts regularly. The others are invited to perform but Roman is the star. Today, it’s just him and Logan. Logan’s never wanted to perform. He sits a few rows back from the stage so he can see better and so his eardrums don’t get blown out. Also so Roman can’t really see Logan.

It’s been about half an hour. Logan’s been clapping after every song, offering honest feedback which just happens to be very complimentary. Roman adores his compliments, they’re so unique and genuine. Logan did confess a few songs ago that he is having trouble keeping up with how incredible the performances have been, always finding something new to compliment all the same. And yet when he finishes quite a spectacular rendition about ‘From Now On,’ Logan’s silent. No clapping either. In fairness, the end of the song does kind of fade out, so…but Roman thinks it’s something else.

“Well, if you didn’t like the song,” he huffs melodramatically, perching his hands on his hips, “you could’ve just said so.”

His joking demeanor fades when Logan startles terribly.

“Huh? Oh, oh, my apologies,” Logan stammers, “I just…I fear I lost focus. It was…an incredible rendition.”

Roman squints a little. It’s really…how has he not noticed that it’s pretty hard to see Logan? Has he really been so involved in the performance?

Well, he has to admit, it’s pretty intoxicating. Especially with the acoustics they’ve got in the theatre.

“…are you sure you don’t want to try,” he asks, gesturing to the stage, “just a little song? Just one?”

Logan shakes his head. “I’m perfectly alright.”

“One verse,” he bargains, “a chorus?”

“I couldn’t hope to follow you.”

“Well yes, I am magnificent, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be too.”

Logan smiles and shakes his head again. Roman frowns, coming right to the edge of the stage and crouching down so he’s closer to Logan’s eye-line.

“Are you alright?”

“Hmm? Yes, I am perfectly alright, thank you.”

“And here I thought Deceit was the living lie detector.”

Logan shifts. “Well, it follows that you would have some sense as well. You’re an actor, aren’t you?”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“‘Focus on issues or focus on me,’ as I recall, is one of your favorite catchphrases.”

Yes, it is, but Roman would rather focus on the issues right now. “Come here.”

“What?”

He smiles, beckoning with a finger. “Come here.”

Logan does, standing up and walking down the aisle. Roman waits until he’s fairly close to stand up and jump down from the stage.

“And…up we go!”

Laughing as Logan squeaks in surprise, grabbing onto his shoulders, Roman picks him up and sets him on the stage. He rests his forearms on either side of Logan’s thighs, keeping a light grip on his hips. Even with the height of the stage and the slight downhill slope of the aisle, Roman’s still a little bit taller than Logan, so he takes a step back until they’re eye level.

“And…perfect,” he says, and leans forward until they’re almost nose to nose, grinning like the cat that got the cream. “Hello.”

“…um, hello.” Logan glances around, still trying to work out why he’s no longer on the floor. “Why am I up here?”

So I can cuddle you while I ask you what’s wrong, of course. “Well, I figured shouting across the theatre perhaps wasn’t the best idea.”

Logan raises an eyebrow. “I believe ‘projecting’ is the correct term.”

“So you have been paying attention.”

“I do have some theatre experience. I am a part of Thomas, after all.”

Roman gasps, mock-offended. “And yet you still won’t sing for me?”

“Believe it or not, my prince, I have no desire to humiliate myself like that.”

Oh, we’re using pet-names, now, are we? Well, lucky for Logan, Roman’s an expert.

“Dearest,” he coos, “you really shouldn’t sell yourself short like that. After all—“ he runs a thumb over Logan’s pink cheek, smiling— “sweetheart, you’re lovely.”

Logan shuts their eyes, making Roman chuckle as they bury their face in their hands. “Did you have to do that?”

“Do what, my sweet?”

“You,” Logan says weakly, and oh, he must be flustered if he’s so far gone from his typical articulation, “with the pet-names.”

“Well, darling, you did start it.” Logan shakes his head, only to blush brighter when Roman winks at him. “And what kind of prince would I be if I didn’t flirt with every dashing fellow I came across?”

“You’d be you,” Logan says, “isn’t that enough?”

Roman’s smile falters and before he can stop himself it slips out.

“…is it?”

Logan frowns, blush receding as he tilts his head. “Of course it is, Roman. You…you are an incredible force. Your work ethic rivals that of anyone else, including my own. Your resilience is something to be admired as well, not to mention how hard you work to keep Thomas as the center of your efforts. And you…your abilities…and how selflessly you share them with us…”

Logan takes a deep breath and smiles. “Of course it’s enough, Roman, you’re enough.”

Roman may have the high ground when it comes to flirting, but he has nothing on Logan’s sincere eloquence. All he can do is bathe in the words, try and soak up every single bit of it Logan gives him.

“…you believe me,” Logan murmurs, “right?”

“You really are too sweet to me,” Roman says finally, “aren’t you, little bear?”

He’s rewarded with an adorably confused head tilt. “‘Little bear?’”

“I like to think of you like a little bear,” Roman says, regaining some of his confidence as Logan starts to blush again. “Because you’re an excellent cuddler, just like a teddy bear. You are unmatched in your ability to comfort the rest of us—though don’t tell Patton I said that—and you are fiercely protective of your cubs.”

“And with this jacket—“ Roman pats the thick, fluffy, light brown jacket just about swallowing Logan’s form he’d been given when Roman noticed him shivering in the chill of the theater— “you’re just like a fuzzy little teddy bear!”

To prove his point, he flips up the hood, miscalculating just how floppy it is and smacking Logan in the face with it, sending them both into a fit of giggles.

“And bears like honey. Honey is sweet. And you,” Roman says, leaning close enough to bump their noses together, “are very, very sweet.”

He chuckles when Logan makes a frustrated noise and pulls the hood further over his flushed little face. They’re so cute.

“Aww,” he teases, tugging at the hood, “don’t hide from me, little bear! Let me see you!”

A brief tug-of-war later—in which Roman totally doesn’t cheat by sneaking his hand down and scribbling his nails over his knee—and he pulls the hood away, revealing an adorably flushed Logan pouting at him.

“There you are,” he says, reaching forward to boop his nose. “If you don’t like it, Logan, I can come up with another one.”

“No,” Logan mumbles, “I…I like it.”

Roman takes pity on the blushing mess on the stage in front of him, helping Logan tug the collar of the jacket a little snugger around his neck. “Little bear it is, then.”

Logan, meanwhile, is having a crisis.

Because Roman couldn’t just invite him to spend some one on one time in the Imagination, no. He had to sing to him in the most incredible voice he’s ever heard and then ask if Logan wanted to sing. He had to ask Logan if he was alright in that soft voice that he knows he likes. And he had to pick Logan up like he weighed nothing and set him on the stage, curving his body around him like he was something to be protected.

And he had to give him a personalized nickname and tease him about how cute he is.

And he had to be really, really attractive.

He’s right here, he’s touching you, and you still want more? He made up a special little nickname for you and you aren’t satisfied? What else do you want?

Don’t burden him with your problems too. He’s got his own stuff to deal with. He’s got more of a right to be upset about these things than you do.

You’re not even supposed to be upset in the first place.

“Little bear?”

Logan shakes his head. “You’re going to use that every chance you get, aren’t you?”

“Well, that and depending on how you feel about pet names—“

Why did you nod, you useless gay?

Roman’s smile just widens. “Then yes. Yes, I am. So, my sweet little bear—“ internal screaming can commence now, thank you— “what’s got you looking like someone stole all your honey?”

“I don’t…I don’t want…if you are not in a good headspace—“

Rolling his eyes fondly, Roman resettles his grip on Logan’s hips. “Gorgeous, if you keep being as sweet as you are, I am going to get a toothache.”

And Logan thinks he can brush it off, toss some meaningless barb back that’ll either get Roman to talk about something else or at least flirt with him to pass the time instead, but then Roman says: “you can talk to me, little bear,” in a voice so gentle it makes his chest ache.

Where do I start? How do I start? What if I say the wrong thing? Do I even remember how to do this?

What if he changes his mind?

This is stupid, just talk. You know how. Just say something. Anything.

“Sorry, I am…not the most articulate right now.”

“If the bountiful praise you lavished upon me earlier is any indication, I’m afraid I’m going to have to disagree with you.”

Well, there goes that excuse.

Why is this so hard for you? He’s not a mind-reader, you will actually have to talk to him. Isn’t that what you’ve been preaching, you hypocrite?

Do you even have anything to say?

You’re not just going to make something up for attention, are you?

Or is that what you’re doing now? Stalling for attention?

What’s the point of you having a voice if you’re not going to use it?

Now you’re just wasting his time.

The lightest touch on the side of his head and Logan startles terribly. Roman shushes him, finishing tucking a strand of hair out of the way.

“…you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“No!”

Roman blinks, taken aback by the shout. Shit. Logan curls his fists in the coat.

“No,” he mumbles again, “I…”

Great job. Say something.

Roman watches Logan war with himself, growing more and more worried as his eyes squeeze shut, his mouth opening and closing with no words coming out. When he hasn’t moved for a few minutes, he racks his brain for a way to help.

“Once upon a time,” he murmurs finally, smiling gently when Logan’s gaze flicks to his, “there was a forest. A small forest, not too big, where all sorts of creatures lived. Cats, snakes, spiders, frogs, owls, dragons, bears…all sorts.”

As he talks, he rubs soothing circles into their hips with his thumbs.

“And they all had secrets, because everybody does, and they all kept their secrets in different places. At the bottom of their ponds, tucked away in their burrows, hidden their nests…”

Roman steps closer, bracing most of his weight on one arm, wrapping it around Logan’s back to hold them close.

“Where does the little bear keep their secrets?”

He takes his free hand and carefully pushes the flaps of the jacket aside, laying it gently on Logan’s stomach.

“What about here, in their belly? Where all the sweet honey goes? Maybe if I poke it a bit—“ Roman gently prods at a few spots, smiling when Logan giggles and squirms— “the secrets will come out. No, no, that’s a giggle. Maybe over here? On their sides? No, those are more giggles. Hmm…well, this may just be a giggle button.”

A little squeeze here, a little scribble there. Roman smiles when Logan’s face starts to glow that lovely pink again, his giggles still flowing out. He’s more than happy to stand here and lightly tickle Logan until he feels better, but when Logan starts gently batting at his chest and shoulders, trying to push him away, he relents.

“Hmm,” he murmurs, “well, I think there are only giggles in here. Let’s just…pat them a bit to calm them back down.”

He rubs his tummy firmly to soothe away any lingering tingles, then raises his hand to lay over Logan’s upper chest.

“What about here, in their chest? Right here…next to their heart. Oh, I can feel it,” he says, pressing his hand a little firmer, feeling the reassuring thud, “it’s a strong heart. Which makes sense, after all, for our little bear. But…”

Roman searches Logan’s face. Not yet.

“…no. No secrets here.”

Moving slowly, slow enough that Logan can stop him if he wants, Roman tucks his hand against his neck, feeling his pulse against his hand.

“What about here,” he says, “in their throat? Right next to these lovely vocal chords they’re so shy about, maybe if they sing a little, their secrets will come tumbling out?”

It makes the tiniest smile come to Logan’s face but he shakes his head. Roman pouts, unable to keep up the façade when it makes the smile grow.

“Alright then. No. No secrets here.”

Roman takes his hand away, stroking down the fluffy sleeve of the jacket, feeling the soft material tickle his palm. He slides it down to the warm wood of the stage, straightening his posture—the only straight thing on him—so he can lean against the stage between Logan’s knees, hands going back to his hips.

“Well,” he says softly, “I don’t know where else to look, little bear.”

Please, Logan, let me help you.

A trembling hand takes his, guiding it up, up, up to press his fingertips carefully to the underside of Logan’s chin.

“…here? Under your tongue? Oh…oh, I can feel them…there’s so many, you’re so tense here…”

He carefully rubs and presses, feeling how tight Logan’s jaw is. Logan swallows heavily and Roman feels his tongue move.

“Does it hurt, little bear?”

Shake.

“No? Are you sure?”

He won’t meet his eyes. Oh, Logan…

“Well, it can’t be comfortable, holding them all like that. Is…is this why your head feels so heavy? Here,” he says, cupping his chin properly, coaxing him to rest his head in his hand, “let me hold it for a little.”

That’s it, he smiles as Logan’s head sinks into his hand. He gives it a soft squeeze.

“Now, why don’t we try and see if we can make this a little easier for you, little bear? In fact, I…I think I can feel one…right here.”

He takes his other hand and mimes plucking something from the air in front of him.

“I think it wants to come out.”

He moves his hand away, slowly pulling the secret away, drawing it up and out. Logan’s mouth opens, yes, come on, you can do it…

“…I’m scared.”

Roman rubs his fingers together and sprinkles the harmful secret away. “And…poof. It’s gone.”

He comes back, resting his hand on Logan’s knee. “Good job, little bear. And it’s okay to be scared, I promise. And I’m right here, I won’t let anything hurt you.”

Logan’s worried little brow relaxes and it makes the ache in his chest release, just a little. Then he feels Logan’s chin wobble.

“Oh…oh, here’s another one…feel it?” He plucks another one from the air. “I’ve got it, don’t worry, here we go…”

“…I…”

“…say it,” he coaxes, “go on.”

“…I haven’t…done this…in…so long, I…I’m not…I…don’t…”

Logan swallows. Roman brings his hand a little closer to their face but he doesn’t let go.

“I don’t know if I remember how to do this.”

“That was a stubborn one,” Roman says softly, “wasn’t it?”

Logan nods. Roman turns to address his hand, still clutching the pesky secret.

“You’ve been living there for a long time, haven’t you? Well, I’ll have you know that’s quite rude,” he scolds. “You’ve caused my little bear an awful lot of discomfort. Now begone.”

He swats it away with a disgusted expression, softening when he feels the low rumble of a laugh in his other hand. Looking back, he sees Logan looking…a little better, at least.

“You feel a little lighter, my dear,” he observes. Logan nods. “Good.”

Taking Logan’s chin in both hands, he rubs his fingers along his jaw. “Let me see…feel around a little… any more loose ones?”

Anything else you’d like to tell me? Or talk about?

“…one.”

Roman nods. “Alright. Let me see…”

He waves his hand a bit in the air in front of them, as if he’s searching for something to grab onto. Finally, he picks a spot and forms a pinch.

“Ah. Here. Oh…oh, this one…” He gently tugs on it. “This one feels heavy. Like there’s a lot of it. Oh, you poor thing, shall we try and see if we can get this to stop hurting you?”

This time, Logan doesn’t hesitate and nods.

“Let’s see…it feels quite long…hefty. So, how about this: I will start pulling out the bits that feel a little loose already, and whenever it starts to come, you just say it for me, alright?”

Logan nods.

“Wonderful.”

With that, he begins to pull, miming retrieving a long, magician’s scarf out of Logan’s mouth. When his chin starts to wobble again against his hand, Roman frowns.

“Putting up a fight, are we? Well, this looks like a job for two hands.”

Standing at his full height, he starts doing the motion with two hands. One of the biggest parts of improv, apart from ‘yes and,’ is object work, and he coils the scarf neatly on the floor next to him, making sure he’s still pulling it out of Logan’s mouth, walking his hands along the scarf.

Logan wants to. He really wants to. But the words just won’t come out. So much so that when he opens his mouth his breath literally catches in his throat.

“Oh…oh dear,” Roman says worriedly, tugging a little, “it’s…it’s stuck.”

He mimes trying to pull it away with both hands but gets nowhere.

“It’s…it’s really stuck. I don’t want to hurt you but it’s being very stubborn.”

He frowns, keeping one hand tightly around the secret and using the other to cup Logan’s chin again.

“Maybe I can make it loose back here…maybe if I feel around…find where it’s stuck.”

The searching motions of his fingers under Logan’s chin make him fidget a little. Roman sees, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

“Maybe I can tickle it loose, hmm? If I tickle very gently,” he murmurs, scribbling his fingers lightly all over the sensitive skin, smiling as it coaxes more giggles out of him, “can I tickle it loose? No, no, that’s just getting me giggles. You really do have a lot of giggle buttons, little bear. Oh, oh no, it’s going back in, well, that’s not going to work.”

He stops, cupping Logan’s chin firmly, letting him calm back down. Poor thing doesn’t even have the strength to look embarrassed or flustered, no, he just looks frustratingly hopeless. If he wasn’t holding his chin, Roman’s sure Logan’s head would drop right to his chest and he’d never want to raise it again.

“…oh, little bear, is it hurting you?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a bit…hmm…darling, will you listen to me for a moment?”

Logan nods.

“Close your eyes. I have this pesky thing, it won’t be going anywhere.”

The sheer amount of trust it must take for Logan to close his eyes, resting almost the entire weight of his head in Roman’s hand, makes Roman a little light-headed. But he has a job to do here, so he comes forward until his nose is just about brushing Logan’s forehead.

“You are not making me do this,” he whispers, “I’m here because I want to be here. I will keep your secrets safe, I promise.”

He lowers his head, pressing their foreheads together.

“You don’t have to be afraid, Logan. Not with me.”

Logan opens his eyes. It pinches in the little pouch where his chin meets his neck.

“…for as long as I can remember…”

Roman pulls the scarf out once and grabs it again.

“…I…”

His hand moves an inch.

“…have…”

Another inch.

“Are you seriously going to do that word by word?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

Deep breath.

“…for as long as I can remember, I have never been a part of any kind of relationship where it does not hinge on how useful I am.”

Logan closes his eyes, feeling Roman’s hand leave his chin.

“I…I am a function that is indispensable but not one that is wanted.”

Swallows. Keeps going. The pinch doesn’t let up.

“My entire being is based on how much I know. What I can do. And…and if I cannot do the thing I am meant to do, I…I cannot exist. But there are so many things I cannot do in order to do the things I need to do.”

The pinch still doesn’t let up.

“And I…I let it happen.”

Has silence always been this deafening?

“Because I have no choice.”

The pinch spreads, turns to a clench.

“…I am useful. I can explain things to you when you need them explained. I can help you sort through things that you do not fully understand. I can provide solutions to problems when they arise.”

He tugs the jacket tighter around himself, trying to huddle in a cocoon of safety.

“I…I am Logic. I am Logic. That is my job.”

The words curl on his tongue and taste bitter. He briefly wonders if this is what Janus feels like.

“But it is not only my job when it is convenient,” he spits, “it is always my job. And I…I have to be able to do my job. B-because if I don’t, you’ll—“

He swallows heavily.

“…I understand that…there are many things that you and the others do that I do not understand. And I understand that I am…convenient. And when I am not, I—you—“

He huffs. “I understand that I do not understand.”

It’s hot. It’s too hot. The jacket is sweltering, trapping him now. But he can’t let go, can’t move. Can only speak.

“And I cannot understand. Because that would require me to have emotion. And I cannot have emotion. I am Logic. Logic cannot have emotion because logic falls apart when emotions come into play. But I can’t just be Logic!”

It comes out in a horrible burst of agony, ripping up his throat as it comes out.

It h-hurts.

It hurts.

“…you do not require me or Logic.”

He curls into the jacket, not caring about how much it hurts.

“I…I know that logic must always have a place. I know that sometimes you would rather not listen to Logic. But s-sometimes…”

The others don’t always want Logic. They don’t always want Logan either.

“I cannot be human,” he whispers, “I cannot be held to the same standard as a human.”

I am a being of Logic. I am the Logical Side.

“…I cannot have the same luxuries as a human.”

Emotion is a luxury I cannot always afford.

“…I have tried. For you and for Thomas, to…be Logic.”

They didn’t see. They never saw.

“And it has worked. It has worked so well that I—I—”

The line between Logan and Logic blurs so much that it is near impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. But now…

Now when Logic has been silenced, not even Logan can speak.

“…I am Logic.”

Who is Logan?

“I…I know I have feelings, but I…I can’t. I’m not—Logic is not equipped to deal with them. I know I have to be Logic, but I…I can’t.”

Logan was being an inconvenience. Because he was taking more time than I should be. Because everyone else was ready to move on…and Logan wasn’t. Logic was.

“…and I will stay. Because you need Logic.”

Logic would stop talking during a conversation because no one wanted to hear Logic. Logic didn’t care about my emotions, only how I could help them deal with theirs.

“Because you have always needed L-Logic.”

Logic. Logic. Logic.

There is no room for Logan.

I am so scared, so scared of not being useful that I let other people introduce me. Because you would know how I could be the most useful.

I must be useful.

I must be Logic.

There is no room for Logan.

They do not want to listen to Logic. They silence Logic.

They do not even know Logan exists.

“If…if I was smart…you kept me. If I was hardworking, you kept me. If I was useful, you kept me.”

And when I wasn’t enough, they replaced me.

I can’t be Logan. Not here.

…can I be Logic?

Will that be enough?

“…if I’m Logic, will you keep me?”

Silence.

His hands are balled so tightly in his jacket they ache.

He can’t remember the last time he’s talked so much.

He can’t remember the last time Roman was so silent.

What…what has he done?

“I’m—I’m sorry—“

“Don’t you dare, Logan.”

Logan’s head snaps up in horror. Roman stares at him, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. A blazing fury burns in his gaze and Logan shrinks, trying to make himself smaller.

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” he repeats in a low voice.

Is…are those…tear stains?

Roman tried. He tried to just pull the secret out, lend a sympathetic ear, return the favor Logan had given him so many times. But he couldn’t. Tears had welled up by the time he’d mentioned the others only keep him around because he’s convenient. He can’t…he can’t imagine…having to stifle something so integral to himself like emotions, being kept around only because he was useful, being tokenized and objectified over and over and over and reminded that he wasn’t enough on his own…

And not being able to sing? To do all the things that Roman can do, is permitted to do as Creativity?

“Oh, oh, sweetheart,” he manages to gasp, “come here—“

He’s sobbing. He’s sobbing, the tears bubbling up as he reaches desperately for Logan, for his face that…that isn’t crying at all, how can he go through this much and not cry, do…can he not cry anymore?

That only makes him cry harder.

“You’re—you’re wanted, Logan, so—so much, I want you, I need you to—to stay, yes, we’ll—we’ll keep you, oh, darling—“

He understands. He understands so much and it hurts because there are so many secrets nested inside that big secret and it’s so much and he’s so proud of Logan, for surviving, for telling him—

He needs Logan closer. He tugs him off the stage, into his arms, holding him up, holding him close, scooping him into a tight hug.

And oh, it’s exactly the way a heroic knight should hug. Strong. Powerful. Protective. It’s safe as Logan clings to him. He feels safe. Cared for.

Loved?

It’s only when Roman goes to cup Logan’s head that he realizes he’s not really holding that much of Logan’s weight in his arms. Instead, he realizes Logan’s clinging to him just as tightly, their bodies curving into each other as Logan holds himself up by his legs wrapped over his hips.

“…well,” he murmurs, “aren’t you strong?”

“I can hold my own.”

“I know you can, Logan,” he says, pulling back a little so he can see Logan’s face, “but it’s okay if you don’t always want to.”

Logan looks at him, one of the few times where this means he has to look down, a soft smile on his face. “It’s fine for you too.”

Roman can’t help but shake his head in disbelief as he sets Logan—gently!—back on the stage. “How are you already back to taking care of me?”

Logan shrugs. “Instinct? Habit?”

Useful. Right.

They all need to work on that, to work on this, for Logan. Not for Logic, not for Thomas, for Logan.

“In all seriousness,” Logan mumbles, “thank you.”

“No,” Roman corrects, his arms still tightly around Logan, “thank you.”

And when Logan looks up he’s so hopeful that Roman has to lean forward and rub their noses together.

“Is…is this how it f-feels?”

Oh.

Oh.

“Yes, Logan,” Roman breathes, trying to push the feelings across that little gap between them, “this is how it feels.”

“…I…I—“

“You don’t have to say anything, dear heart,” Roman soothes, “truly.”

Logan’s eyes drift closed and Roman frowns, worried when he takes another deep breath and squeezes his eyes tighter.

“…is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

“Make what up?”

“Pay you back then.”

“For what?”

“Roman…”

He relents. Of course he relents. Even if the question made him want to wrap Logan up in a warm blanket and tell him he’ll be safe forever, or leave them with the others and grab his brother and go teach whatever nasty beastly voices in Logan’s head caused this a lesson, he relents. He understands how hard this must’ve been for Logan.

“…yes, there is something you can do for me.”

Logan looks up and the plea in his expression is almost enough to break Roman’s heart all over again.

“When you say you don’t understand,” Roman says softly, still tracing idle patterns over Logan’s back, “some of the things we do, can you give me an example?”

“P-Patton bakes,” Logan manages, “I…I have seen Remus draw. Virgil listens to music or he…he runs. Janus dances.”

He gestures around the theater. “You sing.”

Roman smiles gently. “Will you sing something for me?”

Logan’s breath catches and he tenses, despite Roman’s efforts to soothe him. “…it’s not going to be any good.”

“Who said anything about being good?”

He reaches up to cup Logan’s face in his hands.

“I don’t care if you’re too loud. I don’t care if you’re too quiet. I don’t care if it’s too high. I don’t care what key you’re in,” he says firmly.

Oh, he wants to go and make sure whatever put that unsure look on his face never happened.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he murmurs instead, “it’s just you and me. I want to hear you, little bear. And to prove to yourself that you can.”

A few moments later and Logan breaks out into the smallest of smiles.

“…so what am I singing?”

“Oh, no, that’s not how this works,” Roman says with a smile, “you choose the song, dearest.”

“I…”

“I don’t care what it is. It doesn’t have to be some big, meaningful choice. I’m not here for Logic, I’m here for Logan.”

He knows how hard it can be to be alone on stage, so he steps back to boost himself up to sit next to them.

“…would it help if I sing with you?”

“No.”

Roman looks down at the floor. Even though his feet can just about touch, it…it looks miles away. And he should know how hard it is to pick a song to sing, especially when he hasn’t sung in a while. There’s just so many to choose from, and if you’re scared about what you’re going to be able to sing, then…

Perhaps this was too much to ask.

For a moment, he thinks his phone’s going off, or someone’s computer outside the Imagination, playing an a cappella version of ‘Bright Lights and Cityscapes.’

Then…then he looks.

Logan’s voice, not quite polished, a little worn, makes him cry all over again. It’s just this side of warm, full of longing and heartbreak and barely restrained sorrow and so, so good.

He finishes the song and Roman immediately wants to clamor for another one.

“…you have been holding out on me, darling.”

“You…you like my voice?”

“Oh, dearest, I could write ballads about it.”

“You do not have to.”

“But there are so many songs you could sing so well, and I will never understand how we could silence you, how we could make you believe we don’t want to hear you…”

Logan blushes a pretty pink, but he’s smiling. He’s smiling. And Roman just has to shuffle a little closer to tilt his chin up to see it properly. It’s lovely.

He cups Logan’s chin, feeling the spot under his tongue.

“…still a few more in there, hmm?”

Logan nods, his fingers twitching and growing restless. He looks down to see Logan stimming with the gold trim on his clothes, running his fingers over the coarse twine. Roman smiles, shifting a little to let him work his way along the lines, up the seams, to the ones on his chest. The blush stays on Logan’s cheeks, obviously a little nervous about touching him this way, but…stimming is stimming. Roman understands.

“Do you like it?”

Logan nods.

“I like the sash too,” he says quietly, gently smoothing it right next to Logan’s hand, encouraging him to do the same, “smooth, right?”

“I seem to recall a song lyric about being buried in satin?”

“I don’t know, you’ll have to sing it for me.”

“…I believe the song is called ‘If I Die Young.’”

“You’ll have to sing it.”

“Do you know it?”

“Yes.” When Logan looks up at him, he understands. “Do you?”

“Not all of it.”

“Most of it?”

“…most of it.”

“May I sing it with you?”

“If you like.”

He ruffles Logan’s hair gently. “You start then.”

His hand slows where it’s toying with his sash. Then…

“If I die young,

bury me in satin,

lay me down on a bed of roses,

sink me in the river

at dawn,

send me away with the words of a love song.

“Oh, oh…oh, oh…” Logan looks up at him. He smiles and sings the verse.

“Lord, make me a rainbow,

I’ll shine down on my mother.

She’ll know I’m safe with you

when she stands under my colors, oh.

Life ain’t always what you think it oughta be, no.

Ain’t even gray but she buries her baby.”

He raises his eyebrows, dipping to sing the harmony for: “The sharp knife,

of a short life, well.

I’ve had just enough time.”

The next chorus is smoother, Roman’s smile growing as Logan’s voice starts to ring. His harmony grows warmer.

“If I die young,

bury me in satin,

lay me down on a bed of roses,

sink me in the river

at dawn,

send me away with the words of a love song.

The sharp knife

of a short life, well.

I’ve had just enough time.”

Logan may have been lying about not knowing all of the song, because here Roman is, happily singing the harmony.

“And I’ll be wearing white—“ Roman raises his eyebrows, making them laugh—

“when I come into your kingdom,

I’m as green as the ring

on my little cold finger, I’ve

never known the loving of a man

but it sure felt nice when he was holding my hand—“

Roman covers Logan’s hand, holding it firmly to his chest, thrilling at the way it makes Logan’s voice stutter just a little on the next line.

“—there’s a boy here in town, says he’ll

love me forever.

Who would’ve thought forever would be severed by

the sharp knife

of a short life, well.

I’ve had just enough time.”

And damn can Logan hit that high note. He whistles in approval, grinning wider when Logan just…keeps it going.

“So put on your best boys,

and I’ll wear my pearls…

what I never did is done…”

The smile fades when Logan’s face drops, looking back at Roman’s chest. The hand under Roman’s begins to tremble as he keeps singing.

“A penny for my thoughts, oh no,

I’ll sell ‘em for a dollar.

They’re worth so much more

after I’m a goner,

and maybe then you’ll hear the words I’ve been singing.

Funny when you’re dead, how people start listening…”

No. Not Logan. Not on his watch. Not on any of their watches.

Roman shifts even closer, letting Logan lean his full weight on him, clutching his hand tenderly to his chest. For a moment, he thinks they’re going to just let the song end there, he wouldn’t blame him, Logan’s already made him so proud, then…

Then Logan takes a deep breath and raises his chin. A single tear stands out on his face. And it’s beautiful.

“If I die young,

bury me in satin,

lay me down on a bed of roses,

sink me in the river

at dawn,

send me away with the words of a love song.

“Oh, oh…the ballad of a dove,

filled with peace and love.

Gather up your tears,” Roman sings as he wipes it away,

“keep them in your pocket,

save ‘em for a time

when you’re really gonna need ‘em, oh.

The sharp knife

of a short life, well.

I’ve had just enough time.”

He’s so proud of them. He’s so proud.

“So put on your best, boys,” Logan sings, holding Roman’s gaze, “and I’ll wear my pearls…”

The last note fades out. They’re breathless, even despite the relatively easy nature of the song. Roman clutches Logan’s hand tightly to his chest, Logan leans against Roman.

Roman reaches out and gently trails a finger in an arc around Logan’s neck, creating a string of pearls that lay just over his collarbones.

[ambersky0319]

If you're sure about more prompts, then I have another Loceit one since I've been binge reading them non-stop 💙💛 One too many wrong words -Robot, Unfeeling, Doesn't care- and Logan finally breaks down. He has a panic attack, one that no one helps him with, and suddenly he's non-verbal. Its not a choice he makes, it's a stress-induced side effect that he can't fix himself. The others think that it's a choice. He talks to Thomas through something like a notepad. (Part One)

Eventually he has another attack but this time someone helps him through it, but he can’t tell who as he lost his glasses somehow. Afterwards, Deceit starts trying to help. Either by getting the others attention to help them see Logan, or maybe helps him with his work, or helps him be distracted when he gets too stressed. (Part Two: Wow this is long, sorry) 

Maybe after months of non-verbal speaking, he falls in love with Deceit. He either finds his voice to tell him or writes it down somewhere for him to find on accident. Deceit reciprocates and tells him that he helped that second time. You can do purposeful unsympathetic Sides or not, that’s your choice. (All done. I hope you like it ❤️) 

———–

I loved writing this and I hope you enjoy reading it!!! This was such a fantastic idea!!

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: Morally gray/unsympathetic sides (up to interpretation really but leaning heavily towards unsympathetic), panic attacks, Logan angst, overwhelming stress on a character, lmk if I need to add anything else!

Masterpost 

—————————–

Logan thought that he knew what caused panic attacks. He thought he knew how to stop them, or at least make them more bearable, too. But he had never actually experienced a panic attack before. All of his methods that had helped the others he discovered through research and helping them find the best way to get through their attacks.

While filming one video, however, things had gone way too far.

Logan admittedly doesn’t remember much of what led up to their dispute. Mostly numerous jabs at him, Logan guessed. But he could feel his chest starting to tighten, and Logan started lashing out a bit more with little thought as insult after insult was spat between him, Roman, and Virgil.

He doesn’t even remember now what had caused the attack. All Logan knew was that he was having one.

Logan sunk out immediately upon realizing that he was panicking, rising up into his room on unsteady legs. He was able to reach his door to lock it when they finally gave out on him and he collapsed, his breaths uneven and short. Logan squeezed his eyes together, leaning against his door and trying desperately to catch his breath.

Any technique he knew to help left his thoughts. He was failing and failing to get his breathing under control as he tucked his legs close to his chest, ducking his head to hide it behind them. He couldn’t feel anything yet he could feel everything, everything was louder too, but it was all a buzz. He didn’t know what to do. What could he do? Make sure no one saw him like this.

They would hate him, wouldn’t they? Maybe think he was faking, or copying Virgil. Because Logan didn’t feel emotions, right? How could Logic ever feel anything? Logic didn’t feel things. Logic provided information, sound reasoning, and a way to ground oneself. Logic didn’t have emotion tied to it. Logic never did.

So why was Logan unable to just pull himself out of this?

He stayed there, curled up by the door for what felt like hundreds of hours. According to the clock, though, it had been only about thirty-five minutes. Logan took deep breaths, his throat felt sore and his eyes burned as he wiped away tears. He didn’t have the energy to go out and see if they were still recording, or if everyone had just decided to end the shoot early. He could hear Patton and Roman bantering cheerfully from upstairs, and he sighed shakily.

Logan forced himself away from the door. His head felt as though it were throbbing, had he hit it on accident? He might’ve. He walked on legs that felt like jello and he felt physically exhausted. So, Logan did the only thing he thought he could manage and even tolerate.

He climbed into bed and fell into a restless sleep.

Logan flinched as someone knocked far too loudly on his door. He tried to respond, about to snap at whoever for waking him up. But nothing came out other than a hoarse, unintelligible sound. Logan frowned, rubbing his eyes roughly and grabbing his glasses. Maybe this was just a side effect of him having a panic attack. He knew Roman sometimes went nonverbal after particularly bad ones himself. He hoped it was temporary, much like the princely side.

Logan was almost completely out of bed when the person just walked away, and Logan frowned as he listened to their footsteps fade down the hall. He walked to the door and opened it, looking out and grimacing at how blinding everything was. But no one was there.

A note and what he assumed was dinner was at the foot of his door though, so he picked both up and went back into his room.

The note was from Patton, briefly apologizing for how Roman and Virgil acted but also saying how Logan should apologize too. Logan frowned at that before continuing to read. The rest was just a list of things that still needed to get done for the video, specifically more of Logan’s parts.

Logan set the note aside so he could focus on the leftovers Patton had brought him, opting to worry about the video later.

Logan going nonverbal, however, was not temporary.

No. It lasted far longer than any of the other sides had ever gone. And Logan knew it wasn’t by choice. So many times in the following month did he want to snap at someone or easily defend himself when the others made jokes about him. They hurt, after all. But he would just go ignored.

The others thought Logan had done this voluntarily. He didn’t tell them about the panic attack out of fear of being judged or ridiculed(he knew he was jumping to conclusions but he couldn’t stop thinking of all the things that could go wrong). So he endured it, turning to pen and paper to communicate. It was easier that way.

Logan stopped trying to defend himself altogether. And once that happened, the work started piling up. Suddenly, Logan was tasked with editing scripts, scheduling, keeping Thomas on track and not distracted(how he was supposed to do that when the others kept distracting Thomas themselves he did not know, but the blame was constantly pinned on him anyway), participating in the filming of videos, and editing said videos. All this work that the others just kind of shoved onto him. He couldn’t say no. They just ignored when he would try and write a response, saying he took too long and could’ve already started.

So, Logan had given up on fighting them.

He almost did become the robot he was so often compared to. He almost did stop caring. But then Patton would scold him for not putting enough heart into Thomas’s work, or Roman would say it’s not creative enough, or Virgil would claim it was too risky and he should start over. And Logan just grew more and more frustrated. He wasn’t getting better. He wanted so badly to get better, but he also wanted to stay their friend, he still wanted to have a seat at the metaphorical table.

It wasn’t much of a surprise to Logan when he slipped into another panic attack. It was after Roman had come in for the fifth time claiming Logan hadn’t done well with the most recent script’s edit, and that he should start over. He had ‘thanked’ Logan and called him 'their editing machine’ which just frustrated Logan even more as he was trying to work on a good time for Thomas to go to the doctors.

His door slammed closed, and Logan could feel the tightness in his chest and he found it hard to swallow. He pushed himself from his desk and stumbled slightly out of his chair to get to the base of his bed. He intended to sit on it but ended up collapsing just before he reached it. Logan didn’t care as he curled up, covering his mouth.

I’ll be alright. This is fine. I can do this. He thought. After this is over I can get back to work. I can finish that fucking script finally.

But what if Roman came in again? What if Patton or Virgil found something wrong with it instead? What if they had other ideas and asked Logan to somehow put them in, forcing Logan to rewrite the script? What if he just passes out here and the others thought he was wasting time? What if they got mad at him over this?

He choked out a sob and it hurt to even breathe, he wished he couldn’t, wished that when having a panic attack he could just stop.

Something had fallen beside Logan, or maybe had moved there itself? Logan couldn’t tell. He couldn’t feel his glasses on his face. Had he taken them off? But the thing moved again, and Logan couldn’t make them out through his tears or his terrible eyesight.

He did make out their voice, though.

“-an. I want you to do as I say, okay? It’s going to help you, I promise. You can hear me, right?”

Logan tried to follow the voice, keep up with it, and tried to let that be the only thing he focused on. He nodded slightly, inhaling sharply. The side made some sort of relieved noise.

They started to guide Logan through an exercise to help ground him, first helping with his breathing and then asking various yes or no questions. Logan would tap their hand in certain patterns and having to remember them helped him calm down as the other side asked him things in a soft and soothing voice.

Eventually, Logan had just passed out, his thoughts a low buzz as the exhaustion once again forced him asleep. When Logan woke up, his glasses we’re on the nightstand with a glass of water and a note saying he hoped Logan would feel better after some rest. The side hadn’t left any name, though.

Logan didn’t get to work immediately, he tried to unwind a bit so he didn’t have another panic attack so soon. He grabbed one of his favorite books, a greek mythology book from when Thomas was younger, and he piled most of his pillows and blankets into one corner of his bed so he could curl up and read comfortably. It was late, around 12 am (how long he’d been out he didn’t know, he found that he didn’t really care) and so Logan didn’t fear any of the others storming in to shove more work onto him or to scold him for not using his time wisely.

The next few days went by just the same as before. Except now, much to almost everyone’s displeasure(Logan really didn’t mind), Deceit was hanging around. He didn’t say why exactly but demanded to partake more in videos. The arc of the series was heading in a direction where Deceit was needed anyway, so the others couldn’t exactly argue against it.

Logan was pretty happy Deceit was around more now. Because Deceit made an effort to include Logan in discussions. When the others tried to brush Logan off, he’d momentarily silence them so Logan could share his own thoughts in videos, which the others had to at least evaluate.

One day Deceit knocked on Logan’s door before opening it a bit, poking his head in and when Logan smiled at him slightly, he took that as a sign he was allowed inside. Another thing Logan liked about Deceit- Deceit was patient and would wait for Logan to respond and didn’t just barge inside his room whenever he felt like it.

Logan had returned to the third video he was editing, his fingers hurt a bit from staying in the same position for almost days now but he was so close to happy done by their release dates. Then maybe Patton would get off his back for being unable to keep Thomas motivated and the fans happy.

Deceit settled himself on the edge of Logan’s bed. “What might our fair nerd be working on tonight?” Deceit asked, watching Logan over his shoulder. Logan glanced up at a list pinned to the shelf next to his computer and then pointed to it. Deceit squinted to read it better, and Logan didn’t see him frown.

He could hear the frown in his voice though. “You’re editing the season finale for Sanders Sides yourself?” Logan shrugged, and Deceit continued to read the list. There were still two more things on the list that would take a long time to finish, a few hours each at least. It was almost dinner.

“Do you want me to take on these last two scripts for you?”

Logan frowned, stopping where he was on the video and turning to look at Deceit, a puzzled expression on his face. “You’ve been working all day, Lo. It’s the least that I can do.”

Logan bit his lip. He grabbed his notepad and pen and quickly wrote something before handing it to Deceit.

Are you sure?

Deceit smiled gently and nodded. “Certainly.”

Logan relaxed slightly, though still looked hesitant as he grabbed the two scripts that still needed editing and passed them to the deceitful side. Deceit summoned his own laptop and got to work without any complaints.

Logan obviously finished editing the video before Deceit was even halfway done with editing his first script. He reached to take the second one instead, but Deceit grabbed his wrist gently and shook his head.

“Why don’t you get some dinner, and then maybe watch a documentary or something? You’ve done some great work already today and deserve to relax a bit.”

Logan almost fought against Deceit’s words, but his head hurt from listening to the loud voices of the others all day and his eyes stung from the light of the computer. Deceit watched as Logan silently agreed and left to go get some pizza from downstairs.

This went on for a long time. And Logan found himself enjoying the deceitful side’s company. He loved listening to Deceit talk about psychology or the different loopholes you could use in court, and Logan found himself becoming less and less stressed when Deceit was around. They split up the work the others pushed onto Logan and not only got done faster but also induced less stress on either of them.

Even when things did become too much for Logan, though, Deceit was always there, holding one of Logan’s favorite movies or a new documentary or offering a massage. Sometimes Deceit would read to Logan as Logan tried some low-stress activities like drawing.

It had been roughly half a year since Deceit started spending so much time with him. And that’s when it clicked with Logan concerning his new and originally annoying emotions.

He really, really liked Deceit.

However, right now was not the time to have this realization. Not when Deceit had his arms around Logan, holding him close as they rewatched Round Planet for the twentieth time. Logan tried not to ruin the calm atmosphere by shifting at all, though he seemed to have screwed that up because Deceit pulled away from him slightly.

“Lo, you alright?”

Logan nodded on instinct and he could practically see Deceit’s frown without even turning around.

“Logan…”

Logan bit his lip before sighing slightly and turning in Deceit’s arms. Deceit’s arms dropped from his middle to settle at Logan’s waist, and Logan couldn’t help but think about how perfect Deceit’s hands felt there.

God, I’m pathetic.

Deceit tilted his head at Logan before reaching for the logical side’s notepad and pen, passing it to him and pairing their show. “What’s on your mind?”

Logan accepted both of the objects held out to him. He glanced from the notepad to Deceit’s monochromatic eyes then back to the pad, worrying at his bottom lip slightly. Deceit just waited quietly, letting Logan take his time to think through what he wanted to write.

Logan wrote something down multiple times, before borrowing his brow and shaking his head, tearing the paper and coupling it before tossing it to the trash can. It wasn’t until the fourth note did he finally hand Deceit the notepad, his cheeks and ears flushed a dark red.

I think I might really, really like you.

Deceit didn’t dare get his hopes up, but he could definitely feel his heart skip a few beats as he thought of the implications of Logan’s words.

“Just so I don’t misinterpret,” Deceit began, looking up from the paper in his hand. “You mean romantically, right? You like me romantically?”

Logan groaned slightly, hiding his face in his hands as he only grew darker. Deceit could imagine him saying to shut up or possibly calling it stupid. But he nodded behind his hands.

Deceit smiled brightly, it still felt foreign to him to smile like this and was a rare sight only Logan ever got to see. Deceit gently pried Logan’s hands away from his face and used another one of his hands to tilt Logan’s chin up.

“I like you too, Logan. I like you a lot.”

Logan smiled almost shyly as he shuffled closer to Deceit and pulled him into a proper hug, burying his warm face against the scales on Deceit’s neck. Deceit laughed, soft and fond, as he held Logan close again and he pressed the gentlest of kisses to Logan’s temple.

A few minutes passed by like that, holding one another close in comfortable silence. But then Deceit broke it with a whisper.

“I have something to tell you, Lo.”

Logan pulled his head from Deceit’s neck, tilting his head.

“You remember your second panic attack, the one you said you don’t know who helped you?”

Logan thought back to it before nodding. In reality, he didn’t remember much about it.

“I was the one who helped.” Deceit rubbed the back of his neck slightly. He smiled softly at Logan as Logan processed what he was saying.

Logan’s expression changed from mild concern to delight in seconds though, and he pulled Deceit closer, almost connecting their lips without thinking. But then he froze, drawing back slightly and he held Deceit’s gaze.

Deceit laughed slightly, breath fanning over Logan’s face before nodding and leaning closer himself, but he let Logan control the kiss. It was gentle as Logan cupped Deceit’s cheeks, Deceit’s multiple arms snaking around Logan’s waist and middle to hold him as close as possible.

—————————–

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[life-rewritten]

The Gifted Graduation: Reuniting with Channon (NON)

Pang and his two  very conflicting and dark paths

Last month I said I was planning to write heaps of essays regarding the show the gifted graduation, in the end, I've just sat back and kept my theories and opinions to my self as this season started in a way I was not expecting, each time I planned to write an essay like who was the impostor, for example, it got revealed the next episode(Korn) and I couldn't find enough words and need to write it out entirely. After episode 6 though, Gifted has made me lose it, and if I don't try to break down all that's in my mind, I don't think I'll fully recover. Warning spoilers for both The Gifted and The Gifted Graduation so far. Please let us discuss this show more, for a while on Tumblr the tags were silent but I hope after this episode people run and become obsessed with this masterpiece. Also since it's spooky season Gifted and its scary themes and ideas acts a perfect Halloween show to focus on. Honestly, I'm hoping this show is the next show I focus on analysing the most.  Okay, let's break down Pang and his character arc/ paths he could take this towards the end of this season.  

Reconvening With Non

The first thing I noticed about the scene when Pang reunites with Channon is this sense of foreboding and also a sense of a  pseudo'fatherly-son' vibe from them. From season one Channon's presence has been made known as something that motivated Pang to choose good, and trust in the future, and also his story was the reason why Pang got stronger and decided to fight the system. Pang and Non have this energy around them because Pang looks up to him so much for his sheer will, kindness and heart, but also Pang was Channon's mirror/shadow character in season 1;

He also formed a close friendship with someone who he wanted to protect and understood why Channon made the decisions he made.

He also wanted to fight the system and managed to lose his memories and lose to the director. 

He again got betrayed by his friends and Pom at the end of season 1 the way Pom was forced to betray Channon.

 Like Non, he was meant to return back to not knowing anything and having the secrets buried of the school, he was meant to be forgotten and hidden. However, unlike Pom, Wave trusted Pang more than wanting to save his potential and strived to get his memories back and have him return to the gifted.  So both Pang and Channon have both mirrored arcs where Pang represents a younger version of the latter and also foreshadows the way his psyche and character mindset is changing, growing but also could be degenerating. Before I talk about this, even more, let's focus on the other mirror character for Pang which points and alludes to another path he could take.

War With The Director and Himself

This is another reason for why I got weird vibes from the reuniting scene with Pang and Channon. I felt like I had to stay on my toes because we've done this before; trusting someone or underestimating someone as not being more vital than they are. In season 1 Pang and I failed to recognise what the director was in that season, it was clear he was the villain, but it also felt like he understood Pang the most and I couldn't for the sake of me figure out why. Until the reveal that he is an evolved version of Pang if Pang chose to succumb to using his potential for evil. It was terrifying the truth was there all along;  he knew who Pang was, he learned about Pang's powers because he had the same.

The director proceeded like he did with Channon to belittle his beliefs about equality and break him down one by on;  first by showing both of them how easy it is to be betrayed by their peers/and closest friends (Pom and Wave who did not want to lose their potential or suffer consequences because of them,), second by making them see they've lost and laughed in their face at their failed plans and third to degrade them down even further by returning them back to their starting position where they were unknown and not crucial (by erasing their memories).  

The director is cruel, but his plans fail for both of these two as revealed in episode 6.  Non had his memories retrieved but could do nothing and was left in the shadows being afraid of the director whilst working as an IT for the ministry (I call bullshit on this btw) and Pang's memory was revived by the help of his friends and Wave who believed in his vision (well some of them didn't as we see in episode 6). Season 2 keeps repeating the same motif and idea of Pang pushing down his powers, so he doesn't turn into someone like the director, he doesn't want to be evil or manipulative he wants to be a fair leadership.

Pang's Struggle For Control

Season 2, however, seems to keep pushing Pang in the middle of this two paths, it's either he realises there's no way to survive and becomes like the director to return things back to normal, or he ends up losing the game and being pushed aside and haunted as a failure like Non.

The fight to win and have an equal system seems more impossible if Pang doesn't choose to take the director's path. The lack of unity and togetherness in his own team and the losses that have been acquired by episode 6, could drive him even further to have to submit to his potential and use it the way he's been trying to avoid.

We see hints of chaos still on the way;  his trauma for losing and causing the deaths of his peers for his cause, the resentment for his leadership being questioned and replaced by Punn who seems slowly tired of being under him, and the lack of trust for both his peers and the adults. He may gradually adopt the director's mindset that equality is impossible, and being gifted is the only way to achieve victory and get what he wants in this environment. He may even use his powers to make people forget everything and go back to the start, just like how the director does whenever chaos threatens the school.

Pang vs Non

Non's return is interesting to me, he seems good, and he appears righteous but broken. It's easy to feel pity for him and be misled by his words. It's the same way we were misled by the director and thinking he knew nothing about Pang's plans in season 1, we underestimated him because we felt he had no vision. Non is like that, another mirror character that can be revealed to be evil all along, the master manipulator.

Well, why not? He's been haunted and traumatised for ten years since he got his memories back, probably manipulated and told wrong ideologies by the ministry head who wants to destroy the director and this can easily lead him to be filled with vengeance and anger and resentment, and a wish to get revenge.

Not only that he went to the one person who was also feeling just as resentful about the gifted system (he says it was an accident, but I don't believe that for one bit), his speech about him being a failure is sad. It pushes the audience to want to root for him, but it makes no sense how the ministry just hired him to become an IT man and be left in the shadows, only for him to return because he did not want to have the virus spread around and used on the director. No he implanted that idea in Korn, he pushed Korn by only giving him small details about the drug and what it does, he also seems to have little knowing looks in this episode; times where he looks a bit more menacing, more sly, more cunning.  I focused on his facial expression during the confrontation with Korn, and it seemed too knowing, too secretive, to resentful.

Non is not someone who can easily be pushed away not after what happened to him in Season 1, not whilst Pom gets to run around being a teacher in the school and misleading more students to being hurt, not whilst the director continues to be director in the school and hide him as a secret, not whilst the gifted programme is still causing chaos and disasters that aren't right. His sense of justice is probably more than his fear of the director. His reason for not wanting to come back makes no sense to me, it feels off.  But that's why him being the villain of the show has even more potential, to hurt us just like the director's final plot twist in season 1, someone who we underestimated because we believed he was on our side, he was right and just, and he had let things go.

That's the same as Pang, we see him as someone trying so hard to not shift from his aim and path, someone who idealistically believes in equality and winning the war but are we sure he'll stay that way. He could follow this path. Instead, becoming the resentful failure who feels exhausted from failing and having his aims ruined, he is also mentally pushed to the brim just like Non, he is also being shown futility at every try, and he is being betrayed just like Non.

Pawns  Of The Ministry  

Pang joining the ministry to help defeat the director is just probably mirroring Non's real path, He's probably been told the same truths revealed to Non when he first got founded by them.

To me the ministry is our main villain this season, with opposite ideologies to the director, but how are we so sure that the head isn't on the other side of the spectrum to far, what if he harbours hatred for the gifted programme so much because he also wants vengeance, what if he wants to again do what the director wanted but even more harshly or crueller. It's one of the two.

The ministry is another form of representation of leadership from the adults, and we know in this show, the adults are not to be trusted, deceitful and cruel and too set in their own ways. Willing to sacrifice anything for their cause. Pang joining them seems good right now, but I bet Non is also one of them. He's now an adult just like Pom remember we trusted Pom in season 1 we thought he was good, only for him to indeed be weak and submissive to the director's control. Non probably is the same as Pom was, someone who wants to be good but is perhaps now instead, under the ministry's control.

The Ideology Of The Ministry  

It's a war of politics between these two ideologies and leadership from adults, and we're about to see it play out with Pang as a pawn. That's why I believe he will snap towards the end and stop being just a pawn, he will probably realise that he needs control and that's why he's most likely to mould into the mixture of these two characters he represents, and to be honest that's not a good thing. Luckily he has Wave by his side, that's one thing we can count on is Wave to bring Pang away from these two paths the way Pang brought him out from his own downward spiral in season 1. Both help the other and push the other to be better, to breath and calm down, to trust in the positives. Wave is going to do that for Pang let's hope it's not just too late when he does.

[grim-faux]

14_ The Glass Basket

 First

T W for graphic descriptions of injury and blood

 The other kids might be able to get out through the shattered staircase. A thin bridge of cracked timber linked the threshold to the remaining steps, further down on either side. If not, he could make a rope with spare clothing from the upper floor of the home. He didn’t venture to the upper floors, but there was a stable staircase leading to the second story. The light from the ground floor didn’t reach up there, and it was spooky. He opted for now, let it be.

 After some time of running around – how long he didn’t know, but it was growing dark outside the windows – the lights did come back on. Neat. That made things a little easier, given how pitch black the basement was without the glaring bulbs in the ceiling.

 Mono chose to enter down from the ruined steps, and climbed down the framework. Not all the lights came back on within the basement, but going off the burning smell and shorting out electricity in other rooms, he supposed something blew up.

When he reached the cardboard boxes and moldering crates, he slowed his swift pace and approached carefully. It was silent in the dark corner, all the noises from around the home placed the children on high alert. He climbed over one of the tall crates and peered down, nearly through the bars of the cage completely.

 All the kids clustered in the center of the cage, he couldn’t tell how many there were by a glance – too many heads and shoulders. Then there was one child a little to the side, face wrapped up. None of them noticed him immediately, though they were not shut off from their environment. He wondered when the last time they had foods was.

 A few faces turned his way when he slipped off the crate and moved over to the door of the cage, three pairs of glittering eyes gaped, impassive. The door was bigger than he was, with a crank lock. To reach it, Mono had to climb up a few links of the bars. He spared a moment to examine the children watching him now, searching through the gaunt cheeks for color and piercing eyes.

 No. It was unlikely Six would be here. She hated adults, and never let one get near here. She had no problem with other children or child like fakes, but adults… hated them. Wouldn’t let one near her, and was always so skittish when going through rooms. She would never let one get within reaching distance.

 Except the strange Thin Man in the hat. But the tall thin man cheated, and could pull you close when you didn’t expect that. He should remember that….

 The lock latch could flip easily, but pulling it aside to disconnect the door. Hard. Very hard. Mono pushed back the hood of his blanket and peered into the mechanism. There was a spring, it creaked when he applied force. It was stubborn and vile, smelled like… the kitchen. He rubbed the back of his head and tipped his brow. How to convince the lock to open? Maybe not open door, but break cage. Looking at the cage, it was too big and sturdy. If it were someplace high, that might be the option. But no, they shoved it in a corner among boxes. Crafty, devious, Snatchers.

 The kids within were becoming curious now. If they helped, was it possible? Did they try, or know how to convince the lock? None of them came to close, no one trusted him. That was fair, he didn’t know them and they didn’t know him. He was afraid if they saw him earlier, one might accidentally give his presence away. Adults sometimes saw right through children, saw lies and craft, whittled out the deceit. They had every right to be cautious.

 One of the kids braved reaching through the bars and touched the sleeve of his coat. Meanwhile, he retained focus on the lock. It strained and argued, but he didn’t have the strength to pull it all the way over. It needed a few more inches to clear the doorway. He dithered.

 The children had been focused on him. Now, their eyes slipped past his shoulders…..

 Mono wrenched his head around. Oh No! NO-NO!

 There behind the cardboard boxes, crept in one of the Snatcher s! Not the one from the kitchen, but the one that had fallen down the stairs. The face was ratty and gashed, the nose slits bled. It glared down on him, clearly aware of who had brought such misfortune to the duo.

 When Mono looked, it picked up the pace. Still shaken though, it’s movement swayed. He didn’t waste time to clamber up the top of the cage and proceeded to haul himself up the crates stacked there. One cardboard box he entrusted his weight to, collapsed. He recovered with haste, and continued to climb.

 In this the Snatcher lunged in and sprang upon the cage, it teetered there as it reached one long arm out to snatch at the figure scrambling higher and higher. Mono took a risk and leapt from a rickety box, and snagged one of the shelves. He continued climbing, all but missing as the Snatcher swung its arms out and collided with the shelf. His fingertips nearly lost grip with the slime and grime accumulated, but his toes locked into something solid beneath his perilous station and he was able to push up once more.

 He reached the top of the shelf case and clambered onto the solid surface. Below, the Snatcher gave a hiss and pummeled the side of the construct, causing it to sway dangerously. Mono dropped to his knees and hands, holding one side of the edge as it tipped far. Another snarl, the shelf thudded as the person drove their girth against the base. He had no choice but leap to the next series of shelves over, and nearly dropped in the process. He caught the midway point of plank, and began clawing his way back up.

 Through the winding aisles, the purposeful clop of boots charged toward his position. He hastened to haul his body up, feeling once more the dull throb in his side from injuries that were only beginning to feel less like injuries. He searched the gloom above for an access to the underside of the floor, though he knew his best bet. He didn’t think he could race all the way to the cord, if the Snatcher was intent on shattering the place entirely.

 For the time there is excitement in the cage, as the children cluster at the bars and spectate as the strange child races overhead. Their captor is noisy and clearly agitated, and clearly they were going to have a bad time following this incident. However, for a short while there is confusion, fear, and interest. There is something to distract from the place they reside.

 “Bet you,” one began to his brother, “two bites food, that one get smashed.”

 His brother shook his head. “Five,” he flashed his hand, “on the menu.”

 One of the children in the corner of the cage raised his head and scrutinized the shape darting out of sight. He only managed to get one eye visible, but being able to see a bit was better than seeing nothing. The cage was safety, until the door opened.

 The Snatcher tore into another shelf, this time fighting to haul its girth up the rotten planks of wood. This upset caused the frame to crumble entirely, and Mono at the top was forced to buckle down and hold tight as the entire construct folded beneath his shape. A board he had been racing to, which would have given him reach to the cord, flipped and twirled to the darkness below. He leapt and nearly shot through the gap between two shelves, if not for the weighted lamp on the slippery board.

 He shuffled behind the lamp, trying to hide from view. But the Snatcher had already seen him, and those intent glassy eyes gleamed in the dark as it roved around the aisles to reach this troublemaker. Mono braced his knees to the board and shoved the lamp, throwing it off the shelf and sending it against the misshapen face of the hostile creature.

 It groaned and whimpered with the glass shattered, the hard metal cutting its scalp. With a snort the Snatcher lunged at the shelves, reaching for the small figure darting out of sight.

 Mono kept running along the plank, shoving out archaic bits and artifacts forgotten from an era that remembered time but never existed. He shoved out moldy books, a rock, dozens of glass jars filled with thick goo and wretched colors.

 The Snatcher ducked around the projectiles, one or two at a time hitting its wounded face. It threw its whole body at the shelf and the thing pitched sideways.

 It was too late to climb the rest of the way up, so Mono hung on as the whole construct slammed into its neighbor. He tumbled out, skidding across the soaked floor – a hundred different artifacts shattered around him, one in particular was pungent and made his eyes water. Above, the Snatcher wrenched at the planks, trying to dig its way through the narrow space and reach the child cowering beneath. Crouched low, the boy scuttled just beneath the gnarled fingernails reaching.

 In the cage, one child struggled with the bandage coiled about his face. It was so tight, it cut into his scalp and numbed his ears. Worse was trying to fight it off, get the wraps unbound from his jaw. He pressed his fingers into his scalp and pried, coughing as the bind cut into the underside of his chin. It felt like his teeth would ooze out of his nose. Not only was it his face and skin, but a wad of cloth was shoved into his throat. Disturbing any of it was painful.

 For the time, Mono had fallen from view of the Snatcher and crept among the shattered pieces of decimated shelving. It was not safe, though, as the creature was tearing at whatever it laid hands on, and hauled apart the remaining wood of the collapsed shelves. It stepped back for a short spell and gave the area a short glimpse. He froze in place, hoping the shadows would be enough.

 It wasn’t. The Snatcher’s twitching movement came to a halt, and Mono debated if there was a way to drop a whole shelf on the adult. Before he could plot further on this, the Snatcher zipped around and sprang. Mono took a hard left and skidded under one of the lower shelves and braced himself against the stone wall behind it. He went right, and the Snatcher charged in at the shelf. It followed him along the base, poking at the items jammed onto the planks, seeking an opening to—

 A horrendous and grating shrill ignited on the air. For a second, Mono thought the lightening had fallen upon the home and would cut straight down through the floors. He fell to his knees clutching his head, the Snatcher and its intents forgotten. A disastrous reaction given circumstances.

 But the Snatcher too had whipped back, arms looped over its head and teeth grinding. Its eye flashed with lethal fury as it turned all its focus and hate on the  furthest corner of the basement. It disregarded Mono entirely and hurried away.

 It was time to get out of here. He wouldn’t get a second chance. This had been a bad idea from the start.

 He climbed through the ruble of wreckage, using the squealing as a guide to determine the direction. In all the destruction, he lost track of which way was where, and at this time there was only one other way to escape the basement. The cord might still be accessible, but he wasn’t sure where it was while on the floor.

 A grinding crash came from the other direction. Something pummeled metal, and the material creaked. The high pitched shrieking – dampened by the distance – persisted at periodic bursts. Other dins and wailing was intermixed, but always returning to that unrelenting screech.

 It was one of the children in the cage. They weren’t supposed to make sounds like that. It was a death sentence.

 He stood on a cracked plank of wood, in view of the staircase. He fumbled with his coat and plucked at the callouses on his fingernail. There was only one way to cease that cry.

 He climbed off the board and hurried.

 The noises became louder. Not only the screeching, but also the banging and crashing of metal against stone. And wood creaking.

 Once more, the Snatcher dumped the cage and while it was stationed on the floor, gave it a rigorous shake. Within, the children clung to each other or risked clinging to the bars. It was all they could do to keep themselves from being rattled apart. In the brief stints of calm, two or more risked clawing at the shrieking child, fighting to….

 SHUT HIM UP!

 There was punching, fumbling, kicking, some biting, clawing. Someone lost a baby tooth. But in all the chaos, it was hard to retain a firm hold.

 The Snatcher had enough! He hissed and flipped the cage over. Unlatching the door, he wrenched it open and shoved his arm in. He knew which one it was. It wasn’t hard to locate in the dark, all the others had propelled back from the target in a sweep. But the darn thing wouldn’t let go. Stubborn! He tugged harder, never mind how hard he gripped.

 Mono assessed the situation, and gave the area a look over. A metal tin full of thread and bobbins rested on the floor. He snatched a thick needle and charged.

 With a raspy gargle, the Snatcher hauled the shrieking nuisance free. He reached for the cage door, when something pinched his shin. He turned a heated glare down on Mono. Oh-ho, the troublemaker.

 Another ear-piercing shriek burst on the air.

 Mono dropped the needled in favor of capping his ears and staggered backwards. From the cage top leapt one, two… he lost count. There were at least five shapes that sprouted forth the unguarded opening and tore off into the shadows. He didn’t know how many there were, he had to retreat further as the wail became more intense, creaking into desperation.

 The Snatcher dumped the noise maker and went to the cage, but delayed. He snapped the door shut, only to glare. Mono could read that sort of aghast and irritation, even on that broken face. It lugged the whole container up and brought it down, the bars bent and wrapped outward. It did this again and again, growling in its throat. It swung the cage aside, then swept around.

 One eye fixed on Mono. It was so much worse than when the Teacher or Doctor looked at him. It was like the Hunter. It had blood and violence behind those hands, those eyes peered, uninterested by the things it pried out of warm bodies. It was angry, and likely didn’t have the right to be so.

 The Snatcher mistook Mono’s state of shock for surrender, and crept to the boy with one hand reaching far out. Mono raised his arms and had the immediate desire to mirror back that hate and pain, unleash on it his sorrow and agony. Throughout the entire building and the timber precariously perched above, a lamenting groan resonated forth. The lights throughout the basement doused, and a sloppy mess of dark collapsed into itself. Pillars and plaster came tumbling, wood creaked and splintered. Down-down-down, plaster, wood, sparks from snapped electrical cords. A dying groan expelled from the home, waves of soot expel from its ancient lungs. It was thunderous altogether, then in the same instant, as suddenly as the world ended, the noise ceased.

 Everything was decimated, from the walls to the floors. It becomes quiet, aside from the twittering of cement, the clatter of splintered wood.

 Somehow, in all of this, Mono is still alive. And relatively unhurt. He thought he was dreaming of something… important. A room, and a chair. And—

 The child bolted awake, and promptly winced as he choked on the air. Stifling the noise. He rolled over carefully and gave his area a tentative examination. There was no more artificial light, aside from the pale beam of dawn creeping in through where the roof should have been. Where and what everything jammed together was, remained a mystery

 A beam of wood dropped across his back, supported by a rock. His muddied and wet from all the soot, all the water pouring into the cracks unrestrained. At first he doesn’t know where he is let alone what happened – he has a vague sense. And shuddered. Through the haze of it all, he saw… it reminded him of that place. The Tower.

 He eased out from beneath the board. A strangled bark startled him, and he retreated back beneath the cracked pillar.

 The Snatcher was pinned beneath a mound of ruble, bricks, and dirt. It reached out toward the boy, hand still clenching and swiping despite the clear distance. With a parched wheeze its movements ceased altogether, and its head hung awkwardly.

 Tricked. A bad trick, but it was done. No matter what, it was not going to chase or hunt, ever, again.

 Studying his area over, Mono didn’t see a clear enough way out. Unless he wanted to chance the steadily growing pond, which now lay behind him. He was cautious all the through and through as he passed by the inert form of the Snatcher, and retained that paranoia even when the body was a ways behind him and he was having to squeeze through narrow and narrower gaps. The light came in at infrequent patches, but he could see enough to pick and choose what looked more stable to crawl through. The layers didn’t feel settled, and the crumbling hollow chittered warning of the sinister fickle ways. At times, a steady flat of wood shifted quite a bit as he crept across it.

 He shoved out a web of cloth to crawl through the next space, but stopped. The smell was strong. And there was a trail of red, on the muddy cement. He followed it, until he came upon the horrible cage. Beside it lay the one child. The one that screamed.

 Blood was everywhere. Where did it come from? He shuffled close to the kid’s side and reached a hand out, but timidly. There was no sign of life, not a sound – only the somber creak of the wood and the drum of water falling. He touched the frazzled hair.

 An eye slipped open and peered at him. It was eerie, the stillness. They weren’t really focused. Mono leaned back on his knees and gave the kid another look over, and was very uncertain what he was looking at.

 The pants were ratty torn things, most of the clothing consisted of rags. There was one leg, but the other… did they not have a second leg? That would explain why the child was a capture.

 No. The bottom of one pant leg was drenched through, the dull scent hung heavy with the mildew. He couldn’t really tell where the pants began and where the leg should be, everything was red or black. This was… it was the worst.

 He examined the cage beside the child, trying to determine where the rest of it was. Trying to decide what happened. Was there a way to fix this?

 He uncoiled the star blanket from his shoulders and tied it around the leg, just above the… where it ended. This coaxed the kid into moving, though Mono tried to keep them still. That didn’t work very well, and the kid sat up enough to look over and stare. Uncomprehending, dazed – baffled. Did legs grow back? He slanted his head and looked at Mono, but the expression was unreadable.

 Mono turned his gaze up, but it was impossible to see through the gloom and layers of timber. Did any of the children get out? Did he… bring the building down? He was so angry and… he was hurt. Or was it scared? He didn’t remember. It was like when he saw the Thin Man, and how futile it felt to be fighting and fighting.

 Only fighting, but never getting anywhere. It was hopeless. No matter what he did, nothing changed.

 He fixed the blanket a little tighter on the child’s leg. The kid hissed and pushed him away. Not roughly, but they cowered over the mess of the leg trembling. He could hardly move. If left here on his own, he wouldn’t manage to get out. At least, not through the turmoil that the building had become.

 Mono looped his arms around the kids torso. They were not as tall as Six, maybe younger. The kid lifted his head a bit, and Mono risked tightening his hold under the arms to lift him from the floor. He was able to haul them a few feet toward a cracked chunk of wood, but he was not allowed to hoist the kid onto the slope.

 The child gripped the edge of a board jutting from the ground and wouldn’t let go. Mono set them down and moved off the plank to face them, but the child crumpled to their side. Pain. He was in pain and couldn’t move. He set a hand on the kids shoulder and tried to gather their attention. That didn’t work.

 Mono crouched low and reached his hand to their head. The child’s hands curled against their chest and trembled. He set his hand on their head and stroked back some of the hair, and brushed his hand over their neck. He didn’t know what else to do. They were hurt. The kid couldn’t climb, couldn’t run. They were free of a cage, but the price. This… didn’t work out at all. It was all wrong.

 He ducked his head and curled his other arm over the nape of his neck. This wasn’t fair.

 The child shifted, and he felt their hand on his shin. He looked at them. The expression might’ve been indifference, or numbness. Mono took their wrist and tugged, gently. It was impossible to ask, it shouldn’t be like this.

 Still, the child tugged their arm away, and lay down on the glistening floor. Too hurt. Forfeit.

 Mono touched their head. Then, reached into his coat, and pried out a few of his ration bundles. The child turned their head a bit, looking at the offerings with a new note of wonder in their eye.

 There was nothing else he could leave them. Mono stood and backed away, stepping up onto the slope. He hesitated, conflicted by the madness he was to depart. It was too familiar, it was wrong. But… there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t fix this.

 Leave them. Run away. They’re not your responsibility.

 But shouldn’t he at least try?

 Without a backwards glance he fled up the shattered plank, the resonance of crinkling wood and shifting earth laughed at his cowardness. He found a gap in the shroud which engulfed him and climbed, clawed, or ran.

 The abandoned, lifted his head only to watch the retreat of the strange child. Once the faint footfalls pattered out completely, he shifted his body onto the surface of the cracked board and lay down. He shut his eyes and committed to a good long sleep, assured now, no interruptions would come.

 Despite everything, escaping the home this time was effortless. The whole construct had folded down to the basement level, and with every piece of wall or section of floor hauled into the subterranean, no shortages of pathways existed in the gloom to prevent him from finding his way out into the light. Or as lit and radiant as the Pale City was, given the abysmal weather patterns.

 Mono clambered out of what must have been an attic window at some point. It was nearly on level to the street and did not require him to find a safe alternative route down. On his short trek across the askew road, he finally and at last, cast his eyes back to examine the street block. It was only the one home which was decimated, the others situated flush to its walls – formerly sharing walls – sagged toward the crater.

 He didn’t understand what happened, let alone if he did have something to do with that tremor. What if that was all he could do now? Break things? He didn’t want that. He just wanted… to see Six. One more time.

 His heels scuffed roughly at the road and very nearly collapsed. On his way navigating through the precarious passages, he had not seen sign or… or… hair, of the other children. But it must have been hours since the house fell. They must have gotten out. He did

 Of course, they didn’t want anything to do with him. The strange one. First chance they got, every and each of them fled.

 He remained on his feet, hastening to the other side of the road and to the cover of eaves stretching out from the overhead ceiling of a gutted shopping mall. There was no telling what manner of horror might be awaiting within, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to get out of the rain. Get out of the rain, dry his cloths, and wonder. Where was he to go now?

 Next

[spicycreativity]

Soft-Shoe Shuffle - Ch 7

Chapter: 7/12 Additional Notes: See Ch 1 for more information. Read on AO3 under "WizardGlick." Any formatting/italics errors are holdovers from AO3 that I was too lazy to fix. Chapter Content Warnings: derealization/delirium, fainting, general depictions of illness Excerpt: It was quiet in the hall, but that didn't mean much as of late. Still, it didn't matter. Janus' days of skulking around in the shadows were well and truly over. Now he would stand tall in the light so intense it didn't even let him cast a shadow.

Mhm, a monster's here Mhm, you plug your ears But hey, you might just listen to it sing Please let the Devil in

Janus awoke with a single-minded focus and a fire raging in his chest; it burnt away the distractions and fears he built for himself. He had to talk to Roman and it couldn't wait another second. He'd already put it off for far too long.

Getting out of bed was a struggle; Janus' blankets were all tangled up in his legs. He threw them on the floor and got up, bypassing the folded paper on his nightstand. He had neither the time nor the patience for another one of Remus' awful poems.

It was quiet in the hall, but that didn't mean much as of late. Still, it didn't matter. Janus' days of skulking around in the shadows were well and truly over. Now he would stand tall in the light so intense it didn't even let him cast a shadow.

He knocked on Roman's door with a bare fist and listened for the shuffling of feet on the floor. No sound came. He knocked again. "It's Janus," he said, lest Roman mistake him for Patton and bury his head deeper in the sand. "I've come to apologize."

The door flew open and would have bounced off the wall had Roman not caught it with his hand. It left his chest wide open, vulnerable, showed Janus all the bleeding wounds he hadn't seen before. "Great," he said, glowering at Janus. "So you can run back to the others and brag about how much better of a person you are than me?"

Janus blinked hard. The lights from Roman's room formed a halo behind his head and surely that wasn't symbolic at all.

"No," Janus said with difficulty. His mouth was dry and his tongue didn't seem to want to work.

It had been warm in the hall but as he stepped over the threshold into Roman's room, a creeping chill made his joints stick.

"Are you coming in or not?" Roman asked.

Janus shut the door behind him and fought to regain his wits. The simple act of standing left him breathless and sore, but it made the fog roll out a little. "Aren't you going to offer me a chair?"

Roman glared at him. With choppy, deliberate movements, he grabbed the back of his rolling desk chair and thrust it at Janus.

"Thank you." Janus sat and fixed his eyes on Roman's hazy, angry features. The ceiling light made his eyes ache, but he refused to flinch. He had to get this right.

"Well, Billy Flynn-truder." Roman held out his arms, again opening up his chest. Janus blinked. There had never been any blood on him at all, had there? "What do you really want?"

"What?" Janus asked through numb lips.

"Like you'd ever apologize to me. That was just another lie to get me to let you in, and guess what? It worked. You got me again, Deceit."

"Janus."

Roman scoffed. "Spit it out already, Horrorboros."

Janus squinted. Hadn't he already said? Maybe he hadn't. He pulled his elbows in tight to his sides and shivered. "I came to apologize."

"Fine, we're sticking with that." Roman towered over him, anger blazing in his eyes.

For a split second, Janus was worried Roman might hit him, never mind the fact that, for all his boisterousness, Roman had never been the overly violent sort. But now the possibility loomed in Janus' mind and made him shudder and pull his arms tighter around himself. "I'm sorry."

"There, it's over." Roman turned away from him. "Run and tell Patton and Tho-- and the others what a good boy you are. Everyone loves a reformed sinner."

"I'm sorry," Janus said again. "I--" Shame made his face hot even as icy shudders ran through his limbs. "Roman, I n-never meant to hurt you."

"Never?" Roman asked, low and deadly.

"Well, at the end--" What was wrong with him? It was a struggle to get words out, any words at all. Even the wrong words. The walls tilted sickeningly. "It was wrong of me to use you. The courtroom scenario-- I told you what you wanted to hear."

"I know."

"And I'm sorry. I shouldn't have played with your emotions. I didn't-- I didn't know better at the time; I was scared, and... I-- I would have done anything to get you to listen to me."

Roman whipped his head around so sharply it made Janus' own neck ache in sympathy. "You're lying."

Despair rose in Janus' chest, trying to escape in the form of one desperate, broken sob. He swallowed it down. "Not this time."

"Why should I believe you?" Roman demanded.

"Because I mean it!" Janus shot back at equal volume. It sent waves of agony pulsing through his head. "I'm sorry I lied to you. I'm sorry I used you. I'm sorry I hurt you. I just wanted you to listen to me. That's all I ever wanted."

"That's. Not. Good enough."

"It's all I have. I gave you my name, Roman. I don't have anything else to give." Janus' chest ached as he took in frantic, shallow gasps. Tears welled up his eyes, not of shame or penance, but fear. What if he wasn't good enough? What if he lost his place?

"Spare me," Roman said, voice sharp with disgust. Janus looked up at him, fighting exhaustion with every muscle in his body.

Roman frowned. "That's not going to work."

"What?" Janus sighed, feeling his posture worsen with the prolonged exhalation.

"Stand up," Roman demanded. "Stop looking at me like that."

It was the least he could do. Janus stood even though his legs shook underneath him.

"Where are your gloves?" Roman asked. He sounded very far away. "Where's your hat?"

"I don't know," Janus said numbly. He could feel himself shivering even though he could no longer feel the cold. He tried to stop and couldn't, and that fact bothered him less than he thought it should.

"Janus, seriously. I'm not buying it. Drop the act."

Janus just shook his head. Roman didn't have to keep rubbing it in, although he probably was revelling in Janus' failure.

He would crawl back to Remus, then, except… He couldn't seem to move.

"Fine!" Roman shouted. "You're scaring me. I'll-- I'll hear you out, just stop--"

His words faded under the sharp hiss and roar of static in Janus' ears. He fell to his knees, gasping for breath. White and red crowded his vision; his face connected hard with Roman's sash.

Then, just like the end of the movie, everything faded to black.

Aside

Roman's voice sounded in Logan's dreams and ripped him back to reality. His body moved before he registered what was happening, a fight-or-flight response he didn't usually exhibit.

He ripped the door open and came face to face with Roman, who…

Logan's stomach dropped.

In his arms, Roman cradled Janus' unconscious form. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths and his face was frighteningly pale where it wasn't stained an angry, feverish red.

"I swear I didn't do anything to him!" Roman said frantically. "He was in my room and we-- He-- I don't know what happened!"

"Roman," Logan said. "I need you to breathe." He paused and made a split-second decision. "Follow me."

He stepped around Roman, careful not to bump into Janus, and strode down the hall toward Janus' door.

"When did that happen?" Roman asked, seeming to forget his panic in his surprise.

"After…" Logan said. "Well." He didn't usually shy away from difficult topics of conversation, but he thought it best not to upset or overwhelm Roman at the moment. He took the handle and opened the door for Roman. "Put him on the bed, please."

"Right." Roman entered and hesitated, letting out a shaky breath through his nose as he looked around.

"Roman," Logan prompted.

"Sorry." Roman swallowed hard and gently set Janus on the bed. "I just-- I don't know what happened."

"He's sick," Logan said, taking care to keep his voice even. It wouldn't do to further upset Roman.

"I can see that!" Roman snapped.

"Roman. Breathe. You didn't do anything wrong." Logan needed a scan thermometer, and one manifested in his hand. The readout forced him to swallow down a wave of concern. "I need ice," he said. Ice packs appeared under Janus' arms and legs where they connected with his torso.

Janus yelped and thrashed, tears forming in his eyes. Logan held him by the shoulders until his struggling died down into the occasional flinch and shudder.

"You're hurting him!" Roman shouted. He took a deep breath. "Sorry-- Sorry, I know--"

"It's okay," Logan said. "Sit down." He held eye contact while Roman sank down into one of Janus' leather armchairs. "He's going to be okay, Roman."

Roman braced his elbow on one armrest and cupped his forehead in his hand. "I keep messing up," he said in a strained, thin voice.

Calling Patton for backup would only add more emotions to the situation and make it harder to look after both Janus and Roman. Logan had to handle this himself. "Roman, Janus has been sick since last night. Whatever happened wasn't your fault."

"I can't believe his door moved!"

Logan sat down on the edge of the bed, apprehension increasing his heart rate. He had done all he could do for Janus. Now it was time to put his underdeveloped interpersonal skills to the test, as adding anyone else to the equation would only make things messier and less efficient.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?"

"He apologized to me!" Roman looked angry. Logan couldn't fathom why. He had felt a nearly overwhelming sense of relief when Janus had apologized to him. Relief and responsibility to correct his own mistakes. Why was Roman angry?

"You didn't want that?" Logan guessed.

"I don't know! I'm confused." Roman sighed heavily. "I'm sorry, Logan, I know emotions aren't your thing."

"I…" Logan adjusted his tie. "I'm working on it. Please be patient with me."

"Jeeze, what all did I miss?" Roman asked, touching his forehead.

"Quite a bit," Logan said, before realizing that the question was probably rhetorical. "Roman, to be completely honest, I don't know what you need right now."

"I know." Roman sighed and shifted positions so he could rest his elbows on his knees. "I'll-- I'll figure it out. I'll go back to my room and get out of your way…"

"I want to help you," Logan said. His own emotions were distant, abstract, confusing things, so he used broad terminology to better make his point. "I feel… worried." Roman took a breath to interrupt, but Logan held up a hand. "I'm not done."

"Sorry," Roman mumbled

"I'm worried about you," Logan said. "And it was Janus who helped me reach the point where I can tell you this now: I care about you, Roman. I don't want you to go back to your room."

"But I'm… I don't--" Roman swallowed hard and tears welled up in his eyes. "I don't deserve--"

"Roman," Logan interrupted. Guilt reared up at his having done so, but he couldn't allow Roman to further agitate himself. "It's not about what you think you deserve. It's about trying to be better than you were before. Hiding away in your room accomplishes nothing. I know that's not who you are. You're brave and headstrong and I've never known you to run away from a challenge."

Roman sniffled and wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. "Wow, Teacher Feature. That was really…" He sighed and seemed to lose interest in what he was about to say. "Thank you, Logan. I'm just… Embarrassed. I acted like…"

Logan physically bit down on his tongue to avoid suggesting a few vocabulary words.

"Like Captain Hammer," Roman said.

Logan frowned. "You beat up Janus in an attempt to win Patton's and/or Thomas' affections?"

" No, Specs," Roman chuckled mirthlessly. "Well. Not literally. But I did make fun of him in front of everyone. And not in the fun way, like when I tease you guys." He flashed Logan a smile. "And then he apologized to me! Or tried to." Roman ran his hands through his hair. "But that makes me the villain of the story!"

"Ah," said Logan, thrown for somewhat of a (metaphorical) loop. "Well. Are you planning on building a giant freeze ray?"

"No."

"Do you seek world domination?"

"No…?"

"Do you believe that you are entitled to hurt others or that their desires are somehow expendable in service of your own?"

"No?"

"Then you're not a villain, Roman, super or otherwise. You're just human. Well, as human as any of us can possibly be. You made mistakes. So did Patton. So did Janus. So did I. The best thing you can do, in my opinion, is to work to make things better. I believe that's what Janus was attempting to do when he visited you "

"Ugh!" Roman ran his hands down his face. "I can't believe he beat me to the punch!"

Logan squinted. "So you did hit him?"

"Just an expression, Spocktor Who."

"I see."

Well… If Janus did it first, I'm going to do it better ," Roman said.

[waokevale]

Under Control - Chapter 6

TW: Mind abuse, mention of getting hurt, Greed.

Very disgusted with his face but Deceit decided to ignore it as he tried to put the choker on.

When he finally did put it on, he looked at himself in the mirror again, wearing the emblem.

-"Not bad, actually...?" He smiled slightly admiring the crystal before sudden indescriptable pain came through his whole body followed by a  scream that came soon after.

He felt as his mind was leaving his body which made him stress out even more.

As if something was taking control over him.

He knew he shouldn't trust that thing

He knew he shouldn't have trusted 'him'

Yet he did...

And now....

It was too late..

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Suddenly Deceit woke up.

His body was chilly as his breath was more stiff and heavy

It was all dark and blurry .

The place he was in was blank... empty...

Like an abyss.

A little foggy clouds could only be seen, except the giant, unknown grey space that the deceitful side was in.

When his vision got more clearer and his head stopped spinning, he looked closely at the space around him

as he tried to figure out where he  actually was and what happened to him.

-'What is this place?'

-Where am I?'

He thought as an anxious feeling started to rise up inside of him.

He looked in every direction to find a clue, any little one would seem good enough at this point, so he tried to focus more.

Nothing....

There was nothing...

Until...

Everything came all back together, lining up like the pieces of a puzzle.

He was really miserable today, especially after Thomas's video.

He went back to the dark side of the mindscape and then into his room.

There he saw a choker with an orange gem and a note from someone...

After a long debate with himself he decided to try it on.

And then...

He lost control..

-"Oh no...."

Now he was beggining to stress out even more than before, thinking about what could've happen during his abscense.

Especially if he was the one who took over Deceit's body.

-"I need to get out of here!" He then yelled loudly enough to spread an echo around the whole abyss he was in, hoping that someone would hear him.

After his voice tuned down a little bit there could be heard a giggle which didn't put him at ease much either.

It did the complete opposite of that actually..

He just wanted to gain his control back....

He didn't want this...

He wanted to leave.

Suddenly the giggle he just heard became a laughter that in bare seconds turned maniacal as the snake flinched in fear, not knowing where the creepy voice was coming from.

He just stood there, frozen in fear.

Until a giant screen appeared right in front of him.

There on the screen could be seen a shadow or a silhuette of another side, but the said side was surrounded by darkness around them, making it harder for Deceit to figure out who it was until the side on the screen opened their eyes.

Revealing two giant, bright orange gloving dots looking straight at him.

Now Deceit finally realized who it was.

He was pretty sure of that before.

He just didn't want to believe it.

It really was him.

The same side he didn't want to see the most.

The side that he feared so much..

The worst one out of them all.

Greed.

He was the only side that actually didn't have had a name.

Not because he couldn't have one.

He just didn't want to, as he thought, that names were ridiculous so he stuck to his title.

Yet now Deceit was filled with anger, not only fear at the time.

He was angry, mostly at himself for falling right into the trap the said before side put for him.

But he was also scared....Very, very scared.

He knew that the orange side was capable of doing really bad things.

And in his body.....He could.....

No, no, no.....

-"GREED?? WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!" He then yelled as tears started welling up in his eyes.

-"That is me, my dear friend~" The so called Greed said.

-"W-why?! Why did you do this to me?! What do you want from me?!" Deceit shouted, ignoring the nickname the orange side gave him.

-"Ah you see, I've seen you go to light sides.

I've seen how hurt you were by them!

And since I was so pitiful of you, I wanted to help sort some things out for you~"

Deceit shot him a glare.

-"Drop the act.

Don't you lie to my face, you know who I am.

I can easily tell that you're lying."

-"Pfff, ah! Right! I would've forgot about that~

You caught me.

I don't really care about you, you know that?

In fact I only wanted to get revenge on the others, since your body has a lot of unuesed potential."

Now the angry expression on the lying trait's face changed again into a shocked one.

-"W-w-what do you mean by that? W-what are you t-trying to do..?"

-"Ah, nothing really.

.......Except... Maybe hurt a bit your "little baby" for example."

Deceit's eyes widened in fear for the other.

He couldn't take it.

He couldn't let this happen.

Not to him.

Not in the body in which he promised he'd never hurt him..

-"N-n-n-o! Don't hurt him! I-I-I beg you! Please! Don't! I'll do anything!"

-"Why do you even care about him?

He left you.

He betrayed you.

And yet....You still love him?

You're really fucked up, Ethan~"

-"I may be fucked up...But that's how loving someone is.

It's fucked up....

But I don't care about that.

I-I'm not going to let you hurt my baby....

...Please... P-please.

Just-Just D-Don't hurt him....P-p-please..."

Deceit said while begging now and sobbing softly.

-"Awwww Dee, you're just so naive.

I already have your body and I don't really need anything else from you.

You don't have anything else to offer me and I don't need your weak, depressed and melancholic personality."

-"W-w-why? Why are you like this? What did I ever do to you....?"

-"Ah really nothing much, but as a dark side you're just......useless.

You could be so powerful! You could even rule over the mind palace if you wanted to!

Yet....You wasted your powers just like that.

And you also influence Remus on this as well.

No wonder why Virgil has left you for the others."

The orange side simply said as Ethan's eyes began to hurt now from the ammount of tears he had spilled.

-"S-s-sssstop...." He pleaded.

-"Oh did I forgot to mention your boyfriend?

Don't worry I'll make sure you're not going to see him any time soon.

Or ever at this point."

-"W-w-what a-are y-you talking a-a-about...?

I....I don't have a-a-a b-boyfriend.

-"Oh right, I forgot again...

You would've have had if you ever got the chance.

But you can't....

Yet...

Don't you even know who I'm talking about?

Your giant crush! Remus's soulmate and other half. The ruler of the light side of the imagination.

Someone who's way out of your league.

Got any clue now..?"

-"R-R-Roman......." Deceit whispered in horror.

-"That's right. And I know just the perfect way to make his fall...."

Something finally clicked in the deceitful side.

Now the other has crossed the line.

He couldn't take it anymore.

He couldn't listen to these awful things that Greed has said.

No more.

He couldn't listen anymore to what the other was trying to do to them...

-"No. No, No! NO! DON'T YOU DARE HURT ANY OF THEM! THEY DON'T DESERVE THIS! LEAVE MY BODY ALONE! JUST LET ME OUT!!!!!!"

He then started shouting and banging on the screen mercilessly, trying to do something, trying to break it.

Or at least crack it at this point.

Maybe this was it?

Maybe there is a way to gain his control back?

Just for a little while?

He had to.

He had to try..

He must try...

-"LET ME OUT! JUST LET ME OUT! Let me out! Please! Just let me out! (...)"

He kept yelling and attempting to break the screen as the side on the other end just laughed at him.

-"You're pathetic, Deceit. Do you really think that this will work? Or that I'll actually let you out?

You can't do anything.

Face it.

You're just useless."

Greed spat out loud and dissapeared from the screen as the other kept banging and yelling still, not caring if his hands began to bruise and cut and hurt, or that his throat was now dry and in pain.

He just wanted out.

He wanted to warn the others.

He didn't want them to fall for Greed's trickery.

He just wanted to save them...

[giftofshewbread]

The Wind, The Earthquake, The Fire & A Gentle Whisper

 By Zachary Everett        Published on: August 15, 2021

The days are rough and broken; we can see that across the world. Evil grows, and nature continues to become more extreme and intense as each day passes. Lies and deceit are continuing with no end. For those who follow the Lord Jesus Christ, it is difficult and sometimes unbearable. The words of the Lord thy God come to mind when hard times fall on us:

“I am with you always, even unto the end of the world” (Mathew 28:20).

But I wish to speak of another verse that many may have forgotten when adversity arises. I will speak about something the Lord told us through his intervention with Elijah in 1st Kings. We are all facing problems today, but let us not forget that so too did the heroes and apostles of old face problems that tested their resolve. Elijah was one such person. Even after witnessing God’s Power with his own eyes, fear took him when Jezebel sought to end his life for the works he had accomplished.

“Now Ahab told Jezebel everything Elijah had done and how he had killed all the prophets with the sword. So Jezebel sent a messenger to Elijah to say, ‘May the gods deal with me, be it ever so severely, if by this time tomorrow I do not make your life like that of one of them.’ Elijah was afraid and ran for his life. When he came to Beersheba in Judah, he left his servant there, while he himself went a day’s journey into the wilderness. He came to a broom bush, sat down under it and prayed that he might die. ‘I have had enough, Lord,’ he said. ‘Take my life; I am no better than my ancestors.’ Then he lay down under the bush and fell asleep” (1st Kings 19:1-5a).

We can all relate to Elijah and what happened. How many of us want to sleep and forget the world around us, to finally leave the world we are in and never come back. I have had that thought many times more than I can count.

Yet, the Lord had not abandoned Elijah and sent an angel to tend to him.

“All at once an angel touched him and said, ‘Get up and eat.’ He looked around, and there by his head was some bread baked over hot coals, and a jar of water. He ate and drank and then lay down again. The angel of the Lord came back a second time and touched him and said, ‘Get up and eat, for the journey is too much for you.’ So he got up and ate and drank. Strengthened by that food, he traveled forty days and forty nights until he reached Horeb, the mountain of God. There he went into a cave and spent the night” (1st Kings 19:5b-9a).

The Lord has not abandoned us. Let me say this: while the world rages all around us and it seems that God is far away in the madness and noise, he is there.

As much as Elijah doubted and wanted it all to end, and as much as I or you or anyone else wants this to end, the Lord still has a plan for us and for us to learn something from it.

The Lord spoke to Elijah to move him.

“And the word of the Lord came to him: ‘What are you doing here, Elijah?’ He replied, ‘I have been very zealous for the Lord God Almighty. The Israelites have rejected your covenant, torn down your altars, and put your prophets to death with the sword. I am the only one left, and now they are trying to kill me too.’ The Lord said, ‘Go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by'” (1st Kings 19:9b-11a).

He is speaking to us in this dark time. Let me focus on this one important piece that the Lord thy God has shared with us in his holy book, the Bible, about the wind, the earthquake, and the fire that He showed Elijah.

“Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper” (1st Kings 19:11b-12).

The world rages, evil is all around us, and our circumstances are at times unbearable. The noise is all around, the madness continues loudly, destruction is ever-present, our minds are lost and tormented, our roads are broken, and the path obscured. And we cannot hear the Lord or see him in the madness…

But let me say this:

Let not your mind focus on the raging of the world, the destruction, and the raging of evil.

Ask the Lord thy God for help, and look not for a big, brilliant answer, a crescendo of thunder and lightning, a big voice, or a dream to tell you everything will be alright.

Just listen for a gentle whisper, remember his promise from his word, and everything will be alright.

Let me leave you with what happened next in Elijah’s story and what the Lord thy God did to comfort him.

“When Elijah heard it, he pulled his cloak over his face and went out and stood at the mouth of the cave. Then a voice said to him, ‘What are you doing here, Elijah?’ He replied, ‘I have been very zealous for the Lord God Almighty. The Israelites have rejected your covenant, torn down your altars, and put your prophets to death with the sword. I am the only one left, and now they are trying to kill me too.’

“The Lord said to him, ‘Go back the way you came, and go to the Desert of Damascus. When you get there, anoint Hazael king over Aram. Also, anoint Jehu son of Nimshi king over Israel, and anoint Elisha son of Shaphat from Abel Meholah to succeed you as prophet. Jehu will put to death any who escape the sword of Hazael, and Elisha will put to death any who escape the sword of Jehu. Yet I reserve seven thousand in Israel—all whose knees have not bowed down to Baal and whose mouths have not kissed him'” (1st Kings 19:13-18)

The Lord will comfort you no matter the circumstances; just listen for the gentle whisper of the Holy Spirit to direct you and your path.

We are almost there… just a little bit more, and we will be home. Just believe in the Lord… believe in the death, burial, and resurrection of his one and only son Jesus Christ, and you will find peace.

God Bless You All

[98prilla]

Based on wonderful art by @coquettishcass

He's backed into a corner. He can feel his heart racing, his fight or flight kicking into overdrive, and his eyes dart wildly around the space. But They’ve cornered him well, and there's nowhere to run and he can't, won't, win this fight.

He should have realized it was a setup. But the note had said it was urgent, and asked for his help and despite everything, he owed Deceit one.

But he wasn't here, only They were. He didn't know if Deceit was in on this or not, it didn't really matter either way, except somehow it hurt a little more if was. It seemed like the kind of thing Deceit would pull, but he liked to think Deceit was above this. That their once friendship still meant something.

He pressed further back as the leering faces and sharp teeth and fists ready to swing came closer, Their influence overwhelming him, spiking his anxiety until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He was hunched over, hands in his hair, teeth clenched because he wouldn’t scream, wouldn’t cry, he knew well enough that’s what They wanted.

That would make it worse, of course, whatever was coming, and he saw movement, he flinched, squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the blow, the first of many, because who would come looking for him here, of all places?

Instead… he heard Them hiss, draw back. He heard the familiar sound of metal being drawn. He felt the presence looming over him, but facing outwards instead of towards him. There was a beat of silence.

He could feel the tension. There was more of Them than of him, no doubt Their first instinct was to continue, but then his voice rang out.

“Don't even try it.” Another pause, then They scattered.

Virgil sunk down against the wall, legs too shaky under him to keep him upright, the adrenaline leaving him off kilter, unfocused.

He flinched as he felt a shadow settle over him, but then it drew back, murmuring an apology, and he forced his mind to focus because it was Roman and it was fine he was fine.

But he wasn’t. He could feel the emotions swelling through his chest, the fear giving way to shaky, desperate relief, and he wanted to get out of here, but he couldn’t summon the words to express as much.

“Ok. I'm going to touch your leg so we can sink out, alright?” Roman asked, and Virgil jumped, because how did he know, could he read minds? He heard a soft laugh and managed a glare as he looked at Roman through his bangs.

“I’m not psychic, Virge, you’re signing.”

His face flushed as he stared down at his hands, which he hadn’t even realized were moving. They’d been working on autopilot. He realized Roman was still waiting for his consent. He nodded, still flinching at the touch, which drew away as soon as he felt the shift back to the commons.

He was shaking. He was walking a tightrope between panic and exhaustion and any moment he was going to fall into the abyss and then They would… no, because They couldn’t come here, weren’t allowed here.

Still, he felt too open, too exposed, there was too much empty space, too many corners to hide in, too many shadows, and he felt his breathing grow shallower as weights pressed down on his chest. He could feel tears leaking from his eyes, and he felt a spike of anger, at himself.

Why couldn’t he just hold it together? He was fine, he was back in the commons, everything was fine, he didn’t need to be such a scared little baby all the time. God, he was so stupid, wasn’t he? He was just a waste, just a waste of space and-

“Hey now. We both know that's not true.” He looked up at Roman’s quiet words, realizing he was still signing furiously, though the motions were so shaky and sloppy he was surprised Roman had gotten any of that. Virgil just shrugged, looking away.

“Virge. It’s not. Emotions don’t make you weak. Fear doesn’t make you weak. I… I was afraid, too.” He scoffs, raises an eyebrow at that, because what could Princey possibly have been afraid of?

“Losing you.” It is said quietly, so sincerely Virgil looks up in shock at the quiet admission. “We didn’t know where you were. Patton couldn’t sense you anywhere, then I found that note in your room and I didn’t know if I was already too late. Yes. I was afraid. Afraid we’d lost you or something horrible had happened or, well, I suppose you get the point.” Roman trailed off sheepishly. Virgil rolled his eyes, yes, of anyone, he understood the fear of the unknowns in life.

The panic had faded, and he was tipping towards exhaustion, falling the tightrope, suddenly afraid again because what if he woke up There and this had been the dream the whole time? He knew it didn’t make sense, and he knew what he wanted to ask, but he still couldn’t find his words, so he just let his hands do what they’d been doing all along without his permission.

“Of course, Virg. I don’t… I don’t want to let you out of my sight, anyways.” He smiled a bit at Roman’s quieter than usual bravado, as he slid upward ontk the couch. Roman settled easily beside him, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him close to his side. Virgil burried hia face against the fabric of Princey's outfit, the scent of roses and lilac heady and grounding, as he finally felt himself start to relax.

“I won’t let Them hurt you, Virge. I promise.” He made a small noise of understanding, almost laughing. Not so long ago Roman would have been brandishing his sword at Virgil. Now here was, defending him, promising to keep him safe, and maybe the most incredulous part was that Virgil believed him.

Roman smiled fondly as he felt Virgil's eyes flutter closed, his breathing deepening as he fell asleep. Roman gently kissed the top of his head.

“Sweet dreams, Virge" he murmured, looking up as he heard a racket from the stairs.

“Ro, did you-" he cut Patton's loud question off with shhh, pointing down at Virgil. Patton silently squealed at the cuteness, before Logan cleared his throat.

“Is he alright?” Logan asked softly, eyes creased in concern, glasses askew, which was how you knew he was very upset.

“Just shaken up. I found him… I got there before They did anything.” Patton let out a relieved sigh and Logan’s shoulders slumped as they made their way down the rest of the stairs.

Logan settled on the couch next to Virgil, Patton opting to sit on the floor near their feet, resting his head against their legs as he looked up at them all.

Logan carefully pressed himself close against Virgil’s side, making him sigh happily at the warmth, relaxing further against Roman.

“It’s a good thing you helped me with the ASL, teach. He was using it, the whole time.” Roman commented idly, not missing the small, proud smile that flicked across Logan's face.

“It was a good idea to start with. I’m glad he remembered to use it. Or his muscle memory did.” Logan amended, at Roman's snort.

“He’s ok? Really?” patton asked softly.

“Promise, Padre. Just worn out."

“We will have to discuss the note, and what led him to his actions when he wakes, of course, but for now Roman is correct. He just needs rest and… and safety.” Logan replied.

“And he'll get plenty of both, as long I have anything to say about it.” Roman answered, voice soft and warm as he held Virgil just a little tighter .