#or a snide comment on lack of sources

[lacnunga]

my favourite etymology post edit

[tumblingxelian]

Chrysididae 

The Birth of the Hero Chrysididae!

A student film premiers, a lost heiress in enraged at the perceived betrayal of her sponsor, classmates, family and even oldest friend.

Why she wonders, why do these things keep happening to me?

It is a question she had wondered before but only rarely, too often it was too easy to find some enemy to blame, or her own lack of exceptional talent.

But on this day, when she reflects on Gabriel Agreste's souless stare from the tablet, something clicks.

He did this on purpose.

Like one domino hitting another, it sets off a chain of memories and with them a realization.

On what was to be Adrien's first day of school, the first Akuma appears, despite the fact that surely other teenagers were embarrassed or angered.

This should have scared Adrien and compelled him to stay home, but no.

So it is again with Stoneheart, but somehow, for some reason he chooses Chloe as a victim despite nearly every member of class being terrified and enraged, despite his intent to be to confess his love to Mylene.

He still takes the time to kidnap Chloe, who was the instigator of Adrien's rebellion.

This would be her first near death, but not the last.

Lady Wifi would come next, suitably aggrieved perhaps but to what purpose? Hawk Moth of all people should know Chloe could not have been Ladybug, so there needs to be another motive, one to target the girl and not a presumed hero.

Ah yes, punishing her for helping Adrien slip his grasp.

Evilillustrator, would be next, neglecting the humiliation and abuse his teacher subjected him to in favor or murdering a girl for a snide comment regarding his crush.

Now you might say, what of Roger, Rose, Juleka and Kim?

But remember, even an Akuma will not go against the deep and abiding instincts of its source human. Their loved one's may be in endangered on accident or in a deranged bit to assist them.

But never would they be intentionally harmed.

In this same vain, a man who believes wholeheartedly in his duty to be of service to the community, a girl whose most malevolent self only wanted a dream wedding, a girl who wished to be seen and a boy who wished for love to disappear.

All Akuma that either would not or could not kill by their nature or that of their powers. They would be insufficient for breaking the girl who defied him.

Antibug is where things begin to change.

Convinced that her beloved idol hated her just as her mother always had, Chloe began to break. So much so she could not avoid his Akuma this time.

Able to defeat Chat Noir and a fair match for Ladybug she was one of the stronger Aluma. Not in the upper echelons like Style Queen or Sanboy, but worth stoking over the coals for an even greater reaction.

Speaking of Style Queen, you may question why Gabriel would allow his son, who has so far avoided all harm from any Akuma to be struck low.

I remind you that while his control is great it is not infinite. I would add that not only does Hawk Moth's ego outstrip his control but so too does his scheming.

Why snub the notoriously angry Style Queen? Why would Nathalie, an otherwise sensible woman go along with the insult. Only to see him retract it the next day? Why was Gabriel who has refused to leave his manor in all other attacks absent when the Style Queen invaded his home?

Why if not for the fact he sought to make Style Queen and with Mayura's help could do so. But she was not enough alone, but her presence would bring about inspiration for his newest scheme.

It would bring about Queen Wasp.

But first, you may question why Gabriel would allow his son, who has so far avoided all harm from any Akuma to be struck low. I remind you that while his control is great it is not infinite, and would go further and note how strange it is that Gabriel would be absent from his manor.

He would not leave during any other Akuma attack, yet the this one? How odd, lest

Murdered by her mother the day before, then rejected by her yet again, mind on the edge of snapping she orchestrated her own self destruction and from the wreckage crawled the first Akumatized Miraculous User.

For we cannot call her a hero.

Who was the next Akuma, but her own father. His intent with her just as it was with his wife, to keep her in Paris for his own pleasure at her expense. Conveniently ensuring Hawk Moth's new muse could not slip the leash she did not even know was fastening around her neck.

Just as hoped it would see, she was chosen this time to wield a Miraculous and she would be chosen again on Heroes' Day. Hawk Moth's only known effort to Akumatize others rather than letting the people of Paris do his work for him.

This was where we first saw sign of Mayura and to any who have been wondering. Yes, this is why The Collector & Simon Says mean so little. There was always a hidden second who could have commanded the Akuma, and if not, paint a target on his back from a target so far away that the here's would surely arrive in time.

With Mayura's arrival came a new wave of terror, not just for Paris but Chloe in particular.

Don't believe me, I do not blame you, but it is the truth.

Over the months following Heroes Day, battle after battle would be fought before the former Miraculous Holder. Always in front of her home where the Bee Signal shone, always to see her rejected by her idol.

From this came Miracular.

Close, but not close enough, Chloe resister the Akum, but Sabrina could not and within moments of Chat's arrival Mayura was upon them.

The villains had been waiting, a clear signal they had been observing her for sometimes, a clear signal of their continued interest.

Especially given, despite the months of absence, the moment it was necessary, Queen Bee flew again. Even as Ladybug swore this would be the last time as she doubtlessly had done for the last two months of battle.

Only to change her mind as needs demanded it.

But do not think her egotistical my witnesses. It was not merely Chloe who was targeted but another as well.

Marinette Dupain Cheng. A girl who has yet to be Akumatized, who holds a disdain for liars and seeks truth. Such an ideal recipe for an Akuma that could force Ladybug & Chat Noir into the light.

Thus it was, she'd be framed for cheating, theft and assault before her classmates by one Lila Rossi. Perhaps this would not convince you alone but I ask.

How did Hawk Moth know the class he has so often predated on, the class which contains Adrien Agrest, if he did not have a hand in this event?

This was not the first time Lila was used as such. Whispering sweet lies into Chloe's ears about how to summon Ladybug but leaving her humiliated instead.

Has she not done the same with others? Kagami for instances.

Decaying day by day, and nightmare by nightmare, Miracle Queen approached and this is where it all comes together.

Her feuding parents presenting with a garment both ugly and enraging that binds them together by a man who proclaims himself a designer.

An Akuma on the scene in mere moments, to combine them into one. The parents turned against the child enough to harm her yet again, but kept from devouring her. Finally, the Bee Signal sabotaged.

Why this family, why this girl even before the Miraculous? Who would know her well enough to orchestrate such targeted strikes against her psyche? What man has the motive, resources and insight to break Chloe Bourgeois?

Why its the same man whose beloved assistant fell ill at the same time as Mayura vanished from the field of battle. Its the same man who had a hand in the transformation of Style Queen & Heart Hunter. It is the same man who promised a desperate girl a movie, only to rip it away with a subtle smile. Knowing his Akuma would find her soon.

But he was not ready for me, or in a way, for her.

Chloe Bourgeois, the girl you knew, no longer exists. She had no desire to anymore, more than Hawk Moth saw to that.

What she did desire was to prove she was more than a Super Disaster and means by which to free her from the role long since assigned to her.

For the latter, came a Sentimonster not long for this world. Its power exorcising that malevolent miasma of Hawk Moth. But even as it was destroyed the creatures magic did as it was bid.

For his voice had gone silent, the rage faded and the Akuma was taken into more than this mere suit but into the skin, to course through her blood and bury itself in her marrow.

Now I emerge from the girl that was once Chloe Bourgeois with three purposes.

To tell the world of Gabriel's crimes, to defeat Hawk Moth, and be an exceptional Hero.

I am Chrysididae and for what its worth, I am sorry.

[writerlyhabits]

Scenario: Din’s crewmate works really hard. They’ll get so in the zone that they will forget to eat, or forget to stay hydrated, or will stay awake way later than they should. And Din HATES it. He wants you to take care of yourself, and it frustrates him to no end when he sees how exhausted you get only to find out you haven’t eaten today, or have only slept a few hours.

Hi, I'm so sorry this took as long as it did... it was another incident of 'big blank document & big empty brain.' And then once I started going with something I liked, BoBF episodes came out; I had to decide if I wanted to scrap the whole thing and start from a new angle with the content we were gifted, or keep going with what I had.

As you'll see, I went with what I started with because I really did like what @deceiverofgodss and I came up with, so with her seal of approval (thank you my love 💖) I present you something BoBF spoiler-free! Thanks for your patience friends, I hope you enjoy! 😘

Words: 1.9k

Warnings: mild cursing, lack of self-care, subjects of grief and parental loss, Bo Katan being a bitch, pre-established relationship, helmetless Din ... i think that's it?

“Please tell me you’ve moved since I saw you last,” Din asked as he entered the room, talking to the back of your head as he found you perched on the couch, silhouetted by the glow of the holo pad in the dark room. You didn’t respond, but he already had the answer to his question. He knew that if you had been mobile or at least conscious of the world around you, there would have been another source of light other than the screen in your hands.

Din moved through the small living space of the inn’s most expensive suite on Nevarro to get to you, a generous gift from Greef as you stopped by on your travels. Din knew it would be in exchange for help in some fashion, but he didn’t mind the work… it was a good distraction. That’s why he’d brought the two of you here in the first place; a distraction, a break from everyone and everything that had been consuming your life as of late.

The darksaber that had found itself in his possession came with a whole world of burdens and responsibilities Din had never planned on taking. He stepped into the role of Mand’alor when it became clear there would be no avoiding it and took you by his side, your marriage earning you the same title, much to Bo Katan’s chagrin. And she made her opinion heard loud and clear.

“Mandalore should never have fallen into the hands of a Child of the Watch and his aruetii,” she had sneered. He remembered seeing that your stone solid expression hadn’t changed in her presence, holding your tongue better than he did, Din having made a snide comment in retaliation that only riled up the redhead more. But what got to him was the way you broke once it had just been the two of you.

“She’s right… before you try and argue, tell me that these clans will take us seriously enough to help reclaim Mandalore when their leader doesn’t even wear beskar’gam. That they’ll give us the time of day when I haven’t even sworn the creed.”

“You said your vows, you live by them as I do. You are my riduur, as I am yours. That makes you Mandalorian,” he had tried, an attempt to reassure you, but he could tell you were hesitant. He couldn’t blame you though; as much as he wanted to knock Bo Katan to the ground for saying it, your fears had roots.

After trying to figure out what he had inherited in his new role, the planet of Mandalore was not only in physical ruin, but was shrouded in rumors of curses and uneasy mystery. The two of you had agreed that if you had any plans to reclaim the planet as the home of the Mandalorians, your strength would lie in your numbers. This was what had sent you traveling through the galaxy, set on tracking down Mandalorian clans and earning their support for when the time came.

These travels, of course, left you and Din in the near-constant company of Bo Katan and her cronies; while she may have been snide and hell-bent on power, one for changing terms as she saw fit… she was the most knowledgeable on the planet’s history you had encountered thus far. She proved herself somewhat useful, but was on thin ice with the snide authority she continued treating the two of you with, and Din was at his end.

As the Mand’alor, he felt it was in his power to take his wife on a well-deserved vacation, and had whisked you away to Nevarro to take a breather. Something you hadn’t gotten since before you’d gotten married, having defeated a Krayt Dragon within the same week. And you still needed time to properly process the absence of the littlest member of your clan.

His body was desperate for rest as he moved to stand in front of your position on the couch, weary with the work he’d put himself through to keep other thoughts and memories at bay. When you didn’t move, he removed his gloves and placed them on the table beside you.

“Mesh’la, when was the last time you ate?” he asked softly as he brushed a piece of hair out of your face, hoping to bring you out of your trance. He ran the back of his knuckles along your soft cheeks, hooking them under your chin to gently bring your focus up to his face, your eyes glassed over as you processed his question.

“How long ago did you leave?” Dank farrik, not again. He’d had breakfast with you before he’d left, a quick ration pack, telling him you’d make more after he left. This was the third time he’d come home to find that not only did that second helping never come, but neither did lunch or dinner.

“Gar shuk meh kyrayc…” he huffed as he took long strides to reach the kitchen as fast as possible, needing to give your body the proper fuel to continue functioning.

“You’re no use dead…” you translated, having been learning and teaching yourself the language during your travels in an attempt to relate closer with the Mandalorians you would meet with. This was where the holopad had first come in. “What do you mean?” While you had done a remarkable job in learning the literal aspects of the language, you were still frustrated and how far behind you still seemed to be since Mando’a was very figurative, few literal translations ever properly expressing the meaning of their statement.

“It means you’re working yourself to death. That you need to rest, and properly take care of yourself,” he explained pointedly, returning with a rehydrated ration pack. Not his ideal meal for this situation, but he knew you’d be able to eat it, and that was more important right now. “Give me the holopad so you can eat something.”

“No, I can eat while I read,” you argued, holding the pad in one hand while you opened up your palm for him to deposit the container.

“Cyar’ika please, you’ve been looking at that thing all day.” He set the food on the table just to the side of you, bracing himself on the back of the couch as he leaned in close to try to get through to you. “You’ve been working so hard, it’s time for a break.”

“Nu draar, Din,” you grumbled, using a Mando’a phrase that expressed a very hard no. You were too damn smart for your own good… He wanted to be proud of you for your progress, but he was busy trying to break through your stubborn determination to celebrate the small victory.

"You're not eating unless I sit down and eat with you, you haven't been sleeping. Don't think I don't notice that you don't move between the time I'm asleep and the time I get up,” he reminded, trying to be both stern and gentle to express just how worried about you he was. “Nothing you’re going to find on that holopad is worth all of this!”

"Okay, and then what? I put the holo pad down and hear criticism through one ear, skepticism in the other… And then when my head hits the pillow at night the only thing I can think of is him.” With your last sentence your voice broke, the emotion you seemed to be hiding behind endless nights of research and work finally breaking through. Your eyes started well up in tears as they came overwhelmingly fast, and he could feel his own do the same. “I know giving him to the Jedi was the best thing for him, I do… but I just want him back. My body wakes up in the night to cries that aren't there. My arms feel empty, and there’s a hole in my chest where he should be.”

Your body shook with the tears that had welled up inside of you for too long, and it took Din a moment to realize he’d frozen in place, wrapped in his own grief. It was one you shared, and one you handled in different ways; coping mechanisms more similar than you realized, throwing yourselves into work to distract you from the pain. But Din had someone to take care of, he had you, his beloved riduur. He played the big strong bounty hunter, the provider, as he always did. With his covert, with you, with your clan of three….

But you had been left with empty arms as your heart struggled to heal the gaping hole Grogu had managed to weasel himself into. He’d had you wrapped around his finger within moments, Din having been much the same. But your recovery was not in caring for someone new. You’d holed yourself away and worked yourself to death to numb the constant ache.

Din gently took the holo pad from your hand and set it aside so he could take your hands in his. He sat on the small couch beside you, pulling you into his lap and resting your hands around his neck before lifting his hands up to the rim of his helmet. Your breath caught when his helmet had been placed to the side, always quick to admire your husbands’ beautiful features when you were given the chance.

His warm brown eyes were watery just like yours, not the first of his tears shed over the loss. His brows were raised in sympathy as he looked at you, soft lips in a pout as one of his hands cupped your face in his palm to caress your cheek with his thumb.

“Almost every night since he’s been gone, there’s been this strange pull. It- I don’t know how to describe it, but there’s this feeling that just washes over me; it eases my mind, I know he’s safe, that he’s taken care of,” Din tried to explain, your turn to sort of freeze as you listened. “I don’t know how his powers work… but it’s him. It feels like Grogu.”

“How do you know?” you whispered, fearful your voice would break with any more strain. Din took a moment to look at you as he sorted through the thoughts in his head, the strange sense that would wake him in the night, and the different feelings they invoked in him.

“He misses you… just as much as you miss him.” He’d barely been able to finish before his voice began to betray him, something he’d only struggled with as of late, usually able to keep his cool exterior intact when he desired.

You had let his words linger in the air for a few moments, letting them settle before your body was wracked with a heartbreaking sob, doubling over to curl into Din’s body, your face nestled in the crook of his neck while your arms could do nothing more than hang onto his chest plate. He stroked your back comfortingly as tears fell down his face, your sobs muffled into the flight suit still underneath his armor.

The two of you stated that way for a very long amount of time, clinging onto your clan of two as the complicated emotions course through your bodies. After long enough though, Din had made sure you were hydrated, keeping you tucked up into him for comfort as you slowly got yourself through the ration pack, adamant in your need for basic personal care.

It was the first night in a long time that you had settled into bed next to your husband, both in soft leisurewear as you relaxed into the pillows. Though it came with its own struggles, a slow stream of tears across your cheek as you fell asleep on Din’s shoulder, experiencing Grogu’s pull for the first time.

He’s safe, he’s cared for… but he misses you, his buirs, every single day.

...

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[love-and-other-potions]

Fake It Until You Make It

Theodore Nott x Reader

ou scowl as you watch Draco Malfoy push some First Year Gryffindor into the dirt. As Draco laughs and walks away, you walk over to the poor girl. You hold out your hand to help her up. She eyes your green and silver tie warily as she places her hand in yours.

"Sorry about him. He's a dick, probably from the lack of it. I like your hair by the way. It's a pretty color."

She shuffles her feet as she pushes her hair behind her ear.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. Have a nice day."

You go over to a bench and sit.

"Nice to lions now L/N? To think that you couldn't lower yourself further and to find this out. Tut tut."

You turn to see Theodore Nott.

"Nott, what an unpleasant surprise."

"There's the sass. I just don't understand why the nicities are given to the Gryffindors. Did you know that lions eat snakes?"

"Did you know that snakes eat other snakes?"

He blinks at you.

"I still think you shouldn't be nice to the lions. They're the enemy!"

"I think you should strategically place your wonderful lips upon my posterior and kiss it repeatedly."

You give him a sweet smile and walk away.

***********

In Potions, you get partnered with Neville.

"Hey, so I know that you're not that great at Potions and Snape dislikes you."

He looks down in embarrassment.

"Hey, don't worry. What I'm trying to say is that I'm okay at Potions and if you're alright with it, you can just hand me the potion ingredients and I'll do the actual potion making."

He looks at you with relief shown clearly on his face.

"Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks."

"You're welcome. Will you get me a salamander tail please?"

"Sure."

He leaves. Nott passes by as you light your fire under the cauldron.

"How's the lion lover today?"

You scowl at him.

"Nott, I'd tell you to go to Hell, but I don't want to see you again."

People in the near vicinity laugh as Nott rolls his eyes and heads for the ingredient cupboard.

******************

You groan as you walk to class with F/N.

"Nott is seriously starting to piss me off. It's not that bad that I'm 'nice' to Gryffindors! But every time he sees me, he has some snide comment about it."

F/N laughs. You scowl at them.

"What's so funny?"

"I've heard from reliable sources that he likes you. That's why he's an ass to you. You're special in his heart."

F/N pretends to swoon. You laugh.

"Oh, that was funny. And you sounded serious too!"

"I am serious! He likes you!"

"But.... why?"

"I don't know. He's obviously demented."

You hit their shoulder.

"Hey!"

F/N laughs.

"I know you still don't believe me. Just test it out."

"How?"

"I dunno. Flirt with him."

You scoff.

"I don't know how to flirt."

"Whatever. If you want to know, you have to do it."

****************

You tap your foot as you see that Nott had caught sight of you and is currently headed in your direction.

"Hey L/N, have you given your pity to any lions today?"

"I hate a lot of people, but I don't hate you," you blurt.

He raises an eyebrow.

"You could've fooled me."

You mentally face palm. Okay, switch tactics.

"I don't need Accio to make you come."

He splutters and his face turns red.

"Ohmigod. F/N was right."

"W-what? What about F/N?"

"They told me that you liked me. But I didn't believe them until you blushed at that."

"Psssh, I probably would blush if anyone had said it to me."

You raise an eyebrow.

"Sex is bad. Sex is a sin. Sins are forgiven. So stick it in!"

He blushes a deeper scarlet.

"So this is normal? Because red is a great color on you," you wink.

"I-I don't l-like you."

"Maybe I'll believe you if you can say it without stuttering."

"Sometimes I don't like you," he mutters.

"Ooo, sometimes? So you like me other times? Ha! You admitted it!"

"Did not!"

"Did so!"

"Did not!"

"You didn't what?"

"Admit that I like you!"

"Do you?"

"Yes!"

"Ha! Got ya!"

"DAMN IT."

"Hahaha. You're in love with me!"

****************

You walk with F/N through Hogsmeade.

"So he admitted that he likes you?"

"I kinda tricked him into it."

F/N laughs.

"Of course you did."

"Shut up."

You two go into Honeydukes. As you step through the door, Nott catches your eye. You wink at him. He turns red and then turns away. You laugh as you head down an aisle to check out the candy selection. You feel a tap on your shoulder. You turn to see Nott. You smirk.

"Hey there."

"Hey."

He holds out his hand. You open yours and he drops something into it. You look down to see Chocolate Lips.

"I bought that for you. Now that I've given you lips, can I have yours?"

"Excuse me? Did you just ask for a kiss?"

Now he smirks.

"Yeah I did. What do you say?"

You pretend to think about it.

"Sure, why not?"

The corners of his mouth lift as he leans in and kisses you. He pulls away and you smile at him.

"Are you still denying that you like me?"

He groans.

"No, but I'm starting to wonder why."

"Hey! I'm very loveable!"

"You can let me find out if you become my significant other."

You raise an eyebrow.

"Smooth Nott," you comment.

"Tut tut. That's not an answer."

You sigh dramatically.

"I guess so."

"Is that a yes?"

"Yeah."

He gives you a huge smile.

"Awesome."

"I know I am."

[acacia-luna-royal]

Ooh, wait! Vegas coming down to the cellar when Porsche is locked up; locked up in a place where he can’t communicate with anyone or get in contact with anyone in the house, let alone the outside, may give Kinn a huge clue as to who the mole is. I mean, come on, Kinn is a smart guy so he must have pieced together some kind of idea of who the mole might be. Whoever it is, they’ve informed Vegas that Porsche has been locked up, so Vegas goes straight down to where he is and asks Porsche to run away with him? Coincidence? Nah, we know it’s no coincidence whatsoever. Tawan could even be a third source of this mole operation (counting Vegas and the mole themselves), even if he hasn’t been there for ages, this mole’s game could have been going on for a couple of years now, or for how ever long Kinn has been announced as the heir and the next in line to lead the Theerapanyakul clan.

Kinn, to me, (no I don’t hate Kinn, I love him, I really do) seems like he has mental conflictions on top of quesitons on top of mental untrusting conflictions. Someone, who he literally shot because they gave away his family’s information to his enemy, has come back into his life at a time where he had found love and happiness in all its truest forms. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know that if what he does do, will be the right thing. He doesn’t know whether to believe Tawan, and I don’t think he trusts him because obviously it takes a lot for Kinn to trust someone and Tawan lost that, he lost that big time, so Kinn doesn’t trust him. He doesn’t know if anything that comes out of Tawan’s mouth is actually the truth.

Kinn doesn’t know the way Tawan is with Porsche when it’s just the two of them alone, the way he makes snide comments to Porsche, the way he taunts him. An innocent person wouldn’t do that, especially if you’re trying to gain their belief that you’re a “good guy who was the victim and didn’t actually rat out your boyfriend’s family secrets to his enemy” (someone get the sympathy violin for Tawan) But, Porsche doesn’t tell Kinn about the way that Tawan is when it’s just Porsche and Tawan, because he knows that Kinn is already worrying about so many things right now so he doesn’t want to burden him with more worry. I do think though, if Porsche had actually told Kinn about the way that Tawan was with him, Kinn would have believed Porsche because they didn’t go through the emotional turmoil of building the trust that they share for nothing. (Kinn and Porsche’s trust for each was earned through hurdles, and multiple obstacles, so they won’t just disregard it.) Kinn might have paid a bit more attention to Tawan’s mannerisms, and Kinn might have seen what he has most likely been suspecting anyway.

If this is a plan that Kinn is going for, then I think him telling Porsche may have been kind crucial, so that the latter doesn’t feel as if he is actually being blamed for something that he did not do. Sometimes, with these guys, they really lack communication and it’s kind of ironic because Kinn and Porsche, especially them two, have an amazing way of communicating without using words. They use their eyes, their touches, their facial expressions; their communication style is an art all in itself. And of course, if this was all a part of of Kinn’s unspoken plan, I don’t think he planned for Vegas to show up and take Porsche as I don’t believe Porsche would willingly go with him while Tawan is at the main house still hovering around Kinn like the snake that he is.

[ashley-face]

Note: For you, baby birds - an Egon Spengler x fem!reader (bordering fem!OC) multi-chapter fic that no one asked for, but I started typing out the moment Ghostbusters: Afterlife revived my hyperfixation for the first time since the 2016 film came out. 

I wanted to play around with different source material that mentioned Ray Stantz having siblings (mostly because Egon and he are god-tier comfort characters. We’ll see if I’m in a really silly goofy mood; I might do a Ray x reader one-shot, too), namely basing a lot of the reader’s backstory on Ray’s sister Jean from the novels. I mean, a polyamorous pansexual journalist? Please. So, used that as the foundation, then took a metric fuckton of artistic license for the rest. Drop me a comment if you like it. :)

Not beta’d ‘cause we’re gonna live forever - let’s goooo! (and happy holidays!)

Rating for this chapter: Teen

Warnings for this chapter: Some strong language, OCs, minor angst/mention of childhood trauma, my desperate need to pretend like I know diddly about physics and a criminal lack of our Egie himself. 

Already Dreaming | Chapter 1

Roman author Pliny the Younger claimed the specter of an old man with a long beard and rattling chains was haunting his house in Athens like a proto-Jacob Marley coming to torment Ebenezer Scrooge.

In 856 A.D. the first ever poltergeist was reported tormenting a German family in their farmhouse by throwing stones and starting fires.

Several millennia later Einstein posited that since all energy of the universe is constant and that it can neither be created nor destroyed - it can only be changed from one form to another - what happens to that energy when we die?

The energy in our bodies that releases in the form of heat goes into the wild animals that eat us, worms that digest the dirt we decompose in, and the roots of plants that absorb the nutrients we’ve left behind. During cremation energy in our bodies merely releases in the form of heat and light.

But what about those little ghosts Wolfgang Pauli theorized about? Those invisible neutrinos that once never existed in the realm of particle physics, and that he claimed could conserve energy throughout the beta decay process? Where does that energy go? How is it metered?

Why are we so reluctant to give credence to existence after death in physics?

Will we ever fully quantify the universe to its smallest components using our limited resources for testing fundamental particles at such a large scale, casting an enormous net to trap a fairyfly? 

“The poet William Blake wrote, ‘To see a World in a Grain of Sand / And Heaven in a Wild Flower / Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand / And Eternity in an Hour’,” you gasped, unable to contain yourself as your brother Ray eagerly awaited your response, 20 July 1956 issue of Scientific in his hand and a school print out of “Auguries of Innocence” in yours.

Ray laughed, elated that you were employing critical reading of a totally different material to show proof you had understood what he had been talking about, and at the tender age of 13 years old. He rested his chin in his palm, listening with rapt attention.

Carl, the oldest of you three, had thankfully departed for basic military training (to the dismay of your parents and your relief.)

It had been so long since you could talk to Ray like this without Carl’s constant snide remarks sprinkled in. You were free to wax poetic about prose and protons, wraiths and Sylvia Townsend Warner.

Ray knew you, understood your quirks better than your own mother did. You weren’t "difficult” to him, you were his sister and he would always protect you.

Especially after your father, one of Islip’s beloved general practitioners, tested you for hypoglycemia and anemia when you showed symptoms of hypotension, bouts of vertigo and arrhythmia.

The weekend that Carl temporarily moved back to your parents after graduating from boot camp he found you in your room on your knees, swaying. You were clutching Ray’s old Dopey Dog stuffed animal in a death grip.

“Pops!” Carl shouted, dropping next to you, clueless as to what to do.

You immediately snapped out of your trance-like state, a deer in headlights and only a bit worse for wear, unable to recall when or why you had gone into the attic to grab a toy you hadn't touched in ages.

Ray, having heard Cal, rushed into the bedroom and joined you on the floor, taking your wrist so he could check your pulse like dad had taught him. 

“I’m okay Sunshine," you soothed, then assured your oldest brother earnestly. "Really Carl, I just get low blood pressure sometimes."

Carl's brow furrowed, frustration mounting as he became more aware at how out of the loop he'd been, squashing a writhing resentment that festered under his ribcage. 

Soon you started to daydream and disassociate constantly. Ray ruled out low blood pressure and suspected that the incidents were brought on by remnants of forgotten dreams being triggered by outward stimuli when awake - a familiar sight, sound, smell. Déjà vu. He’d be able to sense it, recognizing a particular far-off look you’d get, and acted as a tether to bring you back to earth. If anyone gave you grief or called you “space cadet” he’d gently put them in their place.

Ray was a Stantz, after all, and that name carried a certain reputation, no matter his uncanny resemblance to a large teddy bear. Carl had been a star quarterback (as well as a bully), simultaneously adored and feared grades 7-12, but Ray had not been on any sports teams. Yet he still towered over a good portion of his peers, broad shouldered and strong from tinkering in all manner of electronics, heavy equipment and car work. He was also unfathomably kind. The sort of kind that brought to mind, “Demons run when a good man goes to war.”

To make up for his absence Carl showed you how to shoot a rifle (badly), and tried to teach you how to perform basic maintenance on pedestrian vehicles, just like he had with Ray. You watched him work underneath the chassis of your father’s old 1960 Chevy C10 while holding an oil pan, providing the correct tools as needed. It was stilted and a bit awkward, but an attempt none-the-less.

Where Carl was impatient and hated too many questions Ray explained the science that went into a modern combustion engine no differently than your father would tell you a bedtime story, drawing rough figures on paper, thrilled to have such a captive audience.

The oldest Stantz sibling didn’t stick around too much longer once he got into the U.S. Airforce Academy, and not a moment too soon. More often than not he’d stumble in late three sheets to the wind drunk, picking fights with your father.

Mom always wrapped her robe tight, shuffled on her house slippers, fixed him the blackest cup of coffee a human could consume without it becoming sludge, and would let him unload. Her side of the family, the MacMillans, did not let bad blood come between them.

Carl coldly shrugging off a hug from either you or Ray before climbing into dad’s car on his way to the airport is the last you see of him for a while, leaving a void.

You were Ray’s shadow throughout your formative years as he encouraged your rants about  Pablo Neruda’s changing writing style or cryptozoology being labeled a pseudoscience, the implications of a soul, the composition of the spirit. He’d sneak you out in the middle of the night, tromping through wet farmland in oversized wellies and carrying heavy flashlights to unveil the Great Mysteries, owing that the Great Mysteries were located in the backwoods of Long Island. 

At some point you ended up wrangling a few neighborhood kids around your age to join the cause. 

They became your best friends and Ray dubbed you the Scooby Doo gang.

Victoria Ertl, the Daphne Blake of the group, wanted for nothing. Her father worked for an up-and-coming computer sales company by the name of Apple Computer, Inc. Her mother frequently went missing or excused herself to “go take a nap”, leaving Vicky to her own devices. Those devices being extraterrestrials and witchcraft.

Christine Marcu, who shared the unofficial title of Velma Dinkley with you, bothered Ray about invention ideas and had a particular affinity for spirit photography.

Tony Bacheldor turned out to be an odd combination of Fred Jones, Shaggy Rogers and Scooby as despite being highly intelligent his fervent desire to explore the unknown was usually outweighed by the fact that he suffered from acute nyctophobia. He also had a voracious appetite and attained infamy for eating 8 Vienna hot dogs (buns included) in one sitting.

The event was entered into a shared notebook utilized for miscellaneous experiments, simply titled 8TH WONDER OF THE WORLD(?).

Ray claimed he saw himself more as an amalgamation of all five, but you weren’t convinced - he was Fred Jones.

As you reached puberty your “episodes” were less and less frequent, unofficially filed under “unsolved” to your friends’ disappointment, chomping at the bit to see you in action for themselves.

A fateful trip to Queen of All Saints Cemetery irrevocably changed that.

Ray got a tip from a fellow paranormal aficionado about a ghost sighting there. Vicky, Chrissy and Tony meet you at the Railroad Ave entrance to sneak through an unrepaired part of the dilapidated fence.

Fog obscured the pathways that wound through the grounds. Chrissy switched on a headlamp she had found while dumpster diving for parts, signally for you to do the same with yours, then she huddled with Ray to verify the exact coordinates of the sighting.

"I will excommunicate you if your 'reliable source' is Sagar," Chrissy slapped a tree branch out of her way, heading off the gravel paths to a particular cluster of headstones. "He hasn’t paid me back the money that I lent him to buy the newest issue of Captain Steel. Stupid jerk."

Ray pouted, fiddling with a contraption he’d brought to assist them.

"Damn, I'd meant to pick that up for myself today."

Tony took great joy in debating Ray about Superman being a superior hero to Captain Steel and almost butted in. You subtly motioned for him to not interfere. 

Chrissy's button nose scrunched in irritation, but Ray missed it and persevered with his lament. 

"What a cliffhanger, too! Dr. Destructor was just about to--"

"Knock your block off if you don't zip it," Chrissy bared her teeth, braces flashing. 

Vicky diffused the situation by leaning over to Ray, overexaggerating her interest. "Is that an Atari controller?"

Bloodshed successfully avoided, Ray held up the controller-esque item in question, "Good eye, Vicky! It’s a modified electron capture detector, a device for detecting atoms and molecules in gas. Tried tweaking one of the multiplayer ones for a Sears Tele-Games Super-Pong IV console ‘cause it helps make finer adjustments for picking up heat signatures or cold spots--"

He rambled and the others hung on to his every word. Soldering the reconfigured wiring was no easy task, but--

Your vision went fuzzy around the edges, a spike of panic lancing through your stomach as the fog circling everyone crawled along the dirt, through the dark, alive. Tendrils coiled up Ray’s thigh and you blinked rapidly to dispel the hallucination.

Oh my god, oh-my-god, is this real? I’ve never been lucid like this before during an episode. Je-sus, Y/N, be rational, you spaz. It’s an actual ghost and-

You struggled to warn the others, paralyzed and powerless like a waking nightmare. Run! 

A faint figure formed in the mist, ethereal and evocative; a middle-aged woman in a Gilded Age gown staring at you, and you become fully cognizant that no one else can see her as she gets closer and closer. Suddenly you could hear her, slipping into the air, into your lungs, through your consciousness, an echo chamber of noise.

"Do not be frightened, I mean you no harm. I'm here as a warning, dear girl, and I must be brief.”

"Be not afraid," said the angel that was pure eldritch terror. Absolutely passed frightened and straight into pants-pissing hysterics, but that’s fine.

Ice ran through your veins, but you pushed on. You have to.

A warning? A warning about what? You concentrated, praying she heard you. “What is your name, ma’am?”

The apparition smiled sadly in acknowledgement, “My name is Veleda. At the turn of the 20th century a selfish, wicked man and his foolish sycophants attempted to knock on Hell’s Gate. They used myself and others like us to usher in an era of gods. His insidious plans have been unfolding long since after his death, beyond the veil, and–”

She was gone - vanished without a trace. The fog dissipated as swiftly as it came.

You collapsed like an unstrung marionette, dropping limply to the grass. 

The stars sparkled blindingly without light pollution above you, but the view was obscured by Ray as he pulled you between his legs, his chest a grounding presence at your back, frantically whispering, “breathe in 1-2-3, exhale 1-2-3.” Chrissy, Vicky and Tony joined in a circle around him, gasping as if they’ve overexerted themselves.

Wait, you’d stopped breathing? So you gulp in oxygen, heaving and clutching Ray’s knee. Breathe in 1-2-3, exhale 1-2-3.

“Y/N, we strongly believe you were under some sort of possession from a free floating entity,” Ray recited from Spate’s Catalog of Nameless Horrors for his own benefit so he wouldn’t unravel, hiding in the nape of your neck to block out the terrifying image of your limbs seizing in a rictus that he could only assume was painful.

Tony leaned back, heart rate gradually returning to normal, propped against Vicky whilst Chrissy lay half-sprawled in her lap. “Shit. Goddamn it,” he shakily wiped sweat from his brow. “This is what we wanted. What I wanted...To discover what goes bump in the night. To face my fears. But I…I thought...”

"It'd be like Laurel and Hardy's A Haunting We Will Go?" Vicky barked out a laugh, then groaning at the irony. "Not that we’d have to wrangle her to the ground and make sure she didn't swallow her tongue?"

Ray stopped matching your breaths once you could confidently resume on your own and said sincerely, “Hey, don't beat yourself up. We do this for for anyone that has ever been doubted and taken for granted in what they believe in, or what they’ve been through. We want them to know that we're ready to believe them. If it's too much, you tried. That's more than I can say about…a lot of people.”

At home you plead your case to Ray as he took your vitals, dad’s medical bag at his feet. You’re convinced that your parents will keep you apart if they found out about what you dubbed “Graveyardgate”. You'd been running around playing supernatural detective of your own volition and beating himself up wouldn't solve anything. 

Ray conceded, only because you agreed to research further into your situation together. And though you both barely fit in your full size bed you asked him to stay. 

He does.

Carolyn and Daniel Stantz don’t discourage your adventures owing Ray kept his promise. Your mother readily quizzed you both in the kitchen about the differences between gray aliens and little green men as she tasked you with chopping root vegetables for her great-grandmother’s neeps and tatties recipe. And your father may have been a small town doctor, but his medical zines were a proverbial kindle to the fire, fueling your fascination with the human body.

They nurtured Ray’s natural aptitude and excitement in whatever subject he applied himself to (math was another matter entirely - pairing mathematical problems to the correct formula was his kryptonite) from infancy, and in turn they made sure you received the same.

Unfortunately, a handful of cousins labeled him and you as the black sheep of the family. Aunt Lois, a matriarchal figure on the Stantz’s side, barred each person who brought such slander up in front of her from receiving her delicious Christmas korolevsky cake and she sent Ray a detailed account of the occult called Tobin’s Spirit Guide.

As the inevitable influx of college placement tests and applications begin to take Ray away from you in his last two years of high school you face the music head-on. You had mentally prepared yourself for him leaving the nest -  he was destined to do something great for humanity.

It was cruel to be greedy.   

During your sophomore year you started a book club with you as president, Tony as vice president, plus Vicky and Chrissy as treasurer and time keeper respectively. 

This is a temporary substitute for your paranormal escapades. “R & D” as Tony called it. Better to be safe than needing an exorcist.

Miss Scarlet, who was gracious enough to allow you the use of her English room, straddled her desk chair backwards at the first meeting and asked point blank if this was a coverup for a ghost and monster hunters club. 

Vicky shook out her curls, feigning aloofness, “I can neither confirm nor deny such an accusation Miss Scarlet.”

Miss Scarlet turned into a silent benefactor and sometimes provided great research material to show her support.

Eventually the club spiraled into a Ray Stantz fan club the second Vicky and Chrissy started to see boys as not just boys, or friends, but boy-friends. You and Tony (who firmly established himself as the "no socio-sexual contact or reactions" X on the Kinsey Scale) were glad that Ray was graduating. 

Attraction and hormones were a double-edged sword. 

However, you make the most of the girls’ adolescent infatuation by…well, pitting them against each other. 

For important behavior analyses, of course. 

Vicky and Chrissy cottoned on to your scheme and refused to speak to you or Tony for 48 hours. Hour 54 they approached you, swearing you to secrecy, and pursued other romantic prospects.

—

One day, during a gathering for your Aunt Lois’s birthday in her eclectic Victorian home, the same conservative and catholic side of your relatives who did not think highly of you reprimanded your parents for Ray’s wayward thinking and its influence on you over dinner. 

No one let you interject, holier-than-thou cousin Gav suggesting Ray join a seminary to answer life’s mysteries with the most reliable source mankind could ever need.

The Bible.

Oh great, goodbye Roman Catholicism, hello full-fledged 17th century Puritanical radicalism. They would’ve burned me at the stake.

Carl turned to his fiancée (a mousey, subservient woman named Mary-Lou he’d found who-knows-where - you curbed the urge to slip her a note asking if their engagement was a result of Stockholm syndrome - blink twice for no, scream for yes) and sneered that Ray hadn’t been disciplined enough, a mistake that would bite him in the ass.

Silence followed. 

Ray calmly laid his silverware down and advised if anyone had a problem with him they could hash this out some other time. Today was meant for celebrating Aunt Lois and everybody owed her, your parents and you an apology.

I cannot imagine how cathartic that felt. You had to bite your lip to keep from losing your shit at the collective wave of shame that went around the room, you and Aunt Lois sharing a look across the table whilst she sipped her merlot, hiding a coquettish grin.

Of course Carl had to get in the last word, baiting Ray on the sidewalk as you tried to go your separate ways afterwards. Your mom sighed, coming between her sons to keep the peace.

“You don’t give a flying fuck about me or anyone else! You’re all insane and you live in a house of horrors!” Carl roared. 

The moment he stepped forward and insinuated violence toward your mother an uncharacteristic surge of raw anger overcame you, consumed you, and you sent all six and a half feet, 230 pounds of Carl stumbling.

Your dad and Ray strongarmed Carl and Mary-Lou to the curb, hailing them a cab. Daniel Stantz stated in no uncertain terms that they were not welcome in his home until Carl checked himself into anger management or rehab, trembling from residual fear of finally standing up to his own flesh and blood.

Realistically, even if he was unsteady from drinking all evening, you should not be able to exert enough force to push him, adrenaline notwithstanding. 

Ray whispered your name, cupping your tear-stained cheeks as impotent rage was replaced with remorse. 

You wanted to love him. You wanted him to love you. Why was Carl such an asshole? Why was everyone against you?

Carl and Mary-Lou got into the taxi - Carolyn Stantz watched the car set off with profound sadness, heartbroken that she had failed her firstborn.

The family did what they could to erase the events of that evening and the toxicity that surrounded it.

However, to everyone’s astonishment, Ray did apply to the Union Theological Seminary alongside the Fu Foundation School of Engineering and Applied Science at Columbia University at the same time that he applied for MIT’s School of Engineering and the California Institute of Technology.

Of course he got into all of them and chose Columbia.

On the day Ray left for university, eyes bright like a G dwarf star and full of potential, he handed you his well worn copies of Phantasms of the Living and Tobin’s Spirit Guide - you nearly refused them, likening the gesture to him breaking off a piece of his incandescence.

Incidentally, his seminary studies were cut short. Ray rang home to tell you that even if he dropped out (you suspected the seminary asked him to leave) he had learned quite a lot and found a profound intersection between science, spiritualism and religion.

Your fingers tangled in the living room phone cord, disregarding how expensive the bill was going to be as you chatted to him until your body begged for sleep.

Yup, Raymond Francis Stantz was going to be extraordinary and you couldn’t wait.

_____

1978 April

It’s spring break of your senior year and as luck would have it Ray’s spring break is over. Vicky went on vacation to the Bahamas, Chrissy would be back from visiting her bună midweek and Tony went AWOL at a convention in Texas. You convinced your parents that Ray being a train ride away, and you being a responsible 17-year-old with a part-time job to purchase a ticket for said train ride, you should be allowed to pay him a surprise (unchaperoned) visit.

Daniel sighed at his desk, knowing you would not be denied, and ruffled your hair affectionately. You were smart, generally disliked most people, and would avoid strangers. There was no reason to worry.

So you threw a few favorite books into a messenger bag alongside your amateur star charts of Long Island and dad's pocket transistor, then walked to the Central Islip train stop. You boarded with your thoughts whirring and a soft soundtrack of rock playing, making the commute downtown fly by.

Arriving at Penn Station was akin to stepping into a macrocosm totally separate from the rest of New York - you had never been there by yourself outside of trips with your parents to see a couple of Broadway shows, Christmas tree lightings and museums, so your gaze bounced around in awe as you headed to the subway for the remaining leg of the journey, everyone a swarm of intensity like vibrating molecules. Once you get off at 116th St and head upstairs you are jostled so hard by a hasty business woman you start to fall, but keep your balance and recover, freezing when you spot the building in front of you.

Whoa, there it is. Columbia University, in all its Roman classical style glory. A possible peak into your future.

You crossed the street as ELO’s Mr. Blue Sky filtered out from your transistor, somehow not drowned out by the general din of the city. A crisp wind encourages you to hurry.

The steps to where Ray claimed to have a post-lecture smoke are mostly people-free, so you hunkered down for, per your watch, about 40 minutes. The time passed uneventfully as you got lost within The Haunting of Hill House.

“Y/N!” a cheerful, welcoming voice disturbed Eleanor Vance as she reminisced on childhood memories about encountering a poltergeist.

Ray had spotted you first, elated at your unexpected presence, leaving the lecture hall with someone matching his stride. An unlit cigarette is tucked back behind his ear.

You scrambled up to throw your arms around him, melting into his powerful embrace and the smoky scent that permeated his leather jacket. You could finally, properly breathe again and you whispered, “Surprise, Sunshine.”

His smile widened as he pulled away to introduce you to his friend Peter Venkman, a psychology major.

“Sunshine, what a cute nickname,” Peter teased, hazel eyes sparkling with simultaneous blackmail fueled glee and a hint of genuine amusement, then he snapped his fingers, “Because he’s Ray! A ray of sunshine!”

Peter is the type of guy who perpetually exudes an aura of “butter wouldn't melt in his mouth”, which you find out quite early on is true, only because butter wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere near it.

There’s no reason to feel embarrassed about the endearment you’ve used for Ray since you were a kid, and your brother isn’t flustered by Peter’s remark as he explained the meaning of it in correlation to your passion for astrophysics.

You still feel your cheeks flush all the same.

Peter is relatively harmless and his teasing is unlike the sort of mocking or disingenuousness you faced in the past. But your skin still feels too tight and you’re unsure how you should handle this sort of attention. 

Romance wasn’t a complete stranger to you outside of stories, but unlike Vicky and Chrissy, you had turned down admirers throughout high school (excluding a platonic date with Tony to senior prom). Thus, engaging with professional lotharios like Peter was definitely out of your wheelhouse. In a moment of panic you compare the situation to being in a debate and try to match his energy in hopes that it’ll throw him off.

“Tell me Venkman, do you want to major in psychology to have a better grasp of the conscious and unconscious phenomena, or are you going tens of thousands of dollars into debt so you can be the one to answer Freud’s most pertinent question: ‘what do women want’?”

Ray’s brows shot into his hairline as he glanced at the other young man.

Peter's posture relaxed, hands shoved further into his jean pockets and lips turned up in a satisfied expression. How was it you got the inkling that you’d passed some sort of test and now he seemed handsome without the roguish façade?

“Thank God, I was dreading you being Francis's mini me. She’s got moxie.”

Ugh. Moxie? Are you Al Capone? Referring to you in the third person made you scoff in disdain, and then annoyance, “I refuse to believe you call him Francis like I call him Sunshine.”

“To be fair I also call him Francine. Gotta switch it up a bit, lest the honeymoon phase of our budding relationship grow stale.”

The honest confusion that puckered Ray’s lips as he lit his previously abandoned cigarette was comical. The soft utterance of, “we’re in a relationship?” that succeeded it was legendary. 

—

1978 September

If your relatives were the betting type they would have put money down on your following in Ray’s footsteps - and they would've been half right, as you were accepted into Columbia University's brand new computer science undergraduate course with the intention to pursue a masters in journalism. 

You are assigned to the ancient dormitories of Furnald Hall on the 10th floor. It’s a double suite and your roommate’s name is Azucena Olvera. 

On move-in day your dad insisted on dragging your sparse luggage filled with hand-me-down clothes and texts into the shoebox-sized space, ignoring your protests. Your mom ladened you with homemade sweets. 

They can’t stay long as traffic will be abysmal getting back and your mother is forced to drag your father out before you have more vitamin supplements to your name than sense. 

It turned out your roommate was there. Her bedroom door is open and you find her black-clad form curled up on a twin sized bed, buried in a novel you'd learned about a year or so ago called Interview with a Vampire. After introducing yourself you inquired about the premise, to which she regarded you blankly for a beat, mumbling it was pretty self-explanatory by the title.

Undeterred by her sarcasm you admit to being fascinated by the concept of some no name reporter taking a chance on such a strange tip, offering to lend her Carmilla as a trade when she was done. Azucena smirked as you started to unpack, initiating light conversation about how general classes will go, somehow segueing to the West Virginia Mothman, telling her about your friends back home and where they’ve gone to study or work.

You looked down at your watch - 7:46PM. Ray called before mom and dad dropped you off, saying he was touching base with a professor and would meet you in front of the dorms to treat you to "the best Chinese on the northeast coast" at 7:30PM. You tossed on a windbreaker, snagged An Elementary Treatise on the Differential and Integral Calculus, mom’s snacks, nearly forgot your keys (priorities), bounded down a set of precarious stairs and burst outside in record time. 

Ray just about spit his cigarette out at your grand entrance (or exit, really), coughing and chuckling. "Did you think we were gonna leave without you?"

You beamed at him, noticing that Peter was there and not out with his flavor of the week. 

This goofball. He'd be so smug if he knew how much he'd grown on you. 

Peter winked your way. "You're the lady of the hour, kid, and we would've just sent Spengs here to fetch ya. He's all about the history of some sketchy secret tunnels in the basement of this place. Which are dime a dozen in the city, but what do I know? I’m just a pretty face."

The aforementioned "Spengs” was what some may describe as an elongated version of Poindexter from Felix the Cat; the epitome of an academic or caricature of a genius scientist. Tall, lean, sensibly dressed, his eyes obscured by a nearby street light reflecting off his glasses. You easily imagined him in a pristine white lab coat, holding a beaker overflowing with some dubious concoction.

But as he approached you, posture stiff and hand outstretched to perform the globally widespread greeting of introducing oneself via handshake, his attention shifted downwards. 

More specifically, to your jacket pocket, where An Elementary Treatise on the Differential and Integral Calculus poked out. 

He remembered himself, large hand engulfing yours, fingers warm, chemical rough, but a nice weight as his severe mouth softened and the streetlights finally allowed you a glimpse of umber irises with a bilateral hint of evergreen.

"Dr. Egon Spengler. A pleasure. If you do not mind, after we’ve eaten, I would appreciate hearing your opinion on Babbage's calculations. Are you familiar with Ada Lovelace?"

An effervescent sensation spread from your stomach to your throat, and you know logically that you're not actually turning into bubbling liquid, but your brain has trebuchet logic into a blackhole. The pitch of his voice is so low you wondered if he’s ever used an oscilloscope to measure the Hertz.

You couldn’t help but stare, and it's your turn to remember yourself. The moment lasted a span of minutes, but seemed so much longer, stretched into decades as you replied, star-struck, “Y/N Stantz. The pleasure is all mine. But uh, yes, Ada Lovelace translated parts of Luigi Menabrea’s work on the Analytical Engine and collaborated with Charles Babbage. I apologize, Sun-” you caught Peter and Ray observing the entire interaction with varying degrees of curiosity, “Raymond said he’d met someone else he deeply admired in his field of study, but you’re–prodigious to already have a PhD or a doctorate of some kind. You can’t be much older than us.”

Peter took that as his cue to insert himself back into the conversation, pulling you into a one-armed hug, “Ah yes, our very own savant. Met him in a women and gender studies class he signed up for by mistake ’cause Dr. Spengler left us plebs in the dust testing out of every core curriculum and taking his ‘accelerated sequences’. Degrees are old hat to this guy. Also, kid, did you know they started a new parapsychology program this semester as well?”

No, you didn’t, but you’re pretty sure the question was rhetorical.

“Introducing a parapsychology class is a golden opportunity to capitalize on a niche as hell field. Imagine the funding for graduate research, the accolades. Naturally I thought, ‘I’ll introduce my favorite eggheads to one another so a: my ears stop bleeding, and b: they’ll go feral at the chance of getting in on this, too.’ Bless their nerdy lil’ hearts, they’ve been attached at the hip, to my everlasting regret.”

“That’s only because together we’re on our way to convincing you that the existence of manifestations and apparitions is scientifically viable–” Ray remarked in a sing-song lilt, coming around to your other side.

You snort, well acquainted with the fact that if your brother found anyone that showed a modicum of inquisitiveness in not only anything involving engineering, biology, physics, chemistry, etc, if they ever had a passing thought about the Fermi Paradox, the Arrow of Time, the location of the Ark of the Covenant or how the Nazca Lines were formed, he was in their life like an Alabama tick. 

Peter showed genuine interest in psychological phenomena, but his hard stop was Casper the friendly phantom. 

Egon headed down 115th St toward this infamous Chinese restaurant Ray recommended, and as the other two men continued to banter he glanced over his shoulder at you.

What the hell happened? Had he experienced the same subtle full-body shiver as you touched? The same sort of pins and needles caused by the compression of nerves, or static generated when cathode ray tubes bathed the inside of a TV with electrons, triggering the front glass to fluoresce and emit an electrical charge?

Out of your peripheral you noticed him flexing the hand you just shook.

You’d accidentally (other times purposefully) shocked plenty of inanimate objects and people, but–

“Ray, you gotta convince Y/N to let me do a full interview about Graveyardgate. She would be the best person to start as a control variable for–”

“Vex-man, I told you that in confidence,” you chastised Peter, introspection put on the backburner. Vex-man was a derogatory moniker you only used when he crossed a line. 

Peter squirmed away, ensuring he was no longer within punching distance.

Too late, you groaned internally as Egon fell back to take Peter’s place, his laser focus once again on you.

Despite not enjoying having to discuss it, and despite having just met Egon...these guys might be the best people to talk to about it.

My first day on campus and we’re dabbling in unauthorized behavioral experiments. You turned around and started to walk backwards, gesturing wildly and hamming it up, “Well doc, it was summer of ‘76–”

Peter clucked his tongue at you in mock exasperation for your brattish snark that he was solely responsible for. 

Ray rolled his eyes, but internally he was happy you were ready to exorcise a figurative demon - a part of him hated remembering too, even if it had solidified his motivation and purpose to keep doing what he was doing, skeptics and critics be damned.

And Egon.

Egon deadpanned, “I know where Venkman lives. And I work as a coroner part-time.”

“Alright H. H. Holmes, we’re gonna need to unpack that before I end up as a statistic.”

You tripped on uneven concrete, cackling.

[tonguetiedraven]

"How are you doing?" She asks with a smile, and I know what she wants to hear. It's what they always want to hear.

How am I doing?

I was six years old the first time I truly wished I was different. I can remember it perfectly clearly; sitting next to you because it was the only seat left, hearing your 'whispered' comments about 'fat and ugly' and being too young to really understand the why. You probably don't even remember my face, but I will never forget yours or those whispered words. I was six when those words became part of my daily ritual, and I was six when I learned to hate myself. I was six when I became physically ill at the thought of returning. (My sister was four when she told them: she's sick 'cause she's scared. How did she see what they couldn't?

What they wouldn't.)

I was eight when I tried to lose myself in books, and found some solace in the friendships I could find in those. (The ones I could never find in life.) They further ostracized me, but at least they never left simply because I was there. They didn't move tables or leave snide remarks when I was forced near them. If there were harsh words in their pages, I could ink them out.

I was ten when we moved, hoping for a better future and a bright light, we didn't find it. (You can't when you take the problem with you. When the problem is so deeply rooted in everything and the abuse doesn't stay in the old house.)

I was twelve when I tried to change. When I tried to play the part and fell further into the hate. I could never giggle at the right time or smile in the right way. I was twelve when they told me to try harder and maybe it would make a difference. Maybe the 'freaks' in my books wouldn't be my only friends.

I was thirteen when I stopped. Thirteen when I looked in the mirror and decided the face staring back would never be any of those things and neither would I, and I would not care. (I did.) I was thirteen when I read the words for the first time, and I understood that the heaviness in my limbs and the numbness in my mind wasn't a lack of strength. That fighting that weight everyday was strength, and the struggle was one I would always have. (I was thirteen when I lost myself in more books, desperate to read the heroes fall and rise again. Could I?)

I was sixteen when they told me I'd never be wanted. (I was sixteen when I believed them.)

I was nineteen when I got out. Nineteen when I swore I would never go back. (I was twenty-three before I made it stick.)

I was twenty-six the first time someone called me pretty, and they did it with an asterisk. ("I think you're pretty--" Do you know how you made my heart soar in that moment? Did you mean to crush me in the next? "--in your own way. Pretty where it counts.")

I've grown past that little girl staring at the floor and trying not to listen to the words. But they've never left my head. Some days they're too loud to placate so I try to write them out, but they multiple faster than I can type them out, and my messy scrawls just look like scratches that aren't deep enough to reach the source. Those days are long and I'm losing the battle, and I'm not sure I'll rise again like the heroes I admire.

But it's easier to pretend. Easier to smile and nod. (I'm far better at playing the parts now. Far better at hiding the pain.) Easier to pretend the bad days don't happen and that it's all as collected as it seems. Easier to pretend the pain isn't there, and never was.

"How are you doing?" She asks with a smile, and I know what she wants to hear. What they always want to hear.

So I smile in response and say "I'm fine, how about you?"

[cienie-isengardu]

Erron Black. Arguably a character I don't know much about. Is Erron Black feminist, sexist, or just soft on girls? Now I know MK everyone can fight everyone, but in story mode...

In MK10 Milenna impale his hand with a knife, but he doesn't fight her. I'll except injury for that one.

But then with Cassie Cage later, he fights her, only after she engages him, but once he knocks her down he stops fighting her to fight Kung Jin in the market.

Later on the bridge fight, we do see him fighting Jacqui Briggs, in the background, but she charged him, so she initiated it, and when they focus in he is fighting Kung Jun again.

In MK11, when young Erron Black goes after Jade and Kotal, he let's Jade leave without so much as a glance.

In the Black Dragon fight pit, even though she is right next to him, he ignores Sonya Blade until she actually attacked him. He doesn't even point the other gun at her, he points it up and looks away, until she punches him.

The only time it looks like he initiated a attack on a woman was when Sheeva got shot in her shoulder armor (and shrugged it off), but we immediately see him chasing down Nightwolf, so that looks like a accident. And they only fight after she punches him across the room.

And in the comic's when he kidnapped Cassie and Jacqui he defended them against Kano, telling him not to hurt them, and when he realized they were in serious danger, tried to free them and help escape.

Unless I'm missing something, well he doesn't avoid it, he doesn't fight initiate fights with women.

Before I will talk at length about Erron Black and his attitude toward women I wish only to emphasize this is my subjective opinion and there is no need to agree with me on this. Because no matter how much source material will be brought into discussion, there are many ways to interpret his mindset, especially since A) what Erron says is not always compatible with what he is doing and B) the specific game mechanics that limit and/or adapt his “personality” to the needs of the storyline.

Long text ahead!

Mortal Kombat X’s stated Erron Black was hired by Shang Tsung 150 years ago. So he was born and raised at least the previous century and half, thus his approach to women may be old-fashioned but I wouldn’t say he was somehow deeply concerned per se about gender to begin with. Yes, the mentioned examples suggest otherwise but their context is as important as Erron’s action alone. Because the context of the game will not always work well with in-universe logic. I’m talking here stricte about game mechanics that are built around chapter’s main hero that must win against the opponents and in the mentioned examples Erron was sadly just an obstacle to beat down so it is not like he could headshot Mileena, Sonya or Sheeva or any woman and be done with the problem despite how marksmanship is his forte. Also, the game mechanic in MKX kinda made me joke that Erron shouldn’t be left on his own for too long because his competence in those chapters seemed that bad (from Outworld’s main cast only D’Vorah looked to me as a competent character and she was a traitor, that says a lot about Kotal’s team doesn it?). Anyway, on the basis of the specific nature of the game alone I wouldn’t go so far to judge Erron’s mindset, especially since he was a background/supportive character in MKX and MK11 story modes. So far, Black didn’t have his own chapter - thus the story isn’t told from his POV.

To be honest, games and comics present Erron in different lights, thus his approach to women may vary from one source to another. Because of that let’s firstly look at the sources separately.

In MKX, on Kotal’s voiceless order, Black was going to kill Rain. Mileena attacked Erron by surprise before he could shoot down the rebel but it was Kotal’s chapter so the emperor was the one that dealt with her. Erron was part of the background during chapter 2 without any impact on the story.

Then we have chapter 4 about Kung Jin.

When Cage Team met Erron Black for the first time, the man demanded to know what is Special Forces’ business here including “a reason why we shouldn’t kill you”. Despite the not so friendly welcome, Erron was willing to address Takeda’s remark (“I can read you… You’re not from Outworld.”) and did not resort to violence once Cassie’s explanation did not satisfy him. Looking at the uncertain situation of Outworld, Erron’s lack of trust is understable - Kotal was still at war with Mileena thus in constant danger. Of course, it is up to interpretation, did Erron listen to Jin solely because the prospect of money spoke to him so much or there is some bias (thus the cynical remark about Raiden’s seal and dismissive attitude) against Cassie, the woman in charge. I personally tend to think Erron was simply cautious because the last Earthrealm that got close to Kotal tried to kill the emperor. And yeah, Kano is nothing like Cassie, Jacqui, Takeda or Jin but there was no way for Black to know that for sure, especially since Outworld and Earthrealm weren’t really at the best terms at that time and Raiden’s name did not foreshadow anything good.

The next sequences may be interpreted as Erron being soft on women but I’m gonna present here different possibilities:

Once Jin went ahead to disrupt the execution, Erron’s first reaction was to shoot him yet Black took aim instead of shooting blindly without care for the crowd (or at least the slow down of his action is how it looked to me). Because he was focused on Jin - the main culprit whose action caused unwanted riot, Cassie easily stopped the attack. Should Erron be more focused on the female soldier at his side? Most likely, but all of this happened in mere seconds so I can understand why stopping Jin acting on his own accord was priority to the mercenary since it was related to his job and he was the one that agreed to take Earthrealmians to Kotal. Which may be the reason why Black just knocked down Cassie and immediately ran after Jin. And mind you, Erron knocked down Cassie by hitting her on the head with the butt of the pistol, which is not a gentle way by no means.

The chapter 6 is focused on Takeda and partially on Cage Team’s run from captivity. The Earthrealmians were important hostages, even if falsely accused of working with D’Vorah. So it makes sense that “Outworld Champions” weren’t trying to kill them. Otherwise Kung Jin would be shot down for good yet Erron kept him just at gunpoint. Once again, the game mechanics don’t make much sense considering how Jin stayed behind as air support but somehow ended up on the bridge while Jacqui disappeared somewhere in the background. Also, the same as with Cassie in Chapter 4, Erron did not kill defeated opponents nor tortured / injured for fun (Rain is a different matter because Erron went for killing only after Kotal’s voiceless order to finish the traitor).

In Chapter 11, Erron is even more degraded into a support role and he did not attack nor take part of the skirmish in the forest until Jacqui beat down Kotal. Personally I suspect he could be (in universe) too injured for hand to hand combat but once Team Cage was surrounded and Kotal gave the order for execution, Erron was aiming at Jacqui and if Sub-Zero did not show up, Black most likely would shoot to kill.

(Also, he did not shoot any enemy from a distance, so the women and men were treated the same although if this is a matter of game mechanics or Erron’s own moral code, hard to tell. Black recognized himself more as Outworlder than anything else so he may actually follow the common there idea of one on one fight.)

So, MKX story mode alone does not tell us much about Erron’s mindset about women because he has never been the one starting fights in the first place. This kinda makes sense since he is a mercenary and kills or injures only those who Kotal wishes to see dead or punished. Besides that he didn’t injure / kill Cassie when he had a chance but he didn't do so with Jin either. MKX!Erron gives the impression of a collected, detached type of person who is far from macho stereotypes or psychopath/sociopath like Kano.

Thankfully there is additional information like dialogue intros and Erron’s ending (from what we learned about Erron's approximate age) that aren’t canon per se but at least give some insight into his psyche.

The best counter argument for eventual Black’s habit of going easy on women is his own ending in which he ambushed and killed Cassie, Jacqui, Takeda and Jin (this situation was repeated in Briggs’ ending except this time Cage Team was saved by Jax). This is a rare moment in which Erron was the attacker and on his own initiated the violence toward others. In this case, he attacked women and men alike.

Then we have intro dialogues in which Erron usually deals with people in a professional manner, some even sometimes addressing in a polite way. Like “Mr. Kung” to Lao, “Mr. Hasashi” to Scorpion and “Mr. Takahashi” to Takeda. Surprisingly, he addresses Cassie and Sonya by their military rank (Sergeant Cage and General Blade respectively) which suggests that whatever Erron learned a century or two ago about gender-related social norms most likely evolved accordingly to his own life experiences, especially those gained in Outworld.

At the same time, it seems some of outfashioned - harmful - convictions are still enough deeply rooted in him to say stuff like that:

Kenshi: The friendless wanderer.

Erron Black: Least I don't take orders from a woman.

Kenshi: Which century are you from?

Which is kinda ironic since Kenshi takes orders from Sonya whom Erron addresses by high military rank without any snide comment about a woman in the army. But as far as I managed to check the intros, this is the only(?) one outright sexist thing Erron said to anyone and surprisingly, he didn’t say that to any woman, just to Kenshi. Frankly, if the idea of taking orders from women was so offensive, why would Erron bother to call Mileena the Crownless Queen or Kitana the Fallen Princess, if both titles by itself imply facing women that are used to give commands or even hire people like him? Once again, there is little to no sexist attitude toward women in context of their power over other men. Which suggests that whatever prejudices Black may have, he does not allow them to affect his interaction with other characters. Usually, at least.

Okay, the insult toward Kenshi could be some of Erron’s deep-seated sexist beliefs adding to the reason why he didn’t support Mileena in the fight for the throne. Yet, at the same time, if that was the case, he could outright say he doesn’t agree to be bossed by a woman to her (or he could be accused of that by her or any character really). Of course, it could be something similar to Black’s claim to care only about money with MK11 strongly hints he is saying one thing and doing differently but I will come back to this topic in a moment.

Another argument against this insult: Erron was one of the characters that did not mock Mileena’s look, origin or called her crazy. If he really thought listening to women's orders was so bad, then he didn’t show that when interacting with her or other female characters.

At the same time, like many other male characters, Black is not immune to the beauty of women around him and some of his comments sounds disrespectful and are unwelcome by the ladies:

Sonya: The gunslinger.

Erron Black: I could take you away from all this.

Sonya: I must be a jerk-magnet.

→ Sonya is not amused by Erron’s words at all.

Erron Black: Hello, beautiful.

Jacqui: Messin' with the wrong girl.

Erron Black: But it feels so right.

Jacqui is like the only one woman described by MKX!Erron as the beautiful one, the other he usually referred to along the lines of hot / sexy. Yet once Jacqui outright warned him to not mess with her, Erron deliberately ignored her because it amuse him. Whatever it is a sign of an old-fashioned mindset (a remnant of the times he grew up) or just simply (male’s) egoism on his part, Erron likes to flirt with women but he does not always respect their opinion or wish to be left alone.

At the same time, Erron rarely tried to change women’s minds about him or their eventual relationship. So far, only the intro dialogue with Kitana seems to be the exception:

Kitana: Stop!

Erron Black: We've barely begun, my lovely.

Kitana: It will end quickly.

Black may put his own amusement above other people's personal comfort, yes, but didn’t act creepy like Kano did, especially toward Blade-Briggs-Cage family as a whole.

So we have this

Jacqui: I really don't like you.

Erron Black: I really don't care.

Jacqui: As long as we're straight on that.

in which Erron doesn’t care for Jacqui’s dislike of his person but doesn’t impose himself on her. He does not resort to the common rapist “excuse” that woman says no but her body says otherwise, like Kano did (“Your mouth says Kano, but your eyes say Kan-yes.”) and this contrast puts Black in a more positive light. Similar thing happened in the intro dialogue toward Tanya.

Erron Black: My friend, Tanya.

Tanya: We are not friends, bounty hunter.

Erron Black: Have it your way...

Again, whether trying to be friendly or ironic, once Erron was “turned down”, he simply accepted the situation without any additional crude remarks.

Interestingly, interaction with Sonya showed that Black was capable of rethinking his statement about hot/sexy women:

Erron Black: Girls with guns? Always hot.

Sonya: I'll shove 'em up your ass and fire.

Erron Black: Almost always hot.

Those examples suggest Erron may treat women differently, depending on their “fighting experiences”, age and origin and maybe even how sexually / aesthetically appealing they are to him. For example, veteran Sonya’s threat was taken seriously while (novice / new generation) Jacqui’s warning was ignored. At the same time, the intro dialogues didn’t hint at any romantic or sexual interest in Ferra (a young female symbiote) nor D’Vorah (Kytinn) and relatively good looking Mileena who deserves a separate paragraph.

To be honest, Erron, Johnny and Kano are like the main three men openly showing their (sexual?) interest in women around them. Understable, Black’s flirting / comments rarely were appreciated yet he still was less creepy or aggressive towards others than Kano. Erron didn’t bother to hide his eventual (sexual) interest in beautiful women but it can’t be said A) he had no control over his sexual drive and B) has rapist / sexual predator tendencies.

Another interesting thing: with few exceptions like Kano or Quan Chi, Erron threatened people with violence usually after they offended him and most of the time maintained professional neutrality toward his rivals. In that regard, Erron treated other characters the same regardless of their gender.

This is something worth keeping in mind how Black, as mercenary, in general is not the initiator of violence. Unless someone will pay him. For money, Erron would attack (kill) anyone, including women (to Tanya, “The Kahn wants your head.” + Erron’s Epilogue).

The last detail to talk about: one of the intro dialogue with Cassie suggests Erron thought she was an easy opponent.

Cassie: Is something funny?

Erron Black: I'll win this easy.

Cassie: You're going down hard.

but to be fair, he thought the same about Sub-Zero

Erron Black: You're an easy target.

Sub-Zero: As are you.

Erron Black: Bullets beat snowballs any day.

so I wouldn’t say it was the bias toward Cassie because of her gender and just Erron’s own arrogance (and maybe lack of good judgement on his part).

In summary, MKX!Erron in game alone tends to act in a professional manner. He had an occasion to shoot defeated opponents but did not seize the opportunity against not only Cassie but Jin as well. During the storyline he was rather collected, emotionless. In intro dialogues he openly expresses his interest in tough, relatively attractive women yet the banter is far from the creeping tone of Kano’s interaction with female characters.

Then we have Mortal Kombat 11 in which past and future timelines are messed up. Sadly, Erron’s characterization departs from the neutral-polite one seen in the previous game. Of course, this could be blamed on the younger version of Erron, but frankly, twenty years for someone living at least for a century and half shouldn’t make that big difference in behaviour and well, MK11 outright claims Erron is prone to violence for violence’s sake instead of just money. Which is one of many plot-holes and divergences between both games I guess.

Anyway, Erron, again, was the background character to beat down, so it is worth remembering that he couldn’t permanently hurt or kill anyone from the main cast. In chapter 2 he let Jade get away when he was facing Kotal and frankly, there is little explanation for that in-universe wise. I personally suspect it may be related to Erron’s own sense of honor, as in respecting one on one fight without cheap moves like shooting someone’s beloved person. Not practical in the mercenary job but it is possible for someone born and raised around two centuries ago. Also, Shao Kahn’s anger was focused mainly on killing Kotal for taking the throne. Because of that Erron could be not interested in Jade who simply did not have any significant political matter at that time. Sadly, it is really hard to say for sure what was on his mind.

In chapter 6, past!Erron stormed the Special Forces Base alongside Black Dragon members. There were women in that group but sadly, Black did not interact with anyone beside Johnny Cage. We can at least assume, Black did not mind fighting side by side with women.

Similary, present!Erron in chapter 7 showed up in the background during the alliance attack on Coliseum. The attack was led by Kitana (albeit did Erron join her to save Kotal out of loyalty or for money, it was not explained) and there were female fighters in the group. It seems then Erron does not mind fighting side to side with women.

During the pit fight (chapter 8), past!Erron faced the past!Sonya and the past!Johnny. Frankly, the same as in the previous chapter, game mechanics make little sense because there was no real reason for Erron to open the ring and face the characters when he could simply shoot down both from a safe distance. This really undermines the whole point of Black being a gunslinger, isn’t it?

Anyway, Cage took the forward position (which I think is both because despite his injuries he tried to shield Sonya AND because he actually met Erron during an attack on a Special Forces’ base) and got shot in the arm. After a short skirmish, Erron knocked down Johnny and aimed to kill the injured man.

The most logical thing for Erron in this situation would be to shoot down Sonya first and then finish already beaten down and exhausted Johnny. In defense of the Black though it is worth emphasizing that he didn’t completely ignore Blade nor turned away from her.

Most likely the weird slow-down action of aiming at Johnny was a moment of distraction that Sonya simply used to attack. Similar to MKX, game mechanics do not allow Black to headshot the main heroes, even though, in-universe, he should do just that and be done with the job. There is also a possibility that past and present Kano still wanted to keep Sonya alive for their own amusment (torture and sadly most likely rape) what could explain why Erron didn’t shot her from safe distance. I mean, the game alone did not voice what Kanos really ordered Erron to do.

I know that MK games like to slow down action for dramatic effects, but I strongly believe it was actually a matter of a few seconds of distraction (Erron looking aside to shoot Johnny and aiming) that Sonya took advantage of rather Black ignoring her on purpose. Even more since Black did not hesitate to shoot at her and seemed to enjoy facing “the legendary” Sonya Blade.

The same as MKX, Mortal Kombat 11 does not explain Black’s mindset. He does not shoot Jade or Sonya when he has a chance but he does not make any rude remarks toward women in general. However the intro dialogues shed a light on the complicated relationship that Erron has with women.

From what we learn about Erron, his childhood was far from normal or safe. We don’t know details, but what he shared with Cetrion and Cassie strongly suggest that Erron’s both parents were abusive people:

Cetrion: You shot your own father, Erron Black.

Erron: Sonofabitch had it coming.

Cetrion: Honor thy parents, mortal!

or

Erron: My Ma would’ve loved you, Cassie Cage.

Cassie: Aw, sounds like you miss her bunches.

Erron: I hated Ma.

or

Erron: I grew up around tough women.

Cassie: Didn’t they teach you respect?

Erron: They taught me to hit back.

The last statement suggests young Erron was abused by women (most likely including his own mother) to the point he is now willing to hit back anyone regardless of their gender without remorse. Erron himself says “I ain't above shootin' a lady” (intro dialogue vs. Sonya).

Beside that, an abusive mother alone could influence Black’s approach to women - and most likely she did, since he admitted to hate her. Surprisingly, Erron uses the past tense (“I hated Ma”) so there is a chance he gained distance over time in that matter. It also seems like whatever he feels about mother usually doesn't affect his relationship with other female characters. For example, in the mentioned banter he did not insult Cassie for reminding him about the abusive parent. Despite the bad childhood intro dialogues hint Black actually likes dangerous women.

Erron Black: I stepped out with Nitara before you.

Skarlet: You clearly have a type, Erron.

Erron Black: Just like living dangerously.

Like in the previous game, Erron openly shows his (sexual) interest in various women. The interesting change however is how:

His interest extends now to more alien-looking female characters like Nitara or Sheeva. Surprisingly, Mileena’s advances are still rejected. Also, Erron has like zero respect for the goddess Cetrion but to be honest, he does not respect any god.

Erron is more disrespecting by using nicknames like Legs or Baby Doll for Sonya or Sugar for Cassie. Of course, it may be just the “charm” of younger Black - hard to tell in most cases which version is speaking - but it creates an overall feeling of ironic, at times irritating or insulting approach to female fighters. At the same time, there are women that Erron refers to in a rather consistently respectful manner - Jacqui (Miss Briggs, Little Lady), Jade (ma’am, missy), Kitana (Princess, Kahn).

Before I will focus on the complex situation with Mileena, I need to talk about Erron’s important trait: he often says one thing but does the opposite. This is especially noticeable in intro dialogues concerning money and loyalty. Both games agree the main motivation for Black is a good payment, albeit MK11 highline also the thrill of danger. Anyway, Erron admitted he is willing to betray Kotal, a current employer, if someone offered a better deal (“Until a better offer comes along.”, “There's always a better offer, Kotal”). This strengthens the impression Black cares only about himself yet he rejects all propositions coming from Kotal’s enemies such as Shao Kahn, Rain or Mileena, Quan Chi, Shinnok and Kano/Black Dragons. At the same, he is willing to work with/ for Kitana who happens to be the best friend of Jade, Kotal’s beloved. Which makes Erron still operate in a group wishing no harm to the ex-emperor.

I’m bringing this into discussion because there is strong possibility that under the tough guy act, Erron still follows some “old-fashioned” sense of morality and is decent enough to not attack or harm women (and in my opinion, people in general) unless A) it is part of the job or B) is self-defense. Which could explain why he let Jade walk away or why he didn’t shoot Sonya from a safe distance but faced her in hand to hand combat. Depending how long he lived in Outworld, he could simply adapt into local customs - the people of Outworld are a combat-focused society and because of that have a strong sense of honor code. Erron’s eventual softness toward female fighters would get him in serious problems and I doubt he could afford such weakness when serving Shang Tsung or Shao Kahn.

So, why did Erron not want to serve Mileena, the designated successor? As the Empress, she was in position to offer the best (materially wise at least) deal after all.

In MKX!banter Erron claims Kotal paid him better:

Mileena: You aided the usurper.

Erron Black: He offered more coins.

Mileena: ...and no protection.

Meanwhile, MK11!Black outright says it was not a matter of money but of Mileena’s behaviour. Considering how prone to violence she was, it is no wonder why Erron decided to work for someone else.

Erron Black: Now what's got you all rip-snorting mad?

Mileena: When I gained the throne, you abandoned it.

Erron Black: Wasn't no pay worth dealing with your crazy.

This brings me back to the MKX’s banter suggesting Erron may dislike being bossed by women. Considering the implication he is currently negotiating a proper deal with Kitana Kahn (“New Kahn, same deal?”), the problem is more complex than judging someone by gender alone. I mean, Erron worked for Shao Kahn who himself was a cruel tyrant so sadism shouldn't be anything new for Black, right? Except, he was hired by Shang Tsung and because of that I think it is highly possible Erron had just indirect contact with the Emperor. Thus Erron could be not ready for Mileena’s unstable nature(?) and cruelty.

I mean - Erron comes from a pathological family and grew up around tough women. In his opinion Cassie has some traits or behaves in a way for which his mother would’ve liked the girl. So there are certain things that Black connects to hated mother. Now, Cassie is more of an extrovert type of person, showy and with sharp ripostes but she is one of the good guys and cruelty for fun is not her thing. So, if someone like Cassie can somehow make him think of a hated parent (that most likely is dead for decades now), how much Mileena could trigger Erron in the wrong way? To the point he chooses his mental health over money and/or thrill of danger?

If this is true, we may further wonder if bad experiences with tough women in childhood are the reason why despite flirtatious nature, Erron’s interest in female fighters usually is strictly sexual attraction? Because it really looks like he does not try to emotionally connect with women. Even his “thing” with Skarlet seems to be more a matter of thrill than a serious relationship, considering how Erron was okay with her eventual death.

(The possibility of Erron being freaked out by Mileena also rises an interesting question about her mental state between MK9 and MKX)

This is why I think Erron did not have a problem with working for women as long as they did not remind him too much of past abuse. And this is pretty nice implication, considering how tough guy Erron is for most of the time.

Because of that, Kotal questioning if Erron is jealous of Jade could be read in different way too:

Erron Black: So, you and Jade, huh?

Kotal Kahn: Jealous, Erron Black?

Erron Black: She's quite the looker, Kotal.

And yeah, Erron brings this to the matter of appearance alone, but hopeful as I proved earlier, Erron sometimes says one thing but does (thinks) something totally different. Because of that I suspect he may not be really jealous of Kotal for having a sexy lady but actually of the relationship itself. You know, build on respect and love than just build on sexual drive.

Like I said before, the game cutscenes and character banters may be interpreted in many ways but for me MK11!Erron Black - at least the older version - seems to mask his trauma and/or complex nature of his relationship with women under the act of tough guys. At the same time, there is a high possibility he still follows an out-fashioned sense of honor and though he is not above shooting women, he does not attack them unless it is demanded. Though to be fair, in my opinion this is how he approaches everyone. A mercenary’s mindset that distinguishes him from the likes of Kano.

In Mortal Kombat 11: Aftermatch, Erron met Sheeva, when the Shokan Queen in the company of Fujin, Nightwolf and Shang Tsung carried a coffin to the Soul Chamber. Black and Baraka decided to confront the Shokan woman and it quickly turned into a fight (and the typical game mechanics).

There is a question though - did Erron really take Kitana's offer or did he stay with Kotal? Because it’s really suspicious that he happened in the place where defenless, injured Kotal was in the healing process. Anyway, whatever the case, Black directly or indirectly worked for the new Kahn so it is highly possible his actions were dictated by Kitana’s best interest rather than his liking or disliking anyone.

Let’s just look at the situation - Kitana is the empress but she promised to treat her allies as her equals. That means Sheeva, as well respected Shokan Queen, plays an important role in the new regime - killing her or permanently injuring was out question, otherwise Shokan people could rebel against Kitana and in result the freshly established peace would go straight to hell.

In my opinion, this is why Erron asked Sheeva’s group to go with them quietly so the situation could be explained to Kitana without unnecessary violence. Black actually was okay with Sheeva go to Soul Chamber as long as Shang Tsung (Shao Kahn’s sorcerer) and the suspicious coffin was returned to him. Thanks to Shang Tsung, one of Tarkatan warrior died and thus the situation got out of hand. It makes sense Erron was more focused on Shang Tsung (hated by Kitana), Nightwolf (whose current self is revenant) and Fujin than on Sheeva who, potentially, was protected by political immunity.

When the Shokan Queen beat down Baraka, Erron in my opinion did not try to hurt her, only fired a warning shot. Maybe to make sure Sheeva will not kill Baraka (another important leader whose support Kitana needed to uphold the peace in Outworld). The Earthrealmers on other hand were another matter. Maybe Erron was too trusting or too reckless to not pay more attention to Sheeva or simply didn’t really think she was the traitor. It was after learning she is trying to resurrect Kitana’s evil mom - a dangerous, not consulted with Empress decision - Erron faced Sheeva in hand to hand combat.

Not much to analyse here, especially not with limitations of game mechanics yet I strongly believe Erron’s course of action was dictated by political situation and Kitana Kahn’s best interest so killing or seriously injuring Sheeva could be out of question. Also, like I said previously, Black is rarely the aggressor, what I believe is related to his mercenary’s mindset.

The last source, Mortal Kombat X comics series, requires a little clarification: I treat it as a potentially additional insight into Erron’s psyche than any real canonical material. Partially due to many plot-holes but also because of overwhelming violence used for violence’s sake alone. That said, here what happens:

Earthrealm (Special Forces) and Outworld (Kotal Kahn) weren’t on the best terms. To help Kotal, Erron and Black Dragons kidnapped young (under 21 years old) Cassie and Jacqui and took them to Outworld. During the journey through the dangerous jungle, girls tried to run away but got hurt in the process by Kano. Erron openly talked against brutal treatment of prisoners.

Looking at the difficult situation of Kotal, it was in Erron’s best interest to keep Cassie and Jacqui in one piece. Otherwise the whole plan would fail and then Kotal would be forced to deal with really pissed off Sonya Blade. And that would take a bad turn for Black himself. But like I said earlier, the tough guy act could also cover Erron’s more empathic nature that in the mercenary world was seen as a weakness to exploit. I personally think he did not like torturing people if that was unnecessary but also that he would have spoken against it even if Cassie and Jaquie were boys.

Then the Red Dragons attacked to take over hostages.

(Once again, a tough guy act with the “girls are Kotal’s property” as in cover up his worries about the situation or his true mindset, or mix?)

When the fight started, Erron went to tied hostages:

One one hand, Erron needs the girl to stay alive and not be taken by the enemy. On the other hand, he does not promise them safety nor ask them to run away. He is freeing them so the two girl (both under 21 years old) will fight against experienced criminals armed with swords and other dangerous stuff. This is actually an interesting detail, because it suggests Erron thought Cassie and Jacqui had a chance against thugs or that at least that way they wouldn't be a burden to him.

Jacqui punched him and Erron, either was taken by surprise or did not want to hurt her, was “saved” by Kano. And then betrayed by the Black Dragon leader.

Kano’s worlds raise a question, how much Erron is driven by the money and how much he uses the tough guy act to actually hide his unwanted “vulnerability” (as in, having moral sense and not being the heartless psychopath like Kano).

My general conclusion about Erron is that, for a side character he has a really complex relationship with women around him. I strongly believe that Erron sticks to some old fashioned sense of honor that mixes well with a mercenary's mindset. Thus rarely he is the one attacking first. This most likely influences his interaction with female fighters but at the same time, Outworld is not a place where people are judged by gender but for their skills and powers. So, Erron living there for decades for sure got influenced by that mindset to some degree.

I would not call him a feminist - not because he couldn’t be one but for lack of proper material to analyse. Feminism has many shades but in the most general sense is about establishing the political, economic, personal, and social equality of the sexes. Erron does not show much opinion on that matter and does not interact with “common” women; those truly weaker than him, disabled or anything else other than warriors, soldiers or queens. With lack of such interaction there is no chance to come to a proper conclusion.

Does Erron have a soft spot for women? It is possible but that would not stop him from hitting back or killing them if the situation called for such action. I think the safest option is just that Erron is in general a more emphatic and honorable human that he wants to admit, to not look weak or be exploited by others. In contrast to Kano, Black for sure has some moral code he follows no matter what. Even if this get him into trouble more often than not.

Hope it answers your question!

[incarnateirony]

An anti dressed up as a shipper, an idiot, and a terf all walk into the same bar.

It’s the same picture person.

A lesson.

Warning: if the title doesn’t give it away, queerphobic content comes up in this from the other party being documented.

So, some of you may have watched a twitter exercise yesterday.

It started simple: concern trolling white knight “for the writers” comes in to angrily declare fans doing something tagged in support of them about Destiel was “out of line.” She claimed things like “Misha was gaslit into supporting Destiel”, and pulled all kinds of stunts.

She immediately got on a soap box yelling “I HAVE A LIT CRIT DEGREE, I KNOW AUTHOR INTENT” of course implying she knew better than EVERYONE around her how to read text. She then pulled, of all things, @chill-legilimens​​ ‘ article about the network gods gutting the show out of the internet, and somehow misread it SO FUCKING BADLY -- SO FUCKING BADLY -- she thought it aligned with HER. She argued that fans influenced the writers, essentially, and basically pulled the exact opposite of the very clearly delivered message there out. When it was pointed out we know this author and even sometimes help edit their pieces, and she was, flat out misreading it while bragging about how good she is at deciphering text, it turned into a SHITSHOW.

I had watched her give a large group of queer people 2 days of runaround, while they tried to be polite, and similarly tried to prove everything while she proved nothing. Just preached. After 2 days of them exhausting themselves on her, I came in doing my blunt & savage thing, because fuck civility culture when it’s used by oppressors. Of course, she immediately started tone policing, while herself being an arrogant shitbrick the whole way.

She continued to preach author intent and talk down about “headcanons.” You see, she knew the authors very well. Berens’ name was mentioned in passing, and she came back with. “Who’s Berens? Is that the author of the article?” after Deirdre’s name had been directly cited in associated with it about 15 times.

(credit: @judgehangman​ )

But it gets better. She started pulling the “authors have said Dean is straight.” line. Now, at this point, we had already sourced her at least four pieces of information (quite formally too: SPN Official DVD Collection Season 8 episode 13 creative commentary, Edlund and Sgriccia; Dissent Magazine The Attack Queers Bob Berens review; the books in the office with screenshots, and more.) So we issued one simple request: Okay. Source.

For the next-- I shit you not-- 10 hours she bricked the thread to death, finding any and EVERY rabbit hole she could try to venture down. For the first hour or two a few of us tried to actually debate her newly raised points, but still gave reminder that we were waiting for her source. Every tweet was an opportunity for her to drop a 15 tweet thread trying to derail onto a new topic, and often clarifying she had no idea about any of it (Edlund, Sgriccia, Berens, Dabb--who she couldn’t spell the name of--and Deirdre all became an amorpheous blob in her retelling that she swore she looked at sources and wasn’t convinced, while she crossed all the data and comments about the sources). She tried to challenge that anyone could know all the writers and episodes just because she proved she couldn’t, even when multiple people expressed it to her extremely rapidly with not just author and director listings, but cross references on when they overlapped and major elements (like the 15.20 shot 19 tree being the Kim Manners memorial tree). She randomly babbled about Kripke once. Lied her way through and claimed those sources were vague. Etc.

But at some point, I decided, we’re not playing this distraction game. You wanted a debate, you claim you have a lit crit degree, and thus know the entire art is Argumentation. A source, if you’re declaring knowing author intent. One source. Any time she dropped a distraction tweet, I replied to her thread with things like a list of our sources vs her lack of any and a reminder. I installed a counter ticker. How many times had she been asked to either recant her point or give a single source?

Someone made a list of the logical fallacies she used in the argument. It was two tweets long and still missed several obvious ones. That didn’t stop her. Neither did the dozens of requests for a source or a recant. Onwards, she marched, derailing time and again. She brought in a buddy to try to distract, but he fell out real quick when he realized “the burden of proof lies on the arguer” shot him and her both in the feet in record time and he ducked out. 

Other greatest hits came out like “Dubs (Dabb’s) fanfic books”, and calling the ability to list authors and episodes “headcanons.”

Over time, the dialogue shifted: see, she came in trying the snide “enjoy your headcanons” downtalk, but as time and time again she was pulverized on every point about the show, or the authors, or anything else while STILL never even giving a single source to even her FIRST POINT and running distractions, it became a reality-- she was told, “We’ll enjoy our canon and author intent. You can enjoy your headcanon of... Dabb’s fanfic books and Lord Barons and the writers being collective hallucinations and whatever else in your hot takes about the show content itself” and she FLIPPED SHIT. 

As the ticker for sources approached 100, she started becoming flustered. Before that, even, she started repetitively misgendering Ezra (no tumblr to link in), and Ezra screenshot their bio of they/them and asked them to adjust. Ignored. Ezra linked this request and asked it to be addressed again, and again, and again. 13 times. Ezra linked it 13 times. She even replied to several of them. No avail. No change. Not until literally any and every tweet in her vicinity either had “source?” or “address gender?” for her to reply to did she flee there, and write some giant write-around of “oh, I didn’t see this, sorry” but still refused to actually use it. Or “I’ll use the right one now.” No, just completely strickened pronouns from her vocabulary with Ezra moving forward, after not one mistake, not two, not five, but 13 answers.

At this point, I notice a trend: throughout the entire conversation, she had flip flopped on my pronouns, clearly confused as to what to call me. As I generally don’t care (honestly I prefer he but meh), it didn’t ping me as something to react to while she switched religiously between “he” and “she”. But I realized now, despite all of that confusion: she never once thought to use “they.” Also earlier we found tweets of hers that, while now declaring herself bisexual, she used troublesome wording in the past to blur the line on if she was an ally or, as she phrased it “maybe less than 100% straight in the bell curve” in other conversations.

I mutter about this on the side to Ezra and some friends, but continue on towards the 100 ticker that was the goal to show people in this digital terrarium how disingenuous most people you argue with are -- an exhibit for the class. They know they’re lying and have been caught, but will not cede to admit “oops, I guess I was wrong.” but rather stick, unironically, to their own headcanons about things. After all, they vaguely sorta apologized even if suddenly just refusing to use any pronouns at all on Ezra after that. And she’s so quick to disappear into 15 tweet bombs of distraction trying to play victim for being held accountable at this point, we just didn’t jump to a conclusion on that, alarming as it is.

So. You know. Source.

At this point, she RANDOMLY starts evoking the fact that like, How Dare, She Watched Gay Men Die To AIDS, She Is A Great Philanthropist How Dare How Dare. 

I’m sorry, did you just evoke the blood of our dead to run away from the most basic scrap of accountability in what is literally the first wave of a lit debate because for the last 10 hours you have refused to take the necessary steps to move on to the next point? Did you... just... evoke the ghosts of gay men that were genocided to, essentially, pull up a smokescreen and run away from being party to queer erasure? Or even just? Giving a source? or admitting you were wrong on one point in a debate? Wow, you really just did that. 

Naturally, people involved got pissed. Her Sources ticker hit 100, but at this point, all that haunted her was how completely fucking vile and inappropriate that was in this discussion. 

She got blocked. She then tried to glom onto anyone that hadn’t blocked or muted her and run the same argumentation points she had earlier been decimated in the argument with, while yelling “I ship Destiel too! I wanted them to have sex too! Why does this make me the bad guy?” around the block and hoping nobody actually read the thread. She tried to pitch the “headcanons” point of view again, hoping a new audience would lick her boots. She was, largely, ignored; given a few more comments about her leaving the conversation losing all points and only covered in the blood of our dead she was so proud of; blocked by a few more. (unsurprisingly, if you check her actual tweet history, she seems more invested in Megstiel but)

This is when CommaSameleon -- a professor with two lit degrees and a primary focus in teaching the art of Argumentation -- literally -- stepped in. She initially tried to engage the fact that, well, this woman not only can’t argue out of a paper sack but wasn’t even arguing, she was just running in circles and distracting from all the points and hadn’t addressed a single lit point directly while preaching down at people. But Sam, also, noticed something. This woman kept changing things like “queerphobia” to “homophobia.” Sam mentioned this kinda puts off TERF vibes (I think Sam picked up on the gendering thing herself too.)

Her response? Which she deleted since? But Discord’s embed helpfully saved?

Her inacted non-apologies remain weak, especially in any form of debate be it lit or now queer topics.

Oh I’m sorry, let’s recap her viewpoints: TERF is a slur. “They” is made up and should be avoided at all costs. The blood of dead gay men are a token to use in a lit debate you’re avoiding responsibility in. After this, “authors are headcanons” is suddenly not your worst take, but fascinating that you 13 times didn’t even read the blatant ass screenshot. And I mean, these weren’t subtle or easy to miss these 13 times.

100. She had 100 chances, literally, on a timer, to give a source or shut up with her platforming until she had one. Instead, she chose every rabbit hole she could manifest to disappear into, only to be met by another request for a source, and not moving on until we address the first points. We’ve given ours, now you give yours. Instead, you choose this. This is the hill you choose to die on, rather than admitting, “Sorry, I guess I was wrong” or “I guess I heard that somewhere, my bad.” 100 chances. 13 direct QT requests to address gender which she replied to but didn’t reply to until cornered (and still didn’t, truly, reply to), and “TERF is a slur.” Oh, and after waving around the dead men’s blood she also suddenly Can’t Be A Terf Because She Adopted Two Trans Kids. Lord help those children. Or, you know, the more realistic thing is she’s just manifesting all kinds of bullshit at this point to save face, which is probably why she deleted all the related tweets that show she’s a giant-ass TERF.

So anyway, this is very much a lesson on:

Paying attention to how people manipulate conversation to erase genuine discussion and debate.

Paying attention to WHY they do it. Motivation on methods and tactics will clear up a lot.

Figuring out HOW they try to sound woke about shit and when it’s entirely fucking vile and inappropriate to pull

And by all above points, figuring out that these people are among us, and how NOT to let them influence your conversations.

I don’t care if it’s about a discussion on a ship or show or anything else. People do this. A lot. Extremely dedicatedly, if the 100 asks doesn’t make that clear. 

Stop letting people railroad your conversations with disingenuous bullshit.

So anyway in honor of this I made everyone a gif

Use at will. It’s tagged anti-terf if you want to use the search feature on it.

UPDATE: 

Just went and checked. She went and deleted literally her entire side of the conversation, hundreds if not thousands of tweets. Luckily, Ezra mentioned repeatedly -- and I do trust them inherently -- that they were saving the entire conversation, so that zip file exists somewhere. How fascinating, after she accused us that we would want to delete tweets. Someone realized they had a bad look and giant failure all around.

Also, a related anon that links to an earlier part of this conversation I didn’t even document where she was crying about “cis erasure” [x] This shit went on so long I legit forgot about that.

[bonesaldente]

Ferocious I Darth Maul x Reader

Chapter 10: Trust

last chapter

all chapters

ao3

warnings: nudity, mildly suggestive language

words: 4000+

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note: For… reasons, this is an alternate universe in which space ships have actual showers with water, not just sonic showers. Also, Maul’s cybernetics are waterproof. I don’t make the rules... wait- I do. Also, make sure to read the end notes today :)

_____

Stars, you hate it here.

Everything, from the endless nights to the lack of clean water and the ever-looming prospect of going to prison increases your motivation to somehow fix the communicator yourself and run off before Kenobi can take you with him, leaving him stranded on the planet.

For exactly a decade, just to be even.

“It should work,” Kenobi remarks with very apparent annoyance. “Everything is connected and the power source is on.”

“Well, it’s obviously not working.”

“Thank you for your observation.” He drops his hands into his lap, looking quite defeated. And tired.

While you’ve been keeping some structure in your days, he’s been working tirelessly on repairing that communicator. Until he did tire out, occasionally.

Now was one of these occasions.

“I’m losing focus and I can hardly see anything. It’ll be best to continue when the sun comes back up again.”

Which is precisely what you were hoping he’d say, but you still force yourself to make another snide comment. “Maybe it’ll fix itself while you’re resting and we are magically transported off this planet.”

He pays you no mind and heads to what’s become his sleeping spot over the past days - or has it been over a week already?

“I trust you’ll keep watch?”

You just huff, but don’t refuse his request. It is an agreement you’ve come to quite early on when you both realized that the death of one would make the other’s survival significantly less likely. So while he sleeps, you make sure no animals sneak up and attack him, which, apart from the “dinner” incident a few days ago, only happened once, but still rattled him enough to make him remind you of your duty evry time he went to sleep.

Except tonight, you plan on shifting your attention to something completely different. 

You have not, in fact, come to terms with the probable reality that you’ll spend the rest of your days in a prison of the Republic. Instead, you’ve been observing what exactly Kenobi is doing to repair the life-saving device and despite your lack of aptitude in such things, you, too, see that the communicator should - in theory - work. Kenobi is overworked and agitated; it would only be natural for him to miss something.

Something you might be able to catch and use to your advantage.

 You remain still where you are until you hear his quiet breaths evening out, indicating he has fallen asleep.

“Kenobi?” You whisper into the silence, a last test to check if he is still conscious.

No response.

Your heart beats fast in your chest, all too aware of how pressing time is. For some reason, this man rarely sleeps more than two hours at a time, which could be partially blamed on you for always nagging at him when he isn’t trying to fix the communicator. But then again, you have the feeling that he usually doesn’t have very different habits.

With the kind of stealth only someone who has been trained in these arts could bring up, you sneak across the clearing to where the source of all your troubles and hope lies on the ground.

The device has been taken out of the starfighters cockpit and thus looks pretty out of place and… unfinished. But you know better, having watched the Jedi dismantle and reassemble every little piece.

The metal glints in the shine of your flashlight as you crouch to be on eye-level with the device. At first glance everything seems to be in order, just like the Jedi remarked, but that is not acceptable. Fixing the cursed thing before Kenobi is your only way to freedom and you will not allow your own incompetence to stand in your way.

So you look again. And again.

You shine light into every little corner, every port, under every wire and in between each panel. Time is passing too quickly, you are aware, and your chances are dwindling.

But then you see it.

Tiny and inconspicuous, something organic - a seed maybe - is blocking one of the loose wires from connecting with its respective port. 

You bite your lip to suppress a victorious exclamation, looking over your shoulder to check if Kenobi is still fast asleep.

Heart thrumming in your ears, you take a deep breath to calm your nerves and steady your hand for the task ahead. Cautiously, you lift some of the metal paneling to give you access to the section, fingers weaving through the wires with extra care since many of them are not firmly in place due to the crash and were only pinned to their receptors by Kenobi.

At last, your fingertips graze the disruptive piece of forest that has made it so far into the technology. Slowly, you remove it from its spot, moving the wire back to where it was supposed to connect.

Now let’s try this.

You turn the power on, holding your breath and praying to whatever force there is out there that it won’t make any noise.

A quiet whir is the only indication that the power is flowing, causing a small smile to creep over your hidden features. The display comes to life, faintly glowing blue. You throw looks over your shoulder every few seconds, hastily pressing the buttons to type in the private comm information Maul and all his commanding warriors kept as a backup for emergencies. You have no idea how many emergencies must have occurred in these past weeks, but you hope your message won’t be drowned out by others. This is the only shot you get.

You pick some coordinates that, if your knowledge of space navigation isn’t misleading you, should be a few miles north of your current location, then sign the message with ‘ -S ’ .

You stare at the numbers, forcing your mind to absorb them, then you hit send and a series of green lights tells you it at least went out successfully, meaning all you can do now is to hope that it will be received the same way. 

Kenobi is still fast asleep, chest rising and falling steadily. You almost feel sorry for what you’re about to do, but there really aren’t many alternatives. 

You take out a small vial from a pocket in your belt, filling a syringe with it. It’s been a while since you last used it, but you made sure you always have some tranquilizers on you, and now you’re thankful for that.

On your tiptoes, you sneak to Kenobi’s sleeping form, narrowing your eyes to make out the exposed skin on his neck.

The needle is buried in his neck in a matter of seconds and his eyes shoot open in shock and confusion while his hands fly to his neck.

“Why-”

“Nothing personal,” you assure him when his eyelids droop and his words lose coherence.

Normally, this should knock a person out for at least three hours, but you don’t know how a force sensitivity might influence that. One way or another, you should take off now and get as big a headstart as you can. But first, one more thing.

You give the heap of beige robes that is the Jedi knight one more almost regretful look, then you crush the communicator beneath your heel. Can’t risk him calling for Republic forces while you’re still in the area after all, and you’d have no way of taking the device with you, since it’s hooked up to the ship wreckage.

Why you spare his life, you don’t know, and you’d rather not spend too much time thinking about it. Perhaps you should kill him, after all he’s done to Maul, and why your conscience decides to pipe up now of all times will remain a mystery. You have killed people in less honorable ways, but…

“Ugh,” you grunt, finally turning your back on the Jedi and starting your journey north.

 *

 “Maul! Maul, come here!”

He jerks up, briefly having fallen asleep leaned against the wall. For a second, he fully expects to see your gleaming eyes staring back at him, that’s how familiar the voice is. It takes him a moment to understand that it’s not you, but Loa calling him.

Which is supremely peculiar, because the young woman rarely ever addresses him, let alone command him.

He is out of the room, your room, in a flash, looking over Loa’s shoulder at the message displayed a second later.

Both of his hearts seem to skip a beat.

The message consists of nothing but a set of coordinates, the only indication of its origin the ‘ -S ’ with which it is signed.

S as in… Spectress?

It must be you. There is no one else with access to this line of communication who would send this kind of message.

Loa gapes at the writing. 

“It’s… It’s her, isn’t it? It’s gotta be her, I’m…”

“Set course,” is his only response, sitting down in the copilot’s seat, several scenarios already running through his mind.

“Looks like some type of… forest moon,” She remarks, readying the ship for hyperspace with outstanding speed and routine. You weren’t exaggerating at all when you said she had become a good pilot.

He ponders for a minute. If you are somehow stranded there, they won’t need reinforcement, with their forces stretched thin as it is. But if any threats lurk nearby and he puts your little sister in danger…

He will die by your hand, then. Or his own.

“How long?”

“Estimate of four hours.”

“Very well. I will try to find out what to expect when we arrive there.”

 According to his sources, there has been no Republic activity in the system in question over the past month - that’s what he found out after two hours of vehement research. Really, he already knew that after thirty minutes, but you being so close yet so far from him drove him to bury himself in databanks and records by his spies.

His thoughts travel to a darker place.

He doesn’t know what state you’ll be in when he finds you - if he finds you. And even if you’re fine, everything else is far from fine. Mandalore, the crime syndicate and most of all, Savage…

Something on the dresser that takes up most of the cramped space clatters to the floor when he loses control of the chaotic force inside him and he flinches, immediately worrying he broke something of importance to you. After all, he has taken up residence in what used to be your small quarters on your ship, before everything happened, before you joined the Death Watch, before you saw him again.

When you were still living relatively safe, off the Republic’s radars.

Out of Master’s reach.

It’s been torturing him every waking moment to think that you might meet the same end that Savage did. The speculation of what could have been if he hadn’t reentered your life has become a constant in his mind. Because if he ever has to see the life fade out of your eyes, the way he saw the nightsister magick leave Savage when he exhaled his last breath, he isn’t sure he could forgive the galaxy. He vows to himself, already vowed to himself few days after he first laid eyes on you, that he will do anything to keep that fiery soul safe.

His fingers run over the cold piece of metal that has fallen, curiously examining it. No, not normal metal, beskar . There are letters forged into it, but they look like traditional Mando’a scripture, which he is still unpracticed in reading.

He contemplates putting it into the uppermost drawer, lest it get lost during more daring flight maneuvers, but he hesitates. He’s never opened any of the drawers, despite the very persistent curiosity he felt. The last he’d want is to invade your privacy; you hadn’t even consented to him sleeping in your private space (although he doubts you would mind after he has literally slept with you).

Maul makes up his mind and pulls the drawer open, not intending to even look, but his gaze still gets caught.

He expected to find clothes, maybe, or, knowing you, weapons. What he finds instead is a collection of… trinkets. 

It’s not new to him that you have a tendency to collect items, sometimes out of sentiment, sometimes as a trophy. He didn’t realize you kept them so meticulously stored.

It’s quite endearing, he thinks.

Some of the items he recalls you talking about, but others seem entirely random. His eyes linger on a piece of flimsiplast that looks like a child has drawn on it. 

He is tempted to take it out and hold it into the light, but quickly realizes that it would go against his original decision not to pry.

There is so much personal history collected in that small space. Dozens of untold stories, so many parts of your life that he missed.

He won’t rest until he knows you’ll still be able to tell them.

 *

 Oddly enough, you miss Kenobi. More precisely, you miss his ability to sense danger before it has reached you.

Every little noise startles you, every swish of wind making your heart stop and you increase your speed a little.

By now, you’re nearly running through the woods, less than half a mile away from the coordinates you chose.

Chances are, he has woken up by now. And you’re not stupid; you know it’ll be easy for him to track you down when there is no civilization around. From what your understanding of the force is, he should be able to sense your force signature from a larger distance when there is nothing else to disrupt it. That also means that he will be hot on your tail, so whoever shows up to rescue you better hurry .

With a heavy heart, you turn off your flashlight and lean against a tree while you remove your mask for better air supply and allow your eyes to adjust. It still takes so kriffing long, you wonder if that’ll ever change.

If Kenobi finds you first, it won’t make much of a difference.

You get moving again, slower but also less of a beacon in the dark.

The trees start coming in more sparsely now, until you can actually see farther than twenty feet without trees blocking your view. This allows you to pick up speed again and thus make up for the darkness that is slowing you down, until the landscape is so open that you’re actually running now.

And that’s when you hear them.

Branches cracking somewhere behind you. 

Probably just the wind. Keep going.

The dull thud of feet hitting the ground makes your breath catch in your throat.

So maybe he did wake up earlier than anticipated.

You whirl around, seeing nothing but his black silhouette and desperately wishing for a lightsaber, which you - unwisely - have sworn off after the Naboo incident. That, and running around wielding a lightsaber wasn’t exactly the level of subtlety you were going for at the time.

But now, you could really use it.

“I spared your life!” You yell.

“And destroyed my only way away from here,” he responds, sounding almost hurt as he makes slow steps towards you. You take just as many backwards.

Something in the sky beyond him catches your eye and suddenly, the situation looks different.

“I’ve got to look out for myself first,” you argue. “Surely, you understand that.”

“You know I can’t let you go.”

“I do,” you say serenely, taking a deep breath, then whirling around to make a run for it.

You don’t need to look over your shoulder to know he is following you and, even worse, gaining on you.

The small headstart you got, combined with the distance between you two in the first place isn’t nearly enough, even though you are in great shape and a truly fast runner.

The ship you spotted earlier now flies over your head, approaching the ground and you could laugh and cry at the same time. It’s not just any ship, it’s your ship. Your home, and aboard, you hope, your family.

It doesn’t touch the ground, but it flies low enough to be accessible from the ground while slowing to a speed that should allow for you to jump on, if you could only run a little faster.

Damn, ten years ago this would have been easier.

The blast door in the back, only about twenty feet away from you, slides open, revealing a figure that even in the dark you can make out to be…

Maul.

He extends his hand and you instantly know what he wants you to do.

So, you take a deep breath and jump .

The moment your feet leave the ground you feel the tug of the force pulling you to the zabrak while your own hand reaches forward and you fly through the air, until your hand finally reaches Maul’s.

You are not safe yet, still hanging from the edge of the ship when you suddenly feel a different pull on one of your ankles. Your eyes widen in shock and you try to tell Maul that it’s Kenobi, he is pulling you back, but all that you manage is a terrified shriek when your hand almost slips out of his at a particularly strong pull backwards.

Not this time, Kenobi.

Your determination sets in and you look down to see Kenobi standing still, arms extended to manipulate the force. With your one free hand, you reach for your blaster, aiming and-

The hold on your ankle abruptly loosens and you are yanked on board at once, the blast door sliding shut immediately, drowning out the deafening sound of wind.

You are panting, sprawled out on the floor, not even realizing that you did it .

“Hyperspace, as soon as possible,” you distantly hear Maul say, but the thrumming of your heart is too loud to properly hear his voice, until he somehow sits you up and…

Embraces you. 

Warm fingers run through your messy hair, soft murmurs that you can’t quite understand coming from right next to your ear.

“I’m filthy,” you protest weakly, half-heartedly trying to free yourself from his hold but he only holds on tighter and at last you melt into the affection, burying your face in his neck.

“Is Loa…?”

“In the cockpit,” he instantly calms your worries and you sigh happily. For a moment, everything is alright.

“What did I miss?” You eventually muster up the courage to ask.

His grip tightens so much you can feel his fingertips dig into your hip and you immediately know something bad happened.

“It was… Master. He killed Savage.”

Your heart sinks, the previous relief replaced by a dark type of sadness. There is anger and, most dominantly, fear.

The Sith lord doesn’t intend on letting Maul off, which by extension also means there is a target on everyone he surrounds himself with.

You can’t even find words to console him, only taking in a shaky breath against his skin and whispering, "I'm sorry."

"He's free now."

Eventually, you find the strength to get up, tiredly patting over to the cockpit.

“Hey.” Loa presses a few last buttons, then jumps up and crushes you in a tight hug.

“I thought I would never see you again.”

“You know me better than that,” you retort mildly.

“I suppose so,” she sighs, holding you at an arm’s length. “You need a shower,” she assesses, plucking a leaf from your hair.

Self-consciously you run a hand through the tangles, then look down at your muddy clothes.

“I agree.”

 Maul waits for you when you leave the cockpit, immediately taking your hand as if to reassure himself that you are truly there.

“Missed me?” You joke half-heartedly, doing nothing to hide the way the tension seems to melt from your body at the touch.

“Every minute,” he answers earnestly, not a hint of a joke in his voice.

“Come with me, then,” you offer, making your way to the refresher and pulling him along. As expected, he follows you all too willingly, thumb rubbing circles on the back of your hand.

You don’t even bother undressing all the way before getting under the water stream, suddenly realizing how much you’ve been longing for it. While your clothes soak, the water pooling around your feet turns a muddy brown as the dirt from the forest is finally washed off.

Maul steps in the small shower behind you, holding a hand into the falling water.

“That’s cold,” he states.

“Not for me, it’s not.” You eye his frown. “But we can turn the temperature up.”

The heat does feel good, and not much later you finally attempt to peel off the remaining layers of clothing. Red tattooed hands come to your aid fast and within seconds, your skin is completely exposed, the stress of the past weeks running down the drain along with the dirt and… blood?

You bring a hand up to touch your forehead at the same time that a scowl makes its way on Maul’s face.

“Kenobi,” he growls, but you shake your head.

“That’s from when I crashed the starfighter.” You examine your bloodied fingers with moderate interest. “I think it’s healed already, that’s just dried blood coming off.”

He huffs, lightly running a finger over the area on your face.

“Any other injuries?” His eyes roam your body, not in a sexual, but in a concerned manner.

“None I can think of,” you sigh as he gathers soap in his hands, closing your eyes for a moment as the warm water runs over your face. When you don’t hear another noise from Maul, you open your eyes again, only to find him staring at you with something like bewilderment in his eyes.

“Are you okay?”

He responds by crashing his lips into yours, expressing so many emotions through his actions that he otherwise can’t find the words for. You very nearly fall at the suddenness of it, but his arms are wrapped around you in a heartbeat, pressing you into his chest and giving you the skin-to-skin contact you’ve been missing so terribly.

Your eyes water as emotions overcome you, the relief, the sorrow, the uncertainty and… guilt.

When you break apart, his are shining in a similar way.

 You lean against the weapons locker, facing the ceiling while you let the details of your situation soak in. The havoc that was wreaked on Mandalore by the resistant Mandalorians, the coming and going of the crime families, and the looming threat of Sidious’ grand plan finally coming together.

“I have a suggestion,” you begin slowly. “But you’re not going to like it.”

“Go on.”

“The Jedi are not our main enemy anymore, if what you foresee comes true.” You recall him talking about the envisioned destruction of the Jedi order, something that Sidious has been plotting for a long time. “If we give them the right tools to do so, it’ll be them who need to fight him, not you. Not any of us.” Your eyes dart to the cockpit where your sister is holed up.

“Tools, such as… knowledge?” He touches his chin the way he always does when he mulls over an idea.

“Sidious is but one man. He only thrives on secrecy, so if we-”

“A Jedi will never cooperate with a Sith .” He snarls. “Their self-righteousness wouldn’t allow it.”

“Maybe not.” You sigh with exhaustion. “All I know is that the better equipped the Jedi, the higher the chance of them actually defeating Sidious before it’s too late. And that’s why I have another proposition.”

“What is it?”

“We make a small transmission to the Republic fleet, sending them the same coordinates I sent you.”

“You’re trying to save Kenobi?” He doesn’t sound angered, he sounds… surprised.

“As much as I dislike him, he is one of their more capable knights, and it’s become pretty obvious he and his padawan are quite invested in uncovering Sidious’ identity.” 

You are astounded he even considers the idea. 

“Also, helping him could be interpreted as a show of good faith. Might get them off our back for some time, until we figure out who to fight,” you add.

For a minute, he remains silent. Then, his arm is wrapped around your waist and his lips brush over your temple.

“I trust your judgment,” he mumbles. “Do what you believe is right.”

___

SOOO, after a two week delay, I have elected to post once more... my bad. In the next 2-4 weeks I’d like to edit and improve the older chapters because I’m not 100% happy with the writing in them anymore, so because of that there won’t be another update during that time. Don’t worry though, I’m not done yet, the story will go on - just after a short break :,)

@princessayveke @spaghetti-666 @noiralei @larawl @secretnerd00 @bagpipes606 @zabrak-show @brilliantbutbatty @eleine-t1d

[wingsofkpop]

Hiraeth - I.VIII: These Paths We Walk

pairing(s): Hybrid!Im Jaebeom x Reader, Witch!Mark Tuan x Reader, Werewolf!Jackson Wang x Reader, Vampire!Park Jinyoung x Reader, Supernatural!Got7 x Reader

genre: Supernatural!AU, Dark Magic!AU, heavy Angst, light Fluff, eventual Smut

warnings: Mature language, mentions of death and murder, violence, gore and blood, some satanic themes, etc. 

word count: 7,1k

synopsis: How far are you willing to go to find out the truth about Moon Dye Bay?…

chapter directory

Necromancy is a form of spiritual divination in which the executioner acts in the summoning of and communication with the lost souls of the dead. Its origins date back to the ancient Greeks, as the word necromancy is composed of Greek terms νεκρός (nekrós), "dead," and μαντεία (manteía), "divination." During the European Middle Ages, necromancy grew to be associated with black magic by traditional witches. As a result, its practice became strictly forbidden due to its disruption in the balance of nature. History recalls only one powerful witch ever held the ability to raise the dead at will—

“Still doing research for that special project?” Your mind snaps back to reality at the sudden inquiry. Tearing your gaze from the textbook, you look up to find none other than your favorite student in front of your desk. Hyunjin offers his usual crooked smile at your newfound attention and raises a questioning eyebrow. 

You can’t help but roll your eyes before answering, “You know the point of a study period is to—I don’t know—study? Preferably by yourself?”

He snickers. “I have a question that requires your extensive mastery in the literary arts, Ms. (L/N).”

“I’m sure you do.” You release a heavy sigh, not bothering to voice your annoyance at the use of your surname. Instead, you deliver Hyunjin a shake of your head before gesturing his continuance with a wave of your hand.

“I’m a little confused by the ending of The Grapes of Wrath,” Hyunjin pauses, “okay—a lot confused. I mean, why would Rose of Sharon breastfeed a stranger she literally just met? It’s weird…” 

You chuckle at his scrunched expression. “You’re right. It is pretty weird.” 

“So why’d she do it?” 

“Well, Rose of Sharon knew the stranger was starving to death,” You begin, leaning back in your chair to better hold Hyunjin’s gaze, “so you could say she wanted to give him a second chance.” 

“But why? She doesn’t even know him.” 

“Maybe not, but if you had the ability to save another person’s life—be it a stranger—wouldn’t you?” 

“But even after all her and her family went through, I don’t understand how she was able to find it in herself to do that. Especially after the loss of her baby.” 

“Humanity is a complicated, yet beautiful force, Hyunjin.” You hum gently, “Even among all the cruelty, hatred and hopelessness, it still manages to find a way to prevail—that ending is proof that against all odds, humanity will always win.”  

“I never thought about it like that…” Hyunjin shakes his head in disbelief, “Thanks, (Y/N)...” 

“It’s what I do, kiddo.” 

While the student grows silent to scribble down his realizations, you take the time to skim over your own notes—or lack-there-of, that is. 

After Youngjae agreed, albeit rather reluctantly, to assist you in your mission to return Jackson Wang to the land of the living, you spent the past few days cornering the bookstore and mausoleum’s supply of resources about raising the dead. But just your luck, every text thus far has proven to be less than helpful. According to the siphoner, necromancy is one of the more rare magical arts that is only practiced by specialized, powerful witches, which, unfortunately, also means there is limited access to such information. Neither you nor Youngjae have been able to find a spell or ritual that can guarantee Jackson’s resurrection without some kind of dire consequence. 

Who knew magic could be so complicated? 

“You know, you’ve been out for the past week…” You lift your head to meet Hyunjin’s gaze once again. “Is… Is everything okay? I don’t mean to pry, but it’s just so unlike you to miss any classes…” 

The typical university student probably wouldn’t give a damn about a missing professor, much less an absent TA. Hyunjin’s visual apparent concern spreads warmth throughout your chest—you are powerless to hold back the small smile that stretches across your lips. 

“A couple of my roommate’s friends disappeared out of the blue last week, so I just needed a few days to help her out.” You raise a playful eyebrow, “Don’t tell me you missed me?” 

“What? No way.” Hyunjin scoffs, “Though I did have to use Sparknotes for the past few reading assignments and barely passed Wednesday's quiz—” You burst into laughter, reeling your companion into the same fit only seconds later. After a brief moment, Hyunjin manages to collect his composure and finish, “—I am glad everything is okay… and that you’re back.” 

You nod with a smile. “I appreciate that.”

Aside from the daily meetings with Youngjae and nightly cry-piles with Sana, the past few days have proven to be quite uneventful. Jackson has not appeared in your bedroom since that first night, and true to your word, you haven’t told Mark about your quest for his revival. God knows what kind of Hell would break loose if that were to happen. You also haven’t visited the Prime residence since the day you caught Jaebeom with his drop dead—mind the pun—gorgeous vampire conquest. You’ve been meaning to call Jinyoung, but between your hours pilfering through useless research texts, comforting your distraught roommate and attempting to track down your M.I.A. best friend, you haven’t quite found the time. 

And though you’d never admit it to anyone, you needed some time alone—to think.

A rather obnoxious bout of laughter tears you from your thoughts, which is quickly followed by a scold from Professor Park. In an attempt to find the source, you peer past Hyunjin’s form and the sea of other students to the very back of the classroom where a group of young girls are utilizing the period as social hour. Amongst the familiar faces sits a pretty female student you don’t quite recognize, having never encountered her around campus before.

And although you can barely see her, something about her demeanor seems… off. 

“Hyunjin? Who’s that girl back there?” 

Hyunjin turns to examine the subject of interest before returning with a shrug, “According to my sister, she’s some exchange student from Taiwan. I haven’t met her, but I think Yeji said her name is Tzuyu.”

“And she transferred here this week?” 

He shakes his head. “Actually, today is the first day anyone has seen her.”

You go to inquire further, but the booming call of Professor Park announcing the end of class beats you to it. Hyunjin bids you one final thank you and a goodbye before sprinting off to meet his friends at the classroom exit. It is not until him, Professor Park and the remainder of the students are long out the door do you return to your research. However, the moment you manage to relocate your place, a sugary-sweet voice commands your attention once again:

“If I could bother you for a moment, Ms. (L/N), I need your help…” 

“Of course.” You mask your annoyance with as genuine a smile as you can muster and turn your gaze to the student. “What can I do for…” Your smile immediately falters at the sight of the young woman from earlier in front of your desk—only in this instance, you can definitely recognize her… 

It’s none other than Miss Aphrodisiac herself from the Project Estate. 

She offers a radiant smile, but the feature seems less than friendly. 

“Hello again, (Y/N). I don’t believe we properly met during our last meeting… I’m Tzuyu.” 

“Yeah, um, I-I wasn’t expecting to see you in my class…” You chuckle nervously, cautiously sliding your notes inside your book before closing the cover. “What… What are you doing here exactly?” 

“With how much the student body rants and raves about their newest teaching assistant, how could I pass up the opportunity to see you in action?” Tzuyu elegantly takes a seat on the edge of your desk before running her fingers through her flawless, auburn locks. Something about the dexterity of her fingers sends goosebumps budding across your skin. “Plus, it’s not everyday I meet one of Jaebeom’s… human companions.” 

“It’s not like that.” You insist, “Jaebeom and I barely know each other—”

“Ah. Right.” She giggles, “You’re close with the other brother. My mistake.” 

You bite your tongue, holding back the snide comment that would likely lead to the dismembering of your head from your body. Instead, you swallow what little remains of your pride, rise from your seat and ask stiffly, “You said you needed help with something?...” 

“You’ve read Macbeth, haven’t you?” Filled with both anxiety and confusion, you watch as Tzuyu takes a pencil from the container of writing tools perched on the surface of your desk. She twirls the utensil between delicate fingertips, gazing at it as if it is the most interesting object on the planet. You don’t need your gut to remind you something is most definitely off with her behavior.

“There’s this one piece of advice that Lady Macbeth tells her husband before he goes off to commit murder: ‘Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under ‘t’... ” She pauses, “Tell me, Ms. (L/N)... What exactly could that mean?” 

Your blood runs cold when she fixes her dark gaze on you. No longer interested in the pencil. 

You bite the inside of your cheek, attempting to ground the frantic beating of your heart before it literally leaps from your chest and into the palms of your company. Out of instinct, you chance a quick glance at the door—you may not have a mug, but a nine-hundred page, hardcover book to the face might make a pretty good distraction. 

“Hm, I suppose you’re more of an expert with prose.” Tzuyu says, lowering the pencil into her lap before hopping to her own feet. “Let’s try a bit of Frankenstein then…” 

She begins to stalk toward you, her eyes still locked onto yours like a vice. Your body immediately shuffles backward, attempting to keep as much distance between yours forms as possible. You only get so far—your back meeting the surface of the wall behind you as Tzuyu centers herself a few mere inches away. You can feel her crisp breath on your face as she murmurs:  

“‘I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, then I will indulge the other’...” 

“What are you—” 

Before you can finish your thought, a searing pain paints your vision white. The agony spreads through your veins like wildfire, stealing every ounce of oxygen from your lungs and rendering your knees weak. With a trembling hand, you’re able to save your form from buckling completely to the floor—but not before catching a glimpse of the same pencil impaled in the side of your waist. 

“Poetry is much more tasteful, in my opinion.” Tzuyu sighs, licking the blood from her nails as she backs away. You want to say something—scream and call her a plethora of less than appropriate names—but your mind is literal mush between the shock and the excruciating pain. You collapse to the floor with a breathy gasp, cupping your bleeding side with your opposite hand.

The vampire saunters toward the exit. Just as she makes it to the doorway, she whirls around to throw one final innocent smile in your direction: “Do us both a favor and stay away from Jaebeom… I wouldn’t want to scar that pretty face.” 

With that, she’s completely gone. If it weren’t for the pencil in your midriff and the blood seeping through your clothes, you would have thought you’d dreamt up the entire encounter. 

“Shit…” You gasp, attempting to dislodge the wood from your flesh. It doesn’t budge, deeply embedded between what you assume to be your ribcage. A pained wheeze spills from your throat as you reach for your bag, paying little mind to the bloodied prints your fingers leave in the fabric. After numerous attempts and anguished movements, you manage to fish your cell phone from its pocket. Crimson smears across the screen as you pull up the first contact you can think of. 

You really should have taken the rest of the week off.

 ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

From his perch behind a tree, Jinyoung silently stalks the movement of a burly stag as it parades across the forest floor. The creature, unknowing of the predator that hunts from a far, approaches a wild berry bush and begins to feast off its bearings—unknowing that its end is fast approaching. 

Jinyoung usually does not like to draw out these moments and would have killed the deer by now. Whether it is due to the absence of his physical strength or the tornado of thoughts tearing through his mind, he simply cannot bring himself to end the animal’s life just yet. There’s something so pure about watching the stag go about its existence, he realizes—he must allow its innocence to prevail a little while longer.

It’s been days since his recovery from the huntress’s attack, but he can still sense the weakness lingering in his bones. While Jaebeom’s blood chased away the fever of the wolf venom, it was not enough to regenerate his body to its full power. If he were to do so, he would need human blood… but that can never happen again. Not in this lifetime.

Animal blood keeps him mobile, and that is more than enough.  

A loud snap of breaking branches returns Jinyoung to reality in time to watch the stag tear off into the trees. He makes no move to chase after it, not desiring to waste his strength. After one final glance to his escaped meal, Jinyoung turns and greets the approaching figure with a tight frown:

“I already told you, hyung. I have no interest in accompanying you on a hunt into town.” 

“You know, it would be a hell of a lot easier than tracking down food out here…” Jaebeom snickers, “Not to mention, one human equals a dozen squirrels.” 

“And as I said, I much prefer the squirrels.” Jinyoung meets Jaebeom’s gaze with a heavy sigh, “I am perfectly fine, hyung.” 

“You’re a shitty liar.” Jaebeom shakes his head. “You need human blood.” 

“What I need is to find a new fare.” Jinyoung pushes off of his perch to traipse deeper into the forest, but the appearance of a hand on his shoulders halts his pace. He allows Jaebeom to maneuver his form back against the trunk of a tree, welcoming the slight relief the support brings to his muscles. He makes sure to keep his expression blank to mask his instability. But like always, Jaebeom sees straight through him. 

“You’re weak, Jinyoung…” 

“Nothing a nice rabbit can’t fix.”

Jaebeom purses his lips. “You can’t deny it forever. At least try a blood bag—”

“Why did you give me your blood?” Jinyoung interrupts his companion’s lecture, peering at Jaebeom with unwavering, unblinking eyes. “I thought you wished to punish me?”

“I was going to—I mean, I wanted to…” Jinyoung watches Jaebeom very carefully, noting the frivolous nature of his typically cocky features and hidden message behind his gaze. If he knew any better, Jinyoung would actually believe there to be some shred of humanity left behind those dark irises. 

“But you couldn’t.” He finishes.

“Don’t think it means you’re off the hook for working with Tuan.” Jaebeom huffs while taking a few paces backward. Jinyoung opens his mouth to respond, but the hybrid’s hushed murmur emerges instead, “(Y/N) came by last week… to see you.” 

Jinyoung holds back a smile. “Did she now?... I suppose you told her about your change of heart then.” 

Jaebeom remains silent. 

“Jaebeom-hyung…” Jinyoung’s eyes flutter shut as an audible exhale blows past his lips, “You need to tell her.” 

“It won’t change anything.” Jaebeom says with a frown, “She made it very clear that she already hates me.” 

“(Y/N) is much different than others, hyung—” 

“What do I care anyway?” The hybrid tsks, his sullen expression transitioning into one of indifference. “She can hate me as much as she wants. I don’t give a shit.” 

“Hyung, please—”   

The shrill ring of a cell phone introduces a bout of silence. Jinyoung has never been so annoyed by modern technology since now, grabbing his phone with a less than pleased sigh. He eyes Jaebeom while lifting the device to his ear, wordlessly communicating that the conversation is far from over.

“Hello?”

“Jinyoung?... H-Hey, it’s me.” 

“(Y/N)?” Jinyoung’s annoyance completely dissipates at the sound of your quivering voice. He notices how Jaebeom also reacts to your audible presence through the stiffening of his broad shoulders. He shakes it off as unease from your previous encounter and focuses back onto you, “Are… you alright? You seem a bit stressed.” 

“Yeah, you can c-call it that…” Your inhale picks up over the line, and Jinyoung cannot help but grow concerned by its unusual heaviness. “You are not going to believe the shitty day I’ve had.” 

“What happened?” 

“Well, the barista at my campus cafe accidentally made my usual decaf, my boss is seeking revenge for my time off through hundreds of ungraded essays… and I was stabbed… with a pencil.” 

Jinyoung’s eyebrows furrow. “I apologize, but I don’t think I understand…” 

“Long story short, Jaebeom’s scary, yet incredibly sexy girlfriend paid me a visit and literally stabbed me with a fucking pencil—” Your explanation cuts out into a yelp, which is followed by an array of stuttered curses, “And it—shit—hurts like hell.” 

“I’m on my way right now” Jinyoung, heart racing and head spinning, forces himself to his feet and hurries back toward the manor—Jaebeom hightailing close behind, having picked up the entire conversation. 

Before Jinyoung can inquire more about your condition, Jaebeom snatches the phone from his grasp and lifts it to his own, “Where did she stab you?” 

“Jaebeom?... My-My side… The pencil is wedged between my ribs, I can’t get it out…” 

“Don’t worry about removing it. Just try to control the bleeding as best you can.” Jaebeom explains, “Jinyoung and I will be there soon.” 

“Wait! Why are you—” Your voice cuts out as Jaebeom ends the call. Jinyoung notices the whiteness of the hybrid’s knuckles as he silently returns his phone. If it were any other situation, Jinyoung would have brought up their chat from earlier, but your wellbeing is on the line.  He delivers his companion a dark glare. To his surprise though, Jaebeom’s expression mirrors that of pure, unadulterated anger. 

Jinyoung pinches the bridge of his nose before releasing a sigh, “Do I even wish to know why your mistress attacked (Y/N)?” 

“I’d like to know too,” Jaebeom scoffs, running a hand through his jet black locks, “considering I told her that (Y/N) was off limits.” 

“You find out then.” Jinyoung hisses, “Or I will deal with her myself, and I won’t be as kind.” 

“Oh, trust me.” Jinyoung can practically sense the murderous lust spilling from Jaebeom’s pitch black irises—far from the light of humanity. “Kindness is the last thing on my list right now, Jinyoungie.”  

 ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

“—and then she just acts all innocent! As if she did absolutely nothing wrong! I mean, what kind of self-serving, sadistic bitch does she think she is—Mark? Are you there?” 

“Huh?” Mark flutters his eyes open at the sound of his name. He blinks at his surroundings in confusion, still dazed from his abrupt wake-up call, before remembering his phone and the person currently speaking on the line: 

“Mark? Don’t tell me I put you to sleep?” 

“Nope, nope. I’m here.” Mark replies hurriedly, wiping the remnants of his nap from his eyes. “Luna’s a complete and total bitch, I got you.” 

Lia sighs, “Yuna, Mark. Not Luna.” 

With a silent yawn, he lifts his arms over his head and expels the kinks from his shoulders. Once his muscles are taunt and stretched, Mark releases a heavy exhale and murmurs, “I’m sorry, Lia. It’s just… been a long week.” 

“I get it, Mark.” She hums softly, “But I wish you wouldn’t stress so much about this. Minho made his choice, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” 

“I don’t believe that.” Mark rises from his chair before pacing across the room to the mausoleum’s lone window. He pulls the curtain aside, peering out at the vacant hills of the graveyard. “If he would just talk to me, then I’m sure we could figure something out.” 

Hundreds of phone calls later, and he still hasn’t spoken with Minho since the night he claimed to be leaving the coven. No one has. Not even Jisung. And Mark can’t figure out what’s bothering him more: the fact that Minho won’t pick up his phone, or that you have been purposely avoiding him for the last week. 

He’s trying to give both you and the young witch time—truly—but Mark can’t help but feel as if something is off. 

“Minho needs to figure out what he wants himself.” He forces himself away from the window, receding across the room to lean against the lectern as Lia goes on, “You can’t be there to hold his hand every time he goes through one of his moods. It’s not good for him or for you.” 

“What am I supposed to do then?” 

“Nothing, Mark. You do nothing.” 

Mark shakes his head, “You know I can’t do that.” 

“Just give Minho some more time to get it together.” Lia says, “He’ll come around eventually.” 

“I hope so.” Mark goes to grab his coffee mug from a nearby table, but accidentally knocks his elbow against the corner of the lectern. A mass of papers and books slide from its surface, crashing to the floor in a rather vocal descent. He releases a quiet curse, tucking his phone against his shoulder before lowering to the floor to begin tidying the mess. 

…How long does he have to wait until you come around?  

Lia continues to speak as he gathers the escaped pages, “Have you talked to Yugyeom lately? I heard that one of their wolves just up and disappeared.” 

“Yeah. That kid, Changbin.” He says, “Gyeom thinks he probably took off after our fight with the huntress. Remind you of someone?” 

“In this town? A lot of someones.” 

Mark goes to respond, but the title of a particular document clears the thoughts from his mind. Pushing aside a couple other pages, he grabs the flimsy packet before raising it into better view. At first, Mark is confused, unsure why this type of reference would be out and about. But as he surveys the other fallen objects, his confusion gradually shifts to realization… 

Then rage. 

He doesn’t bother to look up as the door opens, nor does he spare the puzzled newcomer a glance. Still clutching the document, Mark rises to his feet and takes the phone from his shoulder with his free hand. He pays his companion no mind as he quietly murmurs: 

“Do you mind if I call you later?” 

“Not at all. Just try to think about what I said.” 

Mark bids a final farewell to Lia before disconnecting the line. He takes a moment to drag a hand down his face before turning to a wide-eyed Youngjae. As soon as Mark raises the document into view, his expression immediately shifts to a panic. 

“So…” Mark tilts his head with a tight frown, “You want to explain why the hell you’re looking up resurrection spells?...” 

Youngjae shakes his head, “Hyung—”

“Explanation, Youngjae.” Mark watches the siphoner’s face shift through a rainbow of emotions. From terror, to anxiety, to dread, before finally settling on guilt. Keeping his gaze to the floor, Youngjae eventually delivers a shrug and whispers: 

“...To try to bring Jackson back.” 

Mark’s heart practically splits open. 

He stares at the younger witch with incredulous eyes. “Are you fucking stupid, Youngjae!?”  

“It looks bad, I know—” Youngjae hurries forward to stand in front of Mark and lifts his hand in good faith, “—but I’ve been doing a lot of research and experimenting with a couple spells and I really think that we can—”

“You aren’t thinking shit.” Mark spits, rounding toward the siphoner until their noses are a mere inch apart. “We don’t screw around with necromancy, Youngjae… It’s dark magic.” 

“We just have to find the right spell! (Y/N) and I are searching—” 

“(Y/N)? What does (Y/N) have to do with this?” 

Youngjae immediately closes his mouth, his eyes growing glassy in the evening light. 

It takes a second for the puzzle pieces to fit together—your inquiries about Jackson, Youngjae’s daily trips to the bookstore, your evasion—but once the realization hits, Mark feels his entire body go numb. 

Youngjae rushes forward to grab Mark’s arm, “Hyung, I’m so, so sorry! (Y/N) thought it would be better not to tell you, so I just—” 

Mark shrugs his hand away, refusing to meet Youngjae’s pleading gaze. “Get out.” 

“Just let me explain—”

“Get the fuck out!” A loud crash echoes throughout the mausoleum as Mark flings his mug across the room, causing the object to meet the opposite wall before shattering to a million tiny pieces. Youngjae doesn’t persist, grabbing his bag and beelining straight out the door. Mark pushes the sounds of the younger’s sobs from his mind as he goes, unable to see past the anger boiling inside his body. But even against all the rage, a sense of sadness remains at the forefront of his mind. 

His best friend betrayed him—again.

 ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

“You find and take care of (Y/N).” Jaebeom commands, slamming his car door shut with a little more force than necessary. Then again, he can’t seem to bring himself to care above the red-hot fury coursing through his veins like venom. He ignores the curious stares of a nearby group of female students and proceeds to move around the car, “I’ll catch up with you later.” 

“And where exactly are you going?” Jaebeom bites back a glare as Jinyoung halts his movements. His entire body thrums, as if physically yearning for vengeance, but he masks his temper with a sharp inhale and a promise to release his frustrations out later. 

He nods at his companion, “I’m going to do what I should have done before.” 

Jinyoung merely stares at him for a moment, and Jaebeom can only hope he can’t see past the bloodlust in his gaze. Fortunately, Jinyoung doesn’t question him further. He releases Jaebeom’s shoulder and delivers one final nod before turning in the direction of what both can only assume is your classroom. Jaebeom allows himself a moment to watch Jinyoung—his noble brother—sprint off to save the day—to save you. Again. 

Jaebeom swallows the bitterness accumulating in his chest and heads in his own direction. It won’t be hard to track her. He can already smell her Chanel perfume—she’s close by, he realizes. 

She wants him to find her. 

Sure enough, Jaebeom recognizes her silken auburn hair and Louis Vuitton coat beside a towering oak tree, staring down at her phone. He doesn’t bother to check if those students are still watching him and speeds over to his target’s perch. Even when he’s a mere few inches away, she continues to mindlessly scroll through her phone. Jaebeom’s anger grows when he notices the amused smirk etched across her pink lips. 

“It’s about time you showed up.” Tzuyu says, “You know how much I hate to wait.” 

“Give me one good reason not to rip your fucking head off right now.”

“Not even a ‘hello’?” 

Jaebeom growls, “You think this is a game?”

“Perhaps.” She raises her calm gaze to his own before offering a sultry smile. “Beautiful evening, isn’t it?” 

Her flirtations only add fuel to the outrage raging through his body. He speeds forward again, snatches her wrists and slams her smaller figure against the trunk of the tree behind them. Tzuyu winces at his aggressive movements, but Jaebeom feels no sympathy. Your trembling voice and pained breathing echoes in his ears like a siren, tempting him closer to the point of no return. 

It would be so easy to plunge his hand into her chest, to squeeze her heart until it's nothing but bloody ash. Or maybe he should tear her limbs off one by one, make her suffer until she’s begging him to end her—

“You really do care about her, don’t you?” Jaebeom awakens from his imaginary rampage at the question. Her usual smirk is no longer along her face, but instead replaced with a thoughtful frown. 

He growls, pressing her wrists further into the bark of the tree. “I told you to stay away from her. You said you wouldn’t touch her.” 

“I never thought I’d see the day the big, bad hybrid, Im Jaebeom falls for a human.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” His tone is quiet—murderous. “I’ll kill you.” 

“No. You won’t.” 

“Yes. I will.” 

“No, Jaebeom.” She shakes her head with a sigh, “If you kill me, (Y/N) will never forgive you.” 

As if she had taken a red hot iron and plunged it through his heart, Jaebeom lets go of the vampire and stumbles backward. He barely catches himself before he collapses to the ground, and even then, his legs feel like they’ll give out at any moment. 

Tzuyu, still leaning against the tree, tilts her head with a hum, “She’s a good one, Beom. I feel it… that aura that carries around her.” 

“Stop it—” 

“And it’s because she’s good that she’ll never belong to you.” She murmurs, “But you already know that… don’t you?” 

“You’re fucking sick.” Jaebeom hisses. 

To his surprise, Tzuyu’s expression softens. “I’m sorry, Jaebeom.” 

There’s too many emotions swirling through his mind. He can’t think—can’t breathe. His chest feels like it’s caving in on itself, and his hands won’t stop shaking. He can’t get your face out of his head—your beautiful eyes looking at him with such betrayal and hatred. It hurts. It hurts so much. Why won’t his hands stop fucking shaking? It’s too much. It’s all too much—

He can’t help it… He has to turn it off. 

A switch flips inside of his soul, immediately locking out every ounce of pain. His lungs inhale each new breath smoothly, and his limbs remain as still as a cat. With a clear head, Jaebeom returns his eyes to Tzuyu, who is still gazing at him with such tenderness and understanding. For a moment, the warmth of her gaze reminds him of you. 

Tzuyu cautiously takes a step forward, “Jaebeom…?” 

“You’re right.” He nods, “I’m not gonna kill you.”

“What are you—ah!” Her inquiry elevates into a scream as Jaebeom whirls forward and sinks his teeth into her shoulder. His fangs plunge through the fabric of her expensive coat before piercing deep into her flesh. She attempts to struggle, but he is stronger… and the damage has already been done.   

He pulls away, licking the blood from his lips as Tzuyu collapses to the ground. She clutches her wounded shoulder, staring up at him with eyes of betrayal, confusion and fright. 

“You… You bit me.” 

Jaebeom smirks, “I suggest you spend the next day or so wisely… it’s going to be your last.” 

Tzuyu’s expression turns rabid. She scrambles to her feet before sneering at the hybrid, “The sooner you learn to accept your fate, Jaebeom, the sooner you’ll find peace—” 

“Meh. Fate’s overrated.” 

“Just remember this—” The vampire growls, “—after you turned me, you murdered the love of my life… at least I had the kindness to keep yours alive.” 

He snickers, turning to leave. However, just before he takes a step, Jaebeom throws one final comment over his shoulder, “Thanks for all the sex.” 

With that, Jaebeom smirks to himself and saunters off into the glow of the setting sun. 

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

Jinyoung rushes down the hallway, careful not to speed for fear of running into a professor or student working after hours. The fragrance of your blood builds with each step, and he can’t help but grow more concerned with that knowledge. At the very least, he can still hear the faint beating of your heart. 

He follows the scent past a couple corners and down another long corridor to a massive, dim lecture room. Fearing the worst, Jinyoung quickly steps through the doorway before immediately spotting your incapacitated form through the darkness propped up against the opposite wall. He doesn’t hesitate to speed across the room and kneel in front of you. You’re unconscious, he realizes, but breathing—that’s enough to lift the heavy weight from his chest. 

“(Y/N)?” He calls gently, lifting his hands to cradle your face in his palms. “Come back to me, my dear… Please.” 

“Jinyoung?...” He’s never been more grateful to hear the sound of his name until now. Your eyes flutter open and dart around the area before drowsily settling on Jinyoung. The vampire in question breathes a sigh of relief, caressing the apple of your cheek with his thumb. 

“There you are.” He murmurs, “How do you feel?” 

“Like I was stabbed…” You raise an eyebrow before peering down at the pencil protruding from your abdomen, “Well, would you look at that.” 

Jinyoung holds back a smile at your sarcasm, appreciating that even wounded, you still manage to bear your usual fiery charm. His own eyes turn down to the object jabbed within your waist. He carefully analyzes the damage, determining the best possible solution to its extraction. As you said on the call, the pencil itself is trapped inside your ribcage. Jinyoung will have to be careful not to accidentally fracture your bones. 

He bites the inside of his cheek before returning his attention back to you. “I need to remove it, but it’s going to be painful. Very painful.” 

You roll your eyes, “It will also hurt a lot less when it’s out. I can handle it.” 

“I know you can.” 

Jinyoung keeps his gaze connected to yours as he wraps his fingers around the wood of the pencil, taking extra care not to brush against the swollen skin of the lesion. Your expression remains fatigued, yet indifferent during his preparation. He waits for your nod before he continues. 

In order to prevent as much further damage and to make it as painless as possible, Jinyoung removes the pencil as quickly as he can. Your furrowed brow and teary eyes slice at his soul, but he doesn’t stop until the object is completely taken out. Once it's free, Jinyoung tosses the pencil into a nearby trash can, pulls the sweater from his body and utilizes the garment to cover your slightly bleeding wound. He ignores the crimson of your blood staining his fingers, instead lifting his clean arm to his mouth before biting down. 

“What… are you doing?” 

“My blood will heal you.” Jinyoung answers, offering forth his bloody wrist. “It’s how I saved you after your assault in the alleyway.” 

“If I die with your blood in my system, won’t I become a vampire?” 

“You aren’t going to die.” 

You shake your head, pushing away his wrist. “Thanks for the offer, but I’d rather not risk anything.” 

“At least allow me to bring you to the hospital then.” He insists, “You’ve lost quite enough blood for one day.” 

Jinyoung curses at the mischievous smirk that spreads along your lips. “You have got to stop saving my life.” 

“Stop putting yourself in danger, and there would be no need for me to.” 

“Last I checked, I had no idea Vampire Victoria Secret was gonna show up and stab me with a fucking writing utensil.” You snort, gesturing over to your desk, “Grab my stuff before we go, please.” 

Just as you requested, Jinyoung goes about gathering your laptop and assorted belongings before sliding them into your bag. One book, however, catches his attention. For a moment, he pauses to stare at the title, then flips open the cover. His mouth runs dry when he discovers numerous pages of notes in your handwriting. 

Jinyoung closes the book before turning back to you, who is struggling to climb to your feet. He moves to help you, stabilizing your body against the wall while asking, “Why are you researching necromancy?” 

“It’s a long story.” You inhale deeply, “But to keep it short… Youngjae and I are going to try to resurrect Jackson Wang.”

At the mention of the alpha werewolf, Jinyoung’s muscles grow stiff. He stares at your face, attempting to read the stars in your dreary irises. After what seems like a long moment of silence, he eventually speaks, albeit quietly, “You understand resurrecting someone from the dead is no simple task… Why would you even attempt such a thing?” 

Your expression softens. “Because Jackson didn’t deserve to die, Jinyoung. The pack lost their leader—Mark lost his best friend.” 

“Resurrection is a dangerous craft, (Y/N).”

“Not if we find the right spell.” You argue, throwing your bag over your shoulder with a sharp inhale. “I know it sounds bat-shit crazy, but I have to try, Jinyoung. For Jackson and for Mark.”

Jinyoung inhales a heavy gust, before releasing an even heavier breath. He curses himself at being so affected by the hope in your eyes. Your determination is too alluring—you are too alluring. 

“I have a collection of grimoires kept by a coven of Dutch witches who specialized in necromancy back in the 15th century.” He finally says, “I will gift them to you as long as you grant me one request.”

Your eyes immediately brighten. “Of course. What do you need me to do?” 

Jinyoung grabs your hands. “I want you to forgive my brother.” 

“Jinyoung—“

“After you left, Jaebeom fed me his blood.” He explains, “He cured the werewolf venom, so I wouldn’t have to suffer.”

Your face first contorts to confusion, then to Jinyoung’s surprise, guilt. “He didn’t tell me…” 

“As I told you, Jaebeom has a good heart.” His lips upturn into a sad smile, “He just… has difficulty revealing that side of himself to others.” 

With that, Jinyoung carefully gathers your body into his arms. He manages to cover your soiled clothes with your jacket before heading for the door. 

“It is your choice. I will give you the grimoires no matter what you decide.” 

Jinyoung’s heart leaps when your head collapses against his chest, right over where his heart proceeds to race. Judging by your silence, he expects your mind to have descended into unconsciousness once more, but is pleasantly surprised when your slurred voice reaches his ears, “Hey, Jinyoung?” 

“Yes?” 

“Thanks for saving me. Again.” 

Jinyoung smiles, “It was my pleasure, (Y/N).”

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

“Such a fucking idiot!...” Youngjae hisses, stomping his way past gravestones and monuments through the light of the setting sun. Usually, he would stop to appreciate such a beautiful moment in nature, but his mind is too preoccupied with thoughts of remorse and anger. 

Youngjae knew better than to keep something like this from Mark. His heart immediately drops when he thinks back to the older witch’s furious outburst—Youngjae hasn’t seen him that angry in a long time. Not since Jackson was alive.

He shakes the thought from mind. He should have never agreed to your idea in the first place. Jackson Wang is dead. And he can’t be brought back. End of story. 

A faint murmur of voices awakens Youngjae from his self-loathing. He hadn’t realized how deep he has traveled into the forest until now, so deep that he’s very close to the shore of the bay. His curiosity expands when he notices a strange light emitting from behind a group of closely placed trees. Against his better judgement, Youngjae decides to investigate. 

The nearer he approaches the site, the louder the voices grow. With a closer view, Youngjae can barely make out two figures conversing in front of a large bonfire. Due to the shadows of tree cover, he can’t recognize their faces, but something about their voices seems familiar to him… 

“You’re sure this is going to work?” 

“I’ve been planning this for years. There’s no way it won’t.” 

“Doesn’t this spell need a crazy amount of power?” 

“There will be a blood moon tomorrow night.” Youngjae watches as one of the figures retreats to the opposite side of the fire. If he is a bit closer, he might be able to catch a glimpse of his face. “I will have more than enough power to complete the transformation.” 

“And it won’t kill me? The transformation?” 

“You sound like you’re having second thoughts…” 

“I’m not!” The second figure insists, “The Primes deserve to pay for what they’ve done.” 

“And pay they will.” Youngjae’s blood runs cold as he finally gains sight of one of the figures. “The Primes and Mark Tuan.” 

“Holy shit—” Youngjae moves to make a mad dash back through the forest, but just as he takes a step backwards, his foot catches a large divot in the earth. He crashes to the ground with a faint yelp, cursing the new ache in his ankle. Panic skyrockets through his veins at the sound of approaching footsteps. Even against the slight pain, Youngjae manages to force himself to his feet, ready to make a break for it, but a broad chest halts his movements. 

Youngjae’s heart stops when he meets the gaze of Changbin, the temperamental omega from the werewolf pack. 

He smirks, “Your mother ever tell you it’s rude to eavesdrop?” 

Youngjae hisses, “Screw you.” 

Changbin remains unbothered. “What should we do with him?” 

“Well… we can’t have him warning anyone of our plans.” Minho comes into view, wearing a similar smirk to that of the werewolf. “And besides, he might turn out to be pretty useful to us.” 

“Why are you doing this!?” Youngjae demands as Changbin shoves him back to the ground. “Are you that desperate for revenge that you’d actually kill Mark-hyung!?” 

Minho shakes his head, “I’m not gonna kill him. That special gift is reserved for the Primes.” He chuckles, before lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “I’m just gonna take back what I rightfully deserve…” 

Youngjae sneers at the witch, “You’re a fucking traitor! A sick, selfish—” 

The siphoner immediately grows silent when Changbin lands a harsh hit against his cheek. At the heavy impact, Youngjae goes flying to the earth and doesn’t rise again. 

Changbin glances at Minho, “You sure about all this?” 

Minho only smirks. 

“I’m dead sure.”

[sleep-i-ness]

My Saviour (Tony Stark x reader)

Blurb: Y/N is going to die. That she’s sure of. Now is the wait, ten feet under a collapsed building, waiting for it to finally give way.

Prompts: “I am being extremely clever up here and there’s no one to stand around looking impressed. What’s the point in having you all?” 

CW: Mentions of death and dying, injury

A/N: This is my entry for @thefanficfaerie​‘s writing challenge, I am so sorry it’s late! Back to school and all that

The ceiling’s about to go. You need to get out of there NOW. Everything changes the mission Y/N thinks she’s going to die. Sure, there had been a few close calls every now and then but never like this. Trapped under a collapsed 7-storey building, with dust still settling around her and ominous creaks echoing around the small space. And, how could she forget, with the team’s biggest ego for company.

The day started early, if she could even say ‘started’ when Stark had kept her up in the labs with him, well past her usual bedtime. Cap had tried to insist, yet again, that she joined him on his ‘invigorating’ morning jog, despite the fact that she had nowhere near the stamina of a super soldier and that she was running on eleven cups of black coffee (adding milk had ended up taking too much time when the exhaustion was kicking in again) and spite. Her spite, she decided, was what was going to get her out of this mess.

At the bright and early time of 10am, Stark had stumbled out of his bedroom, having actually gone to bed instead of being pressured into joining a training session. Well, he didn’t really need to train; the suit was his manpower. Unlike the rest of them, he didn’t need to keep in shape, other than to pick up women at whatever posh event he went to. Which was unfortunately never kept a secret from her, as for some reason, whilst her floor (why did she need a whole bloody floor?) was being decorated/renovated, she was in a room directly adjacent to Stark’s. One thing he’d apparently forgotten to invest in was soundproofing.

Soon after Stark had deigned to join them at their Team Breakfast, which, according to Rogers, was an Important Bonding Session, Fury had decided to give them a call. And with Fury it was never a catch-up call, which would be nice, once in a while, now that she thought about it. Or maybe not, she dreaded seeing the man for mission briefings, she wasn’t sure if he had the capability of acting like a normal human. Oh God. Imagine Fury having brunch. She wasn’t sure if her hysterical thought stream was due to the dust fumes, lack of oxygen, undiagnosed claustrophobia kicking in, or perhaps a torturous combination of all three.

Anyway, this impromptu call was due to a SHIELD mission that had gone sideways and so the Avengers were being called in to clean up the mess. Well, considering their track record, she had been betting that more mess would be made than sorted out. It was meant to be a smallish HYDRA base with few soldiers, but more than the agents already sent in were able to handle. All she could say was that wherever Fury got his information from was seriously wrong and he needed to reconsider his sources.

Stark had groaned when the mission had come up, already complaining that they weren’t the clean-up team. He had waved at the mission file onscreen, gestured again for dramatic effect and then settled into making snide remarks for the rest of the briefing. As usual. She had an inkling that Stark just really liked the sound of his own voice or was compensating for something with sarcastic comments.

At least Steve got to use his catchphrase, yet again. ‘Avengers Assemble!’ Which was quickly wearing old and she had tried to suggest something else. Like “Let’s Get Dressed!” or “Mission Muster!”, but neither had quite the ring and, to be honest, she’d just run the original through a synonym generator. God, if any of their fans heard her complaints, she was sure she’d be butchered alive in a riveting ‘debate’ on Twitter. Apparently, they liked the cheesiness.

The first spot of bother they’d gotten into, or, well, Y/N had gotten into, was when she’d found out that her suit hadn’t finished downloading the upgrades so she would have to use her original. Her original consisted of a latex and Kevlar suit that she’d hand-stitched together. That had been back when she’d first realised that she could actually make a difference in the shitty area of town she lived in. Spares weren’t a thing for the Avengers and Stark had made sure to mock its ‘home-made chic’ feel. Well, not everyone headed a multimillion-dollar corporation when they decided to become a ‘hero’.

She still wouldn’t describe herself as a hero. She was just a girl who, instead of getting a prison sentence for aggravated assault and destruction of property, had been picked up by SHIELD. They’d seen something in her that she’d never once seen looking back at her in the mirror. After months of training and little missions, she’d been chucked headfirst into the dark stuff, fucked up a psych eval and ended up being pulled from field duty. Barton had trained with her while they were both out of active duty and vouched for her once he’d been cleared, jeopardising his job as an agent and an Avenger, for her, which she couldn’t thank him more for. Fury, not knowing what to do for once, had shoved her into a team that was only just starting to bond with each other. They hadn’t needed a barely-adult, not psych-cleared agent pushed into their hands. But they’d taken her in without complaint all the same.

The second spot of bother was the hundred or so men who had been firing at them from all angles, not the expected twenty or thirty. Stark had flown in and gunned ten or so down in his bulletproof suit, but even that hadn’t been enough to make the fight easy. Barton was perched up a tree, true to his nickname as usual, and was taking out man after man, but one replaced the other as soon as they fell.  

And because all things come in threes, there had been a third spot of bother. It had been when the control room collapsed due to an exploding arrow that Barton had refused to admit to, and the central structure’s integrity had been compromised. She had gone in on the intelligence gathering mission and the stupid program had completed 84% of the download. So, she had assured her teammates that she’d wait for it to finish and then get the fuck out of there. But she hadn’t had time. And so that brought her up to now, in a tiny space, feeling more and more squashed by the minute. Rubble clattered down above her every so often and the space would gradually shift as the weight on top of it increased. She just hoped SHIELD found her before she was completely crushed. If they were even looking for them.

“Y/N?” Stark’s voice was hoarse from the dust, even his suit must’ve been unable to filter it all out. She frowned; she was sure that it had its own oxygen supply. Perhaps it had been damaged when he’d zoomed in as the building collapsed around them, professing that he would save her. Fat lot of good he’d been. As the floor had caved in beneath her feet and the ceiling collapsed simultaneously, he hadn’t even reached her before she’d fallen in the sinkhole that had opened up. She’d always said that constructing a tall building on top of earth riddled with secret passages was just asking for trouble.

“Yes?” Irritation bled through as she tried to keep her tone civil and sweet, but the circumstances were definitely not ideal for her mood. And she’d had barely any sleep. Which was arguably thanks to him, and no, she still hadn’t forgiven him for it.

“Okay, good, just checking you were alive.”

She rolled her eyes at that answer. What if she’d been unconscious? She’d still be alive. No need to pester her just for that. “Well, how are you going to get us out of here?”

Stark was silent. For once in his life, he finally had nothing to say. She would applaud herself on such an accomplishment, but she was busy trying not to lose her temper. He was meant to be the genius, the one with a plan for everything, and she knew that was a lot of pressure to put on him. But she’d really like to believe that she wouldn’t be in this situation if it wasn’t for him.

“I’m…” He hesitated, light flickering feebly through the rocks between them. “Having some difficulties with the suit. JARVIS, why don’t you tell her?”

The monotonous voice came through clearly, albeit a bit tinny over the speakers. Although she’d read plenty about the AI when creating her own suit and then promptly dismissed the idea that she would ever be able to do the same, it was still weird how omniscient he seemed. It made her skin crawl, the idea that she had no privacy, even in her own bedroom. “Suit’s capabilities are down by 62%. Weapons status – missiles offline, repulsors limited power. Damage has been sustained severely on the chest piece as well as the helmet and left shin pieces.”

Her mouth dropped; she hadn’t expected it to be this bad. Sure, a damaged chest piece she could’ve guessed, because that would have affected the suit’s oxygen supply, but the power source must have also been damaged. “Can you clear some more space, or get us into the same area? Maybe if we can access the equipment that was in the control room…”

“On it. JARVIS, scan the rubble for equipment and structurally sound areas.”

From where she was sat, nothing seemed to be happening. Even the lights from his suit had dimmed considerably, causing her to squint to try and make out various shapes in the fallen rock. The almost silent creaking around her were amplified in the darkness and she shivered, a cold trickle of dread running down her spine. She’d always hated just waiting for something to happen, knowing that it was going to but not when or how.

The raspy static of comms was incessant in her ear as she strained to hear of any movement or updates on their situation from Stark’s position. Nothing. God, she hoped he hadn’t been physically injured. She forgot that he was just a man beneath all that metal. Nothing superhuman or enhanced or specially trained from too sheng of an age.

“Y/N.” Stark’s voice was urgent and low, a light hiss through the dust filled air. “There’s someone else down here. JARVIS is detecting enough of a heat signature for them to still be alive.”

A gentle groan made her freeze, hair prickling on the back of her neck. She turned her head ever so slightly to the left, peering into the pitch-black darkness. Blinking furiously, she soon realised that there was no difference between when her eyes were shut and open.

“Hello?” A familiar voice called out and she sighed, face relaxing from its grimace.

“Barton?”

“Y/N? I thought you got out?” He coughed, wheezing dust and she winced at the harsh sound, chest clenching painfully in sympathy.

She chuckled bitterly, “Yeah, nope, Tony also got stuck down here.”

A loud thump startled her, rubble tumbling down as a metal support beam snapped under the strain of the weight. Inhaling and exhaling slowly to calm her mounting nerves, she curled her arms over her head, hoping that she’d survive this. Time seemed to slow as the seconds, minutes, possibly even hours ticked by. Nothing more to do than ponder the situation and any and every scenario that could come of it.

Crash. She jolted as the ground beneath her trembled, sucking in a quick breath. This was it. This was the end. Closing her eyes, she sent out a prayer to whatever god was out there, anyone who could help her. Hoping it would be swift and painless.

Cool metal brushed against her face, and her eyes flashed open. The icy white glow lit up the dust-filled air in front of her and she choked back a sob of relief, pressing a hand over her mouth. Tony shushed her softly as he heaved a large slab of stone out of the way, sending tiny particles of rock down onto her. They bounced off her face and she whimpered, biting down hard enough on her bottom lip to draw blood.

The shredded metal of his arms slid under her, catching at her clothes as he pulled her into his chest. Cradling her in his arms, he plodded into a spacious cavern, each step followed by creaking joints. The stone was cold against her back as he propped her against the central mound, her head lolling back.

He popped his visor open, eyes lit by a blue glow as he stared at her intently, a flicker of worry dancing behind his eyes. “Are you okay?”

She was sure that he’d already asked her that but couldn’t find it in herself to bite a remark at him. In fact, she couldn’t even remember why she’d been so pissed off at him before, her annoyance swept away by the pure elation of still being alive.

“I’m fine.” At his sceptical look, she sighed. Nothing was broken or injured too badly, although she hadn’t really had time to think hard enough about it. That was all that was necessary. “Don’t worry about me, Tin Man, focus on getting us out of here. You need to help Barton out first.”

Before too long, Tony had returned, placing Clint down beside her. She knelt over him, guided by the light from Tony’s suit and held back a gasp. Brushing hair off of his pale and sweaty face, her nimble fingers ran over the bruised and battered flesh of his leg and she grimaced. He hissed at the sharp stabbing pain, the ghostly touch still too much pressure.

“Is that what heaven’s like? What did I do right to get a girl as pretty as you looking after me?” Clint’s words were slurred as he tried to crack a grin and ease her worries. She chuckled, as Tony clomped round to see what was happening.

“Don’t be getting too comfortable, Barton. Anyone can get a squashed leg.” Tony’s words were snide, and she clicked her tongue in disapproval.

“Stop it.”

“I wasn’t doing anything,” Tony protested. She could hear the pout in his voice.

“Go work on getting us out of here.” For the first time since the beginning of the mission, she felt hope. She knew it was a dangerous emotion. It had been ingrained deep into her mind that hope was dangerous, that it should be stifled. But she wanted to believe that Tony would find them a way out, that they wouldn’t die with only each other for company in a deep, dark cavern, waiting for the ceiling to collapse on them.

The sharp scraping of metal against metal as he moved away was painful and she winced. His suit was in a bad state, but she hoped it would last the whole ordeal.

Clint’s rambling startled her from her thoughts. “You really look like an angel, Y/N. Maybe this is God’s gift for this injury.”

“Yeah, well, next time you want my attention, you don’t have to go this far,” she laughed, wiping the grime that had settled into his skin. “My standards aren’t so high that I need a guy to have injuries severe enough to possibly warrant amputation.”

Clint groaned painfully, before trying to play it off. “You mean, I didn’t have to do all this. Well, darn it.” She laughed again, giving him a sympathetic grin as he winced yet again. His leg was a blotchy mess of colours and she swallowed harshly.

She jumped as Tony’s voice echoed around the cavern. “I am being extremely clever up here and there’s no one to stand around looking impressed. What’s the point in having you all?” She grinned up at where he stood. Under his blindingly-fast fingers was what had turned out to be the main console, and she assumed he was rerouting message signals and finding a secure escape route. “Well, I’ve found us a way out. But I’ll only take you if you promise not to flirt so sickeningly.”

“Stark, are you jealous?” Clint’s incredulous voice came from beside her, tinged with agony.

Tony scoffed, his face disappearing into darkness as the blue light from the screens shut off. “No. As if.”

“Well,” she piped up, noting with delight how Tony’s head snapped towards her. “Tony, let me just warn you that you don’t need to get your leg squashed if you want my attention. I don’t need another injury on my conscience.”

“Aw, no, there goes my plan on how to win you over. Come on, I’ll carry Robin Hood and you follow me.”

The route was a dingy corridor that was lit by flickering electric bulbs that looked as if they hadn’t been replaced since the 40s. “Soft light incandescent bulbs.” Tony had noted as she passed under the first ones.

By the time she had reached the manhole cover that signalled the exit of the seemingly-endless tunnel, she weren’t sure if her legs would be able to support her much further. The startlingly bright light streaming into the tunnel made her smile, a great beaming grin as she felt the sun on her face after what had felt like days.

“Come on, sweetheart. Up you come. I’ve already signalled the team, and they’re on their way. We just need to sit tight for a bit.” Tony hauled her up, next to where Clint lay, leg even more gruesome in the light. She stumbled on the uneven ground, falling forward as her foot caught on a loose stone.

Strong arms wrapped around her waist, hugging her into him. She grinned up at Tony and leant against his chest plate, relaxing into the arm that he slung around her. 

“My saviour,” she giggled, suddenly anxious at their close proximity. She didn’t know why. She’d never felt so antsy in his presence before, but something about the way he was looking at her made her heart beat faster and her breath stop.

“So,” Tony let out a nervous breath. “I know I didn’t get injured for you, but how about we still go on a date at some point?”

She smiled softly. “I’d love that.”

-

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Hold Your Breath – Chapter Three: A Strong Brew - Draco Malfoy

-gif source unknown-

Description: After decisions put you on opposite side of the war, returning to Hogwarts to finish your education proves to be challenging. Maybe closure isn’t the only thing you need from Draco.

Warnings/Labels: Tension. Lots of tension.

Approx. Word Count: 3,400

A/N: Okay… I reference “a foot” as a measurement of length here. I’m sorry. I’m American. I know it’s wrong. But a meter was too long and saying 30cm just sounds so specific. Please don’t skewer me.

Story Masterpost

October 1998

You sit in Headmistress McGonagall’s office the next day, wringing your hands in your lap and feeling small. You had no intentions of leaving your room today and had intended on staying in bed wallowing in your sadness. A summons from McGonagall put a pin in that plan however. You must admit, even though walking through the halls had been daunting, it did make you feel better to at least put on fresh clothes and wash your face.

McGonagall rounds her desk after shutting her office door and stands next to her chair instead of sitting in it. You take a breath, strangely nervous, and look up to her. Her face is fairly expressionless, but her eyes are soft.

“You have Hogwarts’ and my personal apologies for what happened at the ball,” she tells you sincerely. “The behavior that boy displayed was unacceptable and there are quite serious repercussions in process.” You give a small appreciative smile, but lower your head down again. Honestly, you didn’t want such a fuss to be made. It makes disappearing quite difficult. “We want you to know you have the full support of the Hogwarts staff and your efforts in the war are not forgotten nor minimalized.” Her voice is stern, but compassionate and while you feel as though you don’t deserve the praise, it does give you a little bit of validation which takes a little bit of weight off of you.

“Thank you.” Your voice is sheepish, but you at least look up to meet her eyes as you speak.

“Is there anything we can do for you?” she asks kindly. You take a moment to think, eyes darting side to side for a moment, feeling like you should have some kind of an answer.

“I don’t think so,” you say finally. Before she can speak, a knock on her door interrupts.

“Come in,” she beckons. You hear the door open, but don’t look back, not particularly interested in seeing who has entered. That is, until she greets, “Ah, Mister Malfoy. Please step in.”

The look on his face when you turn around is something between irritation and forced complacency. You notice a bandage on his right hand, but he shifts it closer to his side and tries to keep it out of view. You turn back in your seat and focus on your hands again.

“Madam Pomfrey assured me your hand will heal by the end of the day.” She nods her chin towards him as he approaches her desk to stand at the empty chair next to you. “Mister Dolohov’s face, however, will unfortunately have remaining bruising for some time due to a sudden shortage of arnica.”

Wait a moment. Did Draco hit Dolohov? You glance to Draco just in time to see him look away from you and avoid your questioning eyes. You take another look at his hand, the bandage around the knuckles. He did, didn’t he? But why?

“You understand we do not condone violence of any kind, even for altruistic reasons.” Her tone is stern, but there’s something in it that lacks the powerful scolding nature the words demand. In fact, she sounds even a little bored with the lecture. She hadn’t sounded particularly remorseful about Dolohov’s bruising either. “Therefore, you will be given two detentions each week for four consecutive weeks which will be served out in the library under my supervision.” Draco sighs heavily and barely contains an eye roll.

“Yes ma’am,” he says arbitrarily.

“Now,” she snaps at him, clearly not amused with his lack of respect. “As you understand I am a busy woman with a school to run and may not always be able to attend your detentions in person.” There’s a sly undertone despite her stony expression. “I expect that at these times, you will behave properly and serve your detention out on your own.” Both you and Draco catch up to her at the same time. Detention without supervision? Clearly just a formality. “Do you understand?”

“Yes ma’am,” he repeats in a much more respectful manner now that he realizes he’s not actually being scolded.

“Try not to punch anyone else if you can help it,” is her dismissal to him before she looks back to you. “Are you sure there’s nothing more we can do for you?” she asks in a much gentler tone. You simply shake your head, still trying to process the evening itself, let alone the apparent news of Draco punching the boy. “If anyone troubles you further, please don’t hesitate to let us know.”

Draco leaves first with you trailing behind. You feel as though you should thank him or at least say something to acknowledge what he did. It was an act of chivalry, even if it was a violent one. It was a protective gesture. Could he possibly still care about you? Or did he just feel personal offense since he also bears your same mark?

“Draco,” you call to him before he’s able to hurry himself away.

“What?” he snaps bitterly as he spins on his toes back to you, face full of irritation and impatience. The gratitude sputters and dies on your tongue and you feel yourself draw back with pause.

“Nothing,” you sigh. “Nevermind.” There’s a small shake of his head and an angry eye roll before he twists back around and whisks himself away.

~~~

November 1998

The chatter and fascination with what happened at the ball calms down a lot faster than you expected. Dolohov was put on a strict probation and not allowed to use magic unless supervised by a professor. The opinion of his punishment was split amongst the students. Many thought it was too harsh for such a small prank. You were surprised to hear how many people had agreed it was fitting, however. Granted, they weren’t necessarily concerned about you as a person, but agreed that bullying in general was intolerable and severe punishment was warranted.

Jane, the girl from the dance who has become increasingly friendly towards you, walks you to potions this morning. She doesn’t loop her arm with yours like Ginny normally does, but she stands close enough and talks directly to you, making it very obvious that she is with you. You appreciate it. The halls are much easier to walk with a friend.

She leaves you with a wave and a smile and a little bit of hope that today will be a good day. That hope is broken when Slughorn announces the assignment for today; a partner project. You know what’s coming next because whatever God existed out there clearly has it in for you. There’s exactly zero surprise in you when he pairs you with Draco, only dread and defeat.

Everyone stands from their seats to shift around and sit next to their partners. It’s obvious Draco has no intention of moving from his original seat, so you gather your things and approach him. The bastard doesn’t even look at you. You give a huff and noisily sit down to his left, scraping your chair deliberately along the floor as you scoot in. He still doesn’t look over to you.

Two potions, one grade. That is the assignment. You can either work together to ensure a good grade or you can work alone, one on each potion, and just hope the other doesn’t mess theirs up. Judging by the way Draco slides the recipe for the Calming Draught across the table to you, you assume you’re going with the second option.

The rest of the classroom is filled with reasonable chatter as the other pairs discuss their assigned potions and how to handle them. It makes the silence coming from Draco all the more noticeable, but you push through it.

It’s about halfway through the lesson when your potion turns a dull grey and has a sickly smell permeating from it. You’ve clearly done something wrong. You rifle through your notes, the recipe, your potions book, trying desperately to figure out what went wrong.

“Merlin’s beard! Stop stirring it!” Draco hisses besides you. You look to your cauldron dumbly, not even having realized you’d forgotten to end the enchantment on your wooden spoon so it continues to spin round and round. You grab the spoon and snatch it out of the cauldron, embarrassed by the mistake. “You always were rubbish with potions,” he comments snidely.

“Rubbish at potions, dreadful at charms,” you say mostly to yourself, staring at the ruined potion with disdain. “Is there anything I’m not terrible at?” He gives an annoyed sigh at your side and then quickly stands to leave. You glance at his potion while he’s gone and of course, it has that indicative silver vapor floating up from his perfectly brewed Draught of Peace.

Your shoulders slouch and you put your face in your hands. Perhaps you could find some satisfaction from taking Draco’s grade down with you. Serves him right for being a prat.

There’s a clatter on the table in front of you and when you remove your hands from your face, you see ingredients splayed out on the table. You look at Draco quizzically as he starts to open the bottle containing lavender.

“I don’t fancy a failing grade today,” he tells you sharply. “Make yourself useful and measure out the peppermint.” He pushes another bottle to you before coming back around the table to sit in his chair. You expect him to pull the cauldron towards him in order to take over, but instead he moves his chair closer to you in order to reach it. You try not to look at him or pay attention to how close he is as he uses his wand to clear the contents. “Let’s not use a stirring enchantment like a first year this time.”

“Are you going to mock me the whole time?” you snap at him as you do your part and carefully put the peppermint sprigs on the scale.

“Only when you deserve it.” His reply makes your skin prickle and an anger bubble in you, but it fades rather quickly when he briefly looks at you from the side of his eye and his lips just barely turn upwards from his scowl. It’s a phrase you’ve said to him many times over the years, sometimes seriously and sometimes friendly or flirtatiously. And he’s repeating it back to you, making a callback to your friendship. You have no words for him.

You’d imagined saying that sentence in a completely different manner before. You’d had fantasies of him beneath you, begging for release and you kissing along his skin teasingly. Only when you deserve it. You never had a chance to attempt making that fantasy anything more than that, having only been with him the one time, but that didn’t stop your mind from conjuring the image up periodically. It has been quite some time since it resurfaced, but now that it’s there again, it’s hard to shake.

When you don’t offer him a reply, Draco returns to the potion, taking the peppermint from you and crushing it with the mortar. You feel as though you should have said something, should have acknowledged that his reference was not unwanted, but you can’t bring yourself to find anything appropriate to say.

“Measure these again,” he instructs, handing the mortar with the peppermint back to you. “After they’re crushed, you typically lose a little bit of weight. Usually not enough to make a difference, but every bit counts when the potion brewer is incompetent.” It’s said much more sharply than his last jab and you straighten your back, trying not to let it hurt you.

“Seeing as how you’re the one doing all the work so far, I am assuming you’re referring to your own incompetence,” you quip back at him. He leans back in his chair comfortably and fans his hand over the table.

“If you want to do it yourself, by all means, give it a try.” Bristling at his challenge, you huff and face the table fully with determination. You will not let him be so satisfied.

You dump the peppermint into the cauldron and pick up the jar of pre-mixed base liquids. You struggle momentarily with the lid, but manage to get it off without making a fool of yourself or spilling the contents everywhere. Chin held high, you begin to pour the jar on top of the peppermint. Draco’s hand is suddenly covering yours, holding onto you and titling the jar back up. The contact startles you, your body giving a small jolt as he puts a hand on the back of your chair and leans in near you.

“Slower,” he commands, his voice almost a whisper this close to you. “It’s a Calming Draught. If you rush it, it doesn’t work.” He guides your hand, directing the liquid to flow languidly from the jar. “Better.” You can feel his breath just barely reach your neck. His arm is outstretched, nearly outlining your own and his chest bumps into your shoulder. He’s practically cradling you into him and you’re not entirely sure how you feel about it.

The warmth of his body is familiar. Your body remembers what it feels like to have his arms wrap around you, to hold you tight and give you comfort or pleasure. Your arm tingles at the memory of his fingertips gliding down your skin, intertwining his fingers with yours. You remember it, feel it, all too easily.

But there’s still that anger, the resentment that fights the warm, good feelings. It puts a block up and prevents the threat of euphoria rushing in. It’s the thing stopping you from turning your head to look at him which you’re fairly certain ran a high risk of ending up with his lips on yours. Instead, you focus on your breathing, on calming your racing heart.

When the jar is empty, Draco releases your hand and the jar, pulling away and leaving the space beside you with an empty chill. He crosses steps off of the recipe with a quill before tipping the feather towards the cauldron.

“Stir it five times. That’s all,” he instructs, seemingly oblivious to what his presence had done to you.

“Slowly?” you confirm, somewhat surprised your voice didn’t quake. He hums and nods approvingly, but keeps his focus on the recipe.

He continues to direct you on what ingredients to add when and how many times to stir the concoction. He’s firm in his instructions, but the jabs have ceased at least. He’s also keeping his distance and remaining in his chair, away from your personal space. And that… makes you anxious somehow.

You find yourself wondering if he’ll come back and when. Any movement he makes, you feel yourself tense up with anticipation, but he doesn’t come any closer than he already is. What’s more is that you recognize the tension is not unpleasant. You aren’t dreading his warmth. You’re craving it.

You glance down. There’s absolutely no more than a foot of space between your chairs. Almost unconsciously, you uncross your legs and shift your right one to shorten the empty space. It’s not enough to touch him and you take a moment to contemplate if you even want to. If he’s allowed to touch you, to get into your space, shouldn’t you be allowed the same?

You twist your hips towards him, planting your foot firmly in the space between the chairs’ front legs. You put your weight on it and lift up from your chair, reaching across the table in front of him to pick up a piece of parchment with notes on it that you don’t particularly need nor want. Your knee bumps into his and your sudden arrival into his personal bubble seems to shock him ever so slightly as he looks up in confusion. You sit back down quickly, but place yourself on the right most part of the chair which allows you to keep your knee pressed to his.

You give him a shy smile as a show of thanks for letting you steal his notes and pretend to read them. Your eyes gloss over the words, but you can’t comprehend a single one with Draco making no move to shift away from your touch. He doesn’t push back either though. He focuses back on the recipe and lets you just stay there.

That is until his hand is on your knee. It pushes you away and doesn’t linger and for a moment, dread drops down into your stomach like a stone, heavy with rejection. His push is gentle though and it has a purpose when he stands up next to you in the space your leg had occupied and leans over the cauldron to peer inside. He’s close again now, this time his hip is the part of him almost pressing into your shoulder as he hinges his waist and puts his hands flat on the table.

“Come here,” he tells you. You follow his lead, hands on table and leaning over the cauldron. “What do you smell?” You take a moment to refocus on the potion and inhale deeply.

“Lavender,” you tell him. “It’s faint though.”

“Exactly.” His palm shifts on the table and the side of his hand molds to yours. “That means it needs more. You shouldn’t have to think about it. It should be potent.” He leans away from you to grab the bowl with the extra lavender. In doing so, she shifts his hand again, the heel of his palm drifting away from you, but his little finger making up for lost contact by slipping casually over your own.

“I thought we used what the recipe called for?” It’s hard to focus on the potion, but you do your best even with air trapped in your chest and the urge to slip your entire hand under his.

“The heat was a little too high,” he explains. “It reduced too quickly. We can fix that by adding a pinch or two more.” He lifts the bowl up towards you, encouraging you to do the honors. His expression is even and unbothered by the two of you touching. He waits patiently, watching you carefully until you make the decision to use your left hand to pinch the lavender with and deliberately leave your right one with him.

His expression remains unchanged as his little finger reaches and strokes the knuckle of your ring finger a single time before resting back down over your pinky. Why was such a small touch so invigorating? How did he keep such a straight face? He must know you’re not unaffected by this.

“More?” you ask quietly after dropping a single pinch into the cauldron. He takes a moment, contemplating and curling his little finger to wrap under yours.

“Can you handle more?” The flirtatious tease comes to his voice just as quick as it comes to his eyes. It’s a challenge, but it’s at least recognition that you hadn’t been imagining everything he’s been doing. You keep your eyes on him as you add another pinch to the potion. “Good,” he praises. “Now stir.”

He pulls away slowly, letting his touch and his warmth drag along you as he sits back in his seat. You let out a breath you’ve apparently been holding and give the potion a delicate, calculated stir. Draco settles back in his chair and crosses his left ankle over his knee, causing his left knee to protrude into the space between your chairs. You have no doubts that the motion is made with intent.

You oblige his silent invitation. Sitting back down yourself, you lean over the table to take notes and shift your right knee out towards him again. It slips beneath his and he pushes down just enough to encourage you to stay there. You don’t dare to look at him, but you can’t keep the smallest smile off your lips as you wait for Slughorn to come by and grade you.

It’s only when he comes by do you break apart and you become acutely aware that you’ve been in a classroom full of people this entire time. Had anyone noticed anything? Surely, they hadn’t. The interactions had been so miniscule and everyone was focused on their own potions, yes?

Slughorn presents you a solid E grade which pleases you greatly. Draco, ever the perfectionist with his grades, had been holding out hope for an O, but it didn’t come to pass. This causes you to be unsure if you owed him a thanks or an apology and end up giving him neither as you clean up.

“Astronomy,” Draco says as he’s putting books into his bag. You look at him, utterly confused.

“Excuse me?” He doesn’t look at you.

“You asked what you’re not terrible at,” he explains as though it was obvious. “You’re quite brilliant in astronomy.”

“Oh.” A compliment. A real, no backhand compliment. “Thank you.” He gives a small nod in response before slipping the strap of his bag over his shoulder, ready to leave.

“Practice your potions more,” he advises and then turns to leave without another word.

You watch him go, still a little confused and excited by the whole lesson. What in the world did any of it mean? What did you want it to mean?

Best not to think about it too much.

---

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[bangtan-madi]

Year of the Rabbit — Four: Resolutions

Pairing — Jungkook x Reader, Hoseok x Yoongi, Taehyung x Jimin

Tags — best friend!Jungkook, non-idol au, flower shop au, gym au, florist!MC, gym owner!Jungkook, brother!Namjoon, friends to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining

Genre — fluff, slight angst

Word Count — 3.9k

Summary — Blame it on the storm or the secret feelings or the snow-in, but one thing is for sure: a lot can happen to two best friends when they're confined to their stores overnight. 

Warnings — language

Part — 4 / 7

Previous — Next

When you've gathered a couple pans and utensils, you scurry back to the baker. The moment to yourself made things a bit easier to hide. But the thought of Jungkook's closeness still presses against your mind's backdoor. When you return, it's even harder to ignore. He's meticulously counting ingredients, lips pursed in an adorable manner. He's organized the containers around him, with the portable stovetop in front. In the makeshift kitchen, he's completely at home as he chops protein for the Tteokguk. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the beautiful array of ink is on display. He sits cross-legged, oddly domestic in front of the bakery.

"You just gonna stand there, or are you going to get down here and help me?"

You shake your head and walk towards the dimly-lit space. On the way, you admire the colorful array of rainbow lights around you. "They really went all-out with the Lunar New Year decor, didn't they?"

Jungkook takes the pans and utensils you offer him, muttering a swift thank you. "They're pretty. I think they give the space a nice ambiance."

As he measures ingredients, you remove the blanket from your shoulders, fold it several times over, and use it as a cushion. Jungkook's skilled hands work on measuring the oils and spices, along with a healthy dose of soy sauce. He places each ingredient in small bowls and sets them off to the side. 

"How'd you get the power for the stovetops?"

"The generator's through the door behind the bakery," he replies. "I plugged it in and borrowed some from that." He nods to the bottled water at his side. "Can you get some water going on the stove? Fill it up halfway. That should be enough."

"Then we add the brisket, right?" It takes four or five bottles before the pot on the largest of the three burners is to your liking. "I barely remember this from when Mom used to make it."

Jungkook smiles up at you as he offers a smaller dish of protein. His arm maneuvers around the burner, avoiding the heat source to not risk any burns. "And the garlic."

You shake your head, and after the water begins to boil, you add both ingredients. "It's a good thing you remember this, Gym Bunny. Otherwise, we'd both starve."

"No need to thank me for that," he snickers. "What you should be thanking me for is coming back for you at all. I could've stayed at your nice, warm apartment with the damn cat, but no. I braved the winter storm—"

"—Like an idiot—"

"—To save your ass. You're welcome." 

"Maybe you should've stayed with Elizabeth the 3rd, then! I could've made it out on my own, or found this place, and would've had some nice peace and quiet."

Jungkook rolls his eyes. As he reaches for a knife, placing the edge of the sharp blade against the green onion, he winces. The painful twitch of both his expression and his fingers isn't lost on you. He tries to grip the knife again, and when you glance down, you see his fingers are still tinged red from the cold. That hour he spent trekking from your apartment to the flower shop took a toll on him. It's one that he's refused to acknowledge.

"Dumbass," you mutter under your breath. Reaching across, you take the utensil from his tattooed hands. You slide the makeshift cutting board (an upside-down plate) over to your side of the little kitchen. "Stop trying to grip things. Your fingers are still half-frozen."

Jungkook relents, which surprises you in and of itself. He doesn't comment on the state of his hands. He only moves onto the next task of separating the egg yolks from the whites. 

Your attention shifts from the green onions up to your best friend. It's difficult not to be caught off-guard by his silence. "You okay, Kookie?"

The brunet's dark eyes move up to yours, and he gives a soft smile. "Yeah, I'm okay. Sorry, didn't realize they were still hurt...and you know how I feel about not being able to do things."

You finish the chopping and set the greens aside. "Don't beat yourself up about it. You need to learn to lean on others from time to time. A little teamwork won't kill you."

"It won't?"

A loud laugh slips out at his snide comment, which brings back Jungkook's adorable smile. He continues to tell you what to prep next, and as the minutes pass, you find yourself slipping into a rhythm with him. It's not the first time you've cooked together; far from it. Between after-school study sessions in high school, midnight mental health breakdowns in college, and post-education hangouts, the two of you have made a mess plenty of times. Much to Yoongi's dismay.

A chuckle slips out at the sudden resurgence of those college-era memories. "What do you think Yoongi would say if he saw us here right now, trying to make Tteokguk in the middle of a supermarket?"

Jungkook giggles as he adds the rice cakes to the boiling brisket and water, along with most of the spices and oils. "He'd probably just roll his eyes and warn us to clean up or he'd bury our bodies in the woods. His reaction doesn't scare me as much as Seokjin's."

The mention of your mutual friend causes you to double-over in laughter. Seokjin, the most traditional Korean man you know, would be horrified. "He'd probably just...die."

"But not before he'd scream at us," Jungkook adds, raising the large wooden spoon and gesturing to you. His eyes widen and he changes his voice to mimic Seokjin's satoori. "You can't just cook Tteokguk like that! What are you thinking? You're lucky you're not my son or I would have disowned you if I saw you using pre-made, frozen rice cakes! Hey! Stop it! I raised you better than this!"

The impression is spot-on, so much so that it has you gasping for air and red in the face from laughing. Tears burn your eyes, and you wave your hand at Jungkook, a silent plead for him to stop. You're unlucky enough that your best friend is a slight sadist and enjoys seeing you lose your mind.

"If you think it's so funny to cheat out on a thousand years of Korean cuisine history, then go ahead! But not in my house, and you have to be obedient to me because I'm an older person!"

"Stop, stop, stop," you gasp, curling in on yourself as you fall over onto the soft blanket. "It. Hurts." 

Jungkook continues his impression. His expression and voice grow more dramatic as time goes on. "Is this the thanks I get for buying your meals, huh? Do you know how many times I did that when you were a broke college freshman? I can't even count on my fingers! I don't have enough! I can't calculate! Because I secretly can't count!"

"Jeon Jungkook!" you rasp, smiling so wide your face hurts. "Please, god, stop."

Finally, he relents, voice shifting to a collection of giggles. Your breathing returns to normal, and your facial redness subsides. "You okay there, Flower Child?"

"I will kill you."

Jungkook smirks as he begins to add the final ingredients to the Tteokguk. "Highly doubt that. Especially with the Tteokguk almost done!"

Pulling yourself back into a seated position, you give Jungkook a pouty expression. "You promised me Hwajeon." You hold up a container of edible flowers.  

The brunet chuckles at your childish expression. He rolls his sleeves up a little farther, showing more of his tattoo sleeve in the process. He pushes the bag of flour to your side of the burners. "Have at it then. I'll finish up the Teokguk while you fry the cakes."

Your smile widens and you take the ingredients with eager hands. As you measure, Jungkook begins final preparations for the meal. He adds nori and strips of fried egg yolks. The smells that fill the supermarket are divine. For a moment, you forget the situation that brought you here. The blizzard outside. The lack of power. The fact that you're trapped in the store until morning. None of it matters anymore. Jeon Jungkook has always had that effect on you; he excels at making people forget their problems and sadness. It's one of the reasons you missed him more than life while spending time as an exchange student.

"What're you thinking about?" he asks, after a moment of silence.

Shrugging your shoulders, you begin to roll the ball of warm dough into smaller balls and prep them for frying. "Just about the past year. A lot's happened." You take a few of the edible flowers and press one into the flattened face of each bough ball. "A lot's changed."

Jungkook nods his agreement, once again stirring the pot. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. "How do you feel about your last semester at university?"

"Glad it's finally almost done," you scoff. "Been a long time coming. I loved traveling abroad, but it made me realize that what I have here with my friends, with the shop...this is home. Once the three of us graduate, I bet business will pick up."

Jungkook's shoulders relax, and he sighs in a way that almost sounds relieved. "So you think you're with those two idiots for the long-haul, huh?"

Thinking of Hoseok and Yoongi brings a sentimental smile to your face. You toss the first round of flattened dough into the oiled skillet. "I think so. We all work together well, and I love Seoul. I don't see myself living anywhere else, really. As a small business owner, you know what I mean when I say you're kinda anchored to your business."

"At least you have an online aspect," he snickers. Reaching for the serving bowls, he nods his chin towards the front of the store, as if to his gym across the street. "Can't exactly work out virtually."

"Ha! I wish."

"But I get what you mean, and honestly? I'm glad to hear it. I was kinda worried you'd end up loving the U.S. and...I don't know, want to move out of Korea or something."

As you flip the Hwajeon over, your gaze drifts upward. Jungkook's hair hangs over his eyes, but under that, you can see a rosy blush spread across his cheeks. His lip is between his teeth as he focuses on pouring the soup without spilling. If you didn't know better, you'd say he was embarrassed.

"Would you miss me if I did?" 

The question comes out without you thinking too hard about it. From the way Jungkook keeps his eyes away from yours, you second-guess if it was the right thing to ask. God knows it could be read into pretty easily. But the little feeling in the back of your mind, the one you'd locked away, has found a lock-pick. It's desperately trying to free itself. It wants to know the answer. For that reason, you wait with bated breath for a response.

"Like hell," he admits. "You're my best friend. I go to you about everything. I...don't know what my life would be like if I didn't have you in it, to be honest."

His words are sentimental, filled with truth, and drag out a complex array of feelings. You're both elated and terrified. Mostly the former, but the tiny prick of dread in your chest won't go away. Your realization from earlier in the evening is accompanied by these intense feelings. 

And since you have no idea what to do with them, you answer the best way you can, through a clouded mind. "Well, you don't need to worry, Bunny. I'm not going anywhere."

Jungkook's eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. Finishing with the plating, he nods to the Hwajeon. "About done?”

"What? Oh—yeah. Just about."

He passes you a plate and turns off both burners. "Then let's eat. Put them on the plate and follow me. I found the perfect place for a Lunar New Year meal."

After the Hwajeon is plated and the dual bowls of Tteokguk are on a platter, Jungkook leads you towards the front area of the supermarket. It's farther down than you previously ventured. It's past the food and drink to the small home goods, clothing, and electronics section. He must've come across it when he was looking for the burners. 

In the corner, next to the large windows at the front, there's a window display similar the one at the flower shop. It's a cubby of sorts, where the bay windows extended into the sidewalk. There used to be mannequins displayed with a variety of winter clothing. Jungkook's shoved them aside. In their place, he's arranged several blankets and pillows around a low table. He's even pushed one of the storage bins up behind the pillows to have something to lean back against.

"You did all this by yourself?" you ask.

Jungkook nods, sets the food onto the low table, and settles onto one of the cushions with a sigh. "You took forever getting the utensils, so I came over here and messed with some stuff." He pats the spot beside him. "The snow's lightening a bit. It looks so pretty from inside. Maybe we'll even see some fireworks in a little while."

You take your seat beside him, trying to ignore the fact that his thigh presses against yours and his arm brushes your shoulder when he offers you your bowl. For a moment, your eyes lock. Jungkook averts his attention, his dimple popping out as he purses his lips.

Taking it with a small "thank you" and slight bow of your head, you turn your gaze from the awkward boy down to the meal. Inhaling the aroma, you let a lazy smile spread across your face.

"Holy shit, this smells amazing."

"Just like Mom's," he breathes. Turning to the side, he holds up his glass bowl towards yours. "Cheers?"

"To a Happy New Year." You tap your bowl against his, giggling at the soft clink that it makes. 

After digging in and continuing to praise yourselves on a job well done, you change the topic of conversation. "So, you have any New Year's resolutions?"

"Isn't that an American thing?"

"It never hurts to look forward," you say in a snide tone, rolling your eyes at Jungkook's grin. "Fess up. What are you looking forward to in the Year of the Rabbit?"

Jungkook settles back against the pillows, taking another sip from the broth. "You first."

"Well..." you trail off, watching the blizzard slow to a soft fluttering of snowflakes outside the neon-lit window. "Kinda already told you mine, to be honest. Graduate. Grow the shop. Expand the business. Things of that nature."

"What about in your personal life?"

"Well, now that you mention it, I wanna get back to Ilsan to visit Mom and Dad more. I should also probably track down Joon and spend more time with h—"

"—Not what I meant, [Y/n]," Jungkook interrupts.

You tilt your head when you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. "What did you mean then?"

The brunet shrugs and grabs a piece of Hwajeon. "You've been single ever since you dated that douche in high school. What was his name?"

"Ugh, Hae-song," you groan, not at all enjoying the resurgence of your exes name. 

"Yeah! That one," Jungkook chuckles. "I get best friend rights to know if you're seeing anyone lately."

"Awfully brave of you to assume that Hae-song was my last boyfriend."

Jungkook's eyes widen. "Did I miss something—Wait, when you were in the States?"

You nod once and set your finished bowl aside, glancing over your shoulder at the drink aisle a few meters away. Hopping up, you scurry over and grab a couple of bottles of you and Jungkook's favorites. "This conversation's going to need some soju," you murmur under your breath. "I can feel it."

Settling back down at his side, you offer one of the bottles to Jungkook with a tired smile. Cracking yours open with ease, you take a long sip before settling back against the cushions. Jungkook opens his in silence and allows you to collect your thoughts.

"Yeah, I met a guy," you admit. "He was another exchange student from Daegu. Whatever the odds, he ended up in the same group as me. We studied together a lot, and then we started dating a few weeks in."

"Are you still together?"

"God no," you reply, shaking your head fervently. "I would've told you if I was by now. We broke up a little before I left. He wanted to stay in the States long-term, as in, like, get a work Visa and move there. I'm not about a long-distance relationship. So we both thought it best to go our separate ways."

Jungkook nods along to your story, doing his best to understand where you're coming from. "Do you miss him?"

"Not really. He was nice and all, but we weren't all that close. I knew what I wanted out of life; so did he. Neither of us was gonna change, so it was easier to let go."

"Oh..." he breathes, then takes another gulp of the alcoholic beverage. 

"Sounds horrible when I say it like that." You laugh it off, then bump your shoulder against Jungkook's. His silence makes you a tiny bit smug, and his intense focus on the soju bottle invites a little giggle to escape. "Is someone jealous?"

Through flustered words, Jungkook manages to sputter, "Yeah, you wish. I...again, would've missed the hell out of you if you'd stayed. For a second, you scared me."

In a burst of bravery, aided by the alcohol in your system, you reach for Jungkook's free hand. Your fingers brush against his tattooed knuckles as you hold it between your own. Your touch is gentle. Even more so when you notice the slight scarlet hue that still ruminates on his fingertips.

You smile, softly running a forefinger across the ink on the back of his hand. "I hope you believe me when I say I'm not leaving."

Jungkook doesn't move an inch as your hands rest on his. He barely even breathes, afraid to move or speak or exhale. If it means running the risk of pushing you away by accident, he'd rather stay frozen for the rest of the night. 

"Promise, jagiya?"

Emphasis is given to your words as you hook your smaller pinky around his. Despite the cold outside, his skin is warm, and the touch sends sparks through your body. It doesn't help that he's close enough to hear your breathing. Close enough to rest his head on yours if he wanted to. Close enough kiss if you wanted to.

You shove that thought away, squeezing your pinky to mask your true feelings. "I promise." Embarrassed, you let his hand drop to his thigh and cross your arms over your chest. The action readjusts you to put a little more space between you both, much to Jungkook's dismay. "Your turn, Gym Bunny. What are your resolutions?"

"You never answered my question, though."

Rolling your eyes, you retort, "Fine. No, I'm not seeing anyone, nor do I have anyone in mind. Happy? Now, your turn."

Though taken back by your sudden withdrawal from him, Jungkook tries to focus on the question instead of the way the ghost of your touch lingers on his tattooed knuckles. "Well, like you, I wanna grow the business. Jimin and I are planning to look at some locations in Gangnam later this spring. If all goes well until then, we're going to open a second location before the year's up."

"That's great, Kookie!"

Your best friend chuckles at your enthusiasm. "We're excited. Feels like a step in the right direction. Growth, y'know?"

"What about personal life?" you inquire. "Don't think you're getting out of that one either. You broke up with your girlfriend before the holidays. Interested in anyone else lately?"

"Actually...there is someone," Jungkook admits. He reaches for another bite of Hwajeon and offers you a second piece. "I'm not sure they see me the same way as I see them, though."

"How do you know?"

He shrugs again. "A feeling. I realized how I felt about them last fall, which is why I broke up with my ex. We weren't in love, and we both knew that."

"All this while I was gone?" you ask, feeling a sense of dread wash over you. Maybe he was lying before when he said he hadn't met anyone new in the time you were gone. From the way he's talking now, it sounds like he's interested in someone else.

"Yeah. It's been building for a while, I think, but it only hit me right before the holidays."

Popping the cap off the second bottle of soju, you take a long swig before adding, "Sounds like you got it bad, Bunny. Why haven't you said anything to them?"

"Scared of messing up?" he replies, answering it more like a question than a statement, as if he's unsure himself. "Scared of what they'd do. Scared of ruining our relationship now. Scared that it'll end up being one-sided." The brunet finishes his bottle and places it on the table. "I was lucky with my ex; both of us realized that we weren't right for the other. What if, this time, I let myself fall, only to have the rug ripped out from under me?"

If you're honest, hearing his concerns about the person he's falling for gives you a plethora of mixed feelings. Half of you desperately wants to believe he's talking about you. The other half is terrified that he's thinking of someone else. His words could lend themselves either way. You've only ever been best friends. And you realize how long it took you to finally realize your true feelings. You doubt that he's come to the same conclusion, at the same time.

No one is that lucky.

Even as your chest aches, the wish for him to be happy—no matter what—forces you to put your own emotions aside. "Do you trust this person?"

"Yes."

"Okay. And do they trust you?"

"I think so. I hope so."

You offer your companion a second bottle, which he gladly takes. "Do you think you could truly be happy if you kept your feelings to yourself? If you never told them?"

"Probably not," he sighs, forcing a smile. "I don't see this feeling going away anytime soon."

"Then, in my humble opinion, you gotta tell them. Even if it's scary, even if it ends up being awkward, even if you feel like it might be one-sided. You're not going to rest easy until it's out in the open." Your blatant hypocrisy is not lost on you, even as you speak. "If you really feel this way about this person, I don't think there's another option."

"And if they reject me?"

"'Better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all'?"

Taglist — @kooala​

[movedkagen]

right back at ya,     @guroshi​ !

He’d never been caught before. 

Despite his very obvious restriction regarding cursed energy,     Toji Zen’in   ( ‘Fushiguro’ was a name that would come later )   had never been caught by a person he was pursuing.     He moved soundlessly,     like a panther in the nocturne jungle,     and struck precisely.     It was the one reason why despite his  lack  of ability,     calling him  weak  was a sore mistake.     They therefore treated him like he were a curse himself;     they  loathed  him,     they  were  disgusted  by  him,     but  they  dare  not  say  his  name  lest  he  appear  in  their  midst.     Toji Zen’in had a tendency to appear like a bad omen.   When people caught him,     it was only when he wanted them to,     and it rarely ever ended well.

It turned out that being the boogeyman paid pretty well;    he’d made a living out of that rejection.     And maybe,     just  maybe  to a certain extent he felt a sense of  vindication whenever he closed in on a sorcerer.     Outwardly,    thriving off of the disdain was a survival tactic.     I’m  just  not  a  likable  guy,     he’d  say,    usually with a sardonic laugh.     But  inwardly  …  sinking his blade into the flesh of someone who he  knew  thought him worth little more than an  animal  brought him a slight sick sense of pleasure.     The  jobs  mean  nothing  to  me:     truth.     But it would be a  lie  to say that he didn’t like  fucking  up  the order  of the food chain just by  drawing  breath.     When his very existence served as a shameful  thorn  in the side of his family,     Toji made sure to do so with an expertise that made it so that even  ridicule  was too dangerous an acknowledgement.     If  you’re  going  to  be  bad,     be  the  best  at  it.     If he was hopeless as a Zen’in,     he would therefore be a source of hopelessness to them in turn.

In nearly all other things,     Toji was a man who lived aimlessly;     fighting,   fucking,   food,   fortune.     Those were the only motives that propelled normal men,     and for Toji his motives were no different.     So,     when his phone rang and revealed the voice of his uncle,     Toji nearly hung up.     They’d provide him no benefit,    after all.

“Toji?”     The voice echoes again when his initial greeting doesn’t earn a response.

“Ojisan.”    His voice is groggy,     but the snide way he calls him  uncle  is still palpable.     “If you’re calling me because my old man finally decided to kick the bucket,     save your breath.     I’ve no interest in his funeral.”

He can  hear  the way his uncle grimaces on the receiver.     “That’s not why I’ve called.     We want you to come to the estate.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“We have a job for you ------”

“Not interested.”

“------  and we will pay.”

Toji paused at that.     His family was shit,     sure,     but they were also swimming in cash.     Inversely,     looking over his shoulder at the woman he’d been sleeping with in exchange for a  bed  in January,     he couldn’t be any less liquid.     “...How much are we talking?”

“Name your price and we’ll negotiate.”

It was the right answer;     he knew if he went,     strong - arming the amount he wanted would be easy.     “I’ll be there in an hour.     You waste my time,     I walk.”     Without waiting for a response,    he hangs up and pushes up off the bed,      disappearing to shower.     

He arrives at the estate feeling tense.     He’s got bad memories of this place;     being born without an ability meant he’d spent most of his early teenage years serving the family,     but looking at the other servants,     it could have been worse.     I  could  have  been  born  a  woman,     he thought,     watching with morbid horror as a cousin he barely spoke to struggles to soothe fussing children as her husband glances at her with annoyance without daring to lift a finger to help.    

The Zen’in estate was like a sepulchre;     opulent and pristine from the outside,     but filled nothing but rotting stench and decay internally.

He hides his unease well,     despite it all.     Bile builds in the back of his throat,     but in the room appointed to be their meeting place,     Toji stands with a bored expression and seems as though nothing bothers him at all.     The door slides open,     and he smirks when only his uncle walks through.     Typical.     His father didn’t show.

“So … what did you do for them to dump this meeting on you?     They must not like you these days.     Have you fallen out of favor,     Ojisan?”

His uncle ignores his comments,     taking it as an obvious ploy to provoke him.     Instead,     he simply sits and folds his arms.     “You’re a man who always has his ear to the ground.     Have you heard the rumors?”

“You’re going to need to be more specific.”

“About the Gojo clan.”

The mention of the  Gojo  surname reaches deep into a past Toji barely remembers;     not only is this history  old,   but it’s also near inconsequential.     It’s only ever been mentioned in the story of their  great  victorious  ancestor   who killed the vengeful spirit that fathered that clan,   and how while the Zen’in clan grew in glory,     the Gojo clan continued to fall from it. But oddly enough,     Toji does recall something he’d heard,     which he only remembers because it’s odd to mention the burnt - out family in the first place.     “I heard they have a new kid.”

His uncle gracefully pulls out a kiseru and lights it,    then puffs on it lazily before continuing.     “...The rumor is that he possesses both the  limitless  and the  six eyes  technique.”

Toji frowns.     The longer he’s here,     the less he understands why he’s been called.     “Get to the point.”

“It’s been years since you’ve left,    Toji,    but you surely can’t forget one of the most prolific battles of our family history.     The  ten  shadows  shaman  versus the  limitless  many - eyed spirit.”

“Spare me the lecture,     old man.”

“We want you to verify the rumor.”    Seeing Toji pause,     his uncle doesn’t need to wait for him to ask ‘why me?’  before continuing.     “Your lack of cursed energy means that if it’s true,     you’d be able to get in easily without being noticed.     Since the birth of this boy,     the family has been in utter seclusion.     It’s almost as though they’re trying to hide him from the world.”

For a moment,     Toji is silent.     But slowly,    he chuckles.     The chuckle builds until it’s a booming laugh,     bordering on a cackle.

“Is this funny to y ------”

“Oh,    this is rich!     A little kid has you all shitting yourselves,     is that it?     What’ll happen if the rumors are  true?     Will you all go sick with grief because you don’t have anyone with the ten shadows ability?    Is that it?     Are you sure you want to know,    old man?    After all,     if it’s true,     then your  prolific  battle  story means dog shit.    Unless … you’re asking me to off the kid?     Because if that’s the case,     I won’t do it.    Not because it’s a kid,    but because watching a primary schooler ruin your entire dynasty just by being alive is too funny to let pass by.”

Clear  irritation  is written across his uncle’s expression,     but he forgoes an argument.    “No one is asking you to kill  anyone.    We are confident the  perfection  this family produces is enough to rival one person.    The Gojo clan can’t be rebuilt on the shoulders of a single man.”

“------ But?”

“But,    that hasn’t stopped them from trying.    They’ve managed to weasel their way back into the upper ranks based off of these rumors alone.    If they’re a threat to our own influence,    we must know.”

Toji waves his hand dismissively.    “I don’t care about any of that.    How much are you offering?”

“Five million yen.”

“I want twenty.”

“And yet you’ll only get ten.”

Toji pauses.    Ten  million  yen.    He would have walked with the five,    but to give him this much … they really were uneasy about this,    weren’t they?    It didn’t matter.    These politics didn’t matter to him;    it was a job,    and it paid well.     With ten million yen,    he’d never have to sleep at that dingy apartment in Kabukicho again.    “...Deal.”

This all brought him back to the beginning point:    being  caught  for  the  first  time.    Sneaking into the estate was so easy it was almost comical,    and dressed properly,    he  was easily believed to be a servant himself.    The Gojo estate was different from the Zen’in estate.    The Zen’in clan was big,    lively compared to this place,    where he could hear a pebble being kicked across the gravel he walked upon.     This place was a graveyard.    If the Zen’in estate was like a palace of bones,     the Gojo estate was like the temple of a god that had died centuries ago.    Big,    but brittle.    Quiet.   Prayed to only by the wind that passed through it,    as if out of pity,    echoing the hollowness of it all.    

But it would seem that god had returned at long last.

He made sure to keep a safe distance behind the boy;    he was followed by two men on either side of him at all times,    who Toji deduced to be bodyguards.     If that was the case,    he could only assume the rumors were indeed true.    Why else would a child need to be guarded in his own home?     As he walks behind him,    Toji feels something unpleasant.    Pity  is too noble a word;    but it was like gazing upon a lovely bird in a zoo.    Did  it  know  that  it  was  captive,    or  was  it  content  with  the  magnificent  cage  it  lived  in?    

This  kid  is  going  to  be  one  hell  of  a  puppet,     he thinks.

It is at that moment that the boy stops walking,    then turns and looks at him.    There’s  no  mistaking  it.    His eyes lock with Toji’s,    and Toji halts in his tracks.    It’s not like him to stop like that,    but his body freezes of its own accord.  Fighting,   fucking,   food,   fortune.    He’d always believed those were the four things that motivated the average man,     but he forgot the last motive;    maybe because he didn’t remember the last time he felt it,     if he’d ever felt it at all before this moment.

Fear.

The boy’s face is pale and listless,    nothing like that of a child.    His hair and eyelashes are bone - white,    and his eyes,    large and owl - like,    are a crystal clear blue that shimmers in a manner that makes it seem as though his irises  swirl,    like pools of fate.     Toji shouldn’t be able to see that from here,    but for some reason distance doesn’t seem to  matter  between them.    He is several feet away from the child,    but he sees him as though he’s inches in front of his nose.    Curse  …   sorcerer  …   those words didn’t suit this boy at all.

This  child  is  a  demon.

The child doesn’t blink.    The guards beside him seem to keep walking,    but the boy also never seems to move from his place.    Did  he  stop time?    Did  he  pull  Toji  into  another  dimension  entirely?  The boy gazes at him with neither curiosity nor contempt;    he simply looks at him,     looks  through  him,    and Toji feels as though his soul is being stripped bare.     There’s no doubt.     This boy knows everything;    Toji wasn’t a paranoid man in the slightest,    but he felt as though this child had known about it all  ------   the zen’in’s,     the exchange,     the ten million yen,     the rumors and the eyes on him,     and the task to verify it all.

Well?,     his eyes seemed to say.    Have  you seen  enough?     You  have  someone  waiting  for  you.     Go  and  tell  them.

Toji  would  never  forget  that  boy  again.

He’d never been caught before.

As the knife is pulled from his flesh,     Satoru feels the strange, unfamiliar sensation of being unable to support himself enough to stand.     Is  this  what  weakness  felt  like?     He falls to the floor,     finding himself incapable of processing that this attack even happened in the first place.     He watches his blood pool around him   ------    strangely enough,     he feels no pain.     As his vision goes dark,     he knows the truth;     the shock is preventing him from feeling a thing.     Maybe he wasn’t as untouchable as he thought.     “Su …”     The name is not even half spoken before he falls silent.

He must be dead.

He stands in an expanse that extends  forever,     an endless void of vantablack that is maddening to look at.     Didn’t people get a rush of endorphins before they died?     Why,     then,    did he see a past that only made him miserable?     He watches his life flash before his eyes;     he sees his own birth.     He sees the countless days he spent in his family estate,     learning mathematical theory and physical nonsense all because they  hoped  he would awaken this latent  infinity  within him.     He sees his arrival to Tokyo tech   ------   his first time away from the prying eyes of his family.     His first time meeting kids who weren’t  hand  selected  to be his friends.     The thrilling sensation of being disliked,     being  a  delinquent.     Breaking rules and laughing from his chest.     It  was  a  fun  way  to  end  things,     he thought.     I  just  wish  I’d  gotten  to  have  a  lot  more  of  it.

He’s shown the moment of his demise,     and Satoru grimaces.     Ugh,     how  uncool.     He looks like a deer with its throat in the maw of the wolf;     helpless,     surprised a second too late.     He sees the horror in Suguru’s expression,     and he feels just a tinge of guilt.     The  strongest  duo’s  broken  up.     Sorry  I  couldn’t  stay  and  help  you  in  the  end.     

He wants to look away   ------   really,     who wanted to watch themselves die twice?   ------   but just as he thinks to,     Satoru’s eyes stop on the face of the man who killed him.     Why   does   he  look  familiar?     He looks at his life laid before him,    and watches a bright white string extend from this image and go back,     back,     back  into a very peculiar day in his childhood.     He sees himself,     six  years old,     turning and locking eyes with him.

No.     Not  him.    This man.

He  met  him  before.

Great,     he thought bitterly.     So  I was  more  perceptive  when  I was  a  first  year.    

But then,     all of the images hit him at once.     They condense and slam him with such force that Satoru feels  pain  all over his body,    like the wind has been knocked out of him.    He’s drowning in this knowledge   ------   this  infinity.     Maybe that means in the physical world,    his lungs are taking their last shallow breaths.     The images continue to condense until they make a small orb;     the single source of light in this place.     Slowly,     the orb opens and reveals an iris that reflects his own:     too blue to be human,    dimly shimmering in a way that makes them seem like a flowing spring.     Satoru feels his own gaze turned upon him.     His own voice echoes in his ears.     Get  up,     it says.     Or  are  you  really  that  weak?     If  you  can’t  get  up,     you  were  never  strong.     You  deserve  to  die  here.     Satoru’s hand extends towards the orb.

Get  up,     dickhead.

Satoru wakes up with a gasp,    bolting upright with a shock that could wake the dead.      And hadn’t it?     No … he looks down at himself,    and sees the still - warm blood staining his shirt.     Satoru realizes in that moment,     he never died at all.

Gojo Satoru had touched infinity for the first time.

He stills himself and thinks.     Or,     more accurately,     perceives.     He allows those six eyes to see  for  him.      He’d forgotten that so much of his power worked without his effort,     if he let it.     Riko is dead.     Suguru is alive.    He’s still bleeding from his leg.    And Toji is …

The  rest  is  a  blur.

“Yo. Long time no see.”     It’s all he can say,     when he’s intercepted Toji.     Why is he here?     The job is done.     They  failed.     There’s no reason for Satoru to come here.

Ah,    that was a lie.     He was here to kill Toji.    Infinity … he’d touched it and seen it;     he’d be the strongest,  �� now.     No more goofing off,     no more avoiding his own holiness.     But the thing about being a  god  is that gods can’t be killed.     And if there was someone who could kill him,      that person had to fight him.     Yes,     that would be his true trial of divinity;     he and Toji would fight here and now until one of them died,     and whoever left standing would be the one  truly  bound to heaven.

The shock on Toji’s face doesn’t matter to him at all.     ... Are you serious?,     he says,     but Satoru hears it like a dull echo.     He’s barely listening to him.

Toji is weak,      after all.     And he hates weak people.

The shock is enough to make Satoru giddy,     however,     so he grins and pushes his hair up to show him the healed wound to his head.  “Oh,      yeah.     I’m alive and well.”     His eyes are owl - like and large again,     though they don’t shimmer like quiet pools.     They churn like a riptide,     and they focus on Toji with malicious intent.

“A reverse technique,”     Toji breathes,     more to himself than to anyone else.

“Correct!”     Satoru chirps.     “I gave up on fighting back when you crushed my throat.     I poured my all into perfecting this technique.     Cursed energy uses negative energy.     It can fortify the body,     but it can’t cause regeneration.     That’s why it’s necessary to multiply it with more negative energy to create the positive.     That’s the reverse technique!”     He laughs and his grin widens,     and he can tell his elation is too much for Toji to understand.    But it can’t be helped   ------   this isn’t about Toji.     He’s giddy because all along,     the secret to reverse technique was  math.     Simple math,     whereas Satoru had mastered complex number theory ages ago.     All this time,     the ability’s secret had simply flown over his head.     If he had known it was just the application of a basic mathematical principle,     he could have used reverse technique ten years ago.     “The theory is easy enough,     but I couldn’t do it at  all ... until now.     The only person I know who could do it can’t explain for shit,     either.     But I  finally  got it when I was on my deathbed … the core of cursed energy.” 

Satoru grins and sighs euphorically before continuing on.     “You lost because you didn’t cut off my head,     and because you didn’t use a cursed tool when you stabbed me in the head.”     Doesn’t Toji understand how  funny  that is?

Apparently not.     Toji’s eyes flash all of a sudden.     “Lost?”     He says,    pulling a cursed blade from the throat of his  worm  of an accessory.     “The fight has just begun.”

“------ Huuuuuuuuuuuh?!     Ah,     yeah,     I guess so!”     Satoru realizes he’s right;     he’d already seen the end of this in infinity,     but he supposed he couldn’t say it happened until it did,     right?      He was getting ahead of himself.     It’s not like  Toji  could see the future.      He starts to laugh.     “I guess you’re right!”

Toji gives him no time to even finish his sentence.     He’s a real warrior,     Satoru will give him that.     He flies at him with the same beast - like grin from before,     only this one is different.     They both fight with the full intent to kill,     and it’s not a matter of work.     It’s a battle for the crown;     one that Toji was for better or worse proud to have,     and not willing to give up easily.     Good.     Toji understands.   

He slashes at Satoru with terrifying force,     but he has evolved since their last fight.    The once devastating prowess of the sorcerer - killer is little more than a  mild  inconvenience  to him,     now.     By the time Toji’s slash reaches the end of its arc,     Satoru is in the sky above him,     and even more terrifying than when he gave him that maddening smile,     he looks upon him with a wide - eyed,     barely perceptible grin.     Though  he’d  already  reached  a  new  height,     it  would  seem  he  was  evolving  again,     right  before  Toji’s  eyes.     He  was  fortunate  to  witness  it.

The positive energy  that  is  born  from  the  reverse  technique  …  that  energy  is  channeled  into  the  infinity  technique  I’ve  carved  in  myself.     He  understands,     now.     Reverse rotation  technique.

“Red.”

It repels Toji back hundreds of feet,     through a  building  and into the side of the concrete.

One:     “The  power  to  stop.”     The  neutral  infinity jutsu.     Up  until  this  point,     an  ability  that  required  vigilance  and  effort,     and  why  he’d  fallen  to  Toji.

Two:     “The  power  to  attract.”     The  reinforced  infinity  jujutsu,     “blue”.

Three:     “The  power  to  repel.”     The  reverse  jujutsu,     “red”.

Satoru watches him attach his blade to a chain and create a vortex with it.     Toji believes that he can fight this.     And why wouldn’t he?     Satoru had the power to stop from the start,     and Toji circumvented it.     The power to attract,      he could negate either from afar with the spear,     or he could outrun it.     The power to repel could be blocked with the spear,     so long as he got the timing right.

But Satoru still appears on the rooftop with the same peaceful grin from before,     appearing madder than ever.     He  knows  all  of  Toji’s  thoughts  already.     He  knows  his  heart.     He knows that unease is slowly settling into his foe,     but that despite that,     Toji  believes he still has a chance. 

“No,”     Toji tells himself.     “It’ll work.”     Satoru knew that Toji would say that.   “------ I’ll  kill  you!”

Satoru knew he’d say that,     too.

Time seems to go still,    for a moment.     Satoru reigns himself in,     a sobering clarity coming forward in the midst of it all;     he  would  not  be  a  foolish  god,     after  all.

I’m  really  sorry,     Amanai,     he thinks.     I’m  not  angry on  your  behalf.     I  don’t  hate  anyone.     All  I’m  feeling  right  now  …  Is  the  pleasantness  of  this  world.

Satoru grins again,    and extends his hands forward.     This would be the final blow.  “Throughout the heavens and earth,     I alone am the honored one.”     

Toji whips the bladed chain at Satoru,     but it’s less effective than flailing a cotton  rope  at him,    at  this  point.     You  don’t  understand  what’s  going  to  happen  yet,     he thinks.     That’s  okay.    I  saw  it  in  the  void.     You’re  going  to  die  here,     Toji.     Thank  you  for  sending  me  into  myself.     I  understand  everything,     now.

The good thing about jujutsu techniques that have been passed down over generations is that the instructions on their usage are clarified by the predecessors. The bad thing is that the information about the technique can be leaked much more easily.

You’re  from  one  of  the  three  great  clans  …  the Zen’in  clan,     am  I  right?     Satoru recalls the day he met Toji,     all those years ago.     The man who came to see him for ten million yen.     How could he forget?     He’d seen infinity before.     

You  know  about  “blue”  and  “red”  …  and  everything  about  my  infinity,     I’ll  bet,     Satoru thinks.     But  this  …  even  among  the  Gojo  clan  …  only  a  select  few  know  about.     When  the  infinity  collides  with  the  forward  and  reverse  rotation  techniques  …  this  is  born.     The  expulsion  of  imaginary  mass  …

And  I’m  using  it  to  kill  you.     You  should  be  honored,    Toji.

“Imaginary Technique:     Purple.”

It is spoken like a final rite;    like the decree to end all decrees.     The opposing forces converge and destroy everything in their path  …  Toji,     and anything unlucky enough to be behind him.

Satoru fixes that impenetrable gaze on him again.     That soul stripping,     all - knowing gaze.     “I  don’t  wanna  work  for  free.”  ------  you’d  usually  just  have  said  that  and  ran  away.     But  the  person  in  front  of  you  is  a  user  of  the  infinity  jutsu,    who  probably  just  became  the  strongest  shaman  of  this  generation.     You  wanted  to  deny  it.     To  go  against  it.     Against  the  Zen’in  clan  that  denied  you,    against  the  apex  of  the  jujutsu  world.    In  order  to  reaffirm  your  identity  …  you  warped  your  usual  self. 

You  already  lost  at  that  point.

“I thought I had discarded that pride …”  Toji breaks the silence for them,     finishing the thought that Satoru had heard from the depths of Toji’s soul.

Satoru heard every thought leading up to that declaration,     but he feels strangely peaceful in the moment.      He’d  made this prophecy come true;     Gojo  Satoru  emerged victorious,    conquering death and the god - killer  himself.     There would be a new era from now on;     for better or for worse,     Satoru would be the head of it.     “... Do you have any last words?”

“ … Nah.”     The look on Toji’s face says he  knows  that Satoru’s seen everything.     But,     just in case  …  “In two or three years,     my kid will get sold to the Zen’in clan.”     Why was he telling him that?     Maybe because he was understanding that if  anyone  could  fuck  up  the  natural  order  of  things,     it wasn’t him at all.     It  has  always  been  this  kid.     Maybe it was because,     in his final moments,     he realized that he’d left behind nothing,     and given his  blessing  to the very place that had sculpted his demise.     Maybe it was the “regret” those damn shamans never shut up about.     Whatever  it  was,     Toji  couldn’t  bring  himself  to  beg,     even  on  Megumi’s  behalf.     “... Do whatever you want.”

Before the light left Toji’s eyes,     Satoru watched something else die first.     What  broke  then  …  was  the  heart.     What,     did he think he would go and right his wrongs?     That he would protect his  kid?     It seemed his six eyes hadn’t anticipated him doing  that.     Honestly,     what was Toji thinking?     It was too late to ask that now,     but  Satoru only knew  one  thing for certain.

Satoru would never forget this man again.

[amaranthzhang]

A Helping Paw | Joey & Amaranth

Location: Al’s Diner and Baobing Bada Boom (Backdated to Joey’s arrival) With: @joeydarling and Amaranth Description: Amaranth helps a new werewolf down on her luck.

White Crest had proven to be different. More different than anything Joey could have ever anticipated. The conversation she had overheard in the diner should’ve been more of a warning call than an invitation, but she followed it blindly, eager to put as much distance between her parents and herself as possible. Living out of a car had proven difficult, especially when interviewing and applying for jobs. She had no solid home address, but it seemed like some places didn’t care-- they just wanted somebody to show up. That, Joey could respect. Al’s Diner wouldn’t have been her first choice, but she had worked in restaurants before. Though her parents wanted her to focus mostly on her training and knife skills, she had opted out for something resembling that of a true teenage life-- a summer job. It had proven easier than that of everything her parents had ever put her through, even with the constant yelling and snide remarks from customers who were upset about the lack of ranch on the side. Who even ate ranch?

Despite knowing it wouldn’t be, Al’s Diner had to be different. It was the only thing she had in the chaotic stream of things leading her to this moment-- the bite, her parents making it clear that they’d rather she die than have a daughter for a wolf-- everything. Joey needed things to work out. Only, the sudden spike in aggression had made things a little more difficult than she had anticipated. The words spat at her by one of the back line cooks made her stare down at her feet, her fingers flexing in an attempt to keep from lashing out. She had gotten gruff with one of the customers who commented on their lack of service-- something she couldn’t help due to being short staffed. Instead of smiling politely, she had told him to go fuck himself. The words spewing from the cook’s lips were lost on Joey. Instead, she began to untie the apron, “you know what? Fuck it, I’m out.” She dropped it to the ground, fingers still trembling, “doesn’t matter, this place smells like grease and sweat anyways-- maybe y’all should shower sometime.” She turned on her heel, stalking out of the kitchen, towards the front door. The noise was apparently loud enough that the heads in the dining room swiveled towards her as she eased her way between tables, beelining for the glass door. She needed to get out, and get out fast. The ache in her bones and anger heating in the tips of her fingers was vicious.

Ever since Amaranth had come across a wolf living alone, she had followed her around as a fox. Not all the time and definitely not the whole day. Just here and there, curious as to why she was without a pack and living on her own. Werewolves lived in White Crest after all - why would a wolf be all by herself. She eventually tracked her down to Al’s Diner. She wondered why the girl frequented there and it wasn’t until Amaranth stepped in that she figured out she was employed there. It didn’t seem like a bad place for someone who was on their own. They’d have a source of income and a source of food. Amaranth wasn’t big on greasy American food and often would only ask for a coffee or a water and just sit and observe. If Joey wasn’t working she’d be out after she finished and if she was she’d hang around and just watch the young girl.

This time, it seemed Amaranth was here at the right time. She had seen Joey’s outburst as it was only a few tables away. Soon after she heard a cook’s voice yelling and the sound of it made Amaranth’s blood boil. Her fathers’ never once raised her voice at her and while many feared the sound of her fathers voice - she had learned they only ever spoke with love in their hearts. So the sound of a man raising his voice to threaten someone - a young girl, it took everything Amaranth had not to enter the kitchen and shove him face down on the grill top. She watched as Joey stormed through the diner, heading out. Pulling out cash for her coffee, Amaranth quickly went after her. She’d watched this wolf for too long now - it would be wrong if Amaranth didn’t offer any help. “Are you okay?” Amaranth called out for her, quickly catching up with her. “The whole diner could hear him yell at you.” She explained.

Joey stalked towards the sidewalk, eager to put as much distance between herself and the diner as possible. The smell of something-- mammal, caught her attention. The wind shifted, and it grew stronger. She scrunched her nose. This wasn’t a squirrel, it was something else. Something a little more human. The sound of somebody’s voice sent Joey’s stance rigid. She afforded a glance over her shoulder. She hadn’t seen this woman before, but she seemed concerned. Maybe that wasn’t the right word. The wind picked up and the smell from the woman curled around her nose. She wasn’t a wolf, that was for certain, but smelling like an animal meant that she wasn’t a hunter. Or maybe she was. Maybe she was like Joey. She tensed as she turned towards the woman, the anger still bubbling. “I’m fine,” she replied, glancing past her and back into the diner. “Huh.” Joey realigned her gaze back onto the stranger, regarding her carefully.

She glanced down at the woman’s hands, then to her shoes. It didn’t look like there had been anything slipped into the cuffs, or up her sleeves. Joey leveled her gaze back to meet the stranger’s. “I’m fine,” she repeated, “it was--” Better, easier, Safer? “For the best.” She didn’t mesh well with the other employees anyways. They didn’t seem to do well with new faces. “It’s cold, you don’t need to worry about it.” Joey offered a tight lipped smile before she inhaled sharply. Definitely not human. She was still getting used to her new nose, but it had been a few months, and it was getting a little easier in distinguishing humans from not-humans, and even though White Crest was full of confusion in that regard, she knew it was something she needed to get better at.

“It sounds like it wasn’t a good work environment for you.” Amaranth observed, stepping closer but remaining a polite distance. Already she could note the way she was breathing, probably trying to see what her nose would tell her. Smart girl. “The food wasn’t that great anyway,” Amaranth judged, slightly wrinkling her nose and giving a faint smile. She needed to show she wasn’t hostile that if the girl wanted to, they could be friendly with one another. She was a werewolf after all and… she didn’t seem to have anywhere to go. While Amaranth wasn’t one to force someone to live with her family - it didn’t mean she would abandon a supernatural who needed help.

“I assume you must be on the job market now, am I correct?” Amaranth started, not wanting to scare the girl off but also wanting to offer her a position in her business. “I’m a business owner myself. I don’t know if you’re new in town, so maybe you’ve not heard of it. It’s a shaved ice parlour here downtown. It’s… actually not too far from here if you’re interested in checking it out.” Amaranth gestured to its general direction. “We have a very flexible work schedule, mornings, afternoons, overnight… so whichever suits you best we’re more than happy to work with.” No one was ever hired this easily in typical job employments but Amaranth’s hiring techniques were far from the norm. “We’re also very flexible in the event that… you’re unable to come in due to certain unforeseen circumstances.” Amaranth could only dance around the subject for so long but she didn’t want to scare her off.

The stranger’s comment about the food not being good had her let out a small, breathy chuckle. She wasn’t wrong. Joey would eat just about anything these days, though, and a part of the job meant she got discounted, if not free food. That was one perk she would miss. She had only had it for a month, though, so it wouldn’t be hard to move past. “You’re right,” she commented, watching the way that the woman took a step closer, but still keeping her distance. She wondered if she could tell what she was-- she didn’t seem nervous. Her movements were careful, calculated.

When the woman spoke, Joey nodded carefully, eyebrows pulled together. It seemed odd that this woman would offer her a job after watching her curse at her prior employer. A bitter cold wind dug underneath her sweatshirt and she braced herself against it. How a shaved ice joint could do well in the winter, she wasn’t sure, but the woman was offering her a job. She couldn’t sense anything off in her expression, or the way she held herself-- openly, her mother would say. She looked down at her hands, looking for a twitch in her fingertips, as if it would signal anything off. She looked back up to meet the woman’s gaze, her own careful as she spoke, “you just watched me yell back at those guys, and now you’re telling me I could come and work for you?” She arched a brow, the anger long forgotten. She flexed her fingers before she dropped her hand to her neck, her digits pressing into the skin there. “I don’t… know what to say.” White Crest, so far, harsh on her. “How much does it pay?” Joey asked, not willing to skirt around something that was increasingly important to somebody currently living out of a car.

“Let’s just say, you won’t have to deal with stupidity from your employer.” Amaranth hoped she would see the positives in that. “You may have a few… socially awkward coworkers.” The fenodyree were manageable however. Rarely did they ever break their cover unless a human got too close to them. She gave a hint of a smile as she thought of them - but of course, she couldn’t forget the most important part of this. The pay. Considering the fenodyree were paid in food, there was plenty of money to go around. “I’d say we offer quite the competitive pay rate.” What was competitive pay in the human world though? Money was confusing. She hated human wealth.

“Far better than Al’s I’m sure. Tell me how much they paid you so I can have a laugh at how pathetic it was.” Amaranth let out a presumptive huff as if already able to imagine a low amount. “We can take a walk to the shop if you’d like. You can get a feel for it. Decide if it’s for you or not.” Amaranth offered. She really only wanted to help the girl out but she couldn’t force her to take the help if she didn’t want it. Besides she didn’t feel safe speaking of supernatural things so bluntly out in public. In the shop, however, it was safe. She made sure it was.

Joey had been raised, or rather, conditioned to notice the change in somebody’s demeanor. If you noticed something off, it could save a lot of trouble, her father had said. However, there was nothing off about this woman, nothing other than she smelled of animal, just like her. If that were the case, then surely she would be able to smell Joey. It meant she wasn’t a hunter. Or-- Joey struggled with the idea of what this woman could offer, past her well intentioned offering of a job that she sorely needed. Joey wasn’t in the position to refuse, however, and so she lowered her gaze to the ground, to the woman’s feet. Polished shoes, or what seemed like it. The woman asked how much she had been paid at Al’s and she thought about her server wages, “barely 5 dollars an hour, but that includes tips.” Maine’s minimum pay was 12 dollars, but because she earned tips, she didn’t see that amount.

She shifted uncomfortably. She hated talking about money-- hated that she came across as needy. She swallowed the feeling. This woman was trying to help her, how could she refuse? She bit the inside of her cheek, hard enough to create a distraction from the unease she had been feeling. “I--” She watched the stranger for a moment, “What is your name?” She asked with a tilt of her head. At the very least, she’d like to know this stranger’s name, just in case something were to happen. What kind of thing would happen, she couldn’t be sure. Just in case, Joey thought to herself. She didn’t know anyone, and due to the town’s disposition for having all sorts of creatures, Joey was not sure how much she could trust the local police department, if at all. At least a name would give her the minimal amount of security-- then again, she could be provided a fake one. “But sure, yeah, you can show me.” She finally said, the cold worming its way beneath the thinly layered sweater she wore.

Barely meant it wasn’t good enough. Even then Amaranth was sure it wouldn’t have been considering her own shaved ice could cost up to 5 dollars depending on the weight. And for a whole hour? That couldn’t have been right. “Alright, come on then.” She already began to lead the way, crossing the street as it was empty. “I’ll triple it.” Amaranth argued. “15 dollars an hour.” She can afford that, right? She’ll have one of the money fae deal with it. They were good at handling the financials while she was still trying to figure out how these electronic cards worked. “My name is Amaranth Zhang. What’s yours?” She was quick to arrive at the shop, she didn’t think it would be right to mention anything supernatural outside.

It was colder in the shop than it was outside and Amaranth glanced over at the girl knowing she must have been cold. The shop had only one patron who was off to the corner. Amaranth recognized the regular. The employees behind the counter straightened up at the sight of Amaranth. A short one, no more than five feet came over. “We weren’t expecting you, Queen!” Amaranth glanced over at Joey and it was only then that the employee noticed her. “Hello, welcome to Baobing Bada Boom what can we get for you!” They greeted, a little too aggressively. Amaranth dismissed them with a wave before looking back to Joey. “They can be a little excitable but I assure you they are one of the most hard working coworkers you’ll come across. You’ll see a variety of different people come in for their shift. Some prefer working nights and even overnight as we are open 24 hours. We are really flexible. If you only want to work for a few hours a week, we can work with that. We’re not short staffed - I just want to help special people who may be down on their luck.” Amaranth glanced around, knowing the other patron in the shop was supernatural as well there was nothing to hide. She extended her hand and from it formed a purple flame. “You don’t have to hide anything here.”

Joey fought hard to hide the interest piqued by the mention of her rate being 15 dollars an hour. Even back in Conway, the few jobs her parents did allow her to have, all of which at friends’ shops, she never made that much. She hunched forward slightly to keep the wind from whipping her hair around her face and followed the strange woman across the street, continuing on their way until they finally came upon a bright shop. It was different compared to the shops that surrounded it. “Oh,” Joey looked over at Amaranth, “I’m Joey.” She omitted her real name, hopeful that the new nickname would catch on. Her mother would absolutely detest it.

The door opened and Joey followed her inside. A sweet scent curled around her nose and she looked towards the one person in the corner, then to the individual who made their way towards herself and Amaranth. She regarded them warily before glancing over to Amaranth as she spoke. The individual went back to their post with an urgency that Joey hadn’t thought she’d seen this late in the night. She wondered what time it actually was. Amaranth’s words caught Joey off guard. Special people? So did that mean-- The hairs on the back of Joey’s neck raised momentarily, but before she could let it sink in that Amaranth knew what she was, a purple flame flickered across her palm. Joey gawked at the sight, her mouth hanging slightly open. Had that just happened? Joey knew that there was magic in the world. Her parents had told her such things, but her knowledge was limited to wolves, and the occasional vampire that was necessary to take out in their small town of Conway. This woman smelled of animal and had magic dancing along her fingertips, so Joey couldn’t help but blurt out whilst backing into a table, “What are you?”

Amaranth smiled at her sudden intrigue and knew that she had made the right choice in offering a job at the shop. She didn’t expect the young wolf to make a career out of it but definitely a chance to pick herself up until she can confidently go about the world however she wanted, whether it was alone, with someone else or even her family. Amaranth never forced anyone to become a part of it and was willing to help someone even if they had no interest. Supernatural people had to stick together. No matter what. Once they were divided, that’s how humans took advantage of them. If they remained united they were unstoppable. This town would soon learn what that meant. The hunters will soon learn. She would make sure of that.

“There are many names for my kind. You can consider me to be a fox spirit. But more importantly, I want you to know we’re not so different, you and I.” Sure, a fox and a wolf had many differences. The flame quickly dissipated with a closed fist. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t befriend a werewolf. A normal wolf on the other hand, she would tolerate purely because of its necessity to the ecosystem. As a fox she tended to avoid other normal living animals. “I can assure you, Joey that you would be safe here. I’d see to it myself. I do not abandon my people. The decision is yours and yours alone. These doors are always open - whether it be to leave or enter.”