#pair of ear spools

[theancientwayoflife]

~ Pair of Ear Spools.

Date: A.D. 1000-1470

Place of origin: Central Coast, Perú

Culture: Chancay or Inca

Period: Late Intermediate-Late Horizon

Medium: Feathers, adhesive, gourd, and leather.

[boneblushed]

Ignorance by infatuation

synopsis A detective behaves lewdly with you. Aaron Hotchner gets uncharacteristically jealous.

wc 1.7k

a/n omg my first Hotch fic ever hehe 🤭 feedback and love always appreciated, still trying to find my Crim Minds voice!

It’s 8 o’clock in the morning, the air sultry and verdant, rain soaked leaves underfoot. 

Aaron Hotchner frowns. Petrichor and dew mean evidence awash. He pauses to squint up at the sky, muddy grey with isolated streaks of yellow dawn.

You’re acutely aware of Spencer’s eyes on you as you walk past Hotch, and give yourself a mild headache by focussing too hard on the commotion ahead. The rest of the team don’t seem to notice the tension between you and SSA Hotchner. Or perhaps they do, and the pair of you are just too stubborn to admit it.

It’s been lurking under the surface for a while now, this perplexing pull between you. Lingering glances, raised eyebrows, irises spooled with tendrils of static. A hand pressed against your back every time he scoots behind you, like an excuse. He doesn’t do that with Emily. None of the other agents. A frown that tends to yield when your gaze catches his.

Or hardens when someone acts a little lewder than is appropriate.

Like the other day, for example, when he’d overheard you on the phone with some deadbeat cop in the Dallas area. (He’s probably being unfair. He probably isn’t even a deadbeat. It’s just that anyone that flirts with the idea of your favour is going to be unworthy in comparison, even Agent Hotchner.)

The phone had rung in the middle of your exchange, and you’d answered it immediately, mouthing apologies in its place. Aaron Hotchner remembers the shine of gloss on your lips, the ways your fingers clasped the phone to your ear, gentle but firm. Remnants of peach coloured polish on your nails.

“Yes, this is she,” you’d answered, mouthing another apology to him. “How can I help you?”

You’d come into his office a few minutes prior to discuss something media strategy; Hotch didn’t have a mind for it, he much preferred giving you all the reins. He recognised how strange this was for a control freak as prolific as him. You were different though, he’d attest. It was a sentiment as dangerous, as non-platonic, as the feelings making home in his ribcage.

“Right,” you’d said, pulling your spiral-bound notebook out of your pocket. You’d wedged your phone between your ear and shoulder, slipping your pen out of your breast pocket and clicking it against it. Hotch felt unseasonably hot at such attention to your chest. He raised his eyebrows inquisitively, trying to catch your gaze.

“Ah, I see, yes that does sound like our area of expertise,” you’d continued, and then a pause, an awkward, unwieldy laugh. Still beautiful. “No, yes, our is correct — I am in fact part of the team.” Another pause; this time, you’d rolled your eyes when your laugh spooled out of your pretty mouth. He didn’t recognise it. “I don’t know about that. Should we get back to the case at hand? Great.”

Hotchner’s eyebrows had lowered then, furrowing into an expression of concern, flailing interest. Not jealousy. He was pretty certain he knew all your laughs, the cadence of them, the syrupy timbre. This one was new. You sounded uncomfortable, as though something said over the phone had abraded you somehow. As his eyebrows had, his heart had sunk into his stomach. He remembers the strain of his forearm muscles against his clenched knuckles.

“Sure. Yes. As soon as I have all the details I’ll be able to distribute them. Great, yes, we’ll see you soon, I’m sure. Thank you. Goodbye.”

And that had been that. Hotch hadn’t had the stomach to ask after the details, especially not when you’d seemed so eager to put it behind you.

After ending the call, you’d shaken your head and proclaimed, “Don’t ask,” launching back into your spiel about media strategy like it hadn’t happened. Hotch wasn’t in the business of disagreeing with you; pressing things. Saying no. It wasn’t lost on him that he used the word liberally with everyone else he knew.

Back at the scene, Hotch stays a few steps behind the team. He knows that Spencer’s assessing eyes will see right through his faux contemplation; Hotchner knows, from the many frowns Spencer’s eidetic memory has learned, that the expression on his face will be recognised as distraction.

He needs to focus. He needs you near. He needs to keep his eye on the ball. He needs deadbeat detective far away from here.

As you and the BAU team near the crime scene, a rugged looking cop pulls away from his colleagues. He has eyes like treacle tart and a grin that borders on a smirk. A toothpick hangs from his mouth like something out of a Western.

“Detective Landon?” You say, extending a hand in acknowledgement. “Hello, we spoke on the phone yesterday morning.”

Detective Landon spits the toothpick out of his mouth, maintaining eye contact as he does so. But it isn’t the depth of his gaze that drops yours. You can feel someone else’s eyes searing holes through your skull.

“Well I’ll be,” he drawls, taking your hand and pressing it to his mouth. “Your voice doesn’t do you justice, darling.”

You resist the urge to make a face. It’s awful, unfortunate, but you’re far too used to this. Behind you, Derek raises his eyebrows, sharing an amused look with Emily beside him. Rossi looks exasperated. Spencer’s expression remains unchanged, though he does steal a glance at Hotchner. You smile, the way you always do, refusing to be thrown off by his candour.

“That’s a shame,” you reply breezily, turning to introduce your team. “Detective, this is SSA Morgan, SSA Prentiss, Dr Spencer Reid, and —”

“I’m the unit chief, Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner,” Hotch interrupts, a menacing gravel to his timbre. He doesn’t shake the hand Detective Landon extends to him. The detective draws it back with a gauche bark of laughter, turning his attention to the rest of the BAU.

“My my,” he says, his drawl returning as his eyes meet Emily’s. “What do I gotta do to get in on this team of yours?”

“A formal education would be helpful,” Spencer supplies, squinting at him through his glasses.

Detective Landon turns to him then, raising his eyebrows. “Doctor Reid, was it?”

“It is, but no need to aim that high, buddy,” Morgan says then, stepping forward and patting him on the shoulder. Landon winces. “Now. You going to talk us through what you guys got so far or what?”

“Damn, y’all are a feisty bunch, huh?” He replies, pulling another toothpick out of his breast-pocket. He sends you a wink that makes Hotch’s insides turn, adding, “Don’t mind it on you, sweetheart, but maybe the rest of the BAU ‘oughta play nice.”

Aaron Hotchner would normally agree with his sentiment. He’s been a long time advocate of working alongside the local police in investigations; he recognises that collaboration is far more productive than condescension.

Unfortunately for him, this isn’t quite a normal situation.

Things to do with you and other men rarely are. An ugly green emotion eases his heart right into his throat.

“Or maybe,” Hotchner says crisply, his steely gaze pinning Landon to the spot, “I should have a chat with your Captain and take you off this case.”

Landon balks. “Sir —”

“You’re dismissed,” Hotchner interrupts, not wanting to hear it. He’s unaware of the amused look Emily and Morgan share behind him.

“You…” Landon trails off exasperatedly, shaking his head, “…you can’t dismiss me. This is my case.”

“Actually, it’s the BAU’s case now.” He turns to you expectantly. You think you catch his gaze soften as it falls over your face in paces. Trick of the light, you suppose. “Right?”

“Sure,” you say weakly.

“Right then. Rossi?” Hotch says then, turning to David Rossi autocratically. “Why don’t you and the team go ahead and assess the scene while I head to base and sort out a reassignment.”

“Not you, Reid,” he adds, keeping Spencer in place. “You can come to the station with me, get our replacement up to speed. Sound good?”

Morgan’s trying hard to hide his knowing grin, one side of his mouth upturned with mirth. Emily isn’t bothering to pretend she doesn’t know what’s going on, her pretty features lit up with amusement. Detective Landon looks mortified. Your cheeks feel on fire.

“Alright,” Rossi says after pause, glancing between you and Hotchner. He’s been in the FBI for long enough now that he’s learnt to pick his battles.

He turns around and begins walking toward the crime scene, the three of you trailing behind him with less purposeful strides.

“Huh,” Derek says, faux-thoughtful. You’re wedged between him and Emily, much to your chagrin. “Wonder what that was about. Any ideas, SSA Prentiss?”

“Well, SSA Morgan,” Emily replies, her smile audible. “I’m afraid that our dear old unit chief has a bit of a soft spot.”

“A soft spot?” Derek echoes, letting out a dramatic gasp. “That’s dangerous in our line of work, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would say,” Emily responds sagely.

“Oh shut up, you two,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest. “That wasn’t just about me. He made a pass on Emily too.”

Emily snorts, shaking her head exasperatedly. “Hey Rossi, you got a name for this phenomenon?”

“Oh yeah,” Rossi replies without hesitation, his gaze trained ahead of him. “Ignorance by infatuation.”

Out of earshot, Spencer and Hotchner are having a similarly painful conversation.

“Strange,” Spencer decides, breaking the silence with his candour.

Aaron knows what he’s insinuating. He resists the urge to turn around and steal another glance at your pretty silhouette. “He was behaving inappropriately. There’s nothing strange about it, Spencer. I was protecting my team.”

“The whole team?”

“Yes.”

“Including me?”

“Yes.”

“But I liked him.”

Hotchner sends him an incredulous look. “And what exactly was there to like?”

“He was entertaining, I think,” Spencer replies casually, shrugging. “In a cop way, you know? Plus, I love listening to Y/N reject men. It’s fascinating.”

Hotchner swallows. “Fascinating?”

“She always does it in this way where they don’t even realise what exactly’s happening,” Spencer explains matter-of-factly. He turns to Aaron Hotchner then. “Don’t worry, though, she’d never do that to you.”

Hotchner’s traitorous heart leaps, his mouth pulling into a paradoxical frown. “Spencer,” he warns.

“Just saying,” Spencer replies, raising his arms in surrender.

“Well,” Hotch says grumpily, “don’t.”

“Alright. Noted.”

[hongism]

mists of celeste ➻ 51

➻ pairing: ??? x fem reader

➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, smut

➻ word count: 21.1k

➻ rating: M

➻ warnings: language (additional warnings under the cut, pls heed them!)

➻ summary: Months into your stay aboard The Horizon, it becomes apparent that things are not as cut and dry as you thought, and that you might have bitten off more than you could chew with this crew.

⇐ previous | next ⇒ | masterlist

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act seven ➻ part three

additional chapter warnings: cannibalism (dream), discussion of suicidal ideation, hallucinations

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When you come to, you almost don’t realize that you have woken up at all because you open your eyes to complete darkness. The first thing you notice is the weight at your back, something digging into your shoulder blades and making you wildly uncomfortable, but that sensation is pushed to the back of your mind as your brain starts catching up with the reality you’re in. Your right arm does not feel wholly attached to your body in any way, and even when you attempt to use it to help move around in the cramped space you’re in, it refuses to budge at all.

Above you, there is a firm plank of wood that slots into your faux coffin so perfectly you imagine it’s aiming to act as your grave.

In your left ear, you hear a quiet yet unsettling whispering coming from outside the box.

“I know you’re there,” comes the distorted yet familiar tone, “I’ll pull every splinter of wood off this box to reach you. You can’t hide forever.”

You swing your left arm up as hard as you can manage given the limited space you have to deal with, ramming your elbow into the block of wood over your body. The huffs of your breathing make the enclosure feel that much smaller, and in turn, it causes your moves to lean more frantic than an organized attempt to escape.

“Keep struggling just like that. I like a fight~”

The voice belongs to San — there’s no doubt about that — and yet it sounds nothing like your San.

Twisting onto your side, you slam your left shoulder sideways into the wooden box, and that finally loosens whatever seal is keeping it shut. You tumble out onto the cold, metal ground followed by spools of what looks to be fabric and threads. Your right arm aches suddenly with a sharp pang in your upper bicep that makes you hiss and clutch at it desperately.

It’s dark all around save for one singular light in the distance, but it flickers into nothingness every so often.

“I’ll give you a head start if you’d like,” comes San’s cruel whispers from just beside you. A chill of terror passes down your spine, but when you turn to look over your shoulder, there’s nothing — and no one — there.

You hoist yourself up while still gripping your aching right arm. A bit of feeling has returned to it, just enough to let you twitch your fingers and make a weak fist with them. The light in the distance illuminates enough of the room you’re in to show you a somewhat clear path to the only exit, though the shadows around you have an almost sinister feel to them. You open your mouth to speak into the darkness, a witless hope that you can reason with the San that’s out there, but your voice bubbles up and dies on your tongue. With those hopes dashed, you resolve to simply make a run for it.

Breaking into a sprint, you launch yourself towards the archway leading to the exit as the shadows rise up to meet your every step like they’re chasing you. The boxes scattered throughout the room are like a maze keeping you from a safe and easy exit. When the light flickers out, you stall and count the seconds until it flickers back into its wobbly pattern again — thirteen plus a half. Each time the darkness swallows you, the exit seems to get further and further away no matter how much you run towards it while the light is on. A cry of frustration rests on your lips but the sound refuses to come out.

“Won’t you look at me, star?” San’s voice rises behind you once again. Darkness envelops the room.

Thirteen and a half.

“Do you fear me?”

Yes, you think. Your fingers squeeze around your bicep until your palm is wet and hot with some sort of liquid that makes your skin slippery.

Five and a half.

You tense. The shadows at your back feel so close that it’s almost like there’s a breath of cold air running down the back of your neck.

“Does my presence frighten you?” he whispers.

One.

You reel around just as the light comes back to life, intent to catch San where he’s lurking once the shadows are dispersed under the fluorescent haze. The world spins terribly even though you hardly moved much, and you topple over like a wobbly top onto your knees. The light has morphed into a solitary spotlight coming down from above onto you, blinding you so much that you try to block your vision to an extent. You look forward to the floor only to be met with a horrifying sight.

“…San?” you say under your breath in a slight panic.

There’s a body on the floor before you, and with the excess light that’s suddenly spilled into the room, you can clearly see that you’re inside the cargo bay aboard The Horizon. The place where you started your journey with this crew. And now the place where San’s slumped and crumpled body lies before you like a corpse. You reach out towards the back that’s facing you with a tremor in your hands that won’t go away. Your fingers close around a cold arm and twist the body so that you can see the face even though the build looks so starkly like San that you’re dreading it.

The moment you do, however, the face morphs and twists before your eyes until it resembles Minho. Gasping, you scramble backwards on your hands, tweaking your injured arm as you do. His lips are blue, as though he’s been dead for some time, skin pale and eyes wide open — bloodshot. Saliva runs down from both corners of his mouth, dried and flaking against his ghostly white face.

A strange whistling echoes throughout the cargo bay.

Minho’s corpse speaks to you.

“Why did you bring me here to die?”

You twist over onto your hands and knees, ignoring the flare of pain that shoots down your arm as you launch yourself forward in a vain attempt to escape. The whistling continues to ring in your ears, like a macabre song fueling your sprint out of the cargo bay and into the attached corridor. You move through the hallways frantically, passing room after room with open doors and faceless bodies inside each one. By the time you reach the mess hall, you’re out of breath, and your sanity is fraying at the edges because of the damn whistling that refuses to stop following you.

The lights here are flickering too, and the usual hum of machinery that radiates throughout the ship is absent completely. The tables in the hall are shoved to the side haphazardly and coated in a thick layer of dust. Beside one of the toppled tables sits Jongho’s guitar, broken on the ground with its strings snapped.

“There you are.”

You don’t have time to process who the owner of the voice is — you barely have time to brace yourself for the impact that strikes you from behind. It does nothing to save you from the impending fall, though the floor dissipates as you approach it face-first, and you swing into darkness instead. Next thing you know, you’re sitting in a chair with no way of seeing what’s around you and warmth blossoming across your face.

The hands that cover your eyes are not your own yet they are just as calloused and rough on your skin, but the voice against your ears is so soft by comparison.

“Are you ready, mon amour?” It’s Seonghwa who speaks with a foreign warmth to his tone you haven’t heard in some time. You bring a hand up to cover his, eager to pull him away and restore your vision. “Not yet, you haven’t answered the question.”

“I’m ready,” you breathe out in nothing more than a whisper.

“Good.”

Light creeps into your vision, pulling back the curtains of darkness, and what you see before you is both astonishingly beautiful and horrifying at once. You’re at a dinner table small enough to seat two, and across from you sits none other than your captain. Except unlike you, who possesses the freedom to move from the chair as you please, Hongjoong has ropes bound around his torso and keeping his arms stuck to his sides. He stares ahead at you, face oddly blank and expressionless. Seonghwa creeps into your peripherals draped in white robes that make him look like a saint sent from the heavens.

“Seonghwa.”

“Shh, mon amour. Let us prepare this feast for you to enjoy.”

A deep haze settles over your mind, whether from the odd sweet aroma in the air or from Seonghwa’s lilting voice. You do not feel fully present as you watch what unfolds next. As Seonghwa takes his captain by the hair and drags his head so far back that it seems as though his neck is the feast in question. Something glints in Seonghwa’s hand, but you realize it far too late, as the next second leads this dinner into something far more horrifying.

He splits Hongjoong’s neck open on the blade. Little crimson rivulets spill over the silver. Your brain is calling for you to take action, to stop this gruesome scene before it becomes worse, but still your body does not move. Seonghwa continues to wrench the knife along skin without relent, as though it is nothing to him, like Hongjoong is merely a slain animal for him to butcher as he sees fit, and you are terrified.

“Is this not what we are owed, Y/n?” Seonghwa says, angling his head down to the blade. He pulls his tongue along the flat where a minute amount of blood has pooled. “Our devotion deserves just rewards.” The edges of his sleeves are staining more and more by the second, though it is nothing but an afterthought in the moments that follow. Seonghwa turns his head further in to lay his lips along the seam he has created in his captain’s flesh. He sinks teeth in deep, and when he draws back, there is blood up to his nose and dripping down his chin.

“We’ve earned this, Y/n.” If your body could function according to your mind, you would certainly jump in your seat from the sudden intrusion of a new voice joining the fray. Yunho comes in from the left, out of a strange pit of darkness that seemingly has no beginning or end. He balances a knife of his own in one hand, fingers barely clutched around the hilt, but his grip shifts once he steps over to the table. It’s with a firm hand that he drives it directly into Hongjoong’s sternum. Or, what you believe to still be Hongjoong. His face is more obscured than anything, and his form does not seem recognizable in the slightest to you, but it was him before Seonghwa slit his throat. It must still be him now, no?

Then this man beside Seonghwa cannot be Yunho. You have never known him to be violent.

“We have all given him parts of ourselves, my star.” Warmth surrounds you. Before you realize it, you are standing, and San is there behind you like a mere extension of yourself. His arms wrap around your body, hand resting steady on the base of your throat. Hot breath pours from his lips and down the side of your neck. It causes a tingle to rush up and down your spine; though despite that, your body still does not feel like it is your own. “Does it not make sense for us to take in return?” San’s hands retract to rest on your lower back. He pushes you down like he wants to bend you over the table, but rather than letting your chest collide with the empty plates laid out there, he nudges your leg up with his knee. Like a puppet, you crawl across the table, sending utensils and glassware both to the ground. San caresses your head and squeezes the back of your neck in silent reassurance. That this is okay, this is fair, this is what you are owed.

When you reach the other side, Hongjoong is upright once more. It is still him, though you aren’t sure if there is relief in you upon seeing his face. Knife still in his chest, throat still slit and bleeding — now even with a chunk of flesh ripped out to add to the carnage — he stares right at you with strangely lively eyes. All this and yet the monster is still not defeated. What a fool you would be to believe that it would be an easy feat.

“If there is something you desire—” blood coats his teeth, making his crazed grin all the more insane “—you must tear it from my flesh.”

His fingers are cold on your wrist. You did not notice how close you came to the edge of the table, now teetering between the wood and falling into his lap, nor did you realize that you had brought a hand to his chest in the process. That’s where he holds you now, keeping your hand flat over his heart with an ice cold grip.

A phantom heartbeat makes itself known on your fingertips. A steady and calm ba-dum, ba-dum that gets stronger and stronger the more your fingers sink into flesh and bone.

Something shifts.

You don’t understand how, but you are no longer on the table. Hongjoong does not sit across from you any longer, nor are there even the slightest traces that he ever was there to begin with. The table is clean once again and set for one — you and you alone. You are already holding a fork and knife in your hands.

Seonghwa comes forward from the spot where your captain just was, dressed again in white but this time he is clean and free of blood. He sets a plate down before you, one you do not immediately look at because you are too busy examining his face for any trace of Hongjoong’s flesh and blood. He smiles without showing his teeth and nods towards the dish.

“Please eat, mon amour. You’ve worked so terribly hard for your meal.” He finishes his words with a full-blown smile. His teeth are stained red.

Before you, on a pristine plate, lies a still-beating heart.

It’s not the morning hour or your lover shifting in the sheets that finally pulls you out of your sleep, but rather a muted horror lingering in your body from a rather violent and gruesome nightmare that came upon you once you fell asleep last night. Despite your wishes to forget such a thing, it persists in your memory, even as you climb out of bed and make your way to the bathroom where San is already up and prepping for the day ahead.

“Good morning,” you mumble while rubbing the sleep from your eyes. He returns the greeting just as incoherently, lips wrapped around a toothbrush, but he still makes way for you to press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Water’s still warm,” he pulls his toothbrush out a bit to get the words out, eyes on you through the mirror as you strip down to nothing. “I didn’t wanna wake you up.” He doesn’t need to explain a thing, though you’re certain he already knows as much so you don’t voice those sentiments out loud. You stand up straight to look at him through the reflection too. A small smile plays at your lips, one that’s meant to be reassuring. You hope the smile doesn’t drop too soon when you turn, but if it does then San plays the part of being clueless exceptionally well. He was correct about the water though, as it feels blissfully warm on your skin.

Your hopes to forget the dream that plagued you last night are dashed almost immediately, however, when you close your eyes to keep the barrage of water from spilling into them. It returns to you in a flash, like you are reliving it just the same, and the dream floods your senses fully. The metallic taste on your tongue horrifies you to the point of eliciting a small gasp from you that leads to water rushing into your throat and making you choke. You only realize that you’ve bit your cheek once you’re recovering from the sudden choking fit.

“Are you alright?” San sounds two seconds away from a serious panic.

“I-I’m fine, fine, just had an awful dream.” That isn’t what he was asking, but the realization dawns on you only after you’ve spoken.

The curtain pulls back a bit to show San’s concern in full. The soft pout on his lips makes you want to kiss him.

“I bit my cheek and choked on water because of it. And I was thinking about my dream. Wasn’t… I don’t know, it was just surreal and horrible.” You don’t imagine there to be any normal way to explain what you dreamt about in the slightest. Leaning forward out of the shower a bit, you plant a quick kiss against his frown to reassure him. “I’m fine, I just need to fully wake up and shake it off.”

“If you wanna talk about it…” he trails off, eyes still full of concern and trailing over your face even as he tastes your touch on his lips with his tongue. “I’m gonna head down and get some breakfast. Take your time.” He seems to note that you’d like space to mull over your nightmares, even if your reassurance hasn’t diminished his worry much at all. The curtain falls back into place, leaving you enclosed in the shower in peace, and you let out a small breath when you hear San leave the room.

You douse yourself with water and hang your head under the showerhead to let it pelt you from above in a vain attempt to clear your mind. The metallic scent of blood was so real and prevalent that you can almost taste it on the back of your tongue now, as the memory of the dream sinks back over you like a dark shadow.

Your limbs seem to move on their own as your right hand brings the fork forward to sink into the beating flesh of the heart. Blood spills out of the tiny pinprick holes your fork leaves in its wake. The scarlet pools at the base of the plate. The knife slips through the organ after some struggle, as though the thumping flesh is wrought with steel.

Seonghwa still stands across from you on the other side of the table with his hands folded in front of him like a steeple. He smiles, lips closed and tightly wound into a grin that’s almost painful to look upon because of how strained his expression is. He watches you cut away at the heart and take a small cube neatly onto your fork.

“To think he would let you of all people feast upon his heart,” he says, eyes wide and unblinking. You pause with the bite halfway to your mouth. The knife in your left hand clatters against the plate when you drop it unceremoniously. Seonghwa unfurls his hands and lays them against the pristine white tablecloth. “Tell me, mon amour, would you…” he swallows hard around nothing. You remain frozen in place, and it’s your turn to watch him now as he slides around the edge of the table and comes over onto your side. Seconds tick by at an agonizingly slow pace, and Seonghwa lowers himself to his knees. A trembling hand clasps around your thigh tightly. It takes you a moment to recognize the expression painting his features to be excitement. “Would you grant me a bite?”

Your hand moves the fork over to him without conscious thought. You coax his chin up with your free hand, fingers lingering on the underside of his jaw as his pretty lips part in an almost feral want.

“Ask nicely and perhaps I might.” Your voice comes out in a sultry tone that does not feel like your own despite it sounding like you. Seonghwa exhales a shaky sigh, his pupils blown out and sweat beading his brow.

“Please…” Seonghwa shudders and shifts his chin down, catching your thumb between his lips and nipping at the pad gently. “Just a bite.”

You split the seam of Seonghwa’s lips further open upon your thumb and wedge it between his teeth, finally bringing the fork down to his waiting mouth. His breath lies hot against your thumb. The soft pants he exhales are frantic, and his gaze upon your face is so unsettlingly steady that you cannot force yourself to be the first to look away. As the fork descends upon his mouth and pushes the small bite onto his tongue, you retreat and pull your thumb out of his mouth. Seonghwa moans around the morsel, a little rivulet of blood trickling down from the corner of his mouth as he shudders around the taste of Hongjoong’s heart.

Seonghwa’s chest is heaving when he pushes up on his knees and reaches for your face with both hands. You let him cup your cheeks, neatly manicured nails digging into your flesh as he tugs you down to meet his lips with your own. What follows is a mess — a kiss full of blood, saliva, teeth, and the lingering heartbeat resting atop Seonghwa’s tongue as he thrusts the wet muscle into you to coat the whole interior of your mouth with the taste of iron. The fork in your right hand hits the ground with a sharp clang that rings too loudly in your ears. You search the table blindly with your other hand until you find the plate with the rest of the heart on it, and when you close your hand around what’s remaining, the heartbeat thumps like it’s part of you.

Saliva connects your mouths when you push Seonghwa back and separate your lips. He’s dazed, still looking up at you like you’re some benevolent god offering him saintly blessings, and you do. As you swipe your thumb over your bloodied lip, you push the heart firmly against Seonghwa’s parted lips. He groans, eyelashes fluttering around the taste, and there’s a sick squelch resounding in the air once he works his teeth into the flesh.

“This,” he says through soft pants, twisting his chin down into his shoulder to catch his breath even as you force the organ further against him. It stains his pretty tanned skin with red streaks that drip down the front of his white garb. “This shall be our final feast.”

You come to again on the floor of the shower, hunched over with your head leaned into the corner of the tiles. The water beating down on you is icy now; any lingering warmth you had upon entering has dissipated while you were unconscious. Beneath your head where the water can’t quite reach is a streak of crimson. You lift a hand to your head first in search of the source of the blood but stop immediately when a fresh drop falls. Tapping your nostril with your middle finger first to confirm, you rub roughly at your nose with the back of your hand to sweep away any other droplets that threaten to come out.

The shower handle doesn’t budge right away when you reach for it blindly above your head, fingers slipping off the knob upon the first few tries. By the time you finally do get it to shut off as intended, you’re huffing your frustrations out in small bouts of profanities.

Your head hurts by the time you are able to finally pull yourself out of the shower and get dried off, but the nosebleed has stopped so you take it as a small victory. San set out a fresh set of clothes for you on his way out it seems, something you had forgotten to do entirely, and you smile as you see them laid out on the bed through the bathroom doorway. Even though you’ve thoroughly dried off, it’s still somewhat a struggle to tug your pants on, and your turtleneck is even more a pain in the ass. You slip into your boots by the door as you’re lacing up the corseted vest San set out for you overtop your shirt. You tie it tighter than is necessary, mostly on account of your thoughts drifting off to other things as you go about your routine.

Of all things to dream about, the cannibalism of your captain is a new — and quite startling — one. No part of you wants to revisit the visceral images that haunted you, and you aren’t sure you want to understand the subliminal messaging your brain is trying to communicate with you either. It’s best, you imagine, to push everything about it far to the back of your mind to be forgotten in the waking hours and only recalled when night falls again.

The corridor outside your shared room with San is void of life, though you can hear voices rising from the first floor of the hostel. Upon descending the stairs halfway, you catch sight of San standing near the foyer, one arm folded over his broad chest as he uses the other to accentuate whatever he’s talking about with minute gestures. Nightingale stands across from him, with the bright glow of his eyes tracking your every move as you descend the staircase.

“Pardon me then,” he utters through a nod in San’s direction.

“Oh.” San glances back over his shoulder, gaze softening upon landing on you. ��There you are.”

“Sorry it took me so long.” You aren’t wholly certain how long you spent passed out on the shower floor, though given that San seems to have already eaten, you imagine it was enough time to cause a bit of worry.

“No worries, star, I spoke with Nightingale to pass the time. He’s found a charter for Soojin and Luca to take, one that’ll get them to one of the larger ports a few cities over. Setheno here is more of a trading hub than one meant for more widespread travel. Apparently, Nightingale intends to leave with them, though it doesn’t depart until the beginning of next week so you… you still have time with Soojin. Not sure if or when we’ll cross paths again.” San shrugs, extending his hand out to you as you step up to him. “He also mentioned that the two of you had spoken recently.”

“Ah that… I, uh, I’m sorry for not bringing it up sooner. We were preoccupied with other things and it slipped my mind. Since we had already discussed similar things so much, I didn’t want to bring it up again and again or seem vengeful by any means.”

San shakes his head quickly even before you’re finished speaking. His hand shifts around your hip to rest against your lower back. “I’m not upset, don’t misunderstand. Simply wanted to be transparent and let you know that we had spoken about it as well — just the time you went to speak with him in the training room, that is. I had already given him a heads-up after I told you that story making sure he knew you were wholly aware of it. Even though I told you the circumstances of our relationship and what Captain had me do to him, I am very glad that you heard it directly from Nightingale too. Not just my side of the story.”

“Did you by chance tell him I knew of your history before I did that?”

“It’s possible.” San purses his lips and looks off at the wall as he seems to rack his brain trying to complete the timeline of matters in his head. “I stopped by the training room first thing in the morning after I told you, to speak with Yeon — Nightingale — and let him know the extent of your knowledge about our history. To be frank, I also told him that he need not be the one to share that history with you as I had already done so because I didn’t wish for him to feel it was his responsibility in any way. It seems he wished to disclose it regardless though.” He shifts his chin down and looks back at you with a small smile decorating his lips. “It’s a miracle we even have a working relationship, given said history.”

“He… didn’t mention any of that when I spoke with him.” Though you sigh, it comes out more as a breath of relief than anything else.

“You were still in bed when I got up, so I imagine I was the first to accost him. I’m sure he thought it was an organized attack on his psyche when we both came to corner him separate times to dig up ghosts of the past.”

“Which would explain why he acted like a raging asshole who purposefully tried to drive a wedge between the two of us?”

San’s hand withdraws from your back, and he lowers his head. “Please do not — just.” A breath before he deigns to lift his head again. “If you say anything further, I will not be able to resist hurting Nightingale. Should he hurt you, then I will hurt him tenfold in return. So please, if you do not wish to see that then bite your tongue.” You take his face into your hands.

“Quiet those thoughts, San,” you murmur. His gaze chases your lips then flutters shut.

“You’re right, it’s not helping anything to think like that.” When he brings up a hand to cover one of yours, your chest tightens. You wonder, albeit briefly, if you’re of any help or solace to him as he is to you. “I’m supposed to go help Yunho stock some supplies for the ship in a few minutes. You wanna come along?”

“It’s not as though I have any other plans,” you shrug, letting your hands fall down by your sides in unison.

The morning air is far more welcoming than the ambience you experienced last night on your walk with Mingi. With bright beams of sunlight cascading down across the gorge and the dense fog lifted from the streets, it’s almost as though that place you walked the night prior was nothing more than a figment of your imagination. Just as your cruel nightmare had been. Minho is going to have the time of his life when he hears about it, you know that much for certain.

“Ah, there you are!” Yunho comes into your line of sight in a flurry of white as he balances a stack of boxes on the ground before you and San. “San, these small crates are ready to go on over to the docks, I’ll take care of the medications!”

“This is more than expected, no?” San says, brows knitting together as he releases your hand to take up the crates. Yunho stares for a moment with his mouth open and his jaw wholly slack before he winces and shakes his head.

“Yeah, I guess I messed up inventory because I had to shift some numbers around and alter some entries.”

“It’s not like you to do that,” you add, and the earring dangling from your right ear chimes with the movements of your head.

“Hongjoong said the same thing but…” he hesitates. His tongue darts out to wet his slightly chapped lips. “Something must’ve slipped through. It happens! I’m sure it’s not the first time I’ve done so.”

You take two of the crates atop San’s stack without a word, and it earns you a sharp pinch in the side from the man himself.

“Can’t let me show off my big manly muscles for you, huh?”

“What? You don’t wanna see mine?” you tease in return, nudging him with your hip.

“Oh I’ve seen you show them off quite well,” he hums as his gaze seems to trace your body beneath your clothes.

“Ew! Ew, stop being gross in front of me, I’m still here!” Yunho covers his eyes with his free hand, balancing the crate he’s holding on his hip and cradling it under his arm. “Let’s run these over quickly; Mingi and Jongho are already at the dock running a post to help load and transport supplies. Say, do you know if we’re offloading today too?”

“Mhm, Seonghwa and I are meeting with a number of buyers this evening,” San replies, sidestepping you slightly when Yunho nearly knocks into him. “As are Captain and Yeosang, I believe.”

“Ah… sweet freedom,” Yunho hums, but his tone isn’t as light and airy as it usually is. You dare to glance over at him, to try to catch his expression or the gleam in his eyes, but he masks his emotions masterfully.

“He’s been a bit incessant since we landed, yeah?” San talks as though he understands what Yunho means nonetheless, and although it excludes you to an extent, you are certainly good at making your own assumptions. And frankly — it wouldn’t take a genius to guess.

“You know him as well as I do. Can’t stand change even a little bit.” Yunho clenches his jaw. “Speak of the devil.”

Ahead, Hongjoong stands with Seonghwa’s tall and lithe form at his back like a menacing shadow. If possible the circles under his eyes are even darker than last you saw him, though you aren’t graced with the sight of face for long before he’s turning away in a clear attempt to avoid eye contact.

“Here’s the rest!” Yunho says as you approach the dock, and any remnants of his emotions are tossed behind the metaphorical mask he slips on when Hongjoong acknowledges your presence. “Also, Mingi, those pain meds are at the top of this crate. I kept a bottle with me back at the hostel in case you need more while we’re here.” He passes off the box under his arm to the Berserker, patting the side of it as Mingi nods.

“Is something the matter?” you inquire when Mingi turns to you next. He motions for you to add your crates to his growing pile, waiting to respond until you’ve securely set them atop the one he’s carrying.

“I’ve been having a killer headache since last night. Have you?”

You lock eyes with him just before he straightens and the crates block his face completely.

“No, I’ve been just fine—” it’s unwise at best to lie to Mingi, but to do so with Jongho just mere steps away as well is simply asking for trouble “—no headaches. Has anyone else been having them?”

“Lieutenant,” Mingi says under his breath. He shifts his body to the side just enough to block Hongjoong and Seonghwa from seeing his lips as he continues to whisper to you, “though that may be due to another reason altogether.” The Berserker turns away, and you straighten up, clearing your throat in the process as the weight of your captain’s stare bears down hard on you.

“That’s the last of things, Captain.” Yunho passes his load onto Jongho as San departs from your side to help organize the cargo in the transport.

“Seonghwa will follow along to help finalize the deal on that side of the gorge.” Hongjoong beams like a proud cat, but the man at his shoulder does not share the same sentiments on his solemn expression. “Do be good and behave. I am quite eager to be rid of all the excess goods we’ve been lugging around for so long.” You avert your eyes so that you do not have to see the way his sharp gaze tries to sear holes into your skin. His index finger drums against the band of one of his rings on his opposite hand like a metronome. Steady and unwavering, tick tock, a slow and deliberate rhythm.

Seonghwa’s chin dips to his chest as he nods, and the man turns on his heel to follow after the Berserkers without waiting for further instruction. You almost wish to go with him when you see what unfolds before your eyes next — your proud captain sidling up to Yunho and looping his arm around the healer’s lithe waist. The look in his eyes reminds you much of an apex predator. As Seonghwa had once mentioned sending Yunho into the lion’s den, that analogy is not lost on you nor is it an inaccurate one to say the least.

“What are we doing today, dearest?” he purrs against Yunho’s shoulder despite the rigidity he’s met with. Yunho only has the gumption to stop the man when Hongjoong reaches down and tries to lace his fingers through Yunho’s, only to grasp at air as Yunho instead clears his throat and dodges the wandering touches.

Hongjoong’s soft gaze shifts in an instant, and his lips draw into a firm little line as he once again attempts to grab Yunho's hand.

“What exactly is it you’re trying to do, Captain?” Yunho hisses through his teeth with so much venom that he spits a little.

In that moment, your oh-so-proud captain has the audacity to look like a kicked puppy, lips folding out into a minute pout, and the tension in Yunho’s shoulders melts into nothing half a second after. Tick tock. Like clockwork.

Yunho lets out a sigh, one akin to defeat. He waves Hongjoong off and pries himself out of the man’s grasp, leaving him to glower and stare at the side of Yunho’s head with barely concealed fury. “I’m going back to the hostel. It’s too humid today to walk around. Come with, Y/n? San will probably go along with the Berserkers.”

You glance back at the transport, seeing San still inside next to Jongho, and give a slow nod. When you fall into step with the healer, it takes everything in you to not pass a lot over your shoulder at Hongjoong, just to see his expression one last time before you go.

“Sorry, I thought he would follow if I didn’t ask you to come with me. The last thing I want right now is to be cornered again.” Yunho’s lips quirk into a crude smile as he speaks.

“I can’t blame you,” comes your quick response. “It’s hard to say what’s worse: being alone with him in silence or when he decides to open his mouth.”

“Both are…” Yunho laughs out of the blue. “Truly stressful.”

At the door to the hostel, Yunho pauses his stride and turns to look at you. The image of him driving a knife into Hongjoong’s chest flashes before your eyes. If he were an angrier man, one not afraid of violence, perhaps that would be a potential reality on the horizon. Either Hongjoong’s hold is truly so deeply rooted that those under his thumb cannot move, or he is merely lucky that those closest to him are incapable of harming him.

But this Jeong Yunho before you is more akin to a white lamb left on an altar, much like Seonghwa and all others Hongjoong delights in toying with.

He grins a tad awkwardly.

“How do you feel about going to a bar with me tonight?”

────────────

Your excess of free time leads you into the courtyard, though you cannot claim to be outside for the scenery and nothing else. Rather, it’s the man seated at the small table he was at last time you spoke with him.

“I didn’t even have to hound you to meet me this time,” he chirps as you sit in the chair adjacent to his in lieu of announcing your presence. “What a delightful change.”

Minho turns the book in his lap over so that the pages splay over his thigh, and when he folds his fingers over the back, the spine gives a slight crunch.

“May I ask you an odd question?”

This makes him perk up a hair, eyes flashing interest as he angles his torso more towards you. “That is what my job is for, in a sense.”

“Does your job also include the interpretation of dreams?”

Minho offers a shrug, eyes flitting up to glance at the sky before coming back down to reconnect that unsettlingly firm eye contact he seems so obsessed with.

“I’m no fortune teller or witch, but there is some science to it.”

“What does it mean to dream about eating someone?”

A laugh rips from Minho’s lips, and it quickly devolves into a cackle that has him doubling over on himself. He slides his book off his thigh, snapping it shut without bothering to mark the place he left off on. He gives it the same amount of care when he tosses it onto the table like it’s nothing.

“There are simpler ways to occupy my attention, Ghosty, I must say,” he says, still chuckling as he jerks his chair across the cobbles to face you head on. “But you always pick the most exciting options. Eating someone?”

“My dreams since coming here have been odd and surreal, much like intrusive thoughts but dialed up to eleven.”

“Well, you aren’t alone in that. I’ve been having strange dreams too though… I fear none quite like cannibalism.” He draws a hand up to his face, thumbing over his chin before continuing. “In any case, dreaming of consuming someone can mean a myriad of things. It can be sexual in nature, it can mean you feel so close with someone that your subconsciousness interprets that connection as a need to take that person into yourself. Or there could be a level of intimacy to such actions, the act of one giving themselves unto you so wholly that they give you their flesh. Dreaming of such things is not always cannibalistic in terms of literally wanting to eat someone in the waking world. I would not be concerned that you will suddenly have the desire to change your diet anytime soon. Sometimes those dreams steam from desiring someone heavily — either sexually or otherwise. If those you’re consuming in your dreams are faceless beings, then it could be as simple as your mind begging for a deeper connection or a level of intimacy that is neither sexual nor romantic necessarily.” Minho pauses to smile at you, eyes falling shut and creasing briefly before he snaps them back open. “But I could sit here and psychoanalyze you for days if not weeks and still not be able to give you a definitive answer as to what it means for you specifically to be having cannibalistic dreams.”

His tone leaves more to be desired, as though there’s another thought hanging at the end of his tongue waiting for its cue.

“And yet…?” you prompt, almost immediately regretting your curiosity. The chime dangling from your right ear lets out its melody when you tilt your chin and further seek his gaze. Minho leans forward at the waist and into your personal space.

“And yet I can piece together who it is you are consuming in those dreams of yours, hm?”

Though you smile, your eye is twitching.

“You fear the conclusions you come to on your own might be true, so you go to others seeking other answers but when they tell you that you’re correct, you become incensed.” Minho hums and folds his arms loosely over his chest. “Hardly a unique dichotomy. It is in our nature to become so defensive, after all.” The doctor moves one hand and flicks an invisible fleck of dust off the pad of his thumb. When he speaks again, it’s with a flourish of his wrist. “There is nothing to be ashamed of really. Desires are natural. Lust is powerful. A denouement is on the horizon. And frankly, it’s hardly your fault given how every piece has been moved with such care to bring you to such a mental state. You cannot be expected to have done anything else with the odds so stacked against you—”

Minho catches himself a beat too late, eyes flicking open and darting over to your face in an instant as his typically manicured expression slips into one of slight panic. He exhales a breathy laugh.

“Ah… I see now,” he mutters. You hold his gaze. “How easy it is for one to let their guard down…”

Your tongue feels like cotton, and the thoughts in your head have slowed to as near a halt as is possible. Though your lips move around unformed words and phantom questions, you can’t seem to bring yourself to ask. As the doctor said, you dread vocalizing your thoughts only to have them confirmed to be true. Even if you already know.

If he were to ask right now: what is it you are feeling?, then you aren’t wholly sure how you would be able to answer that. Neither dread nor disappointment stirs in your chest, though there is a deep ache. In truth, it’s nothing you did not already know even if you had hoped Seonghwa spoke the words purely out of contempt in the heat of the moment.

When your hatred turns to infatuation, I’ll be sure to tell you all the ways in which Hongjoong has orchestrated the destruction of your psyche since your arrival here.

Minho makes no effort to correct himself or cover his words; in fact, he deigns to say nothing at all.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” you say, unsure of your volume thanks to how loudly your heart is seeming to beat in your ears. The man opens his mouth, closes it, then squeezes his eyes shut.

“What is it you’re expecting me to say?”

“That you misspoke,” you answer almost before he finishes his question. “That you spoke out of line, based on assumptions, that — that…”

“What point is there in appeasing you with half-hearted words that you know to be lies?”

“You tell me, you’re the psychologist!” When you jut your hand out to him, Minho’s face returns to its usual candor. He folds his fingers around your outstretched ones, clutching the back of your hand tightly as he moves quickly and efficiently to kneel in front of you with his knees on either side of your feet.

“Ghost — Y/n, breathe.” His other hand moves to your knee. “You have to breathe. Deep breath in, hold it, hold it, now let it go. Again, again. Come on, again for me.” Your hand is trembling against his despite how tightly he’s gripping it. “It is not your fault. You did not know. You cannot blame yourself for this.”

You sink into yourself. “I should have followed Jisung off that fucking cliff.”

“No, no, Y/n, that’s what we’re not gonna do or say. You’re spiraling.”

“I’ve lost my fucking mind.”

“You’re having a perfectly reasonable reaction to uncomfortable truths.”

“I must be fucking crazy,” you say through a shaky laugh as you lean back in your chair and let your head dangle off the back of it. “I must still be sleeping, that’s it. I’m not awake yet.” Minho grips you hard enough to make certain that his nails bite at your skin, as though to prove you wrong. “I need to—” Fuck, you need to feel anything other than this crippling anxiety pulsing in your veins. You bend in half again in a blur of movement, rushing forward and into Minho’s space in search of something that is surely a detrimental mistake, but he’s quicker than you are even in this panicked state because he flicks his hand up from your knee to place it firmly over your mouth before you get too close to planting your lips on his. Something akin to disappointment burns in his stare, though it’s replaced so swiftly that you want to believe you imagined it. Cheeks flame with an inherent shame as a wash of realization rushes over you.

“Enough of that,” he states firmly, as though chastising a small child. “You are not sleeping. You are not dying. You are not insane or crazy or whatever other colorful word you can think of that is synonymous with those two things. You are having a panic attack, Y/n, and you will be okay.”

Your body stops fighting him so heavily then. The logic in his words, combined with how certain his tone is, blocks out every spiraling thought for just a moment. The tension in your shoulders slacks as you slump in the chair.

“Thank you,” he says under his breath, slowly bringing his palm off your mouth. “Now, I need you to breathe with me. Steady and slow, just following my movements. Breathe in as I clench my fist, exhale as I release it, okay?”

You wet your lips as you nod in the hopes that it will dispel some of your trembling.

“Do not look at my face,” he murmurs, hand raised by his head. And when, slow and steady like a pulse, he draws his fingers in until they’re a tightly wound fist, you let his motions guide your breathing. Though your chest burns, the tightness in your throat is far more pressing and weighty. While not impossible, it is difficult to a degree to gulp down breaths until the searing panic dilutes. The black coating the edges of your vision diminishes. It comes with regret though because looking upon Minho’s face in your peripherals shows you an expression of such deep pity that you glance away in an instant.

Is this the oh so glorious fall from grace that Seonghwa had been waiting for?

“Ghost of Eros, who have you become?” It’s Jisung’s voice that echoes in your ears. You haven’t allowed yourself much time to fall into these thoughts since his death, mostly to keep yourself sane and away from more hellish thoughts. You crave the allowance to cradle your head in your hands and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until all thoughts pop out of you, but Minho keeps your right one firmly occupied still.

“You used to be the most renowned sniper in certain parts of the galaxy.” Ah, not Jisung’s voice. Minho is the one speaking to you. Yet his tone is tinged with that same venomous pity as before. “Say, do you even remember how to fire a sniper rifle, Ghosty?”

“Of course I do,” you say as you come back to yourself bit by bit. “You just… it’s not something that can be described so easily without demonstration.” You glance down at where Minho kneels before you. From this angle you can see down past the high collar of his white coat, and a blossom of redness sits across his smooth skin near his collarbone and across the line of his shoulder. He shifts under your stare, and the shrug makes his collar cover the welts across his skin.

“Are you blind to how reckless you are?” he asks suddenly. “In all departments, to be fair, but very much so in terms of situations that would put you in danger.” His chin drops to his chest as the doctor lets out a sigh. At last, he releases your hand, pushing up on his knees to help him stand upright for only a second before he’s dropping back into his own chair. “You live like a person who does not wish to. Thus, I am going to ask you this outright, and you will answer me outright in return. Fair, no? Do you wish to die?”

“No,” comes your answer, as though it is the most obvious thing in the universe. Minho levels you with a stare once more, and it prods at your already soft and sensitive outer shell. “No, it’s not that I wish to die. If I were to die then… perhaps I would not mind as much as others might in such a position.”

The man across from you leans forward enough to set his elbows atop his knees.

“Do you think of Jisung often?”

You wonder if this man is truly so good at his work that he can see through to your brain at any given second, or if you wear your thoughts and emotions on your face to be read like a book. On the other hand, the question feels more of one being asked by Minho-the-human-being as opposed to Minho-the-snarky-psychologist.

“I try not to.” Then — “I do not want to.”

“Does that come from a place of guilt?” Silence is often the most telling response. “Allow me to frame things in a more digestible way for you. Let’s say I die trying to protect a person I love. Then that person blames themselves for my death… in that instance, I would see a need to claw my way out of hell to tell her that I am fine. The choice made was not one made lightly. That she has nothing to feel guilty about. Because it was not her fault. That she deserves to be happy more than anyone else, and more than anything, she deserves to live on. If nothing else then for the mere reason of honoring the life given to save hers. The cost of sacrifice is not her guilt.

“I understand that Jisung did much to harm and betray you in the days leading up to his death. Even before then, too. But know that on that cliffside, what your captain witnessed and informed me of in the aftermath of that hell was a desperate man throwing himself at the remaining threat to your life after Hyunwoo fell. He had a goal to push Hyunjin off that cliff as well, and though he failed, he did so in an effort to save your life. Were he a man intent to die from the start, then he would have let himself be killed before even leaving that barn. His final gift to you was his sacrifice, and in that, his remorse.”

“Ha… oddly, that makes me feel more guilty than before,” you mutter through a crude laugh. Minho shakes his head.

“I would not tell you this unless I was certain you were ready to hear it. We are not the amalgamation of others’ hopes and dreams, nor are we destined to carry the memories of those we’ve lost as burdens. Do not carry his death as a burden of guilt upon your shoulders.”

“And what of you, doctor? Do you think of him often?” you inquire in return, finding his gaze drifting upwards to the sky. He chuckles as a hand seems to move to the back of his neck with a mind of its own.

“I did not join him willingly, yet I did not leave him willingly either. I am coping with far worse things than the aftereffects of Stockholm syndrome.” You wish to hear the words he won’t say. I try not to. I do not want to. “What I told you of caged birds carving their way out of their prisons with their beaks… such things come from lived experiences. I fear I cannot share in your mourning or your guilt, and I can never be a person who will sit alongside you to exchange fond memories of a man who left me with no such memories. Unlike you, I have no choice but to carry his memory on the back of my neck for the rest of my life. What he did for you in his last moments was freedom to me. I am free because of his decision to save your life. That shall always be my fondest memory of him.” Morbid, yet you share an understanding in that.

“Perhaps it shall be for me as well,” you mutter, a little wistful, a little longing. “May I request something of you, Minho?”

“Again, I am no witch so I cannot promise to grant any wishes, but I shall certainly do my best,” he jokes, one leg crossing over the other. You think of the man always standing at Hongjoong’s shoulder, tired eyes bearing down on the ground more and more often these days as his cheeks grow gaunt.

“Please help Seonghwa,” you implore. The expression that crosses the doctor’s face is vaguely close to the one of pity he spared you not long ago, though you find it to be less demeaning and more sympathetic now.

“I cannot.” His lips barely move, like he’s sorry to share the words with you. “I cannot help him unless he is willing to come to me. Forcing my care on anyone always has an adverse effect, and it limits what I can do if I am lucky enough to not be shunned immediately. As much as I desire to help him… there is nothing I can do. Not unless Seonghwa finds me first.”

You glance down at your lap in an attempt to hide your disappointment as you nod. The crumbling remains of your relationship with the lieutenant are ground too fine for you to handle on your own. Even if you did have the ability to do so, you wouldn’t know where the hell to begin trying to mend things. Regret bites at your skin like a rabid dog latching onto your ankle and slowing your path forward.

“I suppose that’s all I wished to discuss,” you say, clearing your throat. Granted, you got far more than you bargained for when coming here to ask one simple question. Minho’s gaze maintains its emotion as you stand up. Something rattles beyond the gate, and you cast a sweeping look over the streets on the other side in search of the source.

“I’ve poked and prodded you enough—” Minho twists his head to look towards the fence along the front of the courtyard. Though slightly delayed, he picks up on that same rattling noise you heard moments earlier. “I’ve bothered you plenty for one day,” he continues. The rattling continues behind him, and if you did not afford him your attention then you would have missed the way his blinks come in rapid succession, how he inches himself towards the edge of his chair like he’s eager to bolt out of it. “I do not wish to overstimulate you by speaking further about these matters, but do please be gentle with yourself. Not only tonight, but in the coming days as well.”

“I’ll try.”

“I am always available,” he continues, swallowing roughly after speaking those four words. “Be well.”

“Same to you,” you murmur. You take one last glance over the edge of the spiked fence before you depart the courtyard the way you came and head back into the sanctity of the hostel.

Minho stands abruptly the moment you disappear behind the door, and when he does, a hand holding a none-too-inconspicuous orange bottle juts out from behind the wall the fence connects to.

“Enough of that,” he hisses. His eyes flit across the streets on the other side of the fence; his concerns, however, are baseless as the citizens milling about continue on their paths without sparing the scene a glance. A head of mussed black hair and dingy highlights pokes out from the same place as the bottle, then sharp red eyes come into view next. Minho is graced with the full extent of the Brute of Kebos’ face a second later. His steps carry him to the edge of the fence, close to the wall where he’s met with Mingi fully revealing himself.

“She was on her way out,” he argues. Minho wonders if the Berserker poked and prodded at your emotions the way he had.

“There was no need to draw attention to yourself in such a manner.”

Mingi huffs out a breath of air that sounds oddly akin to a laugh. He dangles the pill bottle over the spikes of the fence. It’s barely kept from tumbling down between his index finger and thumb.

“Captain’s orders.”

Minho feels a twitch beginning to make itself known in his right nostril. Foolishly, he stretches a hand out in a feeble attempt to snatch the bottle from the man’s grip, but Mingi yanks it back. He doesn’t even get to lay a single finger on it.

“And what does your captain desire from me this time?” The Scourge of the Black Sea and his crude bargaining chips, and even cruder methods of exercising them. Mingi glances past the man to the door you just passed through.

“He asks for the same thing she does.” Ah, so Mingi was listening to an extent.

Minho can’t contain the laugh that tears from his lips. “Then I’m afraid my answer remains the same: I cannot help someone unwilling to see me.”

“You’re incapable of knocking on a door of all things?”

One less knowledgeable might mistake Mingi’s words to be an attempt at humor. Minho leans forward and rests his forearms between the spikes lining the barrier between him and the pills.

“Have you ever heard of those old folklore stories and fantasy fictions about vampires? How they cannot enter a home without being allowed in first? My line of work is very much similar to that — I cannot force myself upon anyone, nor can I convince anyone to let me in.” He fixes his eyes on Mingi’s despite how much terror the sight of those red irises brings him. “Simple. As. That. I might as well not exist at all in your lieutenant’s eyes, and until he is willing to see me, then your captain’s orders are an impossible feat.”

Silence stretches between the pair. Mingi stares back at him, but there are no cues or indicators of emotion for Minho to glean from at all.

Then — Mingi twists the cap of the pill bottle off, and before the doctor can even suck in a panicked breath, half of the pills are dumped onto the ground on that side of the fence. At his feet. Some drum against his shoes and scatter across the cobbles. The twitch moves up to Minho’s eye, but he’s blinking so furiously that it’s hard to tell the difference between the annoyance and panic.

“I know you’re feeling antsy, doctor. Did someone take the stash you smuggled into that little pack of yours?” Mingi quirks a brow at him. The faint upturn of his lips tells Minho that the Berserker is enjoying this quite a lot, paying that sadistic voice in his head its dues in things other than blood. “Or did the real doctor finally figure out where his meds have been disappearing off to?”

“Tell…” Minho has to let his mouth form around the words on his tongue in silence for several seconds. He cannot tear his attention away from the bottle in Mingi’s palm. “Tell San to approach him and implore him to meet with me. Or you can do it. Either one of you should be perfectly capable of such a thing.”

“Good on you, doctor.” Mingi caps the bottle, and it’s like all the oxygen in Minho’s lungs comes alive as he starts breathing steadily again. The Berserker cups the back of one of his hands and sets the closed bottle in his palm, delicate and gentle, then with his other hand, he curls Minho’s fingers around the cylinder. Warm. “I apologize for my crude tactics. I was not the one who stole the medicine.” Mingi’s touch is like hot coals against his skin.

“I am aware,” Minho sighs through his teeth as he straightens up. His grip on the pill bottle is iron tight.

“I shall leave you to it then, doctor.” Mingi turns and disappears behind the wall once more, leaving Minho where he is. Once he’s certain that the Berserker’s steps have withdrawn, he shifts his jaw until it pops. A sear of pain ripples through his cheek.

Minho glances at the half-full bottle in his hand, then drops to his knees to pick up the fallen pills off the dirty cobbles through the wrought iron bars.

────────────

When you find Yunho again, it’s already late enough into the evening that you need to have your mask up even though the majority of the people milling about have neglected to do so. Yunho is not one participating in that majority, leaned up against the wall close to the hostel door with his arms crossed over his chest. Though you cannot see his face in its entirety, you imagine he gives you some sort of faint little smile when you pivot and make eye contact with him.

“Didn’t change your mind?” he asks with a tilt of his head.

“Dare I say I need a drink as badly as you do?” you jest in return, though the level of truth in that statement is far greater than you’d like to admit aloud. “Come on, there’s a bar just down the street.” He keeps pace with you despite his long legged advantage. Quiet lingers in the air between you, but it’s far from a peaceful one in your opinion; you both seem to have plenty occupying your minds, and those things are the exact reason why you’re seeking alcohol in the first place.

The bar, quaint as it may be, emanates a nice warmth that’s a welcome relief from the humidity of the evening. The purple-tinted glow of the streetlamps filters through the windows and casts colorful shadows across the tables and floors. People line the booths and the tables, leaving small pockets of unoccupied space near the corners of the bar, but it’s the actual bar itself that Yunho drifts toward with you following in tow.

“Whiskey on the rocks for me—” you’re barely seated when a bartender flits over to the two of you and Yunho puts in his order, leaving you to stutter out a quick “gin and tonic please” as he tries to make a speedy departure. To his credit, Yunho wastes no time in getting into the thick of things right off the bat. “I’m being made a proper fool of, aren’t I?”

Your thoughts drift back to the morning, to the ostentatious show Hongjoong put on, to the day prior when the captain did something similar with more success. Your heart aches for Yunho again, as it has so often these days.

“It’s hard to watch, isn’t it?” comes his second question, and this one is far easier to answer honestly.

“It is, a bit,” you mutter as the bartender returns with two drinks and slides them across the counter. You stare at the budding condensation on the outside of the glass. “But we’re all fools when it comes to love, aren’t we? I’ve ignored things that are very deeply… not right with San, choosing to ignore it time and time again because I want the love I have for him to be easy and simple.”

Yunho huffs out a rather exasperated sigh against the rim of his glass.

“I don’t even deserve this. I don’t deserve to be treated like this. What went wrong wasn’t my fault — it was fucking Hongjoong and fucking Seonghwa playing a dumb game of jealousy with me as one of the pieces. Seonghwa manipulated Hongjoong into getting what he wanted — just like he always fucking does — and then Hongjoong manipulated me into going along with it because he knows I would follow him blindly into anything.” Yunho tangles his fingers through his hair so roughly that your scalp aches just watching him tug at the strands. “Seonghwa just wanted to fuck Hongjoong, so why’d he have to drag me into it?”

“Yunho…”

Conversation slows to a halt between the two of you. The rumbling beats of music hanging about the bar seem so much louder in the absence of Yunho’s voice. Your fingers trace over the dangling chime attached to your right ear as your other hand flexes around the base of your drink. The conversation lulls to a halt long enough for both of you to finish your drinks and receive replenished ones.

“I know my place compared to him,” he says like the words are pure venom on his tongue, “and no one can take that place. I’ve long since come to terms with that.” When he laughs, the sound comes out wet and choked but his eyes only glisten with some form of loathing. “I thought I could get around it since the two of us are so damn different but that doesn’t change the facts. I’ll never be a killer or Siren or anything else of use to Hongjoong so what’s the fucking point? I failed at the one job I had — couldn’t do shit to help Mingi and got replaced by a shiny new doctor because I’m too involved in the personal lives of the crew but we fucking live together so how can I not be involved? Does he expect me to not make friends or have feelings or wants? God forbid I have wants!”

“Yunho,” you say again, louder and with a hand firmly pressed to his shoulder when his voice turns strained. He jerks his chin in your direction as though realizing for the first time since he sat down that you’re beside him. “Just let everything go.”

“I don’t want to be stuck in one place forever, chasing my tail and running in circles because I keep caving to a man who won’t ever…” Either his mind goes elsewhere, or he cannot bring himself to finish the thought. “I’ve been good at pretending I don’t know Hongjoong’s game all this time. Good enough to where he doesn’t seem to realize that I’m fully aware. But despite that, I let myself give in over and over again. I’ll never be able to get out if I keep doing that.”

“What is it you want then?”

“To make a decision for myself and not be judged for it, not have him looking down on me for it. I want… to have someone who isn’t Hongjoong.” Yunho dips his chin to his chest then looks up at you. His tongue runs along his lower lip before he catches it between his teeth and blinks several times in quick succession. The look would be undoubtedly flirtation if not for the deep nervous furrow of Yunho’s brows. “We’ve teased and toyed with the idea, haven’t we? Would it be so bad if we had each other just because we wanted to and not for any other reason?”

For once, you’re assuredly quick to reject the proposal.

“Even if I was fool enough to believe that’s what you truly wanted, I’ve never done that and had it be truly no strings attached.” Unless you were to count that time with Yeosang, though that feels like a different beast in retrospect. “To be strangers would be one matter, but with how messy and interwoven the threads are — that would be an unavoidable mess.”

“You’re right,” the healer mutters through a sad grin. His fourth drink arrives at the same time your third one does, but his pace hasn’t slowed one bit. “Part of me knows that I’m never going to love someone the way I loved Cassie, and there’s so much of me that would rather not try to fall for someone the way I did for her. In the beginning, things with Hongjoong were okay because my feelings for her were lingering and fresh, yet even after it stopped being about coping with the losses we shared, we kept going back to each other. I used to be tied to this idea of making things work because I fell for some part of Hongjoong that I don’t even know exists anymore. I want to be careless and free again without having to worry about how much collateral damage it may cause.”

“Look around: there are plenty of fish in the sea here.” You shrug your shoulders up close to your ears. “Plenty of people would love to have a nice tall man in their beds for a night, I’m sure.” In an attempt to bring some sort of levity to the conversation, you crack a smile and nudge Yunho with your elbow. He ducks his head once again, though this time, the tips of his ears are flushed bright red and he hides the rest of his blush from you by taking a drink. You laugh into your own glass.

“You’re quite intimidating, you know that right?”

“Hm?”

“Like, Cassie had a sort of soft beauty to her, even when she’d come to me with cuts and scrapes I needed to patch up, she still held an almost ethereal aura about her. You’re attractive in a really intimidating way. And that’s not me coming onto you, just to be honest, I don’t have any explicit reason in saying that. I find you objectively attractive, always have. Maybe it was actually really fucking hot to see you stand up to Hongjoong day one the way you did!” He’s laughing as your expression twists into one of shock. “You and San look really good together, yeah?”

Despite biting back a smile, you roll your eyes and push his hand, and subsequently his drink, down to the counter. “Had too much to drink already?”

“Well my eyes still work! What a mean sandwich the two of you would make.” Yunho’s sigh is half joking and half wistful. The corner of your lips quirks up even as you hold your index fingers up in the sign of an ‘x’ over your face.

“You aren’t the only one who suffered a bad experience sharing the dear lieutenant as a third,” you say from behind your fingers.

“Ah, what a good homewrecker the man makes.” You agree with the sentiment internally, because it feels too cruel to voice it. “I hope it doesn’t come between you and San, truly. San has… he’s finally found something to protect and hold onto desperately, and you’ve given him a stronger voice to stand on his own. Without heeding Hongjoong’s every whim, that is. So I hope that the two of you last for a long time.” Yunho shakes his head ever so slightly, lips curling around the rim of his drink. “Such serious talk for a night out! Have you found the freckles on his ass cheek yet?”

“Yunho! I’m not telling you whether I have or not?!”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding! But really, you gotta give me more credit — that little pleasure piece down there was my doing.” The wink he sends you, coupled with the insufferable, shit-eating grin painting his lips as he speaks drives you to slap the back of your hand to his bicep.

“Where exactly did you learn to do all of that anyway? I doubt it’s something you picked up from your mother in the clinic.”

“I taught myself, for the most part. With lots and lots of videos. And of course, practice, back when the crew was larger and I had many more people readily eager and willing to be test subjects. We made frequent pit stops, sure, but I had to make do myself at a certain point.”

“Yet you don’t have any yourself?”

Yunho laughs. “I wouldn’t dare try to. I’m quite the pussy when it comes to pain. Stub my toe too hard and I’ll scream like a banshee.”

“It’s that bad?” you say through a laugh of your own.

“Jongho and San used to play this evil prank on me where they’d leave little things on the ground for me to trip over or step on, just to see who could make me cuss the loudest. They finally had to quit because the last time, I face planted into a wall so hard when I tripped that I broke my nose and busted my cheekbone. My poor, pretty cheekbone.” He cradles his cheek, eyes squeezed shut to add to the theatrics of it all. “Cruel bastards, the both of them!”

“My team in the military wasn’t big on pranks, from what I recall.” It’s not the liquor that makes you take a trepid walk down memory lane, but Yunho’s reminiscence has you thinking back as well. “One time I fell off the top bunk in our dorms, but that was because I yanked on the bed sheet too hard, all pissed over something stupid, then my hand slipped, I punched myself in the face, and fell off the bed in the process. I tried catching myself on the way down but landed so hard on my arm that I snapped my clavicle.”

“Holy shit? Holy shit, I bet that hurt like a bitch!”

“To say the least, but I think actually my pride was what was the most damaged at the end of the day. I mean what a loser way to break a bone.” You nurse your drink as Yunho laughs again, and a sharp pang of clarity hits you after the fourth sip. Laying your hand on his forearm, you naturally pull his focus to you, a curious and equally puzzled gleam to his eyes. “You deserve to feel happy, Yunho.”

His lips part like he wants to counter immediately — perhaps to tell you that he is happy — then a smile covers the momentary crack in his facade. It’s strained and pulls at the corners of his lips too hard.

“Having someone to fuck isn’t always the solution to that,” you continue before he gets the chance to make excuses or play the fool. “And I know I’m the last person who ought to be saying that, but it’s something I’m trying to teach myself too. If I can do it though, I know you can.”

Yunho’s expression does not give away much, though his brows are pinched together just enough to indicate that some thought in that head of his is causing some level of distress. Rather than offering up a response, he downs the rest of his drink like a pro and fetches enough credits from his pocket to cover both of you and then some.

“At least I don’t feel inadequate doing that,” he mutters, just barely audible, before pulling his gas mask up over his face. A sigh leaves your lips, but you follow him nonetheless, mimicking the same motion as you get up from your stool and follow him to the door. He doesn’t speak again until the two of you are out in the night air outside the bar. “Do you think there’s any happiness to be had where we are? Doing what we do?”

“If you wanted to wash your hands of it all, you could,” you say after a breath of hesitation. Yunho looks forward, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.

“Because I’ve not killed anyone?” he scoffs. The scrape of his heel over the cobbled streets echoes along with the sound. “How many wounds have I stitched up for criminals? To either keep them alive or make sure they can keep on doing as they please? My finger may not be on the trigger, but I am just as guilty of putting the gun in killers’ hands.”

You shrug your shoulders up, walking ahead of the man a few steps and turning to look at him face to face as he steps forward with you.

“The guilt is yours to bear as you see fit, but you are no more guilty than the mothers who birthed those criminals. You told me once that your job is to save lives. Do you measure the lives of those you save by their deeds, good or otherwise?” You spin on the ball of your foot to walk alongside Yunho again. “Then—” your index finger points to the sky, then angles down to the man beside you “—who are you to be the judge, jury, and executioner?” Yunho’s breath hitches. Perhaps your stare is a bit too harsh, a tad too uncaring. “San has killed innumerable amounts of people. He did unspeakable things in his past. Does he then not deserve to be saved by you, doctor?”

“That’s different, the circumstances were—”

“Ah, so there are circumstances to your judgment?”

Yunho hisses through his teeth, a sharp spike to his frustration that hurts your arm when he grips you hard enough to bruise. Though you could easily detach yourself from his grip and plant Yunho on his ass right here in the streets, you refrain from doing so sheerly out of curiosity. A longing for an explanation to his madness. The straps of your mask dig into the back of your head. Yunho has shoved you into a cramped alleyway that’s hardly big enough for two people, but he manages it well enough by pinning you to the wall of one of the buildings. You shift your jaw in an attempt to alleviate the strain caused by the mask biting at your skin.

“You do not understand. There are things I cannot wash my hands of,” Yunho spits out. His mask clanks against yours so hard that you worry it might break.

“Yunho,” comes your breath of warning.

His hand trembles where his fingers are latched around your wrist. When he speaks next, it’s without the same vehemence.

“I have a confession. I can’t blindly continue onwards while holding onto it. I… wanted you when you first joined the crew. I wanted you so badly.” His eyes flicker back to something more recognizable: familiar, warm, an inviting chocolate brown, searching for answers in your gaze. He finds nothing in the firmly set flat expression you’ve schooled yourself into mastering. “I wanted to do to you what Hongjoong does to me,” he continues. The bait bobs along the surface of his eyes, and you can see yourself taking a bite if you’re not careful. “Just to see… if it would be as easy as he makes it seem…”

“But you couldn’t.” A pesky strand of hair has gotten caught in the strap cradling your skull, and its nagging pain distracts you. “Because you’re not that kind of person.”

Yunho lifts a hand to your throat. It’s large and encompasses your skin with ease.

“Hongjoong has a way off killing you without letting you die. Like he’s reaching into your chest and ripping your heart out.”

Yunho’s fingers pulse around your neck, and they surely feel the way your pulse jumps and scatters into a frantic rate that betrays your panic before your expression cracks and the panic seeps through to the surface there. His grip loosens a hair, and his hand trails down a little too far for comfort. You recover from the lapse and snatch him by the wrist to stop his movements. When you dare to look up at his face, you find him staring upwards at the slivers of night sky between the tall buildings on either side of you.

“I know. I pretend to be dumb around Hongjoong but I know. I know Hongjoong is taking the damn painkillers, know he’s trying to make me believe that I’m taking stock wrong even though I’ve been doing it for years without issue — for fuck’s sake — just like I know that when I’m selected for missions it’s not because Hongjoong thinks I have any value being there. All he wants to do is spite Seonghwa. I know I’m only allowed to fuck Hongjoong because he won’t put his dick in anyone that isn’t Seonghwa. It’s always Seonghwa, Seonghwa, Seonghwa.”

“I know, Yunho, you told me already. It’s okay.”

“Ah, I’m sorry, I must be — I’m feeling the liquor a bit, that’s all. Don’t take anything I say to heart.” Yunho’s smile looks more like a sneer though. “Is it… could it be because I refuse to kill? I can’t — reason out why it is that I’m not enough?” His head collides with the wall above your head, and you have to jerk your head to the side to avoid bruising his throat with the hard edges of your mask. “If I should kill someone then—” you hear his inhale even through the filter of the gas mask, then his hand is up around your throat once more. Tighter this time, squeezing at the base of your neck in a way that is wholly ineffective if he were truly trying to murder you here and now. With his ramblings, however, you aren’t sure you can take those chances.

“Yunho,” you offer a final warning in the hopes of reaching the part of his brain that controls his reason. The fingers at your throat dig in like he’s aiming to take chunks of your skin out with his nails.

“If I am tainted, perhaps he will desire me more.”

“Please forgive me for this in the morning,” you mutter under your breath. His head tilts much like a dog’s would when faced with confusion. Unbeknownst to him, it only allows you better access to the pressure point you’re after, and your fingers jam up against it faster than he has time to react. His muscles are rendered all but useless, and you twist his body in your grip hard enough to make his knees give out. The second his knees thud against the ground, you slide your arm around his neck, bending your elbow just hard enough to restrict his air flow without doing too much harm. “This is for both our sakes,” you add just before his gaze goes a bit hazy and unfocused. He passes out in your grip seconds later.

There’s a moment of guilt that takes over you, one born of the panic in his eyes when you grabbed him, but given the circumstances, you’d much rather live with that than have him live to make a decision you know he would regret terribly. You loop your arms under Yunho’s and do your best to hoist him up enough for you to support a majority of his weight.

“You shouldn’t have to kill someone just for another to love you back,” you mutter to Yunho though he cannot hear you. “…I hope that you never have to break that rule you made for yourself.”

You can only be thankful that Yunho didn’t pick a bar at the other end of the city, and your struggle in walking back to the hostel with the much larger man draped around your shoulders like a sack of flour. When you flatten your hand to the door leading inside, Yunho’s head lolls to the side. You nearly slam his temple into the doorframe as you thrust the door open with your foot.

The lobby and attached lounge are both void of life; a far cry from the night prior where you came into such a warm and lively atmosphere. Now, you cross the threshold silently, passing empty chairs and empty couches in a sort of greyish lighting adding to the already dismal ambience. The staircase looms before you, dim and shadowy at the top like it's trying to mock you. The air rushes out of your lungs then back in quickly in an attempt to brace yourself for the upcoming struggle.

“Allow me.”

“I’m beginning to think you lurk around every corner just waiting for me to pop up,” you joke, half-serious as you look up at the man who has just stepped into view at the top of the staircase. He shoves his hands into his pockets, and with each step down the stairs, his sandals slap against the wood.

Five steps from where you stand at the bottom, Mingi tilts his head to the side, gaze drifting over Yunho’s limp form quick enough for you to almost miss it.

“You would be incorrect.”

He descends the rest of the way.

“I know, I know — it’s just a—”

“Every corner would be improbable as there are places where corners do not exist.” Mingi smiles first with his lips, then with his eyes when he squeezes them shut. You’re stunned into silence just long enough for him to relieve you of Yunho’s weight without argument. “But if I give away my hiding spots then you’ll know where to look for me.”

“…places where corners do not exist?” you murmur.

“You’re overthinking it, Ghost. It’s just a joke.”

“I didn’t kill him,” you say, nodding towards Yunho’s limp form that’s now supported by Mingi. The damn Berserker makes it look so easy that it hurts your pride, for no reason.

“Well, he’s still breathing, so if you had claimed to then I would be questioning both your sanity and how good you are at killing people.” Mingi’s words actually stir a laugh out of you — one of disbelief, but still a laugh nonetheless, and you shake your head. Loosening the mask around your face, you let it hang about your neck and suck in a breath of air unfiltered now that you’re in the safety of the indoors.

“He was rambling nonsense and on the verge of making… a terrible decision.” Your gaze lingers on the side of his face as Mingi hoists him up a bit higher. “It’s thanks to my intelligent decision to knock him out that I did not kill him.”

Mingi’s gaze sharpens on you.

“He made an attempt on your life?” What comes out as a simple statement at first morphs into a question by the end of it. Your subconsciousness drives you to rub at the base of your neck where the skin itches some still.

“No,” you say after several seconds of silence. “No, he was seeking guilt. I told him that there was still a way out of this for him, that of all of us, he could escape freely. He despised that answer quite a lot, and then—” a lazy wave of your hand finishes the thought for you.

“It is understandable. His greatest fear is inadequacy. Yet, he is a Normie. He is not capable of anything great. He has no place on this crew by comparison.” Mingi’s flat tone coupled with the brutally harsh words take you aback. Climbing the stairs slowly, you keep pace with the Berserker while eyeing the man draped over his back. Still unconscious, or a very good actor perhaps. “He is useless, and yet he remains. Because he is needed when others make mistakes.”

“Mistakes?” you hum. “Our captain seems to make a lot of those.” You ascend a few more steps only to realize that Mingi is not following you. Turning, you see him three steps below you, red eyes watching you with blank curiosity. You squeeze the railing tight in your left hand.

“Yunho should leave the crew, then.” Said as a statement, you almost don’t realize that Mingi is asking you if that is your true opinion until many seconds pass in silence.

“Yunho should… do what is best for him. What is best for his heart and mind both. If he is truly so miserable here, then why should any of us demand that he stay? If we — if we truly care for him then allowing him the freedom to choose is the best thing we can do for him. Even if we do not like the choice he makes. You know much about that, do you not?”

“I could have chosen to take the serum, yes,” Mingi says, shaking his head as he speaks. “You fought for my ability to choose back then, but that is different than now. Yunho has zero desire to leave. Given how you are speaking, you know that very well. He has made his choice. If you truly care for him, then is it not best to allow him to live with that choice no matter the consequences?”

Your tongue weighs heavier in your mouth, and an acrid taste is rising in the back of your throat. You try to clear your throat to dispel it.

“You have not yet given up on your hopeless ploy to save people who do not wish to be saved, Ghost.” Mingi’s gaze turns narrow, and he looks up at you through half-lidded eyes. “Or perhaps is that an excuse to cover up your subconscious intentions? Dispel those closest to the man you find so evil so that you may drive the knife into his chest without suffering deeper guilt.”

“Are you accusing me of something, Mingi?” It’s nothing short of a miracle that your voice remains steady and contained. He steps up one, two, three. Now he looms over you, bending at the waist just enough to be eye to eye with you, and there are mere centimeters between your faces.

“It is in your nature, Ghost, to kill those with authority over you,” he says, his breath huffing out over your cheeks. “I keep warning you time and time again. You will not succeed this time if you make an attempt. Do you truly wish to die at the hands of someone you cherish so deeply? Or have you deluded yourself into thinking that he will not be the one to execute you at his captain’s command?”

“And how do I know you are not doing your captain’s bidding right here and now?” You tilt your chin up and look Mingi in the eye without faltering. “How many instruments has he engaged to orchestrate my failure and destruction?”

“Oh, how interesting.” Mingi chuckles. “You finally caught on.”

“So again I ask if you are accusing me of something? Because if you were truly doing that, then I would not be alive and breathing right now, would I?”

“Between the two of us, you are not the only one guilty of regicide, Ghost. It is in our nature,” he repeats through a whisper that makes you shiver. “The question is… how willing are you to repel that part of your nature?”

“Are you?” Your gaze narrows on him as you hiss out your counterargument, but Mingi hardly reacts at all. You may as well have not said anything at all based on the way he blinks slowly back at you. “Let’s simply get Yunho upstairs,” you murmur, turning your chin away from the man and looking towards the top of the stairs. Mingi leans back enough to let you breathe easy again, and you steal a glance his way when he straightens up. “Where’s his room?”

“Hongjoong is in it.”

“What?”

“He had Seonghwa book one room for him and Yunho to share.”

“That’s—” utterly psychotic. You bite the words back though; you’ve frayed the ends of Mingi’s nerves enough for one day and it would be unwise to continue to do so further. And though your rage towards how Seonghwa has been treating you of late is not quelled one bit, you do feel some outstretch of sympathy solely on account of how downright cruel such a request from Hongjoong is.

“Yeosang and Wooyoung are sharing, as are Jongho and myself. You and San have a room, the doctor and Nightingale, then your friend and her small charge.”

You hesitate at the top of the stairs. The hand you have wrapped about the railing is so tightly wound that your knuckles are stained white.

“…Our captain had the lieutenant book a room just for himself?”

Mingi mumbles something, uncharacteristically quiet and under his breath. You do not press him to echo the words to you.

“Then let’s bring Yunho to San and I’s room. We’ve got a perfectly suitable couch he can sleep on.” The door to your room is blessedly right across from the stairs, and you give a series of light knocks to announce your arrival that’s met with no argument. San awaits inside, propped up in bed with a book set before him and the lamp casting light over the pages. His features mold into a smile that’s soft around the edges just before his gaze flits past you and finds Mingi lugging in an unconscious Yunho about his shoulders. The book snaps shut with a pop! and he slings his legs over the edge of the bed.

“Did something happen?”

“The two of us went for drinks, and he had a bit much,” you explain. “I, um, had to knock him out to get him back here.” As far as you’re concerned, San doesn’t need to know anything beyond that right at this moment. Mingi allows you such privacy and leads Yunho’s limp body to the couch across from the bed.

“Ah… Hongjoong and him are sharing a room too. We got back not long ago but — disturbing his beauty sleep is asking for death, pretty much,” San mumbles, bringing his hand up to his mouth. “We can leave him here no problem, right? Are you comfortable with that, star?” When he comes over to where you’re standing, his hand drifts to cup your hip, thumb tracing over the flesh through your clothes. You don’t think twice before leaning forward and pressing a kiss against the line of his jaw.

“Mhm, that’s fine. I actually suggested that too.”

“He’ll be fine on the couch for one night surely.” San cracks a smile that’s a little lopsided and very endearing. “Though, if he complains, I’ll just remind him of how much worse it could’ve been!”

Mingi clears his throat as he rights himself. His gaze slips from you to San then down to the man now sprawled over the couch cushions.

“And if he asks where his bedmate has gone?”

San’s lips fold into a more devious smile. “I’ll simply say I’ve borrowed him for a bit of fun!”

Mingi does not betray much with his expression, but you know that he does not find the excuse to be so believable that it will deceive Hongjoong.

“Then, if that is all…”

“Hm? Oh, yes, goodnight Mingi.” San offers a small wave but Mingi does not budge even as the Spectre turns to the bed.

“Thank you for your help. I appreciate it,” you say to the man.

“Of course.” He looks like he wishes to say more, but refrains on account of San, who’s begun to hum behind you as he crawls back into bed. “Goodnight.”

You exhale a breath that was lodged firmly in your lungs when the door snaps shut behind Mingi. It doesn’t take much work to rid yourself of your clothes and get into something far more comfortable, though glancing at Yunho on the couch leaves you with an inkling of guilt again. His attempt on your life was still very much that — you hardly regret stopping him the way you did (in fact, you left him practically unscathed) — but the place it was coming from was neither genuine or one born of reason.

“He came onto me,” you mutter over your shoulder. Once again, you hear the flutter of pages and a snap as San forgoes his book and redirects his attention to you.

“You are welcome to do whatever you please.” His tone holds no animosity; San can be perhaps a bit too forward with his emotions when he speaks. Tonight, you are grateful for it though. “Yunho is a very good partner, quite doting and accommodating to whatever needs and desires his partner might have.”

“Not…” you clear your throat. Abandoning the dresser, you move to the bed and slip underneath the covers. “Not in that manner. Though it was a topic of discussion briefly. As was the idea of a threesome, but I rejected both offers rather quickly.” You fold your hands over the sheets. It’s a struggle somewhat to look at San’s expression as he’s still sitting upright further up on the mattress than you, but his comfort comes in the form of fingertips tracing your hairline. An encouragement to continue, or a sign that he’s listening intently to what you have to say. “I suggested that he find others to sleep with instead. Can’t take him anywhere: people were ogling him from all sides while he was… lamenting his relationship struggles.”

“Far from surprising. He’s always garnered that sort of attention wherever we go.” San laughs as he runs his fingertips over your scalp. “It’s a shame…” He stops himself from finishing the thought, but you’re not given a chance to press him to continue. “You’ve not stopped trembling since you came in,” he murmurs. With his free hand, San moves his book off to the side table and sinks lower under the covers until he is eye level with your shoulder. “What…” San seems to weigh his words very carefully before daring to speak again. He settles on the most barebones question of all. “I’m always here if you need to talk, yeah?”

And you yourself cannot fathom why you’re trembling at all or when it began. Mingi failed to mention it to you, though you understand that it could have been mere courtesy. To confirm, you lift a hand from the sheets and watch your fingers shake like grass under unruly wind in the low light.

“Ah,” you let out a noise of realization. “I didn’t eat anything before or while we went drinking. Maybe that’s why my head’s bothering me too.”

“Do you need anything to help you sleep?”

“Mm, no, I just need to sleep it off.” You let your hand fall back to its place atop the sheets. “You said once that Yunho is the best drinker on the crew, right?”

“Best at handling alcohol by far, yeah.” San laughs a little as he angles his head down to rest against your bicep. “I’ve seen him down eight shots in a night and not even be tipsy afterwards.”

It stands to reason then that Yunho’s excuses of blaming the alcohol for his behavior are shoddy at best.

You do not fear Yunho, nor were you in any sort of genuine fear for your life back in that alleyway. Your brain barely perceived him as a threat — certainly not one to leave a lasting impression on you. And though it is odd, questionable even, and calls into question your sanity, you do not feel unsafe in San’s presence. There is a lingering unrest brought about by the severe lack of knowledge surrounding what Hongjoong may or may not have had him do to you since your first meeting, but the safety that comes with being beside San has not been called into question. When he tucks himself back under the sheets and rests his head in the juncture between your neck and shoulder, you are all too aware of the steady breaths coming from the couch.

Perhaps it is not that you are afraid, but rather that this unending discomfort comes from some deeper realization. Tonight, whether sober or not, Yunho seemed prepared to abandon that cardinal rule he set for himself: to never bring harm to someone. Solely because he believed it would grant him Hongjoong’s favor.

────────────

A familiar landscape greets you when sleep finally descends, though it doesn’t come with the mild comfort of white sands and black waters. Grey dust pools around your feet, bare and sinking into the flaky terrain as you take a few tentative steps into the ruins ahead. Even in its dilapidated state, you can see that you stand in the remains of a church. Something acrid reaches the inside of your nostrils, making your lip twist in disgust. The stench of something long dead.

One pew remains intact. Upon it sits a figure with contrasting black and white hair split horizontally across the back of his head. His form is so perfectly still that it makes you wonder if he’s even truly there. When you push further into the ruins, the ground gives way with each step, making the grey ash climb up to your ankles. Something sharp digs into the soles of your feet. From what you remember of being in a place similar to this before, you do not want to look down.

“Wooyoung?” you call out. You grip the end of the pew to step carefully around it and look at your friend. He deigns not to return your stare; instead, his gaze is trained firmly on the shattered remains of what once was a stained glass window behind the pulpit.

“Do you know what used to be there?”

His question catches you off-guard, and as you shift to look between the window and his face, you shake your head. Then, right before your eyes, the glass trembles and morphs, broken pieces climbing up from the heaps of ash around the church. As though drawn by some magnetic pull, they move to fill in the frame. The picture fills itself out piece by piece, stained red by the moonlight filtering in from behind, and it makes the imagery all the more horrible to look at.

Long, bony fingers that stretch into sharp points spiderweb over a small face with closed eyes with even smaller hands clasped as though in prayer. The arms attached to the hands descend from above but there is no body to be seen, nor is there a face to put to the monstrous figure. The figure below — the child — kneels on a stone that juts out over a deep black abyss. In the empty space between the arms of the unknown beast, a red moon gleams. Below the abyss, separated by a thin bronze strip, there is a raven with its wings spread wide, and the head is turned sideways, its maw open and pointed towards the sky. The one eye that’s visible is the same red as the moon above it and the one currently hanging above your heads. Its talons curl around a bleeding heart.

“Daichi says that the murders… the sacrifices were always for the greater good of our people. What justification can there be for killing your children and grandchildren under the guise of being blessed by some unseen gods? I don’t get it,” Wooyoung mutters. He leans forward and places his hands on either side of his knees, clenching his fingers around the wooden bench. “If they had known what would happen to them, would they have still done so? Or would they have murdered more in vain attempts to beg for protection from their gods? Repeated the ritual in smaller and smaller increments of time until there were more adults than children? Or even… sought younger candidates for their plight?”

You deign not to answer any of his questions outright; they do not seem to be directed at you in the hopes of response anyway, but you doubt he’ll receive a response from either the ones responsible for the atrocities or those beings such sacrifices were for.

“Our ritual failed. Why?” Vague memories filter their way through your head but they aren’t tangible enough for you to grab hold of.

“I won’t die because of their fate. I won’t let them choose how my life ends or when it ends.”

“Our fates have been sealed, Tsukio. Isn’t it simpler to accept that?”

“Don’t call me that. That’s not my name. And yours isn’t — it isn’t Umiko!”

“They did not have the opportunity to conduct it.”

“Why?” you press again, harder and with more force to your tone. Wooyoung is selecting little truths out of the bigger picture.

“They…” Wooyoung stands suddenly, pursing his lips as he looks down at the floor where ash resides. You wonder if he too feels the slight crunch beneath his toes, if he knows what remains there. “…did not have enough children to do so.”

“They did not have five children to sacrifice?” you retort the second he finishes speaking, and a flush rises up his neck to stain his cheeks. In one blink, Wooyoung looks utterly ashamed, but in the next, a flash of anger takes over his face. You wish to inquire further, wish to know what sowed those seeds of shame, crave to understand that which you cannot remember yet Wooyoung can. None of your questions leave your lips, however.

“They did not deserve to bear even a single child if they were going to just raise their young for slaughter.” Wooyoung turns his palm to the sky, narrowed gaze glaring down at the ash painting his skin. He thumbs over it with his other hand. “I don’t like it here. I don’t want to be here.”

Before you can react, the world around you swirls like it’s in the center of a vortex, and the church dissipates into a haze of nothingness. In its place, black water stretches out before you. Your toes sink into soft sand and smooth stones now instead of ash and bones. The violent and sudden shift makes your stomach lurch, sending you forward to propel your hands forward to brace on your knees in a barely successful attempt to catch yourself as a dry heave ripples through your body. Wooyoung looks none too bothered in stark comparison.

“How do you do that?” Wooyoung watches you carefully out of the corner of his eye as you approach the spot where he crouches by the water. “I can’t seem to control any bit of the Dreamscape while I’m here.”

“That’s not true,” he sighs before patting the sand beside him. You take the invitation to sit down there, folding your legs underneath you. “You can, we share the same abilities in that way. You simply can’t remember how to do so.”

“Would you show me, if I asked?”

Wooyoung’s lips quirk a little, and he shifts to kneel in front of you. Taking your left hand into both of his, he flips your palm up to the sky.

“Close your eyes.” Two fingers dig into your palm. “Imagine a butterfly sitting on your hand; the type doesn’t matter, just picture it in your mind. Think about how it would feel, the shape and size of it, what it would look like.” You do as told without complaint or question, letting his instructions flow over you as he continues to speak. “It gets easier over time, and takes less time and effort. Like me now, I can change a whole landscape with just a thought. Or revisit old memories in the same manner. It starts small, though. Thinking something into existence out of nothing. Keep focusing on that image of a butterfly in your hand… and eventually you open your eyes—”

Your eyes flit open when you feel the slightest phantom touch against your palm.

“—to something amazing,” Wooyoung whispers through a smile, looking down at the same spot on your palm.

There in place of his fingers sits a small butterfly with wings painted blue and black. The wonder that bubbles up in your chest is palpable, like the wings of that very butterfly are beating frantically against your ribcage. It folds its wings in and out on your palm, small spindly legs testing their strength against your flesh, then in the blink of an eye, it brings itself into the air and flutters up and away into the starry sky. You lift your hand closer to your face, and your fingers trace over the spot where the creature just was as though another might pop up in its place.

“So, yes, you are capable of altering the Dreamscape as you see fit. You likely have already done so here and there; perhaps, not consciously, as Seonghwa mentioned to me you only feel able to use your abilities if your life is under duress. That makes sense — to an extent, it’s true. Your Siren genetics act as a barrier of sorts to defend you in times of need, but you are equally capable of using them in other circumstances.” Wooyoung reaches both his hands out, motioning for you to let him take hold of yours. This time he cups both your hands together. His palms are warm against your knuckles, and his fingertips skate over your wrists. “Now try again, with something bigger. The same way as before.”

An image blooms behind your eyelids when you shut your eyes, and as you focus on bringing the creature to life with your mind, Wooyoung’s honey tone seeps into your ears.

“While you won’t be able to do this in real life, it helps to start trying to hone these abilities in the Dreamscape. Learning to focus your energy into something, to pull from an invisible pool within you — these are both key in being able to draw upon your Siren abilities in the real world. It’s easier when your body is asleep because there aren’t any external stressors happening at the same time — so long as you aren’t ripped out of sleep early.” Wooyoung’s hands withdraw from yours, but you can still feel the heat emanating from them so he must remain close. “As a Siren, you can do all sorts of things that others might find odd and unnatural. But that’s how the universe works, no? San has his endless stamina, can blend in with shadows to conceal himself, has that Spectre constitution that lets him run faster and jump higher. Yeosang has his intelligence, the elevated mental capacity that comes with being an Elitist. A natural tendency to lean towards logic over emotionality, and everything comes easier to him even if it’s something he’s never tried before. Mingi and Jongho have their unmatched strength, but also the unfortunate side effect of absorbing the emotional auras of those around them which makes Berserkers more prone to aggression and violence due to an overstimulation of the limbic system.

“And people like you and me, Seonghwa — what we have is a legacy. It differs from person to person. No two Sirens will have the same extent of ‘powers’, however, I despise calling our abilities that because it sounds childish. We’re all born with our intuition. You’ve felt it before with both Seonghwa and myself, and I know I’ve mentioned it to you. We can sense another Siren’s distress and push out energy to soothe or provide comfort. Similar to Berserkers, a bit, in that we can feel what other Sirens feel. Some history books even claim that the first settlers on Celeste were Berserkers and the gods of Celeste blessed them to create Sirens, though I find it hard to believe. The key difference is that rather than absorbing emotions from fellow Sirens, we possess something of a heightened empathy.”

Wooyoung withdraws his hands completely, quicker than you expect him to, and the haste in his movements bring you to open your eyes and look over at him. His gaze lingers on your hands. Whatever words he was going to share with you are lost as his lips part to let a sigh slip out. Something soft writhes between your palms, fluttering and beating a few times before quiet warbles emit from the space. You part your thumbs, gingerly and ever so carefully, to reveal a round budgerigar so young that its adult feathers have yet to fully come in. It twists its head around, surveying the surroundings with beady black eyes, before stretching its small wings and unveiling the black striped pattern across them.

“You… made a bird.” Wooyoung reaches out to it with his index finger crooked like a perch, and the bird climbs up without hesitation. It remains unphased when Wooyoung brings his face close to it, merely letting out a little warble and tilting its head at him. “Incredible.”

Without another word, Wooyoung lifts his hand up above your heads, and the bird immediately takes flight. You watch it disappear into the trees across the lake with a similar feeling of wonder as before when you created the butterfly. Wooyoung’s gaze lingers longer than yours, seemingly consumed by thoughts you aren’t privy to, and when he turns back to you at last, his expression is more troubled than anything.

“As I was saying — Sirens, we can shift the density of our bodies to go through objects like a wall or a door, though it is more difficult to master as you risk getting stuck inside whatever object you’re trying to phase through. But, well, it’s different for you. Most Sirens cannot go through living things, or rip a man’s heart clean out of his chest.” Wooyoung gives you a sympathetic smile.

“Nothing we don’t already know,” you reply with a shrug.

“Seonghwa mentioned a certain incident that occurred on Dorado.” Wooyoung winces a bit and looks down at the sand. “He was asking me questions, at least. I put two and two together based on what we had talked about that one time and asked the right questions to get the information out of him. Not maliciously! I just needed to be certain about why he was asking, in case — so that I could understand better. I ended up doing some research on a few of the databases Hongjoong has access to, and there are records of Sirens being able to do similar things. Most, unfortunately, were captured by the military or slavers to be used as weapons. Some were test subjects as well, and there are a few detailed studies about being able to phase through living beings. Other records showed that militaries use Sirens as batteries to power other soldiers with their blood, which is horrific. I couldn’t stomach to look into that for long, it was just too gruesome.”

“Then it’s possible that both you and Seonghwa could do so?”

Wooyoung hums, nodding a few times, “Yeah, in theory. I’ve never made any attempt to do so. And Seonghwa never mentioned it before he learned of you doing so. Had you ever done anything similar before then?”

“With a living creature, no. Early on when I first joined the crew, I recall being able to pass through bullets without taking harm on my first mission. Then when I was captured with San, I was able to free myself by phasing through ropes.”

“Both of those instances were likely your natural instincts jumping out as a form of self defense.”

“What of your ability? Daichi mentioned it some time ago, that we were found to be most apt for sacrifice because we were Sirens not meant to exist. He implied that I shouldn’t be able to rip a man’s heart out with my bare hands, just as you should not be able to kill Sirens within the confines of the Dreamscape.”

“If I am able to kill Sirens here in the Dreamscape, then it’s a tad terrifying to think of what forsaken ability you were given. And to be fair, ripping hearts out is a mighty horrifying ability to have, so it might very well be what sets you apart. Though Daichi is limited by the constraints of our knowledge here, as far as I know. Unless there is an unknown entity that resides in the Dreamscape alongside him, then he only shares information which we already know. Hence why he can be so damn dodgy when answering questions. I’d assume that at the time when you told you that, he was gleaning knowledge from the two of us, or potentially Seonghwa. Seonghwa believes that you should not be able to do what you did to that man; that was why he approached me asking for information, because he has some inkling that you and I are not the same as him.”

“He’s inconsistent at best,” you say, drawing a confused glance from Wooyoung before clarifying, “Daichi is. Sometimes it truly does seem like he only knows what we know, but other times, he speaks in riddles and circles as though he knows more than he lets on.”

“Something of an unreliable old man, hm?” Wooyoung jokes through a soft laugh. “I know he dislikes me because he fears me. I have tried and failed to kill him before. But because so much of his identity is an oddity to me, I’m not sure if I can hurt him at all. Regardless though, he loves to remind me that I was supposed to die alongside you and three other children a long time ago. I don’t believe him when he says that we were only meant to die because we were special. We were marked to die as babies. Our abilities did not come until later, until after the cult had conducted all sorts of experiments on us. That cult was the same one who made us a dyad, with the hope that in the future we would have been able to further a stronger bloodline. Why would they have gone through so much effort for children marked to die?”

You recall this somewhat from what Wooyoung has told you in the past.

“We were part of a group of children used by a defunct sect of the main church… an old, defective sector that had broken off a long time in the past and taken their teachings with them…There were thirty children to start, all chosen from birth and offered by their families for the tests, yet each year, more and more children died. By the time the Ritual Year came along, there were only seven children left, and among them, both of us remained…It wasn’t something given at birth, not a gift from the gods — it was a harsh result of cruel and repeated testing and experimentation that kills dozens of children. Except, despite us successfully making it through that ordeal, we were still meant to die in the ritual, as a sacrifice to the gods.”

“Perhaps they wanted to find a way to halt the sacrifices,” you mutter, toying with a bit of loose skin around your pinky nail. “Instead of sacrificing children to be blessed with Siren abilities, maybe their intent was to make it so that Sirens could be self-sufficient without gods. I imagine… any parent doubtful of the church’s teachings would have been eager to find a way out for their child.”

“I suppose that much could be true. I remember next to nothing of my parents, even less of my grandparents, so whatever beliefs they held true to are a mystery to me.” Wooyoung inhales so sharply that he winces a little. “Regardless of any of that, it’s a good sign that you're still able to tap into your abilities. It means more might come back to you as time continues to pass.”

“Sometimes it feels more like I’m regressing rather than moving forward,” you complain, dropping your hand and leaving your cuticle be for now. Wooyoung hums.

“It makes sense, given what you’ve been forced to go through lately,” with his words comes a tone so full of reassurance that it makes your chest ache. “An overload of new information on top of relearning yourself — learning that much of what you thought you knew to be real was a carefully constructed lie. No one would blame you for having those feelings. It could very well be that your own mind is getting in the way of you remembering what it means to be a Siren in an attempt to protect you from further harm. Since your mind may be uncertain what’s real and what isn’t, you could be unintentionally blocking yourself from honing your abilities and can only tap into them in life or death situations.” Wooyoung reaches out across the space between your bodies and sets his hand down on your knee. “I promise I’ll do my best to help you distinguish between what’s real and what isn’t. I can only do so much if your mind subconsciously thinks that whatever memories are still locked behind the wall the serum put up are dangerous. But I do like a challenge. Hell, I made an Elitist fall in love with me, so what’s some pesky military medicine compared to that?”

You purse your lips, letting one of your hands cover Wooyoung’s and give it a small squeeze.

“You’ll have to forgive me if I rely on your optimism too much. It’s hard for me to be as confident as you.”

“That’s okay. I’ll be positive for both of us!” Wooyoung twists his hand in your grasp and pushes it upwards with his own. Your fingers splay out against each other, his extending past yours by several centimeters. “When we were little, my hands were smaller than yours. I thought I’d never hear the end of it with the way you so mercilessly teased me.” His eyes turn glassy as he looks at your palms pressed together. “Before I moved into Yeosang’s room at the castle, when we shared a cot in the broom closet next to the kitchen… we would compare hand sizes every night, and I always insisted that my hands would be bigger than yours one day. After we were separated and you were forced to leave, I would hold my hand up to the ceiling and ask you if it had finally outgrown yours.”

It sends a pang through you knowing that Wooyoung has to relive these memories alone, that you cannot share in the nostalgia the same way he does. You hardly know what to say now, so you intertwine your fingers and cling to him as tightly as you can without causing pain. His hand trembles in your grasp, the same way his smile wobbles.

“How lucky I am to finally see the day where I can say I was right to your face.”

────────────

You’re stirred awake by a gentle nudging against your shoulder, and it isn’t until your consciousness starts processing what’s going on that you hear San’s voice filtering through the haze of sleepiness.

“Hey, star, we gotta go downstairs.”

“Mmhmph?” you grumble, hand grabbing at air a few times before it finds purchase on San’s warm and solid bicep.

“Yunho wants to introduce us to the owner of this hostel. He claims — he says it’s his father.”

genuinely am seriously so thankful and grateful and touched by everyone who has been sending love and messages lately, even if just to say they've been thinking of me/moc or rereading in the long wait it truly truly motivated me to keep pushing onwards and keep going despite everything :')

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a/n: good god where do i even begin TT if not for an apology for the obscene and absurd and stupid amount of time it has taken for me to get this out 😭 genuinely was wanting this to be posted in january but holy heck look at the time it's.... may... kms...

nothing will make up for the long wait but i do hope you enjoyed this chapter nonetheless!

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

[alicentofhightower]

the dragon and the crab

pairing: aegon targaryen x fem!celtigar!reader

synopsis: boys seem to catch your eye more, as of late. you wonder if that’s the reason why you’re helping this drunken fool of a prince.

includes: drunk aegon, he’s actually not that bad here. so sorry if this is ooc this is my first time writing a oneshot for him!

WC: 1.5k

a/n: this was written with ty tennant’s aegon in mind because it’s set during laena velaryon’s funeral, but you can envision tgc’s aegon too i don’t really care. i did not proofread this so im sorry for any mistakes, i literally just wrote this on my phone in bed because i miss aegon and im bored. i might write a part 2 idk

-

The first time Aegon sees you, he cannot help but wonder why you take such a liking to Helaena.

Laena Velaryon’s funeral had been an uneventful one. A bore, to be honest, but his mother would smack him if he’d ever voiced that thought aloud. He’d never known the noblewoman well. Honestly, his mind was more preoccupied with the looming thought of his upcoming wedding.

It was tradition for Targaryens to be married to relative. They’d practiced it for hundreds of years, long before the doom of Old Valyria. His mother had always seemed so intent on practicing the customs of her Andal forbears, and Aegon wished she’d been the same for his marriage.

Deep down, he knew why Helaena would be his wife. It was to keep her close to Alicent. If she’d been wed to some fat lord in the Riverlands, or a foolish one from the Reach, it would make no difference; there was no real confirmation that she’d ever be kept safe. His mother would not have another Aemma be made of her only daughter.

“We have nothing in common,” Aegon complained, constantly having to brush his silver waves away from his face. The wind from the beach was relentless.

He stood off to the side next to Aemond, away from where you yourself sat next to the Princess. She seemed to speak in riddles, with the way she mumbled of ‘spools of green and black’, but you did not mind. You could tell she was of a sweet nature.

Helaena handed you another shell to hold, her fingertips tracing the texture of it. “She’s our sister,” interjected Aemond.

Everything about Aegon was improper. The way he could not seem to let go of his cup of wine for even a minute, the way his eyes wandered towards the skittish maids, even down to his posture; hunched and lazy. “You marry her, then,” The elder prince said, his fingers loose around his chalice. If he wasn’t careful, he’d probably drop it, make a fool of himself as he always had.

“I would perform my duty. If mother had only betrothed us.” Aemond did not speak out of genuine desire for his sister, only his yearning to be the firstborn son. To be given the duties of his unwilling brother.

“If only,” He scoffed.

His blue eyes traveled to where you were, listening closely to every word of his weird soon-to-be wife. Aegon did not pay much attention to his Old Valyrian lessons, much less his history, but even he could recognize which house you were from by the dress you wore; ivory and scarlet, the colors of House Celtigar.

Your house was a Valyrian one itself, though far less proud than the one of his own or the Velaryons. You wore a veil of mourning to honor the late Lady Laena, but he could see the earrings you adorned beneath it; crabs, closely resembling your sigil.

You could not hear what the young princes spoke of, but your eyes had averted over to them occasionally, though most of your attention was paid to Aegon. His face was scrunched together as he studied you, trying to figure out why you’d ever willingly be in the company of Helaena. Mayhaps you were just as off-putting as she was.

Blooming into womanhood, you could not help but take notice of boys your age; Aegon himself was quite handsome, though lustful and foolish, and your mother had personally warned you to stay away from him on the way to Driftmark. It only made you want to talk to him more.

Soon enough, Aegon made his way over to another servant, grabbing the pitcher on the platter she held and pouring himself more Arbor gold… away from where you were. You wondered if that’d be the last you saw of him.

-

It wasn’t.

Sleep had escaped you. Taking a stroll outside was far more appealing than tossing and turning in your bed, so you’d wrapped your robe around your nightgown and snuck out of your chambers.

You almost gasped when you saw him. There he was, at the end of the stairs, drunk and hiccuping with his eyes closed. He sat against the stone of the railing, head drooping and hands still grasping his goblet tightly.

“My Prince?”

No response.

Descending down the steps, you poked his hunched shoulder. He did not even start. It took a harsh shake of his forearm to wake him, and Aegon threw his head back when he did, smacking it against the marble behind him.

Aegon’s pale hand flew to cradle the back of his skull. He hissed, features squeezing together as he let out a sharp breath. It reeked of wine, and he appeared to be startled that he hadn’t been smacked yet. “Grandsire?” He asked, eyes still scrunched shut.

“No,” You said softly. “It’s just me, my Prince.”

His eyelids shot open. It took a moment for him to recognize you. “Why are you out here? Shouldn’t you be abed?”

Gods, maybe your lady mother was right about avoiding him. He’d already begun to irritate you, and you’d been speaking to him for less than a minute. “Shouldn’t you?”

His head lolled to the side, falling to rest on his shoulder. “What will you do? Tattle on me to my mother? I’ve already been scolded today,” He grumbled, his words slightly slurred.

Really, you should just leave this fool of a prince alone, act like this never happened, and climb back into bed. You won’t. It’s normal for men of his age to indulge in their vices, but some part of you tells you that this is wrong; that he shouldn’t be out here in the cold night, slumped into a mess of his own limbs. You feel bad.

Boldly, you reach forward again, grasping his wrist. “Come on,” You say to Aegon, your tone softer. “I’ll help you back to your chambers.”

“I’m too tired.”

He yelps when you yank him up, stumbling forward, his hands scrambling to grab your shoulders to keep him upright. “You should not treat a Prince so roughly.” Despite his words, Aegon allows you to wrap an arm about his shoulders, guiding him forward.

His eyes are wide as he looks down at you, seemingly trying to figure out why you’d pour this much time into someone you don’t even know. There’s a flush becoming all the more apparent on his face, and unbeknownst to you, it’s not because of the wine.

You’re sure there will be a scandal made out of this. An unmarried young noble-lady taking King Viserys’s firstborn son, drunk, back to his chambers during the hour of the owl? Certainly the maids will begin to whisper false tales of your relationship with the Prince, and your father will reprimand you on the ship back to Claw Isle. He might have you married even sooner to dispel them. You cannot find it in yourself to care.

“This way,” You whisper, walking towards where the innermost hall is, where the royal chambers are. Aegon’s steps are uneven and irregular. If you’d not been holding him, he’d probably have fallen twice already.

He’s even more beautiful under the torchlight. Soft cheekbones and plush lips, he’s the very image of his mother, though he certainly does not act like it. Your lips almost part at the feeling of his nose nudging against your cheek, though you attempt to ignore it.

He’s drunk, you tell yourself. Pay no mind to him.

The knights on patrol raise their brows at the sight of you when you make your way past them. An awkward position you’re in. Both his and your arm are wrapped around the other’s shoulders, and his knees are bent so he can be at the level of your face. He’s not even looking forward to where you’re trying to go, his eyes analyzing the look on your face.

He was so talkative when you woke him. You wonder why he’s gone quiet, but reason it to be that he’s exhausted. “What’s your name, again?” He sputters.

He nods rapidly when you tell him it, as if he’ll remember it on the morrow.

Finally, you make it to his room; even the doors to it are grand and tall, befitting one of his status. Yours are farther away from his, in the corridors practically across the keep. It’ll be a long walk back.

You find you don’t know what to say. “…Well, good night, my Prince,” You say softly, letting go of him to let him stand by himself. He wobbles.

Aegon turns to leave, but whips his head around before his pale hand can grasp the handle of the door, his eyes darting around the features of your face. He wants to remember you, it seems.

“You won’t stay?” He can barely pronounce the words correctly, let alone stand up, choosing to lean on the door behind him to keep his balance. Somehow, it’s both endearing and pathetic.

Your cheeks flush at the mere idea of following him into his bedchamber. What was he thinking?

“No, my Prince. It’s best I leave you be.”

Aegon nods solemnly at that, tongue running over his slightly chapped lips. He bows his head in thought, then raises it again, a peculiar glint in his eye that you cannot decipher.

“….’s Aegon. Just Aegon,” He says, quiet, like it’s a secret only the two of you know.

“Good night, Aegon.”

[acewritesfics]

Peaky Caps and Razorblades | Tommy Shelby

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Reader

Request: from @/runnning-outof-time

Warnings: Swearing. Established relationship. Fluffiness. Things get a little heated but no smut.

Word Count: 832

Tommy Shelby Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Y/N awakens to the other side of the bed empty and still made letting her know that Tommy has not come to bed yet. Pulling the blankets back, she slips from the bed and makes her way down the stairs, seeing the faint golden light coming from the kitchen.   

“Fucking hell,” she hears Tommy curse along with an audible wince.   

“Tommy, sweetheart, what are you doing?” She questions the head of the Peaky Blinders as she steps inside the kitchen, finding him sat at the table, shirtless with a pack of razor blades, a spool of cotton thread and some needles laying in front of him while his peaky cap and a needle were in his hands.  

“I was trying something,” is all he says before he lets out a swear, poking himself with the needle.  

“Let me have a look,” she says making him push his chair back so she can sit on his lap. Taking the needle and cap from him, making sure not to cut herself with the blade already placed in there. “I am a seamstress, after all.”  

“Do you think you’ll one day be sewing blades in to dresses?” He quips as he watches her as she holds the blade between the folds of the cap and begins to sew it in.  

“I was thinking purses,” she jests, concentrating on what she’s doing so she doesn’t poke and cut herself. “That way if a man tries to steal it or tries to do worse, it’ll do as much damage as this cap could. What or who in the world gave you this idea?” 

“I don’t know why I thought of it,” he admits. “No one expects a hat to be a weapon. We can’t use guns so we need to get inventive.” 

“But you have guns,” she points out.  

“And now we have hats,” he says, picking up his glass of whiskey and takes a drink. 

It takes Y/N around forty minutes, with Tommy providing an occasional distraction, to get the blades stitched in to his cap. 

“Watch yourself, alright?” She tells him as she hands him the cap back. “Don’t want you coming home with cuts in your hands because you’ve held your hat the wrong way.” 

“I should get you to do the all the other peaky caps too,” he says admiring her work while taking in her warning as he holds it more carefully. 

“I might have to charge you for the others,” she quips as she goes to stand up, only for Tommy to toss the hat on to the table and pull her back down on his lap. This time she’s facing him with her legs on either side of his with his hands gripping her thighs. 

“Name your price, sweetheart,” he smiles, his hands travelling up her nightgown that was pushed up to her hips so she could sit on his lap. 

“£2,” she breathes out at the feeling of his fingers tracing over her more sensitive area.  

“Per hat? Don’t you think that’s a little steep?” He asks, leaning in to kiss her neck as he begins negotiating with her.  

“Razorblades are a luxury, Mr. Shelby,” she tells him fighting the urge to let out a moan. But her attempts fail when Tommy pulls the lower half of her body against him. “And I haven’t finished yet,” she adds, her eyes closed and her voice filled with pleasure as her hands grip the back of his neck. 

“Continue on then,” he tells her moving his lips from her neck to her jawline and slowly up her jawline to her sweet spot under her ear. 

“You’re to take me away for a weekend, somewhere in the country where we can fuck all day without any interruptions,” she tells him moving her hands down his bare chest to his trousers. 

Before she can undo them, there’s a loud knock on the door, proving her point of needing to have a uninterrupted weekend away from everyone.  

Sighing, she drops her head on Tommy’s shoulder, to hide her disappointment before she climbs off his lap and kisses him once more. She moves back up the stairs to their bedroom, leaving Tommy to answer the door in the middle of the night.  

The sun is beginning to rise when Tommy finally slips himself into bed next to his wife. He props himself up on his elbow, leaning in to kiss her shoulder, necks and cheek causing her to stir awake.  

"The hat worked," he mutters kissing her shoulder once more before laying down, an arm across her waist, pulling her body against hers. He rests his head on her shoulder, kissing her cheek. "Arthur and John want their hats done next." 

"That's good, sweetheart," she replies sleepily as she reaches behind her and pats his cheek.  

"You've got yourself a deal," he says as he closes his eyes, feeling sleep begin to overtake him. "We'll go out to the countryside this weekend. No fucking interruptions."  

[starogeorgina]

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬

Warning: Swearing, smut

Pairing: Helaena Targaryen × OC

1.05

Helaena’s soft lips meet the side of your neck. “I don’t recall ever seeing you in a dress before. You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Heat creeps into your cheeks, but you do your best to disguise it. “Although, if I’m completely honest, I feel ridiculous. I’ve never found dresses flattering on me or practical.”

“Practical?” Helaena shuffles further up the bed and takes your hand, gently pulling you down to join her on the uncomfortable bed. “What can’t you do while wearing a dress?”

“Sparing, horseback riding, hunting.”

She rolls her eyes in jest. “You are aware it’s possible to enjoy doing both?”

“I know some ladies enjoy doing both. I just prefer not to. Rhae—Princess Rhaenyra insisted I had this dress, and I didn’t want to cause an argument by saying no.”

“Hm.” Helaena tilts her head back, her hair-free braids flowing down her back. “I think it’s kind of for her to do.”

You shrug. “I suppose.”

Helaena gently traces your jaw line with her; the look she gave you was intense. That was the thing with Helaena; she was beautifully haunted-looking, and her eyes always had a story behind them.

She nuzzles her face into the crook of your neck and, after a moment, starts gently kissing till she reaches the bottom of your ear. Bringing her lips to meet yours, her hand gently grabs your breast. As always, you let Helaena take the lead; sometimes she was content with a simple kiss, and other times she wanted more. Either way, you were happy to be with her. The kiss becomes more heated. Helaena gently pushes you to lay back on the bed, brings your skirts up, then spreads your legs, then her own, before positioning her cunny above your own, then grinds down against you.

Helaena's fingers dig into the flesh of your thigh to keep her stable. Both of you still had your small clothes on, but even with the added layers between you, it still felt incredible with the pressure against your clit. It doesn’t take Helaena long to reach her peak; she grips a hold of your breast as perfect moans leave her mouth.

You come undone not long after, and Helaena curls up next to you.

—

“Can I ask you something?”

Helaena was sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, looking content as she worked on her needlework. She nods ever so slightly while remaining focused on the task she was doing.

“Why did you start going to pleasure houses?” You thought it was a fair question to ask since that was where you first met Princess Helaena, and after all this time, why she even started sneaking out of the keep remained a mystery. When she doesn’t answer, you worry you’ve offended her. “You don’t need to tell me if you don’t feel comfortable—”

“Because of Aegon.”

That wasn’t the answer you were expecting, “Aegon?”

“I asked him why he would always go with his friends, and he said aside from dragon riding, it was the only place he could be free. And that’s what I wanted—to be free.”

A woman would never truly be free.

Helaena stops doing her needle work and looks over her shoulder. “You should tell Prince Daemon.”

“Hmm, I’d rather not.”

“I’m making this for the babe. Soon you’ll be married and making things for your own child.”

For some reason, her words make you feel slightly sad. “I’m not like you. I don’t have maternal instincts. I pity any babe I have.”

“You’ll be a great mother one day. Both Lord Stark and any future children will be lucky to have you.”

A few beats pass before speaking again. You swallow thickly and say, “It won’t be long until the sun comes up. I was thinking you haven’t really seen Dragonstone before; you should come join me, and I’ll show you the island. I’m sure Dreamfyre would enjoy it; all the dragons seem to strive there.”

Gently, Helaena cups your cheek; the glossiness of tears has suddenly appeared in them. She looks frightened. “It is our fate, I think, to crave what we cannot have. I am made of spools of green, and you are made of spools of black.”

—

“I’m fine, Ser Marbrand; there is no need to alert Prince Daemon. I only tripped, walking back up.”

The knight looks as if he wants to argue, but he simply nods and closes the door to your quarters. Hearing a familiar squeal, you run over to your window and watch the cannibal take flight from the beach. He had landed next to the carcass of a horse on a small hill higher up on the path you’d normally walk on. Climbing back down on the damp rocks to reach the path you slipped, scraping the side of your left arm before hitting the ground, dirt sticking to your face and hands.

Stepping away from the window, you remove your jacket, sit down in front of your vanity, and start picking leaves from your hair.

The door to your chamber suddenly swings open, and Rhaenyra begins to rush inside. “Vissera!” she gasps. “One of my ladies said you were hurt; why didn’t you call for a maester?”

“I’ve only scratched my arm; I’ll live.”

Her expression is hard to read; she remains tight-lipped for a few moments, then says, “You’ve got dirt in your hair.”

Rhaenyra picks up a comb and gently starts detangling the messed-up hair and brushing the dirt out. Her touch was gentle and motherly, and you absolutely hated the way it made you feel. Rhaenyra wasn’t your mother, and there was no point in allowing yourself to pretend.

A wave of grief suddenly hits you, and you leap from the chair and say, “Stop, just stop!”

Rhaenyra looks completely baffled. She gulps down, "If I have offended you—“

“Offended me?” You scoff. Shaking your head, you say, “Nobody’s here for me.”

You don’t even realize you’re crying until Rhaenyra steps closer to you and wipes away a fallen tear. She attempts to cup your cheek, but you back away from her.

“I know the feeling,” she says softly. “But you aren’t alone. Your father, your siblings, and I all care for you deeply.”

“Aside from my dragon, I’ve spent the last few years alone.”

Her eyes are full of sympathy, which angers you further. You didn’t want her pity. “Your father wanted you here.”

“I always thought Daemon would come back for me, but then he married Lady Laena and had Baela and Rhaena leavening me behind in Runestone without a parent. Then, when Lady Laena died, I thought he might want me. I would have been able to comfort my sisters because I knew what it was like to not have a mother. I even went looking for Daemon on the beach at his wife’s funeral and saw you together on the beach.”

“Vissera…”

“He doesn’t care about anyone, not really.”

“Daemon loves you.”

“No, he doesn’t.” You go and sit on the edge of your bed. Years of pent-up emotions are starting to spill out. “Do you have any idea how many times I visited the brothels in King's Landing just to try and gain his attention? And not once did he care.”

She smiles softly and says, "Oh, he did. There was a reason no man ever tried to be improper with you. He had made it clear anyone who even attempted it would be cut down by dark sister.”

Standing in front of you, Rhaenyra takes your hand in hers. “I apologize if I’ve played a part in making you feel unwanted. You remind me much of myself at your age; I felt completely alone until I had Jace.”

“Didn’t you have Daemon by your side?”

“No,” she says, rubbing at her bump. “He left me when I needed him most.”

You were surprised; for years, you thought it was only yourself he had let down.

—

“I was about to send all the knights on the island looking for you,” your father laughs. He looks between you and Rhaenyra and says, "Is everything okay?”

“Yes.”

You and the princess had a long conversation about her life in the keep, and how lonely she felt, which is why she always went back to your father. Rhaenyra wasn’t completely innocent, but neither were you.

“We were just spending a little time getting to know each other better.”

Rhaenyra discreetly squeezes your hand before going to sit beside your father at the table you'll be dining at. You sit down at the opposite side of the table next to Jacaerys, who gives you an appreciative nod just as the food is served.

Just as the meal was finished, Lucerys handed you a scroll. “I almost forgot; the maester asked me to give you this.”

You doubted that was completely true; Luke probably offered so you would have something to talk about. “Why thank you, Luke.”

He smiles brightly.

You wanted to meet the young boy halfway since he was trying to make an effort with you. “A friend gave me a book about dragons that has blank pages; perhaps in the morrow you can write about Arrax.”

“I’d love to.”

You smile at him, remaining smiling when you open up the scroll. As you read over the handwritten words, you feel your stomach drop. Jacaerys notices the sudden change in your mood and whispers, “What’s wrong?”

It seems the princess who consumed so much of your thoughts no longer wanted to see you. “I suddenly don’t feel well; excuse me.”

You abruptly leave the table and speed walk to the point of almost running back towards your quarters while fighting to hold back tears.

—

The letter Helaena wrote didn’t make sense; the more times you read it, the more confusing it was. It felt off; rejection was one thing, but the wording of it just seemed cruel. Your eyes swelled with fresh tears; it pained you to know this is how she really felt about the time you’d spent together.

There’s a light knock at your door, “come in.”

You expect to see another jug of wine being brought into the room, but instead it’s Jacaerys with a worried look on his face. “I’m guessing you’re feeling better now,” he says, motioning to the empty goblet on your table. “Have you been crying?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Very well. I didn’t mean to bother you; I just wanted to make sure—”

You force a smile, and you brush your braided hair back behind your shoulder. “I said I didn’t want to talk about it, not that I wanted to be alone. Care to join me?”

He looks hesitant; no doubt Rhaenyra wouldn’t be happy if he got drunk with you. Sighing, you say, “You don’t need to drink with me; just stay for a little bit.”

He looks slightly happier with that offer, and he comes to join you at the table.

[tohakumaru]

climb the stairs, the nomad is with you.

it is futile. you know this is the end. and it's quite alright, you've always been alright.

the steps are sturdy and forgiving though the hill is steep. it is not so much a struggle, but it drags. this is fine, a funny thing about time is that it passes regardless. whether you want to or not, you arrive at a lonely tree, so tall it almost eclipses the sky.

the tree has no leaves, only dry branches covered in flowers with bright red petals, from which buds of cotton-white silks burst out like stars spilling their guts over the emptiness of space.

...

this shame you live with.

that night she sleeps with her hair caked in mud

a top-shelf doll sits crossed-hand, stuffed with fluff and bone-dry eyes

passing divine judgement, you could swear its lips curl into a knife

...

with soft crackling sounds, the trees rises from sleep. it crouches towards you: branches reach out to envelope you in a wiry embrace, and lift you up. it cradles you like a mother does a child. when your head comes to rest on a barren patch on the trunk, the tree shudders: from a thin crack in the balk a flower grows and blooms. five petals like the rest, but an empty core. you look on with no resistance as a thin stalk climbs your neck, hangs over your face, and creeps into your right eye. it pulls from the socket a silver thread and attaches one end to the centre of the flower, which swirls and spins, pulling the thread from you as it does.

it dawns on you that you are being unravelled, quite literally.

for a very, very long time, you lay there and wait for sleep to come. it seems fitting, the motion of the flower-spool and the unbelievable lightness of coming undone work like a lullaby. ebbs and flows and tells you to go. it is fine, it is quite alright, even if there's nothing waiting, not even judgement. you can leave.

… and yet… you are still awake. how long must this take?

as though in answer, the flower suddenly stops spining, the tree tenses up - there is a snag in the thread. the line tangled in clumps forming a face, vaguely resembles that which was once buried in a shallow grave in your mind. this one won't go.

is this supposed to happen?

you frantically look for the nomad, but it is too far down. the panic sets in, but you don't have limbs to squirm nor mouth to scream. you are terrified. please, i will think of something, there must be a way. i am so sorry. i… i don't know what to do. i am still here. forgive me, i am scared, too. what do we do, darling? talk to me, please. what can i do?

like a bad joke, a crescent tore the night sky apart. you take a moment to make out the wicked smile of the moon - ear to ear as it begins with a theatrical cough:

"here you are!

all out of sorts, i see.

well, i did say it was your loss.

too bad, i don't want it anymore. a shame really,

could have been a nice dream.

do what you wish, bird.

i'm just a moon."

me.

and with that, the moon is gone. for good now, you can tell. then, all is still and quiet as the branches set you down, your eyes fixed on the red petals that slowly wither and fall to the ground. the tree has gone back to sleep.

the nomad stares at you. an unreadable expression spreads across its face as it slowly leans over and pushes its palm straight into your chest. you feel no pain as it opens your ribcage, and sets your lungs aside. soft fingers roaming in search. eventually, they find a tiny pair of wings clinging to your auricle and gently pluck it from your heart. in the light, the nomad…holds…

…

how ironic. we'd spoken about us at the end of the world, and i'm so sorry, darling, but i guess this is the world at the end of us.

cold, and getting harder to breathe.

as my wings flutter in the nomad's palm, i see the sky so wide. it's so cold here. i miss you, miss the aching warmth of your hunger, free falling in your heart.

once upon a time. there was a hole in your chest where i laid dying. lack of faith, the prophet diagnosed with a gesture of grandeur - no cures for it, keep praying. the fool.

there was a tunnel in your mind where your dreams bled and your scouring love leaked into the cold, cold world. help, it hurts like hell, i heard you say. could have done something about it, i didn't. i let you bleed to death, i hung you out to dry.

on top of the root-hill at the bottom of the dreaming tree, a nomad sits with a sand-eaten corpse. in its small, child-like hand, a moth takes one last breath. nothing changes in the world, but something has ended. yet, as all good nomads know, a walk doesn't end until it is home-time. nomads are neither moons nor trees, and despite their wanderings, they care very much about warm beds, good night kisses, and happy endings. the greatest nomad of all time once implied by gestures something along the line of, fuck tragedies, i've had enough, and all the other nomads thought that was a quite good point.

darling?

i love you.

this nomad then carefully tucks the moth into its breastpocket, stands up, gathers all it can of the corpse into a blanket, which is then neatly tied and slung over its back. steadily, it descends the root-hill, passes the groves of living-statues, and continues a brisk pace on its journey. just a bit more now, you'll be home before tomorrow arrives, it hums silently./

[kayawolfhorse]

The changes were as gradual as gaining new extremities overnight could be.

First came the ears, tufted in fur the same brown as Pearl’s hair, pricked upright upon her head. The morning they appeared, Pearl’s waking thought was how much louder the birds’ chirping tune seemed to be, how she was able to pinpoint exactly where they perched, along the roof of her tower and in the boughs of the highest treetops below. She tried not to think about the whispered remarks made behind her retreating back she could hear all the clearer now.

The tail appeared next, and Pearl almost crushed it rolling out of bed. Though it was often hidden by the drape of her scarlet cloak, Pearl liked her new tail, and petting the long, coarse fur soon became as natural to her as idly playing with the strands of hair that fell loose around her face.

On the third day, Pearl awoke with a bleeding mouth, pierced by long, pointed canines she wasn’t used to having. Those took the longest to adjust to, weeks of bruises along her bottom lip as Pearl learned how to hold herself, how to rest, in harmony with her new traits. The teeth felt most natural bared in a snarl. Their sharpness didn’t quite fit into her soft, human mouth. Pearl made it work.

The other differences weren’t as initially noticeable. At night, Pearl’s vision seemed sharper, and with the moon shining above her, she could see just as clearly as she could during the day. When running together, Tilly didn’t have to slow her stride to keep pace with Pearl, and leaping over a fallen trunk or puddle hardly became a feat at all.

Pearl’s favorite change of them all was her newfound ability to howl.

She’d always responded to Tilly’s call in kind, but Pearl’s vocal cords could only mimic so much. Now, between them, under a clear night sky filled with more stars than Pearl had ever seen, they created a choir, two voices pitched to sound like ten.

Pearl had howled to an empty, half-built tower the night Tilly lost her first life, before she’d found her way back to Pearl.

Perhaps it was her new wolfishness, perhaps they were the desires Pearl hadn’t allowed herself to feel, that made the pangs of loneliness worse.

She had Tilly! She’d always have Tilly, Pearl would make sure of it. Her beloved wolf was her true soulbound, the tail and the ears and the teeth said as much. Tilly protected her and Pearl defended her fiercely in kind. Pearl wouldn’t be alone ever again. It was fine. Pearl was fine.

In the quietest cracks of the day, between the time the moon set and dawn colored the sky, Pearl admitted to herself that she wasn’t fine.

The yearning ached in her chest, next to the invisible spool of thread that connected Pearl to a partner who never wanted her. She’d never be invited to the fireside circle, accepted into the band of safety and trust the other pairs had found in each other, in their alliances, however unsteady those tended to be in a place like this. At least there was ground to shake beneath their feet, purchase Pearl had never felt so high up in her tower.

Even with Tilly at her side, Pearl was a lone wolf, and she knew, like every abandoned dog did, how badly she longed for a pack.

—

An excerpt from a piece I’m never going to finish, but liked enough to toss onto Tumblr away. Reblogs do more than likes and all that

[missamyrisa2]

struggling uselessly as the tickle machine's wiggly hands start crawling up your cute sleeveless zip-up top from behind, drumming on each rib through the soft fabric and teasing your underarms ~ those are quite delectable giggle spots, but ooh no~ the machine is after something else~ there's that unmistakable catch, the sound of resistance met and broken when a zipper is grasped and the first teeth separated~ you feel it and squeak out with a gasp, the other hands busying themselves briskly stroking on your exposed sides because of course it's a cropped top toooo~ sloooowly slowlyyy the zipper goes down, you feel and hear everyyy separation with those clicksss~ the machiney sounds spool up excitedly, more hands wiggle out to start squeezing above your knees and massaging at your thighs taunting your struggle to try and save your chest from exposure~ you feel the kiss of open air on your rapidly exposed upper body, your giggles and squeals acknowledged by an adoring hand tracing your blushy cheeek~

and then with that last clickkkk~ the zipper separates and each side of the top falls away, existing now only as a teasyyy piece of lost protection hanging on your ticklish body ~ easily brushed further aside by the hands moving in to immediately grasp and start teasing at your royal chest buttons ~ they squeezeee lovingly, index fingers rubbing and tapping on your lil nubs playfullyyyy~ every bounce and squirm is caught by taunting hands at your hips and tush and legsss~ getting you sooo flustered and overloaded ~ all for the fingers to then rapidly wiggle over each teased nipple barely touching but making you dramatically react all the same ~ working you upppp so that the pair of mini massage wands can be brought out and completely wreck you into gigglemoan gasps~ while fluff tools tease at your ears and bellybuttonnnn~ allll until this machine is satisfied ~<3

[akumastrife]

might drown in these tides between us // AFTG (Selkie/Pirate AU)

Rating: Mature (canon typical violence, drinking and drug use, smut in later chapters, mentions of past abuse.) Fandom: AFTG/The Foxhole Court Pairings: MattNeil and Andreil (background: MattDan, Rennison, Allison/Seth, maybe I'll throw kevin in there idk the devil's been speaking to me.) pirates love sharing booty ok this ship's open relationships are vast Word Count: CHAPTER 1 (out of????) 3.7k {Read full chapter on AO3 and subscribe for future chapters!} Summary: Neil's spent too long running and hiding, too long lying and pretending, to ruin it all with a stupid bout of carelessness. He should run, but with one foot on land and the other in the sea and his skin pulling too tight wherever he goes, he's running out of options as his past gets closer to catching up to him. Or: The Selkie!Neil AU that got away from me. Written for the @aftg-paranormal event =3

“Crossbow!” Dan roars over the ringing canon fire.

“Not for long,” Allison throws back. She lunges over a sliding box and scoops up a rifle out of Renee’s hands. “Seth!” She shouldn’t’ve wasted the breath. He’s already sprinting across the deck and skidding between her and the railing.

She swings the barrel of the rifle onto his shoulder to steady and—between one breath and the next—they’re both deathly still on the rolling deck; Allison sighting her target high up in the other ship’s rigging.

Neil’s not sure his ears will ever stop ringing from the boom of cannons, the shouting, the clang of metal, the splintering of wood. But in that moment as he ducks behind the mast, he can somehow hear the exact moment Allison inhales slow and smooth, the catch as Seth doesn’t breathe at all, and fletching singing through air as an arrow skims scant centimeters from Allison’s cheek.

He watches the drop of blood fall to the deck, soaking in. 

She fires and the man tumbles down, scream stolen on the wind.

Seth cheers as Nicky whoops, hurling something at him. Neil doesn’t get a good look at what—Seth swings a cricket bat and sends it sailing across the space between their ships.

Another man falls.

It’s over fast after that, with a furiously waving white shirt and several of the crew swinging over onto the enemy deck.

Neil stays where he is, heart thumping fast but not from exertion. The boarding crew will handle what to take, who to spare. He’s content not to have a hand in it, distancing himself from the violence as much as he can. Instead focusing on keeping his head down and bringing Abby and Aaron bandages where needed, clumsily catching the hammer Andrew tosses at him to start temporary patching. He grimaces at the jarring of his thumb, but says nothing.

The work is becoming familiar, and there’s a certain surety in having a set role. Knowing what’s expected of him even if he hasn’t yet got a handle on all of it. He’s learning. Fast enough, if Kevin is only snapping at him that they’ll dump him on the nearest island, instead of actually doing it. They’ve passed two already this week, and Kevin has yet to make good on any threats.

He deftly coils up rope, and ties down a crate that’s come loose.

He climbs the rigging with a thick needle in his mouth to stitch up a rip in a sail. Almost-smiles at Nicky across the way, hanging down by his knees to catch a bulky spool of the waxed thread they use for repairs. Nicky smiles enough for both of them, laughing brightly at something Dan’s said, leveraging himself up to join him in his work.

Neil’s not forgiven him. Might not for a while yet. But he can accept the spool and cut off a length with the knife strapped to his chest before handing it back.

It’s all necessary, but tedious at the same time. A little less so with the chatter and cheers and ribbing floating around him. He’s happy enough letting it happen without him, sinking into the folds.

Familiarity is certain death. Familiarity breeds complacency—will make him docile as a calf to slaughter.

He clenches his hand against the trembling, forces a cough through the tight squeeze in his chest. Shakes his mother’s voice from his head.

Shakes Nicky’s eyes from him as he wipes his hand on his breeches, surprised at the smear of blood. He sticks his pricked finger into his mouth, ignoring the sting and the taste of grime, salt, and gunpowder ground into his skin.

That, too, is becoming familiar enough to not be worth his notice.

He’s not sure if it’s crashing waves or seabirds screaming in his ears.

{Read the rest of the first chapter on AO3 and subscribe for future chapters!}

[dr-demi-bee]

Day 3-------------------Read on A03------------------------------

Pairing: Miri x Gale Prompt: Over the desk Post Canon, exactly what it says on the box, praise kink, NSFW

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun had dipped below the horizon of the bay several hours ago, leaving the sky over Waterdeep bathed in indigo and awash with stars.

Miri sighs from where she was lounging on their tower balcony, noting her husband's continued absence. When she gets up to look for him, he's right where she expected: hunched over a large tome at his desk.

"Vhenan," Miri calls as she approaches, "Are you not done working for the day?"

Gale lifts his gaze from the tome in front of him, "Ah, my love," his voice smooth and deep, as he swivels in his chair to face her. He gazes upon her with a tender expression.

"There's still much research to be done," he says, the corner of his mouth lifting into a small smile. "Unfortunately the answers to my questions do not come quickly."

Miri moves to stand beside him, one hand moving to trail back and forth across his shoulders, rubbing and scratching in a soothing gesture. She smiles affectionately back at him.

Gale hums, enjoying her touch immensely, and his shoulders relax under her nimble fingers. He leans his head against her chest, closing his eyes for a moment as he lets her presence unwind the tension spooled within him. Miri smiles at his reaction and her free hand moves to card through his hair.

"Perhaps they can come in the morning?"

His eyes crack open again and he tilts his head to look up at her, still pillowing his chin on her chest.

"You make a compelling argument," he admits with a soft grin, a hint of surrender in his voice. "Very well. The research can wait until morning. But on one condition."

She presses a soft kiss to his forehead, even as her fingers continue to sooth at shoulder and scalp. "And what condition is that?"

Gale leans into her touch further, reveling in her affection. He reaches out to grab her about the waist and gently pulls her onto his lap as he settles back into his chair. Miri laughs softly and threads her arms around his neck with a warm grin.

"You must promise to stay with me in bed all night.” A playful smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “No more slipping out once you think I've fallen asleep."

"I do most nights, my long-sleeper," she returns with a similarly playful tone, "But if you wish to have me all night tonight I shall stay."

Gale lets out a low chuckle, savoring the gentle press of her body on his, and he buries his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent. He nips playfully at the sensitive skin of her collarbone.

"Good," he murmurs against her, his voice pitching lower. "Because I plan on having a lot of you tonight, my love."

"Is that so?" Miri growls back softly and nuzzles her face into his hair. Gale shivers at the sound, feeling his body respond, and his hands grip her waist tighter as he kisses along the column of her throat.

"It is so," he says, his voice growing husky against her skin. He nips and sucks at a spot just below her ear, and he can feel his desire for her starting to coil tight in his belly.

Miri lets out a breathless sigh under his ministrations. She arches back towards his desk as he leans into her to trail more kisses down her throat to her collarbones. Her hands clutch to his shirt and the back of his neck, keeping him close to her.

Her subtle surrender only serves to stoke the fire, and he follows her movement, kissing and nipping at the exposed flesh of her neck and chest. His free hand moves to cup her breast, his thumb brushing over her stiffened nipple through the thin fabric of her shirt as he growls against her.

"Gods, I want you so much," he whispers, his voice already ragged with need. "I can barely control myself."

He never fails to stoke her desire with rapid precision - a touch, a kiss, a word - and she practically melts against him. Miri moans softly and her hips shift to seek out friction against him.

His lips curve into a satisfied smile against her skin as he feels her move against him, seeking release for the same need that is driving him wild. He groans when he feels her shift and the heat between her legs grinds against his thigh.

He lifts his head from where he had been kissing her throat, his eyes meeting hers, dark with passion.

"Can you feel my eagerness for you, vhenan? Can you feel how much I need you right now?"

"Yes, Gale," she answers in a voice rough with desire. She shifts her hips to grind against his leg once more, pressing her knee against him where it sits between his legs in a teasing gesture. "I can feel you."

His breath hitches, the thin material of his trousers doing little to disguise the hardness growing there. He captures her mouth in a rough kiss, his tongue delving deep, tasting her as his hands grasp at her hips, pulling her tighter against him.

He breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against hers, his breath coming in ragged pants. "I want you, Miri. I need you. Now, please."

"Please, vhenan," Miri echoes, stroking a hand along his face. "Have me now, I need you too."

It’s all the encouragement he needs. A quick flick of his wrist and his desk is cleared - scroll and quill, tomes and artifacts flung aside in disregard. With a rough groan, he grabs her beneath her thighs and lifts her as he stands. Gale’s mouth descends on hers, capturing her lips in a brutal, consuming kiss as he sets her onto his desk in a quick motion.

Miri whines against his mouth, gasping for air each time their lips part before they crash together once more. His fingers pull the laces of her trousers apart, his chest heaves against hers as they kiss and his need for her consumes him.

Her fingers tug at his shirt, pulling buttons apart. His shirt falls open under her touch, baring his skin to her as his hips move against her. He pushes her legs farther apart as she works on his belt, desperate for more space to press himself against her.

Her eyes roam his exposed skin, never tiring of the sight of him. Miri growls hungrily, even as the greedy pull of his hands spread her legs and bring her hips to the edge of the desk. She only just manages to undo his belt and pry open his trousers before Gale is pressing her back against the desk. She falls back to her elbows and her wine dark hair spills behind her and over the wood of his desk in a cascade.

Gale pulls back from her for a moment, his chest heaving as he gazes down at her, his eyes roaming over her body with an expression of pure possession and desire. Gale kneads at her breasts before his hands slide down her stomach. With a quick tug he strips her from the waist down.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, his voice gravelly with want.

He lets his gaze linger on the desire between her legs, before his eyes trail up to hers with a dark, wicked gleam. He lifts on leg and hooks it over his shoulder, exposing her fully to him. Gale steps closer, pressing his hips against her, only the fabric his smalls still between them. Miri whines at the flex of her hips and his teasing press against her.

"Gale, please," she murmurs, gazing up at him with eyes dark and full of need.

Her plea makes his stomach coil tight with desire, his body near quivering with the effort to hold himself back. His fingers stroke their way up her leg propped against him as he moves closer, slotting his hips firmly between her thighs.

"Please what?" Gale teases, with a smug smirk, his voice low and gravelly. His free hand comes up to cup her face, his thumb caressing her cheek. "Tell me what you need, vhenan."

"Do not tease, fenor," she huffs back.

He grins at her huff and captures her mouth in another rough kiss, biting at her lower lip. His hands grip her thighs, holding her in place as he presses himself against her once more, a soft moan escaping him.

"Say please," he purrs back against her lips.

She moans roughly when she feels him press against her, hot and hard through the thin fabric of his smalls.

"Please."

"Good girl." He breathes against her mouth before kissing her deeply, his tongue delving into her. Miri shivers at his praise, her fingers clutching the edge of his desk in desperation.

Gale reaches down to free himself from the confines of his trousers, the other hand still gripping her thigh, pulling her impossibly closer. He presses himself against her and rolls his hips, sliding his desire against hers. Her head tips back with a rough, growling moan and the sight of her bared throat pulls him in.

"You feel so good, vhenan," he whispers, his tongue tracing a path down her neck. "I want you so badly."

He nips and kisses along the smooth stretch of her throat, his tongue following the lines of her tattoo to her collarbones. The sound of her answering moan makes his stomach tighten further as he rocks his hips against her.

"You drive me wild," he murmurs against her skin, between groans. "You’re so good. I can feel how badly you want me. I can feel how much you ache for me."

She wants to rock against him, but his hands hold her fast against the desk. Miri makes a desperate whimper as he continues to tease himself against her.

"Mmmhh- Gale, please-"

His name on her lips has his own aching need growing further, his body quivering with the restraint it takes to keep himself from driving himself into her.

"Please what, my love?" he asks hoarsely, his grip on her thighs tightening. He nips at her throat, his tongue laving over her pulse. "Tell me what you want, Miri. I want to hear you say it."

"Fuck me, please-"

Her words send a sharp thrill of desire through him, and Gale lifts his head to look down at her, his eyes dark with lust.

"With pleasure," he says, his voice husky and his lips curled with a mischievous smirk, "But only because you asked so nicely."

@lanafofana @lastlight-inn @waterdeep-weavemoss

@crimson-and-lavender @feedthepheasants @spooky-lil-bee

[superprincesspea]

Courted by the Dragon

Chapter 5 - Cyvasse

Aemond Targaryen is both the cause and witness to the greatest humiliation of your life. You would rather die than see him again. Yet summer at court and the precipice of civil war have other ideas.

Masterlist

~~~

While the men are hunting, court is held in the queen's private chambers and there is enough cake and gossip to fuel an entire afternoon.  

The cake, you enjoy, but the gossip is all the same. Suitors. Marriage. Betrothals. It's as though the men never left and, the name which far surpasses all others in its frequency, is Aemond.  

The sound of it seems to prick your ears from every direction and, for a moment, you wonder if he enjoys being the most eligible bachelor at court. Except you already know the answer to that. You've never seen him dance or flirt. In fact, the only time you've ever seen Aemond perform for his gaggle of starry-eyed admirers, is that day on the balcony. And you’re not sure if he did it for their benefit, or if it was just a natural result of arrogance and gloating. 

Laughing to yourself, you decide on the latter before reaching for your second raspberry tart. 

Your mother, however, has other ideas. She slides the plate from your grasp and, if that wasn’t bad enough, she also picks up the embroidery hoop which has been idling on your lap for the past twenty minutes.  

"This will need unplucking... again ,” she scolds, handing it back to you with a pair of scissors and a stern look. 

You refrain from rolling your eyes, looking instead at Maris and Cassandra who have almost finished their handkerchiefs. They never have to unpluck anything!  

Why can’t you be more attentive? It would save you so much time in the long run, and your poor thumb wouldn’t be facing another round of pin pricks. With that in mind, you quietly decide that one wonky cornflower will have to do, no matter how much your mother disapproves. 

Afterall, it's not as though you'll be giving this handkerchief as your favour, since you can’t think of a single person who will ask for it.   

So, instead of wasting more time, you wait until your mother is distracted by something Cassandra has said. Then you slip away, taking your hoop and a spool of thread as though you might continue elsewhere.  

Your real destination is the bookcase on the other side of the room, and it's been calling your name since you first arrived.

The closer you get, the easier you can see the dragons carved into the wood just like they are carved into everything else. The walls, the chairs, the stone fireplace. As though anyone in this room could ever forget you were in the lair of the dragons.  

Reaching the bookshelf, you’re excited to see every inch of space is piled high, and some of the volumes look as though they have never even been touched, their spines smooth and their gold embossed lettering in pristine condition.  

There are no new books in Storms End, and you itch to open one. Wanting to smell the fresh ink on crisp parchment and feel the pages beneath your fingertips. But you don’t. You'd hate to be the one who sullies that perfect leather, and these aren’t just anyone’s books, they’re the Queens. So, you reach for an older book, its cover curled at the edges, its pages stained and wrinkled from countless turns.  

Aegon’s Conquest.  

Flicking through the first few chapters, you wonder if Aemond has read it and curse yourself as soon as the thought enters your mind. Wasn't it enough for his name to be in every conversation? Did he really need to creep into your subconscious too? Though you suppose you couldn’t really blame Aemond for that, he wasn’t even here. Still, blaming him felt infinitely better than blaming yourself.  

Replacing the book back onto the shelf, you turn to the window. From here, you can see a perfect view over Blackwater Bay, and it could remind you of home if it wasn’t for the near constant stream of merchant ships. Most of them are small, with only one sail to propel them through the water. But one is much larger, and you count 15 sails in total as it leaves port, its tiny crew standing on deck. 

You wonder where they're going, who they carry, and just how exciting it would be to sail away to some strange and exotic place like Braavos or Volantis. 

When you can’t make out the people onboard the ship any longer, you turn your attention to the Cyvasse board. You’ve never seen one like this before, its pieces carved from ivory and jade instead of black and white.  

You reach to pick up the green dragon and its heavier than it looks, the stone perfectly smooth and the carving intricately detailed. It almost feels as though it might spark to life in the palm of your hand, which leads you to wonder just how small real dragons are when they’re born.  

You'd never thought much of dragons before but, here , they are everywhere. Carved, embroidered, painted and prowling the halls in black leather.  

Holding the piece closer to the window, the tiny green gems of its eyes glow brightly in the sunlight, and again you’re thinking of Aemond . You’ve never seen what lies beneath the black patch across his scar, but you know it's a gem and wonder of its colour. Green like the tiny dragon in your hand, or blue like his eye.  

Cursing yourself again for not only thinking of Aemond but knowing the precise shade of blue which makes up his eye, you place the dragon back on the board then reach to investigate another piece- 

"Do you play?” A voice startles you, and you glance over your shoulder to see Queen Alicent standing directly behind you. 

“Your Grace,” you gasp, turning to face her and offering a somewhat awkward curtsy.  

What was it about this family which always seemed to catch you by surprise?  

“I said, do you play?” 

“A little.” And not as well as you would like. Cyvasse partners were not frequent in the Hall of Storms End and, if they were, most people didn’t want to play with a girl.  

“Then sit,” she says, gesturing towards the ivory side of the board.  

For a moment, you don’t move. Was this really happening? Were you really going to play Cyvasse with the queen? The whole thing seemed so unlikely to the girl you were a few months ago, yet it was happening just the same.  

You force your legs to move, sitting opposite her but not without casting a weary look towards your family. But its only Maris who seems to notice what is happening and, when you smile, she does not return it. 

“Your sisters seem to have become quite close friends with Helaena,” the Queen says, drawing your attention back to her. 

“The Princess is very kind,” you reply sweetly, thinking your mother would be pleased with your answer. But more pleased to hear you had not gone on to say, ‘unlike your son.’  

The queen doesn’t reply and there’s a comfortable silence as you both arrange your Cyvasse pieces into your preferred starting positions.  

You know it will be your turn first, but you’re not sure what piece to play. You don't want to appear too aggressive or too careful. You want something surprising, thoughtful. Though you suppose none of that really matters, since your only real hope is that she won’t beat you too quickly.  

You move the Light Horse. 

“Are you enjoying your time in Kings Landing?” she asks, contemplating her own move for longer than you would have imagined. 

“It is... everything I expected it to be.” 

“Quite the political answer,” she says, sliding her Rabble two spaces forward.  

Your aunt always played her Rabble in the same way. As a result, your second move is a little quicker and the queens is too. You both play four more turns before there is a longer pause while she considers her options. 

“I noticed you looking at the books, you may borrow one, if you wish,” she says, falling into the trap you’ve been baiting. 

Your heart quickens, excited. “Thank you, your grace,” you say, sliding your Dragon to capture her Elephant.  

For her move, she claims a Trebuchet, and you bite your lip, frustrated by your mistake.  

“A good Cyvasse player must notice everything, ” she says and, maybe she’s talking about the game, but there’s something in her tone which causes you to meet her eye and wonder why she has noticed you .  

The room is filled with other ladies. Ones who crave her company, one’s who she’s known for years and most with stations far higher than yours. Still, you don’t ask her why. You play your next move and, more than thirty moves later, the Queen wins.  

You’re not surprised by her victory. It's been almost a year since your last game, which is a good enough excuse, yet you hate to lose just the same.   

“You play very well but you should practice more,” she says, and you enjoy her praise far more than you’d care to admit.  

"Thank you, your grace but my family does not play,” you reply, knowing instantly that Maris, who has not stopped staring, would hate you for saying this.  

If the queen wanted Cyvasse, then Maris would practice until her fingers bled, even if she despised every moment of the game. 

“Then meet me tomorrow, after breakfast, in the garden.”  

This is not a request, nor does she wait for an answer or even stay in the room. She’s done with court and leaves you and the rest of the ladies to finish the afternoon alone.  

Later, when you should be sleeping, Maris sneaks into your room, sitting at the bottom of your bed with her hair in rags. 

“What did you talk about with the Queen?” she asks, and you know she’s been desperate to ask you this all evening.  

“Nothing really, we just played.” 

“Urgh...” she falls back dramatically on the bed. “I’ve been trying to get her to notice me for weeks and you spend one afternoon with her and-” she sits back up, frowning, “it's not fair!” 

“You try too hard.” 

“Well , you don’t try at all.” 

She wasn’t wrong. If anything, you were trying to stay out of the way. But you supposed aloof was noticeable when everyone wanted centre stage. Perhaps if you were livelier, you’d be less visible. Like you were those first two weeks at court.  

“I envy you,” she says, reaching to brush away the hair which has fallen onto your cheek. “You are the third daughter which is even worse than being the second, but you don’t care. I wish I didn’t care.” 

“Then don’t,” you smile, taking her hands in yours and holding them tightly. “Starting now, no more caring about what anyone thinks.” 

She returns your smile, and you both know that what you’ve said is an impossible task for someone like Maris. She cares about everything and everyone. Still, neither of you say it.  

Instead, you scoot over in the bed and pull back the covers for her to climb in beside you. You haven't slept together like this since you were little girls, but the excitement you feel is just the same. Sometimes you would stay up all night, talking, telling stories and daring each other to sneak down the hall to bang on Septa Orella's door. Maris would never do it, but you could never resist.  

Blowing out the candle, you both snuggle into the quilt, lying face to face, arms tucked under pillows and eyes still not quite heavy enough for sleep.  

“There is one person I care about...” she whispers in the dark. 

“Who?” 

“Aemond, of course,” she says as if this is common knowledge, yet it is not common to you. 

"You don’t even know him,” you say, hating the tone in your voice. So judgemental, so accusatory.  

“What is there to know?” 

What is there to know about a man you care for? You scoff, its times like these when you realise just how different you are from her. 

“How about his manner? His interests? His passions?” Or the way he might mercilessly tease a person for the rest of their life. Which leads you to the terrible realisation that, if Maris marries Aemond, then you will never be rid of him.  

“You are quite the secret romantic,” she says, laughing softly. "Ladies do not marry men for their interests, and I do know him. He is a Prince of the realm and Helaena has told me he is the kindest and most gentle brother.” Her voice turns so whimsical at the last part that you can’t help but snort. 

“Helaena is hardly going to tell you that he is ungentlemanly, exasperating and completely incapable of-” you stop yourself.  

What exactly were you going to say next? Incapable of forgetting a certain day on the beach?  

You swallow your words, but Maris presses for more. "Incapable of what ?”  

“Smiling ,” you say quickly, except that isn't true. You've seen him smile plenty of times. Heard his infuriating laughter too. Yet Maris agrees with you.  

“You’re right, he never really seems to smile but I can hardly hold that against him.” 

“You don’t hold anything against anyone,” you remind her.  

“Well, you hold everything against everyone . You know we are all wondering why Ser Harrold does not ask you to dance anymore...” her tone is playful, as though she assumes the whole thing is by your design and you don’t refute her. 

“Ser Harrold is a fool.” 

You can practically hear the roll of her eyes. "Is there a single man you don’t despise?” 

“Of course,” you say, keeping your tone even and entirely serious. “I don’t despise, Lord Henry.” 

Maris giggles so loudly you’re certain she will wake the entire keep. “He is a cat!” 

“And much more amiable than the men at court,” you say, trying desperately to hold onto your own giggles. But Maris’ laughter is so infectious that you’re both forced to cover the quilt over your head to smother the sounds.  

When you come up for air, you don’t tell her you’re playing Cyvasse with the Queen in the morning. In fact, you don’t tell anyone, and for someone who is trying to steer clear of unwelcome company, you’re doing a terrible job.  

~~~~

Thank you for all your lovely comments, likes and reblogs on the previous chapters! <3

[ladyduellist]

Epistles of Saints & Sinners

Summary:

When Astarion meets the humble bard, Tav, he soon finds out he's the only one between them that knows they are bound as soulmates through their marks. Deciding it's more trouble than its worth, he refuses to tell her along the course of their journey across Faerûn.

But, unbeknownst to him and their companions, Tav is harboring a gruesome secret that she only thought was nothing more than a traumatized period in her life.

As they both come to face to face with their pasts and presents, will they choose to move forward or let it consume them?

Healing isn’t linear—after all.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Chapter 1: Song

Ao3

Next Chapter

Main Page & Chapter List

Word Count: 2.3k

Pairing: Astarion x female bard Tav

CW: Sexual Language

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

I am aware of how cruel the moon can be—the many phases it sheds. Lovers, most vulnerable, suffer from such severity of its usually silvery boon. The waxing and waning of their intimacy. Their lives. Their time. By astral’s will. A day, years, or centuries of seeking out each other's tender lips. The tides of the lune renew what is fated to be.

— Unknown

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One Year Before the Nautiloid Crash

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“Where are you taking me lover? I cannot wait to experience what you’re able to do with that tongue of yours,” the human man headily breathed against his nightly suitor’s ear, while Astarion placed a kiss along the softness of his jowls.

The pale elf hummed into the man’s skin as his mouth slowly trailed pecks down to the side of his neck, in tandem with his uncontrolled gasps of assured pleasure. Ringlets of golden spools, bearing the beginnings of silver finery depicting his age, spilled down above his shoulders.

Astarion wrapped a strand around his finger, tugging gently, allowing him to feel a slight pull at his scalp. ”Dear pet, your hair is like that of a crown fit to sit upon the brows of angels. I am undeserving to keep such holy threads wrapped around my fingertips.” He inhaled deeply whispering low into the shell of his ear, “However, I can think of another—more eager—part of your body I would enjoy having wrapped around me that I will have ruined in sin before the night is through.”

His ears perked up when he heard a sharp intake of air from the minor noble pressed deliciously at his side as they walked arm in arm towards the tavern. Hazel eyes dazzled with sparks of lust. Another simple target. The spawn was grateful.

The scent of a cheap carafe red was thick upon his tongue as his breath fanned near the vamp’s face. Vinegar piss. Wonderful. 

“I…I am not used to such salacious remarks. Please do not keep me waiting much longer,” the man keened.

The familiar burn of disgusted bile bubbled in Astarion’s throat. He detested this part of the evening with his nightly liaisons—the purgatory in between.

Come with me, ye bleating sheep to the lion’s den!

Oh, but he would practice his due diligence to get his victims to adore him with his charming swagger and a faux interest in their pathetic lives! Eventually whisking them away to bed with a performance of erotic words dripping from his serpent’s mouth; he could make anyone fall in love with him. Yearning eye contact. A feathery brush against their necks with his fingers. An alluring grin. The promise to know them.

Thousands of denizens he deigned upon for the sake of his one and only exalted master. He was the carrion for the true evil that lurked. The one that tightened the leash around him at every turn.

”Good boy, come eat your rat.”

It repulsed Astarion the moment his victim’s lilting voices careened into his pallored ears to speak of their lives. Adventures he would never have. People he would never meet. Treasures he would never see. Pleasures he would never partake. But, most of all, the sun’s warm grace he would never again feel cradling his skin.

His life ended and began with Cazador in his palace of blood and rape. Whips, chains, and the prettiest of screams. Kennels to contain his most prized pets. Lest he not forget his sudden interest in epidermis poetry! How talented his master was indeed.

The purest of shit to endure.

The people of Baldur’s Gate loved to talk about themselves. And he would listen. He had no choice. He had to feign interest. To enchant them. To indulge. It was all part of the plan—after all.

Ah, but there were times he would come upon those in the flicker of a candle’s light in Sharess’s Caress or burrowing their heads in a pint at a tavern that he would take a more special interest in. A young man that had never been kissed. A forlorn maiden that was escaping an arranged marriage. Maybe even a harlot that was once an aristocrat and had fallen into ruin. Those with stories that lived actual lives outside debauchery and the criminal mind. Rarely, were they people that would undoubtedly be missed, but Master Cazador deserved only the most beautiful beings to add to his “collection” of drained corpses.

In Astarion’s more whimsical moments, he would become the storyteller and regale his prey with memories from his mortal life—at least those he could recall—or fabricate a life that never existed. He would possess positions: a craftsman, a trader, a politician. He had been married, had children, ran away from his family, and widowed. Once, he had owned a lavish manor, with privately catered dinners to his palate. Another time, he had traveled with a king and nearly worked as his personal tactician.

Even so, there would never be a relationship to build upon for the vampire. The victim’s fates were sealed the moment he set his designs upon them, manipulating them by way of exchanged bodily fluids and depraved pants given to the night. Unfortunate souls ripe for the reaping of his master.

“My sweetest treasure, it is not much further now,” Astarion assured his target with a playful smile. He dipped his head to speak against the Adam's apple of the man, lowering his voice a few octaves to vibrate against his flesh. “Then, I will take you again and again until I have had my fill. Would you like that? For me to fuck you until you beg me for mercy?”

The man blushed a deeper shade of red than the wine he imbibed earlier, grabbing tightly onto the vampire’s arm with a few quiet nods.

“Good pet. Follow me.”

It was on the precipice of their journey for Astarion to bed this pathetic mess of a man, that he heard it. The distraction. A hypnosis taking him over, causing his usual instinctual schemes to falter. The constellation that made up his soulmate mark, behind the right shell of his elven ear, suddenly had a strange nerve of feeling pulsing softly.

How curious. Nearly 239 years of life—mortal and immortal—the mark finally comes to life.

Astarion had nearly forgotten about the dusty reminder from who he used to be when he was “alive.” More than likely it had faded in color, along with the rest of his skin tone. One would be so lucky to be born with such a mark, a comforting solace of a personal intimate attachment shared with another being. However, it only served as a severed connection from his corporeal mortality lost against his will. He wished he could scrub it entirely from his flesh.

As they approached the dark alleyway of the Elfsong Tavern, Astarion halted them, his body rigid of the utter intrusion paying pittance to his ears. Eyes fluttering shut, he attuned them to the delicate notes swept upon the strings of a lute just around the corner from them. He took a relaxed breath, his nostrils expanding, reveling in the blithely song gracing his ears.

There was a memory here. One buried well beneath his spawned life and hidden away from the prying eyes of Cazador. A piece: a fragment of leftover humanity just for him. Yes, a song that stuck to the walls of an abode, safety and comfort swelling within. It brought up a familiar vague idea he once might have felt in his former life. An idea of…home. He nearly retched from the very thought of it.

What a sense of humor the gods have to send such a melody along the eventide’s breeze! Astarion scoffed to himself.

The golden haired man at his side cleared his throat in frustration. “Why ever did you stop?”

The vampire’s attention was leagues away, no longer concentrated on his promise of an unforgettable tryst. He cupped a hand over the bloodsucker’s crotch, rubbing his softened cock through the leathers of his pants with a frisky grin.

The tune tapered off, and Astarion—still dazed from the music—gradually opened his eyes to peer down at his movements, registering that the evening needed to end. He patted the hand massaging his member and lifted his victim’s chin up, quickly pressing a chaste kiss on the side of his mouth.

“You, my darling, have purified the longing puddles of void in my heart. Forgive me, but I must end our soiree a bit early. May I come find you again another evening this week?”

Letting him leave without delivering him into Cazador’s arms, was a terrible decision to execute. Yet, this fucking canticle was a succubus that would not release him no matter how much he could get down on his knees and beg, licking the succulent juices of it’s harmony.

He was starving.

Lips pouting, the dispirited patriar removed his hand from Astarion’s breeches, straightening his overcoat and shirt. He stared at him in shock, his mouth opening and closing several times. “I—I see. I bid you goodnight.”

As he turned to leave, ringlets bouncing with the few steps made, the man quickly turned back around with a finger pointed in the air, as if he suddenly remembered he was supposed to deliver an important message to the vampire.

He came closer to Astarion, leaning into his neck to snuffle at him. “By the way, darling, you smell of fetid rats and sewer shit. I can only imagine the state that cock of yours must be in.”

Astarion froze. His narrowed crimson eyes followed the man’s mouth flip into a victorious smirk that he wanted nothing more than to carve away with the most serrated edge of a knife. The vamp’s lips tensed as he found himself grabbing violently onto the gentleman’s bicep, swinging him around to push him against the wall of the tavern with a loud thud, nearly cracking the stone.

“Ah, I understand now,” Astarion grinned, pressing a leg in between the nobleman’s thighs, locking him in place.

The spawn quickly removed a five inch dagger from this boot, without even so much as loosening his grip on him, and pointed the tip into the man’s throat. His messy curls fell forward, kissing the middle of his pronounced brow.

“Though I wonder, pet…” Astarion deftly reached inside his mouth to pry his tongue out between his sudden sobs. He dragged the dagger upwards from his throat, to his chin, and then without warning, placed one of the sharpened sides of the weapon against the wiggling muscle. "just how rough you like it. Given that you have such a tongue to tease me with.”

Drops of sweat beaded at his temple. Panic. And then, the begging began. Of COURSE he would beg. “Pleaseth do nat hurrrt me! I…I didnet mean it. I…pleaseth…I ‘ave coin. You can ‘ave as mulch as oou ‘ike! I caan, um, I caan…” he pleaded, nervously crying as a spittle of saliva coated Astarion’s fingers.

The vamp beamed as he traced the dagger lightly against his tongue. “You know—I think there’s quite an important lesson to learn here, don’t you?”

He nodded quickly, tears streaming, a snotty nose sniffling.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll figure out what exactly that is on your way home. You seem intelligent enough to solve such a conundrum! And I must give myself credit for making it so easy for you.” Astarion lowered his dagger, a menacing smirk pulling the skin of his mouth upwards. “Now, it may be best for you to scurry home—lest I change my mind.”

He stepped away wickedly chuckling with the knowledge that this man that saw fit to cross him, would keep this interaction quiet. With one arm crossed nonchalantly on his chest and another open to his side—dagger still in hand—he presented him with a mid bow and the permission to leave.

The lowly patriar bent over, vomiting on the ground. He heaved and sobbed until there was nothing left in his stomach, leaving it to the fates of the acids that resided inside. Poor delicate human.

Taking one step forward, he peered at his predator, checking his features for any signs that it was unsafe to leave. Astarion only continued to grin with impish teeth gleaming in the haziness of the town, glowing eyes unblinking. “Run, rabbit, run.”

It was a final warning—one he didn’t chance as he fiercely strutted away.

It was still dusk by way of the ombré purple and blues cavorting across the sky. The sun was beginning to slumber, bidding farewell to his inamorata moon as her light beamed through the clouds.

Astarion tucked his dagger snuggly back into his boot and ran his cool fingers through his curls, setting them back into place. The night had not progressed as planned and it did not bode well; Cazador expected a meal tonight and would expect Astarion to “dine” with him.

Annoyed, he groaned as he crossed the threshold of the tavern. A crowd of people— including small children—were gathered near the front entrance, holding one another with simpering affections towards an elven woman. There was a lute in her hands, slightly weathered and warm in color, with beautifully detailed carvings of flowers inlaid on its soundboard.

Astarion eyed her as he stalked by. At first glance, he was disenchanted. Oh, how delectably plain this bard looks! Her hair is just sloppily braided over her shoulder. Is her eye color truly that muted? Natural makeup adding nothing to allure her audience. Gods, and her clothes! Did bards truly leave their homes looking like that?! Pitiful creature. She may never recover, he thought with a quiet tsk under his breath.

Enough of a distance away to be free of the throes of the audience, he settled himself against one of the street lanterns across from the tavern. Yet, he remained close enough to sate his curiosity he so righteously tried to resist. The perfect wallflower. This woman owed him, after all, for disrupting his composure.

“Play it again! Please please pleeeaaassseee! But, with words this time,” some of the children begged with toothy grins. The rest of the group chuckled, commenting about how wonderfully precious the young wee ones were for taking such an interest in music tonight.

The bard smiled playfully from her sitting position on top of an overturned food crate. “Hmm, I suppose I could make an exception for one more song tonight, but then I must pack up to attend to a few things before the night is through.”

She leaned forward to tap the nose of a little girl, face covered in mud, mesmerized by the songbird. The girl blushed and excitedly sat up straight.

Lute back in hand, she started off slow, finger-picking at the strings. The children’s mouths were agape and a wave of silence settled the crowd. Up and down her fingers strode, moving like a ballerina across the stage.

She switched to a tone, all emotional sweetness, as she dwindled off from the more gloomy beginning, enthralling the audience immediately. A bit more quickly she moved, her pads lightly touching the strings in cadence with her other hand that’s switching from note to note on the fretboard.

Then, she started to sing. And her voice was as beguiling as a nightingale.

The lute eased, but her voice only grew louder. It was all delightful confectionaries being made by a chocolaterie and otherworldly siren song in one. Astarion paused, cocking an eyebrow before narrowing his vision towards her. There was a faint longing ache of his soul mark behind his ear that he didn’t register.

Her throat bobbed as she hit a tender note and the vampire couldn't help but notice how pale and velvety her skin appeared. It was a stark contrast against the darker clothes she was wearing, but it only added to her…well—whatever the hells she had going on over there, he griped.

The songbird beamed at her listeners, a twinkle in her eyes. She swayed effortlessly, genuinely seeming to enjoy the moment. It was a gift to her, this quaint stage she had set. With an audience that wished to truly engage with her music. Astarion could hear the puttering flits of her heart beating nervously, while she maintained a tight composure—an act he found fascinating, given her profession. She looked so alive as she sang.

As her song steadied for its descent, stopping the instrument in her hands to place emphasis on her voice, he saw her peering out into the crowd, catching his pair of scarlet eyes nearly glowing under the light of the street lanterns. There was an intense smirk pulling at the vampire spawn’s lips as he watched her, regarding her gaze.

He nodded in her direction, a final sinuous grin causing a lovely blush to appear upon the swell of her cheeks. A devil she doesn’t know; a dangerous thing.

The bard closed her eyes, tempering the song to its end. Then, there was clapping and coin clinking at her feet. She straightened her back, arms outstretched to her sides like a bird in flight, and bowed. When she rose, she casually searched the audience for those red orbs and snowy curls, but he had already departed—taking her curiosity and “love” with him.

[those70scomics]

A Jackie/Hyde Ficlet, in Honor of My Friend Dena's (@zenmasterlover's) Birthday!

Happy Birthday, Dena!

The digital alarm clock on Hyde's dresser read 12:11 a.m. That was eleven bright-red minutes too late. Jackie should've been in his room by now, in his cot, and wearing the set of pajamas she'd kept in his drawer the last six days. He'd had a hell of a time convincing her to sleep here instead of her huge, adult-less house. It would've been a hard sell to him, too. But her mom never returned from Mexico, left Jackie with no guardian and no safety.

He sat up on his cot, muscles tensing. In the darkness of his room, he searched for his jeans by touch. A pair was folded somewhere on his bureau. If someone had messed with his chick on her way here -- but a sliver of light peeked through the crack of his door. The Formans' lights-off-by-eleven rule applied to the basement on Sundays through Thursdays.

And today was Thursday. He remembered shutting off the lights an hour ago. Still, his pulse tightened as he got off his ass and went to the door. His short-term memory wasn't the most reliable, especially on circle nights.

His socked feet trod quietly on the basement's cement floor. But from the short corridor to the common area, his steps vibrated loudly through his body. Or maybe it was his heart beat. The stereo and TV were off. The outward silence only amped the volume in his skull.

Best-case scenario, Jackie stubbornly decided to stay in her house tonight. Worst-case scenario -- he scrubbed his hand over his face. The cosmos could fuck with him all it wanted. It wouldn't screw with her just because he ... because she was his girlfriend.

He reached the basement shower. It was used only for storage, and he exhaled a heavy breath. Jackie's backpack leaned against the sofa. Beside it were her wedge shoes. Jackie herself was curled on the sofa, asleep. Her biology textbook and notebook lay open on the spool table.

Freakin' late-night test-cramming. He'd become a bad influence on her.

The Formans couldn't spot her backpack, shoes, or school crap, or else the jig was up. So he took care of those things first and brought them to his room. Then, carefully, he slid his hands under Jackie's upper back and legs. She muttered an unintelligible sound near his neck. Her eyes remained closed, and the weight of her body in his arms was comforting.

His pulse finally relaxed when he lowered Jackie onto his cot. Awkwardly, he crawled behind her on the mattress. He pulled his blanket over both of them. She muttered again when he adjusted his legs to fit beside hers, but she hugged his arm to her chest.

"Endoplasmic reticulum," she said.

"I got it," he whispered by her ear. I got you, he said in his mind. And she had him.

[xbunnybunz]

entropy as a flame that flickers red [Arcane!Viktor/Reader]

Summary:

He holds his other hand out to you, upturned and already beginning to pool with rainwater. Even in the dark, his eyes catch shrapnels of light like flint and amber.

You’ll always agree to anything he asks of you.

Or, in which you are loved, and you are changed, and you are lost. Told in three parts, in ten pieces.

Genres: Romance, Angst, Sci-Fi/Fantasy

I.

“A gradual, irreversible change into disorder.”

-Oxford Dictionary on: Entropy.

“To be loved is to be changed.”

-tacticalcoquette

II. 

“Viktor.”

A boy is crouched in front of the creek, clutching a toy boat to his chest with one hand and winding it with the other. “Yes?”

Another child stands beside him, behind him, just slightly. “I’m afraid.”

“Of?”

There is no response, only the sound of running water.

III. 0

You stand there, in that foreign, wet darkness, staring straight ahead.

The sound of falling water. The cold bite of nighttime air. The rise and fall of your chest.

Close your eyes. Feel the slide of rain moving from the crown of your head down to your jaw, feel how it stagnates at the comb of your eyelashes, at the jut of your lips, beading, motionless, before inevitably collapsing over the edge.

You hear the hush of water under the dock, how the push and pull of water overpowers the rain, even when the downpour is raucous. 

Either the tide or the stormwater licks at your feet, wicking upwards into the holes of the soles of your half-size too-large leather shoes, cobbled specially for staff at the University of Piltover, for Viktor, who had requested them in what he thought was your size.

When he arrives, he arrives soaked, hair dark from the rain, wetly sticking to his forehead and ears.

“I didn’t think I would catch up to you.” He says.

It’s a lie and both you and him know this, something to say for the sake of saying anything at all. You would never flee too far from the University, too far from where his illness would allow him to travel. 

You wonder if he’s aware that you will never be upset enough to be gone for good.

And you don’t respond to him, because maybe you don’t want him to know this. Instead, shift nervously, foot from foot. Your left leg hisses under the weight and the gears, crude, give way and you nearly buckle.

Viktor notices. 

He produces an umbrella from the inside of his blazer, leaning heavily on his cane with one hand to pull it out from the inner pocket. 

“Please,” He says simply, and you notice the way his right knee trembles.

You don’t have to ask why he didn’t use it. You can only move so fast when wielding both an open umbrella and a cane in a storm. 

Take it. It opens large enough for the both of you, but he insists that you keep yourself dry. You do not miss how he pushes the umbrella over your left side. 

“I’m sorry.” You say.

Your eyes slide from the hand lingering on yours to his face, and he smiles. Really, smiles.

“Come,” He says. “Let’s go.”

He holds his other hand out to you, upturned and already beginning to pool with rainwater. Even in the dark, his eyes catch shrapnels of light like flint and amber. They’re ringed with dark circles, they’ve been this way for some time, now.

You’ll always agree to anything he asks of you.

Take his hand.

IV. 0

It starts before the first sign of lightning breaks from over the rolling mountains. Before the stunningly red sunset from last week, or the flurry of shooting stars tearing across a blue-black canvas from the months before that.

A crack of lightning illuminates your memory. Pinch each photon into darkness, compress the fractured sky back down into a hair-raising, sizzling type of imminent danger. 

Push the sunset until the sky unripens from a deep cherry red to a fierce magenta to a cloudless blue. Keep going until the night fades into the day before, until the stars ripping a seam into the sky alight it again and fade just as quickly as they come.

Unwind the spool of time until the pair of you arrive in Piltover, fresh from the slums of the undercity, sick with poison and sicker with want, in the glittering, glamorous city of Progress, then keep going.

Go further back still, until there is a matchstick, then stop. Watch.

Watch as the wooden grain of the match gives slightly as it is pressed against rock. Watch the slide of the match against a cavern wall, kinetic power building, friction reaching a burning point until sparks catch in the darkness. Until a flame engulfs the hot pink igniter, held tentatively between a forefinger and a thumb.

Watch as one of the children hold up the match to the other, like it is magic.

“Entropy.” He says. “Irreversible change.”

You listen to him carefully.

“I can undo the damage,” He says, “I have the concept down, and the blueprints. Given, they are crude. But with time that can change.”

You are in his modest bed in his modest Piltover apartment, sizeable enough for one and cluttered enough for two, attached to the University’s established wing for notable scholars and graduates.

Watch as a bird lands outside his window, head bobbing as it moves to and fro along the sill.

You collapsed today, finally. You knew your leg would give out eventually, but just not where.

“How?” You ask him when the bird disappears behind the vents.

“Hextech.” He says, his brows furrowing. 

You recognize that name, and you know he knows this, too. It’s the technology he’d been working on in his laboratory for nearly a year now, that strange azure-colored stone that shone like a star, pulsed like the sun, and lashed out like a living thing.

Close your eyes and sink further into the bed. The comforter smells like Viktor and all his astringent body wash and odorless fabric softener. 

“Listen,” He begs. And you hate it when he begs. You hate it when someone like Viktor ever has to beg with someone like you. 

“Hextech has the potential to restore what the undercity did to us,” He speaks with a glimmer in his eye, urgency down turning his lips just a fraction, placing a slight stutter in his speech, “Not just for me, but… You, too.” 

When he speaks, he gestures to your leg under the white blankets, an odd lump now due to its placement above a pillow. He gestures to your chest, where under skin and fat and muscle lays your slow-beating heart, an organ that the undercity pollutants had eaten away at until it hammered an irregular rhythm into your body. And you get what he wants, but he doesn’t shy away from saying it aloud.

“It will work if the math is all correct, and I’ve run through it… Almost dozens of times.” He shakes his head, as if he, himself, is in disbelief at how many times he’s poured over the equations. “The council, the Professor, Jayce… They would never let me fuse with Hextech. But even if I cannot save myself, I can save you.”

The bird is back, trudging along the bustling skyline. You can see now that it is a crimson pigeon, its scarlet bust thrumming as it coos, coos, coos, turns yellow, turns violet, like a flickering flame.

You hear an edge in his voice, one that rings free of desperation and determination. It lilts his voice almost musically, tilts it upwards into an almost-question at the end of his sentences. A kind of keenness.

“Please. It will succeed. I just… Have to try it.”

You let it sit in the air for a whole, let it grow stale. You wonder if he knows what he is asking of you. You wonder if he knows what he is promising you. 

The look on his face says he does, he does.

“You think Hextech can save me, Viktor?” You ask. You think you can save me, you wanted to ask.

“I know I can.” Maybe a slip of the tongue. Maybe not. But he reaches for your hand anyway.

The crimson pigeon takes flight, its batting wings beat against the glass pane and maybe it's not your heart that is making that sound in your ears.

You will never be able to refuse him.

V. 90

The first thing you do with your new leg is dance.

In the lab, before Viktor and the Hexcore, you begin by skipping in a circle, then spinning, then before you know it you are going from foot to foot and laughing, hard.

You don’t know when this happens, but Viktor is soon out of his chair, spinning you.

There is no music. There does not have to be. In this moment, it is you and him, together, on the path to a better life. 

But you are not sure what comes first, him falling, or you trying to catch him. He doesn’t seem to know this either, and you think that may hurt him more.

When he’s on the floor, you are stopped from helping him by a single waving hand, dismissing you. The other one reaches for his cane, and he fumbles with it for one, two, seconds before he is back on his feet.

“Are you okay?” You ask, immediately flitting to his side. 

He flinches at your newfound speed and this makes you hesitate, and this makes him turn from you.

“I…” He coughs into a closed fist, trying hard to keep an even breath and failing. This only frustrates him more. “I am.” He says, finally. And he makes haste to sit back in his chair, leaning heavily on his cane.

At his proximity, the Hexcore trembles.

At his distance, you sink.

VI. 90

“Piltover is everything you could ever imagine. The clean air, the roadways, transportation, technology, potential!” 

He finishes his grand statement with a sweep of his hand, garnishing a pencil, across a gridded sheet, the page curled with moisture. The final stroke on something called an “airship” he had seen above, featuring a metal casing on the hull, as detailed in his notes.

“Something that only flies in open skies…” You say, tracing the divot of his words in the paper. “...I can’t imagine that in the undercity.”

Viktor gives a curt laugh, one of disbelief, one of an embezzled kind of hope. “Neither can I.” Then he places a thoughtful finger on his chin, shaking his head. Looks at you.

“Our future is up there.” He says, solemnly.

Yours, you think. 

And you wonder how big Piltover University is. How big Piltover is. If Viktor will grow to like its roominess, its blue skies, the airships dotting the clouds. If he will forget all about you.

Then he places his hands on your shoulders, and he is warm.

“Ours.” He says, a resoluteness in his voice.

And you throw back your head and laugh, because if you do not you are sure you will cry.

When he shows it to you first, you feel lightheaded, then sick, then you actually get sick.

You empty the contents of your stomach into a metal bin sitting near the edge of his workspace, and by the time you realize it is only full of papers and does not have a trash bag in it, it’s too late.

You don’t look up, but you see a vague reflection of him by the outer rim of the garbage bin, a smear of brown, maroon, and yellow.

He’s got a hand on your back, rubbing up and down the length of your spine, creasing then smoothing, creasing then smoothing your shirt under his calloused hand.

He still hasn’t put down the heart he’s holding, all sculpted from stainless steel, hued yellow and glinting gold in the old fluorescent lighting of the lab. Carries it carefully, balancing it just within your peripheral vision, probably accidentally.

When you catch sight of it again, that metal husk, made to fit around your heart like an armor, simulates pumping the way a heart should pump, the way yours doesn’t, you dry heave again. 

This time, nothing comes out. You don’t sit up.

“The idea is foreign, I understand. But this can help you live your life to its fullest. This is… Revolutionary.”

You wonder what that means, living life to its fullest. 

You think of Viktor and his leg and you. Did he not think his life was full, like that? You think of all the times your heart swelled and beat hard in your chest, how maybe, even then, your life was good, but was always underlined with could’ve been better.

“It won’t be just me, alone.” Viktor confesses, stooping low, so he can meet your eyes where you are. He pauses and doesn’t continue.

You squeeze your eyes closed, so hard that colors swirl behind your lids, magenta, indigo, purple, and pulse a headache into your temples.

“Who else?” You ask. You already know before he speaks.

He clears his throat before he speaks, “Singed.”

You try to get your bearings. Breathe in deep, the air in Piltover, as always, was crisp. Clean, and pure, and not fatal, fatalistic. 

You wonder if his science can explain this, if any amount of particles bouncing around can be stopped in time, counted and calculated to predict this future, to prevent it. 

Breathe in deep. Take in how the tiles under your shoes shine with a champagne color, the shade richer and more luminous than any coin that you’ve seen and used in the undercity.

Viktor shifts to sit back up and the motion throws an obnoxious gleam on the artificial heart, lighting his hands an opalescent purple hue, catching on one of the horrible, minuscule electric threads meant to embed into your muscle. You imagine it squelching around your heart. 

Wrap your arms around yourself to stop the chill from settling in.

Know what will happen, even before it does.

—

VII. 90

Back then, Viktor went away every other afternoon for a while, until he didn’t.

Back then, he’d used to come back, his fingers stained purple with some shimmering wildflower, until he didn’t.

And when he stopped, he didn’t talk about why he did until he was ready to.

“She was a mutation named Rio.” He said to you suddenly one day, while you were both overlooking the undercity from a rot-eaten rooftop. You stilled. Listened to his voice quiver.

“I thought he loved her. He fed her. Kept her well, and alive. He let me touch her, she was sick, but happy.”

He picked at a shingle from the roof, which came away into his hands easily. The shingle shone bright red, with rust, a tangerine hue of rust biting into the edges. He tossed it into the empty alleyway below. You hold your breath and hear it bounce from surface to surface before it clinks onto the floor, distantly.

You think about being sick and happy all the time.

Viktor continues, putting his fingers, intertwined, on his lap.

“But one day he had her in a… Tank. And she was in a solution to keep her alive. Only, alive. ” 

He turns to you.

“Promise me something,” He holds out his pinky finger, a sickly pale color, and you can almost still see the indigo stain on the pad of it. But you blink, and it’s gone. “Promise me that you’ll stop me before I get that bad.”

You watch his pinky finger, presented level with your hearts, how shakes with fear for the future, how stills with conviction.

“How will I know?” You ask. And he responds without missing a beat, as if he knew you’d ask. He probably did, because that was just who he was.

“If I ever put living above livelihood.”

You laugh at the face he was making, so serious about his undone crime, and push down his pinky promise.

“Viktor, you would never.”

“But– Promise me you will! If I do!”

You look at him, really look at him. See how his lower lip juts out, trembling slightly, how his eyes gleam with a fresh sheen of wetness. And in that moment, you think that nothing will ever change him, or you, or anything between you. 

“You won’t. I know it.” Your fingers find a shingle and tear.

—

The heart doesn’t beat as much as it pulses inside you, now. 

When you put your hand over it, it sounds like this:

“You’d never, you’d never, you’d never.”

VIII. 270

Viktor has been sicker than usual, and you know this because he refuses to see you, even for a little while.

Though you’ve stopped seeing him, you’ve noticed him everywhere in the way the world has lost its hue.

IX: 270

A student at Piltover University has died, and the news reaches you by word of idle undercity chatter. 

It has been months since Viktor has last seen you, and you grow more and more tireless yet. When this shred of information falls into your lap, a sting of alarm pierces your psyche like a hot needle.

You dial him two times and hear it ring before you stop at the third, after the line cuts straight to a dial tone. 

A sigh of relief.

You sit by the sea, on the dock at sunrise. Watch the white of the sun bleach the sky azure.

Water comes and water goes. But it all looks like the same stretch of blue to you. 

Your fingers curl around the edge of the boardwalk and the moist wood is studded with barnacles, which you pick at half-heartedly, just for something to do.

In just the past hour you’ve been sitting here, you’ve heard the topsiders mention the Piltover University death dozens of times. An assistant girl, her name Skye, bright young woman, full of potential.

You’ve seen flowers and gifts of condolence carted past you, off cargo ships in bunches and delivered to the direction of the school.

Your leather shoes are beside you, still half a size too big, now patched with charcoal rubber gum.

You suppose you’ve been blindsided to Piltover University’s prestigious attending class. Most were from rich families and bright futures, irregardless of where they would attend school. Students from places like Viktor, hopeless places, tended to fall through the cracks, unnoticed.

You swing your legs a little, letting the toe of your enhanced foot just barely skim the surface of the water, feel it surge every time it gets too close to the sea– or maybe it's only your imagination.

You think about Skye, about who she was, what she was doing, who she loved.

See the white seafroth spell out words that you can read for a second before it is gone.

Viktor. Viktor. Viktor. Every word says this, and it makes you dizzy.

Feel the breeze wash over you, salty and sweet. Feel your heart throbbing inside you, every milisecond of a thump calculated and executed with painstaking perfection. 

Are you sick anymore, then, you wonder?

You know the answer is no, technically. But you feel that the answer is yes, figuratively.

Place a hand over your heart and stare out, over the horizon, far into the blue, deep blue. And even when you close your eyes, you can’t erase the hue, it’s just colored over.

X: 180

You end up by the harbor again, on the sand at dawn, when the water is near green.

Every beat of your heart reminds you of change and it pains you more than any ailment you have ever suffered.

You wonder where Rio is now, if she is still alive. If she should be.

Don’t really think when you feel the tides lap at your shoes.

Don’t think as it fills it with water and loggs your socks with salt and sand grains, except for maybe how light it feels to be in the water again, after spending so much of your life unable to swim.

Tread deeper. Feel the Hextech in your leg vibrate to life, feel your heart do the same.

Close your eyes and imagine how Viktor is doing. What he is doing now, if he is asleep, if he is studying, scratching glyphs into paper with a charcoal pencil, if maybe he’s eased his pain with Hextech, like he had done for you, if Heimerdinger knew, if Jayce did.

The water sloshes by your knees, cold at first, then warmer as you grow immune to the bite.

You think back as far as you can remember, wonder if this is what death of self feels like– unravelling yourself back into a spool that cannot go any further.

You remember a pale wooden matchstick with a reddish-pink tip. Remember him holding it between his thumb and index finger, a quirk tipping his lips upward into a grin.

“This is the solution to all of our problems.” He had said.

Waist deep in the water, you feel the water pushing back against your body, pressing you back to the shore. 

The chill settles into your bones, makes it hard to keep going, but the adamantine leg glints at you from beneath the water, hammers, hard, under your ribcage. These things do not struggle, and that is what keeps you going. 

Dig your heels in, kick off the sand and dive into the water. 

“How is that going to fix anything?” You asked.

Under the water, your vision goes dark and a numbing rumble overtakes your hearing, flooding your ears with a deep gurgling. 

Within it, you can feel the pulse of your heart, first the organic beat, then the synthetic one. Ba dum dum, ba dum dum, ba dum dum.

“Not just anything. Everything.” He motions to the world around you, clogged with purple and grey smog at every turn and you turn to look, imagine cleansing the undercity of illness, debris, crime, and the harrowing desperation that haunts like a ghost. In the depths of your imaginings, you miss how, also, he gestures you and to himself. 

“Do you know what entropy is?”

You emerge for air when you can no longer keep yourself under. 

Break the surface and gasp, gasp, up at clementine sky, up at the low-hanging moon, lined up amongst the rising sun. 

“Entropy?”

The water pulls you under mid-breath. When all goes from a hazy dawn-hued yellow to a dark shroud, you swallow a mouthful of sea brine. Feel that the leg and heart still bind to you, resolutely and let yourself sink.

“It’s change.”

The water swallows you whole. Under the waves, past the fight, letting go comes easy, after all.

A set of hands grabbing you, pulling you to shore, shaking sense into you. What were you doing, what were you doing, they ask. 

Then they hold you, press you firm to themselves, as if you were sand through the sieve, so small and so prone to slipping. 

You imagine this, and imagine this still, as you float down, the sea rocks you back and forth as you descend, as if to sway you to sleep.

You can see him, now, under the ocean. See his face in the waves, breaking with light above you. 

Watch as he presses a matchstick to the wall and drags it along the rocky surface, watch as time seems to slow down, as you see the match bend under pressure, catch a spark against the limestone, then come away, red and ablaze, in Viktor’s hands.

“Entropy, irreversible change.”

When the sun breaks the horizon in tiny strips of light, you are alone and awash on the shore, half submerged in the water, on your hands and knees, gagging on the sea and oxygen. Collapse there. 

The sky is red, alight, and searing hot all around you. 

Water envelopes you in a teal puddle, coming and going with the waves. 

Washes away that fiery feeling in your limbs, in your leg, in your lungs, and still drumming heart. 

Washes away that fire, that fire, smoldering it, as it smokes and sputters, that fire, now only ash.

Putting it out does not reverse it, and you know this. 

Feel the sea kiss at your palms, turned downwards into sand and stones and shells. See how it shifts the world below you, little by little, one tiny tide at a time. 

And on that shore, leg intact, heart intact, you are alive. 

Only, alive. 

And love has changed you, irreversibly.

[artifacts-archive]

Pair of Ear Spools

Mixtec-Aztec, Postclassic, 900-1520 CE

Ear piercing was among the most common of body modifications in ancient Mesoamerica, attested to by depictions in art and the great variety of ear ornaments. Materials ranged from paper and reeds to gold and jade. Shapes and sizes varied also, but most incorporated a cylindrical shaft, which might serve as the armature for more elaborate ear adornments or might itself be the adornment, sometimes called an “ear spool” after its shape (an alternate term, “ear plug,” invites confusion with the modern meaning of this expression). Ear spool cylinders were generally hollow and flanged at both ends.