#people tried only for their efforts to be disregarded in the name of his ego

[laferrassie]

thinking about the myriad opportunities walter white has to accept support only to ignore it or turn it down every time, even beyond the obvious example of elliot offering to pay for his treatment. hank telling him he'll look after skyler and flynn if anything happens. marie getting in touch with the best oncologist she can find. his whole family banding together to support him. the janitor cleaning up after him during chemo, giving him gum. flynn telling him his shaved head is badass. handing out flyers when he goes missing. flynn trying to get him to drink the apple juice in the hospital. hank's fundraiser. flynn's fundraiser. his discomfort with jesse's genuine joy at his remission. he was hellbent on refusing love at every turn just because it wasn't perfect. walter white shut himself off from the world from the get-go. you can't help a person who is determined not to be helped.

[themurphyzone]

This post is a combination of the 90s PatB alongside the reboot’s Ep 13. Spoilers below. 

So...I was certainly not expecting a flashback in this ep. Great usage of the ‘everyone asks how, but no one ever asks why’ question by Pinky. 

No matter the adaptation, Brain is always presented as a mouse with a pathological need for control because he sorely lacked it as a young mouse. When he loses that control, whether in this episode with being locked in a car and taken on a road trip against his will, or in other episodes with different situations, he’ll lose control of himself, the very thing he’s trying to avoid. 

Anyways, the flashback presented in this episode can reasonably fit with the origin episodes in the 90s PatB, so I’m gonna try and present these in an order that can fit together, so let’s start off with Leggo My Ego, shall we? 

Anyway, Brain starts life as an innocent field mouse. Ain’t he the cutest little thing you’d ever see? 

Um...hey guys, maybe we could let the cute mouse baby blow a feather around and be happy? 

Nope...oof. Time to begin a life of trauma. 

He’s a babey.... He needs hugs! How do you people not have sympathy for him??????

So basically, the 90s cartoon presents several origins and some of them are more contradictory than others. I believe Leggo My Ego and The Visit are the only episodes that mention Brain was originally a wild mouse captured by humans, but it’s generally the most widely accepted origin for him.

In Leggo My Ego, Freud notes that Brain’s desire for world domination appears to be a subconscious desire to return to the simple life he once led. 

So..let’s bring in Snowball now. 

In this post, I’m trying to be chronological here. In this flashback, Brain describes how he and Snowball were once very close and how he could always make Snowball laugh. 

Brain and Snowball grew up together, and Brain genuinely cared about Snowball, even into adulthood when the two became enemies. 

They went through the gene splicer together after an experiment gone wrong. The gene splicer exploded and supposedly messed with Snowball’s mind. 

Snowball did something that caused him to get kicked out of ACME Lab. The rift became permanent, though what was the exact cause or if clashing ambitions fueled it is unknown. 

This event left a permanent mark on Brain, and Pinky himself had never heard about Snowball until he tried to steal one of Brain’s schemes. 

But anyway, the exact timeline of the splicing and the break in friendship is unknown. So...I think this flashback in the reboot’s Ep 13: Roadent Trip might fill one of the blanks in on an event that might’ve occurred during Brain’s time with Snowball, before he met Pinky. 

Alright, so for this post’s sake, I’m going to present the new flashback as if it took place shortly after Brain’s splicing with Snowball. I’m also going to disregard the 90s PatB episode Project BRAIN, because there’s stronger canon evidence that Brain was born in the wild and that he grew up with Snowball. However, I do enjoy keeping that Brain named Pinky. 

Anyways, that’s enough for the introduction. Grab your tissues if you haven’t already. 

Pinky: “You’re always trying to work out how to take over the world, but you’ve never told me why you want to take over the world, Brain.” 

*moment of silence*

Pinky: “Brain?” 

Brain: “If I answer this, you’ll let me expire in peace?” 

Honestly, a GIF would do Brain’s reaction justice, because he doesn’t outright dismiss Pinky’s question. He’s more hesitant because he realizes this moment is going to lead to a heart to heart talk, something he’d rather not engage in. And you know what? I can’t recall any instance of Brain admitting to Pinky about why he wanted to take over the world, just how or that he was going to do it with this particular plan. 

I think this correlates well with Leggo My Ego above; that Brain doesn’t reflect on the ultimate driving force behind his actions, just that he wants it and he’s going to somehow get it. If he does have a moment of clarity, he always dismisses it and goes right back to the drawing board. 

And most importantly, that he just wants love and respect. Does he create his own misery? Yes. But at the same time, he’s sadly a product of the combination of human curiosity and ignorance. 

So...I deeply apologize for this tangent real quick before I move onto the rest of this post. 

*takes deep breath* 

LOOK AT THIS BABY HE’S SUCH A CUTIE I WANNA HUG HIM SO BAD HE DOESN’T DESERVE THIS CRAP YOU WILL LOOK AT HIM AND YOU WILL LOVE HIM 

Okay, so like I said before, due to his head shape and how he seems to display early cognitive abilities here, I honestly think the best timeframe for this would be sometime in the 90s, just after his and Snowball’s splicing. Again, Brain was ultimately a child in Snowball, but since he’s the one narrating, we’re led to assume he set his sights on the world right away. 

Actually, it seems more likely that while Brain’s capacity for knowledge was enhanced, he still had to make the effort to learn. What he knows as an adult didn’t come all at once. So here, he has cognition, but he’s still fairly optimistic because the weight of the world truly hasn’t set in yet. 

Alright, so my explanation is that Snowball was elsewhere in the lab, and that they’re simply separated for the day. Brain was lifted out of an experiment with other mice, and placed directly into a solo study. 

The scientists place a huge slice of cheese on a stun plate, with the intention that Brain will be shocked if he tries to go for the cheese. Of course, who would be able to resist having this much food placed in front of them? I certainly wouldn’t. 

But the moment he tries to go for the cheese, he gets shocked. But since he’s very much learning, he doesn’t understand why he gets shocked if he steps on the plate. 

It’s this pose that makes me believe he’s spliced at this point. Brain adopts that thinking pose well into adulthood. However, he doesn’t really have a plan. He just thinks he’ll succeed if he goes for it enough times, much like the world. 

Also, compare his tail shape between this photo and the one above it. Rather fitting for it to be a lightning bolt, is it not? Mice tails do get kinked in real life if handled improperly, which is very much the case here too. 

Scientist 1: “The idea is that once we remove the electronic stimulus, he still won’t go for the cheese.” 

Scientist 2: “Learned helplessness.”  

And sadly...their hypothesis is proven correct. 

And the thing is, Brain does recognize that the shock is turned off. He does learn that he shouldn’t touch the plate. So he tries once more...

And stops. 

Even with the cheese’s proximity, it’s still unattainable. The only thing that holds Brain back is himself. He wants the cheese, but he’ll get hurt if he tries to go for it. So...despite there being no obvious danger, Brain doesn’t go for it again. 

Learned Helplessness Wikipedia Page Link

This could potentially be the moment where Brain finally loses his innocence. He has to control everything because the moment he doesn’t...he’ll get shocked. 

Notice how everything Brain’s ever wanted at any stage is always in close proximity to himself? In Leggo My Ego, he was extremely close to his parents and the tin can upon capture. In Snowball, he clearly desired companionship, but he and Snowball were never in the same cage. In this flashback, the cheese is ripe for the taking with the shock turned off, and he doesn’t try again. 

Brain is able to learn. And he learns that the world is cruel, that he’s only an interesting specimen for science with no autonomy of his own. He learns that he has to be in control to stop hurting so much.  

“From that day hence, I vowed I would be the one in control. Of myself, of my surroundings, of the world. Yet again, here I am, totally helpless.” 

Okay, I swear this wasn’t intentional and I didn’t notice this until I made this post, but look at how similar the final pose in the flashback and Brain’s pose in this shot are. 

That in some ways, Brain is still that child with simple desires. Maybe he phrases them differently, but that’s what it ultimately boils down to.  

And from Brain’s emotionally charged delivery of the above line, this experience was so traumatic that he kept it hidden for two decades. 

And while the cheese is supposed to represent how he can’t obtain the world despite living in it, I think there’s another thing that went unstated. It also happens to represent: 

Pinky is the cheese. Brain won’t step on a stun plate if he tries to touch Pinky. Rather, Pinky will welcome any affectionate gesture with open arms. 

But Brain believes he’ll be hurt if he tries. The humans set the precedent. Desire affection, desire love, you’ll get hurt, they taught him. 

The only thing holding Brain back is himself. 

And it’s absolutely tragic.

Be like Pinky. Give Brain a hug.   

If you’ll excuse me, Imma go cry. 

[rengonemad]

5 Scars, 1 Decision to Heal

This is a gift for Dami over at the KakaGai Hell Discord! I hope you enjoy! >.<  Rating: General Pairing: Hatake Kakashi & Maito Gai (can be read platonic or as the prelude to romance) Warnings: None, Read More is just for length Word Count: 2k

5 Times Gai made Kakashi consider Scars, and 1 Time Kakashi Understood

1. 

The first time Kakashi heard hushed respect in his father’s voice, they were in the presence of Sarutobi Hiruzen. That made sense, Kakashi thought: he was a man famed as the Sandaime, the Professor, the strongest shinobi in Konoha, and the student of both the First and Second Hokages. If there was anyone that the legendary White Fang would respect, it would be Sarutobi Hiruzen. 

The second time Kakashi heard hushed respect in his father’s voice, it was quite different. He was about to start at the Academy and a bruised and scarred kid in a green bodysuit was thanking Kakashi for an insult. 

“At this rate, this kid could become even stronger than you.” Sakumo said quietly, his palm a heavy weight on Kakashi’s head. 

Kakashi didn’t understand. The kid was weak. Not only had he been rejected from the Academy even though he looked a little older than Kakashi, but he was covered in dirt and abrasions. That meant he was weak enough to get hurt, and stupid enough not to hide it.

Kakashi asked for the kid’s name anyway. If his father respected these people, then Kakashi could do that much. 

It didn’t make sense, but Kakashi trusted his father. 

He trusted his father when he suggested Kakashi make Gai his rival. He trusted his father when he said that Sarutobi Hiruzen was a great man. He trusted his father when he said that Kakashi shouldn’t worry about him—that Sakumo was fine, even if it looked like he hadn’t left his bed since Kakashi left for his mission five days earlier. Even if the dishes were molding and Kakashi heard whispers about the White Fang, about his fall from grace—

Kakashi trusted his father. 

He did, until there was no more father to trust. 

Maito Dai and Maito Gai were the only people who attended Hatake Sakumo’s funeral. 

They cried more than Kakashi did.

Two weeks later, Kakashi moved out of Hatake Estate and into a chūnin barrack. It was a cramped, one-room affair, but that meant it was easier to clean. 

Most importantly, it didn’t have blood-stained tatami. 

It didn’t have any scars.

2.

The first time Kakashi got a scar that couldn’t be hidden by clothes, he got a sharingan and ninety-eight pounds of guilt to go with it. 

They were all signs of his weakness. Signs of his failures. 

But that didn’t mean he was willing to get rid of them. 

The Uchiha petitioned for the removal of Kakashi’s sharingan. There was no proof it had been given willingly, Fugaku said. (Disregarding the fact that not only was Rin a witness, but that the Yamanakas could have proven it from both of their memories if necessary.) It was sacrilege for a kekkei genkai to be wielded by someone outside of the clan. (The entire notion of shinobi having honor was questionable, in Kakashi’s humble opinion.) Keeping a kekkei genkai without a matching bloodline would kill the host by chakra drain—

—that part actually had some validity. Kakashi nearly died of chakra drains three times in that first year, before he finally figured out exactly how far he could push himself, how to recognize the warning signs when the sharingan began to consume more than Kakashi had to give. Effectively losing an eye meant an imbalance in depth perception and narrowed field of vision, both of which were easily deadly for a shinobi. Reading gave him a skull-splitting headache for the first two months, and his handwriting suddenly went from precise to nearly illegible and always slanted at an angle no matter how he turned his head. 

Rin looked at him differently, too. Even with one eye, Kakashi could tell. Her smiles were brittle. They shattered the moment she looked away. 

She often looked away. 

The scar was a sign of his weakness. The sharingan, a mark of his greatest mistake. 

It was a mark he deserved to bear. 

3.

Gai wouldn’t leave Kakashi alone.

Part of that was probably Kakashi’s fault; Maito Dai didn’t leave a body behind, but Gai held a private funeral for him anyway. Kakashi was the only one to attend. 

Over the next few years, Gai kept accumulating scars—some of them drawn by Kakashi’s own hand. They never tried to seriously injure each other—if weapons were involved, they fought until one part was disarmed or forced to concede. If taijutsu was the arena, then a successful pin for five seconds constituted a win. Kakashi never used fatal ninjutsu techniques. 

But accidents happened. Sometimes Gai didn’t dodge as quickly as Kakashi thought he would. Not hurting Gai in those instances became part of Kakashi’s practice, although not one he ever told his “Eternal Rival”. Gai’s ego wasn’t as untarnishable as he claimed it to be.

Gai’s scars steadily grew in number, overtaking his body with rough lines and calloused flesh. Kakashi’s own scars were fewer in number, but they, too, accumulated as the years passed. 

Their scars were different. Gai’s were a show of his dedication, the effort he put into perfecting something that no one thought possible of him. 

Kakashi’s laced his skin with memories that couldn’t be shut out. 

4.

When they were seventeen, Gai got rejected. He had brought her dozens of bouquets, composed entire sonnets, exclaimed about her to Kakashi every rare chance he got. Apparently, she said he was too much for her. Kakashi could see her point, but Gai really didn’t deserve the daffodils thrown back in his face. 

Gai only mourned for one day before he got up again, the same as at the end of any fight, and poured his sweat and tears into taijutsu. He used that motivation to master the fifth gate. 

Two months later, he was interested in another girl. He courted her with exactly the same amount of gusto as he had the first time around. This girl accepted. When she broke up with him politely two months later, Gai was still certain that true love existed, and absolutely willing to have his heart broken a million times over in order to find it.

Kakashi pretended to read while listening to his rants. He pretended to read while Gai sobbed in passion or mourning. He pretended to read while watching how the accumulating scars on tanned skin never reached Gai’s humongous, tender heart. 

Kakashi pretended that he didn’t think Gai was just as cool as he was ridiculous. 

5.

The first time Kakashi saw Gai truly affected by a scar, it wasn’t his own. 

Rock Lee was probably the first person in the world (other than Hatakes) who truly respected Gai. Unfortunately, while Lee and Gai’s ostentatious personalities, bullheaded stubbornness, large hearts, and bushy eyebrows all gave them obvious similarities, there were important points in which the two differed.

Those points led to Lee’s self-destruction.

While Lee had grown up in peacetime, with romantic dreams of shinobi and what it meant to be one, Gai had been faced with the stark reality of it from the earliest time he could remember. 

Gai understood consequences, and he understood how to judge an acceptable loss—at least, most of the time. Gai had known death firsthand before even leaving the Academy, and had seen his own father make the ultimate sacrifice of the eighth gate. He understood risks, and he had the ability to weigh them, whether most people realized that or not. 

Yet, Gai gave such tremendous power as the gates to a child who was full of more idealism than reason, more impulse than temperance. He gave that power to a boy who certainly would one day become a fine shinobi, but who had never seen death or destruction or the scars shinobi so often didn’t survive. Gai gave that power to a child who had never had anything more precious on the line than his own pride—and Lee suffered a powerful price for it. 

Kakashi couldn’t be beside Gai for those early days after Lee’s injury, because Gai wasn’t the only one who had make a mistake. Instead, Kakashi spent weeks sleeping for mere minutes at a time on a sheer rock face, training himself and his own childish student—one who had seen far more than many full-grown shinobi ever did—in the vain hope that they would both survive whatever Orochimaru would bring them next.

He thought that Sasuke’s past would teach him how to use his power well. Naively, Kakashi thought he had chosen better than Gai, that Sasuke wouldn’t suffer the same consequences.

He was wrong.

Kakashi and Gai had both failed their students—but Gai’s was an error of judgement, one in which he had placed his own history and capabilities onto a kid that wasn’t quite ready.

It took less than two months for Kakashi to realize his own error had been far worse. His own error had been one of the heart: specifically, of neglecting Sasuke’s. 

By then, it was too late.

The most painful scars, Kakashi knew by that point, were the ones he could only see, and do nothing to heal.

+1

Four years later, scars mottled the Earth itself. Konoha carried more than her share of them. Even months after Pein’s attack, rubble stood in half the districts and gouges were still being filled in with dirt and cement. Tenzō had long since erected temporary and permanent structures for the village’s basic needs, but post-war, there were too many necessities and not enough resources to allocate to them. One of the only projects completed during the first few months of the Rokudaime’s tenure was an additional ward to the hospital, designated for rehabilitating physically debilitated shinobi. 

No one had come out of the Fourth Shinobi War without a scar. Some of them were simply more noticeable than others.

“Doesn’t the Hokage—” Gai wheezed as he struggled to pull himself into an upright position in the hospital bed. Kakashi remained by the window, listening to the sound of hammers banging in the distance. He knew better than to offer help for something Gai could do himself—no matter how much time, and pain, it could cost him. “Have better things to waste his time on than—visiting an old rival?”

“I’m hiding,” Kakashi shrugged. He glanced over his shoulder to see Gai’s expression. “Maa, no need to look so disapproving. It’s only until I make a decision.” He held a palm up in pacification. “I promise I’m not shirking my duties.”

“Ah.” Gai nodded wisely, but his voice was breathy, hoarse despite the water bottle he had already half-drained. “I have—every faith you’ll make the best choice!”

With entirely burnt chakra pathways, Kakashi could only imagine the pain and fatigue Gai was going through—at least a dozen-fold what Kakashi himself had ever experienced with the sharingan. It was a miracle he was talking at all. 

Well—not a miracle. Gai’s strength wasn’t the gift of any God. 

It was something he had formed himself.

“You still have faith, Gai?” Kakashi murmured. “Even after all this?”

Gai’s bushy brows descended towards the center, the corners of his lips tugging down as well to form a frown. He was always sharper than people knew.

Tanned and scarred fingers clenched around his bottle of water. Plastic crinkled beneath the grip that had lost decades of strength in a single, life-changing moment.

With Gai, Kakashi knew: it was strength that could be gained again.

“In you, Kakashi, I always have faith.”

Kakashi turned back to face the window. His fingernails dug into the meat of his palm, hidden within his pocket. The other hand rose. He brushed fingerprints against the scar that bisected where the sharingan had once sat—a constant reminder still of Kakashi’s biggest failures. 

But that scar no longer stole Kakashi’s sight.

That scar no longer stole Kakashi’s chakra.

That scar no longer blinded Kakashi to the changes he could make in the world, and in those around him. 

It had taken over twenty-five years for Kakashi to understand why Gai could be who he was—why he could accumulate scars that were only surface-deep, why he could take even worse ones in stride and use them to drive himself forward: 

Gai didn’t define himself by his scars.

Perhaps it was time that Kakashi learned how to do that, too.

(I, uh, also made this edit. xD I dunno why.)

[planetsam]

“Look if you don’t want her she’s going to the pound,” Wyatt says, “she’s too fat to be of any good on the farm.”

“Do you need to think of the most dickish thing to say? Or does it just naturally come out of your mouth?”

Wyatt’s face screws up but Alex snatches the leash from him before he can say anything. He’s done listening to assholes with the last name Long. On the other end of the leash Buffy regards him with a mix of wariness and disgust. It’s more tempting than Alex would like to admit to shove it back at Wyatt, but his grip tightens on the leash.

“Glad you got a souvenir,” Wyatt sneers and storms off.

Alex tries not to rub the most recent addition to his scar collection and instead looks down at the dog. Buffy whines loudly and the sound matches whatever’s going on his recently repaired gut. Emotionally at least. Physically he’s been given the almost all clear, which for him is good enough. He kneels down and looks at the beagle who backs away.

“Yeah, I get that,” Alex tells her, “do you remember me?” He holds a hand out for her to sniff but she turns her snout up, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He straightens up. Buffy looks in the direction she came from but Wyatt’s long gone. Alex has no idea what to do with a dog, much less a beagle who seems to like him about as much as her owner actually did, but standing in the road with her leash he realizes they’re in the same boat. Both left standing there, wondering what the hell they’re supposed to do now. When he glances down again, Buffy is looking up at him. She’s still reproachful but she hasn’t run and Alex is at a point where he’ll take what he can get.

“You wanna go home or should we go to the pet store first?” He asks. She perks up slightly at that, “pet store it is,” he says, “come on.”

* Since losing his leg Alex has been in several hand to hand situations, gotten kidnapped, discovered aliens and blown up a handful of buildings. He’d say he’s good with his prosthetic. Some days he uses his cane but it’s far and few between. He’s good but he hasn’t had a consistently strong pressure yanking his cane arm walk after walk. And there have been so many fucking walks. Buffy is overweight and though her diet is the main thing, walking helps. It helps one of them at least.

“Buffy, come on,” he says, “heel.”

Buffy huffs, lowers her body and digs in her paws.

Her blatant disregard makes the military man in him seethe. He doesn’t know how one beagle is more difficult to control than than a group of soldiers, but here they are. Buffy does not respect the chain of command. Or maybe she just doesn’t respect him. Alex thinks he’d be used to the universe ignoring what he wants but the manifestation of it in an overweight beagle left behind by a man who manipulated him so openly is a fresh wound on his ruined ego.

“Buffy,” he says.

Buffy puffs herself up and erupts into her signature barks. How such a loud noise can come out of such a small creature is beyond him. Buffy spends a lot of her time napping and laying on her back, but when she gets going it’s impossible to stop or ignore. Alex is used to people staring at him on the street. He’s learned to dismiss the judgement about things he knows he can’t change. For the first time though he gets it. He’s pretty sure he’d cross the street too if he saw what was happening.

“Buffy—“ he starts. She keeps going crazy, “Buffy come on,” he’s got nothing else so he scoops her up again. Immediately she stops barking, “seriously?” He sighs, “you know we’re both supposed to be walking,” Buffy looks over her shoulder at him, “God, fine,” he shifts the weight in his arms and starts walking, “I need the workout anyway.”

“Aren’t you both supposed to be walking?”

Alex turns around to see Michael standing there looking confused. He’s not close enough to hear what he just said, but the fact that it’s the first thing that comes to his mind makes Alex’s chest tight. Buffy gives Michael a look of complete disdain. Michael raises his eyebrows at the dog’s reaction, though Alex is fairly certain Michael is just glad to have an excuse not to look at him. Not that he can fully blame him, not with everything that’s happened recently.

“When did you get a dog?” Michael asks.

“A few days ago,” Alex says, “it was me or the pound,” he explains, “I wasn’t looking to get one.”

“Right,” Michael says slowly.

“Her name’s Buffy,” Alex volunteers. Michael finally meets his eye, arching his eyebrows at him.

“You sure you weren’t looking to get a dog?” Michael asks. Alex looks at him questioningly, “if I had to guess what you would name a dog, Buffy’s pretty high on the list—“

The truth smacks him across the face. Buffy squirms in his arms and he’s all too glad to put her down, even though that means he’s forced to figure out something else to do with his hands. Something that doesn’t involve punching things. All he can do is laugh bitterly at how stupid he is. Laugh and pretend that he doesn’t see the alarm on Michael’s face.

“You okay?” Michael asks. 
“I’m good,” Alex says, shaking his head, “I just realized how much of an idiot I am,” he looks at Michael who looks confused still, “Buffy was Forrest’s dog,” he explains, “he left her behind,” he sighs, “I thought the dog was real.”

“She looks real to me,” Michael says.

“He named her Buffy,” Alex retorts. Michael winces, “like I said, I’m an idiot.”

They both look at Buffy who gives them a look back that says they are both idiots. Alex doesn’t think either of them would disagree after the things that have happened lately. But realizing that there’s a good chance the dog was adopted just to manipulate him is salt in that wound. Not by Forrest necessarily but by someone in Deep Sky.

“Your dog seems to agree,” Michael points out.

“Shit,” Alex mutters looking down at the beagle, then he looks at Michael, “what do you know about microchips?
 “What do I know about what?” Michael asks blankly. 
“I need your help,” Alex says.

It’s got nothing to do with what just happened but Michael goes serious and nods. Alex tries not to be affected by it. Or by how Michael seems committed to being open after months of them lying to each other. 
“Whatever you need,” he says.

There’s a weight to his words that lasts a moment before Buffy decides right there is a good place to go potty.

* “Up you go,” Alex says and gets Buffy onto the table, “good girl.”

Buffy huffs at the compliment but when she spots Kyle she immediately starts wagging her tail. Because Kyle has that effect. He grins and scratches her ears as Buffy rolls onto her back. Alex looks over at Michael who seems surprised by this turn of events. 
“Good thing he wasn’t trying to seduce you,” Michael says, “she’s already fallen for it.”

Kyle looks at him sharply and Michael realizes his mistake with a swear but Alex waves him off. Whether or not there were genuine feelings is an issue for another day. Or another lifetime, if he gets his way. Thankfully neither Michael nor Kyle have made the mistake of suggesting he get rid of the dog in case Deep Sky is spying on him with her. Kyle picks up the device and scans Buffy as best he can until Alex reaches out to help hold her steady. They find the first microchip easily enough. It’s just surprising how easily they also find the second one.

“They put a tracker in the dog?” Kyle shakes his head.

Alex agrees. It seems stupid with all the messed up shit they’ve done, but looking at Buffy with her upturned nose and disdainful glares and imagining her being picked out and named and then used like that makes him ache. Especially if it was in the pursuit of him. It’s not the only thing that’s wrong but Alex has always had a soft spot for animals and it’s the first thing that makes his throat tighten.

“We have to get them out of her.”

“We will,” Michael says, “first lemme make sure they don’t work.”

“It’s not going to hurt her, is it?” Alex asks as Michael reaches out.

Kyle and Michael trade looks and Alex knows his voice sounds odd but the dog’s been through enough. Especially on his behalf. A part of him thinks giving her away might be best but if Deep Sky is still using her then who knows. He could give her away and bring more people into this.

“Alex,” Michael comes around the table and stands next to him, doesn’t say anything when Alex shifts back, “look, it’s not gonna hurt her. I’m going to just disable them. We’ll figure out how to get them out of her after.”

Buffy rolls over and gives Kyle’s hands a lick before she reluctantly belly crawls to Alex. She doesn’t look thrilled about having to come to him, but she sits in between him and Michael and looks at Michael with her usual disdain. It’s not full on affection but Alex appreciates the defense all the same. He looks up at Michael.

“Okay, do it,” he says.

Michael puts his hands on Buffy’s shoulders and focuses. Alex waits for her to yelp or do anything but she just glares at Michael like this is the most ridiculous thing she’s ever been subjected to. He pulls his hands back and blinks rapidly, going a little pale. It’s one of the effects of whatever they did to him, his powers are there but using them takes more effort than it did. No-one knows when they’ll fully return.

“Kyle get the—“

Kyle gets the bin just in time for Michael to puke in it. Buffy flattens her ears and decides she’s done enough comfort one day. She trots back over to Kyle and flops on her back, bracing a paw against his arm so he has maximum access to her belly. Before Alex can think about what he’s doing his hand settles on Michael’s shoulder as he heaves. It’s another sign of how badly he’s fucked up and Michael consenting to it under duress doesn’t make him feel any better. But he forces himself to hold onto Michael’s shoulder as he empties his stomach.

“Shit that sucks,” he mutters, unthinkingly wrapping his hand around Alex’s elbow. Alex doesn’t let go of his shoulder as he wipes the back of his mouth. He looks up at Alex and gives a quick, shaky smile, “I disabled the chips on both, they’re dead,” he says.

“Thank you.”

Michael nods, looking more relieved than Alex is comfortable with at the words. He tears his eyes away to look at the love fest going on between Buffy and Kyle. It’s honestly hard to say whose fallen more for who. Alex pulls away and tries not to focus on how cold his elbow and palm feel without Michael’s signature heat.

“Now we just gotta get them out,” Michael says.

Kyle seems to be aware they are all looking at him intently. He opens his mouth to reject whatever they’re going to say and Buffy whines for him to continue the belly rubs. It’s written all over his face that of all the ways he saw his life going, this definitely wasn’t one of them. He looks down at Buffy.

“Am I still gonna be your favorite?” He asks her.

Buffy huffs.

“I think that’s a yes,” Michael says.

* “Your back hurting?”

Alex winces at the question, he thought he had done a good job of hiding it. The concern is there in Michael’s voice and it’s not well hidden at all. Alex looks over at him, seeing the guilt in his eyes.

“It’s from picking up Buffy,” he says, “she’s having trouble getting on the furniture.”

It’s almost laughable how furniture is so complicated in his house. Alex never thought the height of a seat could make such a difference in someone’s life. The perfect height for him though is apparently too much for his still overweight beagle. His best solution is to pick her up but for all her laziness Buffy isn’t good at staying put. It’s not overly painful but it’s not ideal while he’s still healing.

“Oh,” Michael says.

“She’ll get better,” Alex says, “she just has to lose some weight,” he rolls his shoulder, “and I have to heal.”

“She can’t stay off the furniture?” Michael asks. Alex glares, “just asking!” Michael says holding up his hands, “I never had a pet. I had a foster home where I wasn’t allowed on the couch once, it sucked.”

Alex doesn’t know how Michael can stand to be so casual about things like that. Mentioning something so devastating hasn’t even interrupted his rhythm in eating his fries.

“I’m sorry,” Alex says quietly. Michael acknowledges it with a quick nod, “I want her to be able to go where she wants,” he explains.

“Except maybe the bunker,” Michael points out.

“Okay maybe the bunker,” Alex agrees.

“What about stairs?” Michael asks, “they make stairs for dogs right?” His brow furrows, “your furniture is custom heigh though, right?” Then he perks up, “I can make her stairs.”

Alex almost chokes on his water. Michael’s response to everything was to throw his tools in his bunker and seal it up. Alex isn’t even sure he has the materials to build dog stairs. But it’s the first time he’s seen Michael look excited about building something.

“Are you okay with that?” He asks, “I can pay you.”

“You don’t have to,” Michael says, “if it gets Buffy to stop constantly stink eyeing me we’re good.”

“Just tell me how much they cost,” Alex says after a moment’s consideration.

He texts Michael the asked for measurements.

Michael doesn’t want to be alone with him and Alex can’t blame him. He doesn’t really want to be alone with Michael either. Not yet. It’s not until he hears the truck in the driveway that he even thinks more about it. The truck pulls in, parks and Michael gets out before Buffy starts going crazy. Alex feels a rush of affection for her.

“It’s Michael,” he says, “and he’s already almost inside.”

Buffy still puffs up like she’s done her job and Alex scratches her ears before he opens the door. Michael is standing there with two stairs in either hand and a black bag slung over his shoulder.

“Can I come in?” He asks.

“Yeah,” Alex says, his mouth dry, “of course,” he says, “come in.”

“Thanks,” Michael says. Buffy looks at him and howls. Michael glares, “the hat isn’t negotiable,” he tells her firmly, even as he takes it off and sets it aside.

Michael puts one of the stairs by the couch and hands Alex the other for his bed. Alex puts it down where it is and follows Michael to the back part of the house. Michael drops the bag and picks out a few tools before moving to the trap door.

“What’s all of this?” Alex asks.

“Eh I could tell you didn’t mean it when I said Buffy wasn’t allowed in the bunker,” he says, “so I put something together.”

“You built her an elevator?”

Michael shrugs and goes pink around the ears.

“Yeah I mean I want her to feel welcome,” he says, “and if you gotta hide I know you aren’t leaving her behind.”

Alex looks over at Buffy whose stink eyeing the stairs like she’d prefer to be carried. He wouldn’t leave her behind. He wouldn’t leave Michael behind either but just being alone in the same room is a lot. He doesn’t want to push this. He doesn’t know if Michael feels that as well.

“Can I get you anything?” He offers, “I have lemonade?”

Michael hesitates for a moment. Alex wonders if he’s read this wrong before Michael nods and Alex finds he can breathe again.

“That sounds good,” Michael says, “thanks.”

[eryiss]

Summary: 'Freed The Dark, God of Death and ruler of the Netherworld. Followed by a reputation as rotten and stinking as the corpses he gives a home; he had been ostracized by gods and angels alike. And as the war between gods got closer, and those he cared for are dragged into the fight, his seclusion begins to twist his mind against him. But as his darkest day approached, he was forced to choose where his morals lie.' - Levy McGarden: A Examination and Retelling of the Fiorean Gods. [Fraxus One Shot]

Event: Fairy Tail Reverse Bang (Hosted by @ftguildevents​)

This was made in partnership with the great @fairiesherefairiesthere​, who made the beautiful artwork that made this fic possible. You should show them and their work a lot of love, and reblog it from here.

You can read it on Fanfiction, Archive of Our Own, or under the cut. Hope you enjoy.

Once Dead, Now Judged

The God of Death. The God of Judgment.

His is a story many people believe that they know, one that has been spoken of many times. In the telling and retelling of this story, many aspects of what made it so important have been lost. The Gods have been diluted into a single trait, and their significance in the tale is often misunderstood or disregarded entirely. The story has been condensed into a point where it can be explained in a single statement.

'The God of Death wanted the war to end, so he ended it.'

Of course this is not the truth of the matter. This mindset disregards both the personal and the political motivations which led to these decisions. It disregards the humanity behind the Gods, the fact that they were people and had flaws and loves, all of which led to that famous moment. The moment where corpses walked upon water, where souls were ready to kill souls. Where a disrespected God had the world at his feet, and chose to save it rather than destroy it as it perhaps deserved.

The moment where Freed Justine, God of both Death and Judgment, shaped the future.

Artists have often tried to capture the moment in their work. Countless renditions of the battlefield have been painted, each depicting the shadow of the death God looming over the fight to put an end to it. These depictions of the moment, while both beautiful and important, often hide away the humanity behind the story. This moment wasn't the God of Death's. It was Freed Justine's.

One such painting that recognises this is called the 'Knight of Judgment'.

Knight Of Judgement. Artist Unknown. Date Unknown.

Though its artist is uncredited, it is clear that they see the story in the same personal light that I do. It shows the moment that shapes our reality, but not from the perspective of the battlefield. From the perspective of the man who made it happen. That is the story that I will be telling you all today.

The untold story of the man behind the God.

Of the human behind the revolution.

Of Freed the Dark, God of Death, and ruler of the Netherworld. Followed by a reputation as rotten and stinking as the corpses he gave sanctuary; he had been ostracized by Gods and angels alike. And as the war between Gods got closer, and those he cared for are dragged into the fight, his seclusion began to twist his mind against him. But as his darkest day approached, he was forced to choose where his morals lie.

Levy McGarden; An Examination and Retelling of the Fiorean Gods

~~~

"Bastards!"

Freed's words echoed throughout the chamber as he stormed through it. Darkness covered almost everything, with light filtering in through the stained-glass windows that circled his throne room. His footsteps reverberated through the room as an accompaniment to his anger, the heels of his boots slamming against the black marble flooring.

On his face sneered a scowl, his fists were clenched at his sides, and he made a sharp gesture towards the large wooden doors before him. They opened with speed, slamming into the walls, and cracking slightly, sending a gust of wind towards the God which lifted his hair and the long black robe that hung behind him.

"Sanctimonious ego driven bastards!" He roared into the nothingness of his castle.

How dare they? How dare they!

He shouldn't have expected anything more. He should have gotten used to his treatment at that fucking table. He should have long since forgone any hope of being treated as an equal before them all, because they didn't see him as such. To them he was nothing but a utility, the person who cleaned up the messed that their ridiculous infighting was responsible for. That was the only reason why he had been called to service, and it was the only reason would ever be called to service, because people were going to die, and they needed him accommodate them.

The Netherworld was nothing but their dumping ground. They saw it as justification for allowing their stupidity to interfere with people. A way out of feeling guilt for the people their fancies killed. They delude themselves into thinking the Netherworld was just another part of life for humans, and refused to listen to anything that would break that illusion.

And Freed: he was nothing to them. He was just the person who kept the gates closed, stopping the corpses and the souls from returning to life with the anger of being wronged by the Gods.

"Bastards!" He yelled for a third time.

With a snarl, he slammed his hand on the wall at his side. The impact created an almost soft cracking sound, and a fissure-like tear ripped apart the wall of the corridor he was walking down. Bricks split apart, and windows shattered into shards on the floor.

The sensation of destruction was cathartic, but only slightly.

A moment later, he heard footsteps behind him, running to catch up with him. It was Evergreen, who he had placed outside of his throne room while he communed with the other Gods. Communication was though the mind, leaving his body essentially empty, so it needed to be guarded. Once, a man had made the mistake of attacking him in that state; now, the attacker endured the sensation of acid being secreted directly into his skin as penance.

Freed always made sure someone was on guard now, predominantly because changing someone's genetic makeup in such a way was a tedious process.

Though at that moment, it sounded delightful.

Everyone seemed to understand that Freed was not a man to target. Though, most people didn't have the opinion of him to do so. So long as you didn't break his trust, he would show a level of decency towards you. Most understood that his decency was a kindness, and they wouldn't risk losing it.

He didn't slow his place, and took a small amount of pleasure from the glass cracking under his feet as he walked. Pushing his arm forward, he slammed another set of doors open, the hinges cracking with the strain of such fast movement. By the time he had reached the threshold and walked into lobby of his castle, Evergreen had caught up to him.

"Freed," She said, and he glanced to his side to see Evergreen had sprouted wings and was hovering slightly to increase her speed. The wings had an odd look to them, and Evergreen had once stated they resembled fairy wings. Freed enjoyed her eccentricities, as odd as they were. It made her more human.

Something the bastards at the 'Table of the Gods' would do good to understand.

"They see us as nothing but a way to distance themselves from responsibility," Freed snapped at her, uncaring for the lack of context. He slowed down a little so Evergreen didn't have to fly to keep up with him, though.

Evergreen was a demon, technically. Freed disliked the term, as there was nothing separating his demons with any other God's angels, other than the fact she lived in the Netherworld rather than in the skies. It was another way that the so-called Higher Gods separated themselves from Freed. They were Gods of the world and they had their angels. He was a God of the Netherworld who had his demons. Ridiculous political bullshit.

She was one of the highest-ranking demons in the Netherworld. Freed had placed her in control of the corpses, or fairies as she called them. Her particular magic allowed her to revitalise the bodies of the dead, as their own genetics failed to do so. Rather than having limbs fall off, she kept them healthy and functional. For those who wanted it, she would change what they looked like slightly to the persons ideal form of beauty. Freed never particularly understood why people cared that much for what they looked like, but it seemed to make his subjects happy so he wouldn't intervene.

Evergreen made up one third of the triad named Raijinshuu. Freed and Bickslow completed it.

"What happened exactly?" Evergreen probed, dropping to the floor and letting her wings flitter away.

"What always happens," Freed growled. "They politely informed me that there would be an influx of dead coming and I'm to accept it without argument nor question. And of course they tried to imbue their politics into the situation, claiming certain dead should be treated better than others."

"Ah," Evergreen said in recognition before echoing Freed's own statement. "What always happens."

She placed a hand on the Gods back in a soft touch. Given his situation, Freed didn't have the chance to get close to people on a human level; an issue faced by all Gods no doubt. But his two top demons were what he considered friends, and he had made a great effort to show that he didn't see himself above them. That couldn't work with all demons, of course, as he needed to keep a level of authority over his land. But the two of them were allowed to see him without any of his facades or defences.

Some of the other Gods who knew this looked down on him for this. But he had spoken to more humans than they knew existed, and each of them had stated the importance of connections with other people. They were more knowledgeable than any God about what made life worth living.

That was why Freed wished to be involved in conversations about dead. He knew humans as more than just a premise. They weren't just hypothetically alive. They had thoughts just as much as any God, they were simply more breakable than them. As the thought struck him, another wave of anger creeped over him.

He leant his back against Evergreen's hand. Physical contact with other people grounded him.

"Come on," Evergreen said, apparently noticing Freed's return to rigid posture. "We thought this might happen."

Eventually, after walking through many of the hallways in his home, he was guided towards one of the many sitting rooms. It was his favourite, given its large fireplace, the fact it was at the back of the castle, and the view overlooking the garden. It was the most secluded place in the building, and therefore the most comfortable for him.

When they walked in, Bickslow was waiting for him. The fire was roaring and crackling, the wooden shutters had been closed to keep the light inside, and a china teapot was steaming out of the funnel with three teacups resting beside it.

It was nice to have connections with people. People did kind things for you.

"There's the big scary God of Death," Bickslow said with a taunt in his voice. "Did someone get angry and demolish a corridor again?"

"Do you really think it's wise to antagonise me, Bickslow?" Freed said, the amusement almost unnoticeably seeping into his tone. "I control this realm entirely; I can force you to eat a human heart and drown on the blood, should the mood take me."

"I prefer a liver, really. Less messy," Bickslow said with a cackle.

Freed smiled a little at that, relaxing into the easy-going environment Bickslow always projected. Making up the final part of Raijinshuu – or the tribe of hell – he was of equal power to Evergreen, and equally important to Freed.

Whereas Evergreen looked after the bodies of the deceased, Bickslow looked after the souls. This was an equally important job, as both the soul and the body made life. Just like an uncared-for body would fall apart and crumble without care, the soul would spiral into darkness and insanity, becoming self-destructive and dying out like a star. Bickslow both used his magic and his personality – so he claimed – to keep the souls both sane and content.

The two demons worked together well. They needed to. Death was the process of splitting up a soul from one's body. For an afterlife to begin, the soul and the body needed to be brought back together. Evergreen and Bickslow were responsible for merging them both when possible.

They were quite affective at their work.

The process was often a tedious one, it must be said. Bodies and souls could appear anywhere in the Netherworld, and could often go unfound for centuries. Sometimes a body would be destroyed to the point where Evergreen couldn't save it, sometimes a soul had gone mad before anyone could even find it. Thankfully, this usually only happened to those who were truly evil, perhaps as some form of karmic punishment, but both Evergreen and Bickslow were still respectful in how they dealt with those cases.

Evergreen had created a forest, fertilised with what remained of the corpses. Bickslow had created a spell where the remnants of souls could be merged together, making an entirely new soul. It had happened thousands of times, and Bickslow had crafted only five souls out of these remnants. They had been assigned to little dolls, which followed the man around constantly.

"Since I knew you'd be all icy," Bickslow continued, picking up a teacup and proffering it to Freed. "I thought you'd enjoy this. Masala tea, nice and hot."

Freed took the cup with a word of thanks. He tried to keep the culture of the living at arm's length for most of the time, but he had once drunk tea and found it rather spectacular, and decided he would allow certain parts of humanity into his own life. He was allowed to have a weakness, and a warm drink was a good one to have.

"What happened then?" Evergreen asked, sitting at one of the red sofas opposite the God. "Specifically."

"There's a war coming, so they think," Freed sighed, placing the teacup down. "Apparently they don't intend to be subtle if it does happen, and humans will be killed in thousands. We have been instructed to make plans to accommodate the dead."

"Instructed huh?" Bickslow said with a small grunt.

"Indeed," Freed nodded. "Apparently the ridiculous feud between Makarov and his idiot son has boiled over. They expect the first casualty within months. And once one person is killed, either man will willingly do anything in return to prove their point."

"And they have to drag the people into it?" Evergreen sighed.

"I doubt that they have to, but they will," Freed mused. "They don't see the people as being alive any more than an ocean, or a mountain. They're just little creatures to them, barely thinking in comparison to a God. Why would the bother with the effort of keeping them alive?"

"They didn't listen to ya when you told them that, huh?" Bickslow asked.

"Ivan's exact words to me were 'Keep your corpse fucker mouth shut,'" Freed shrugged.

"He hasn't gotten any smarter, then, if that's the best insult he could think of," Evergreen muttered, and Freed laughed. It was a clipped, cynical laugh, but better than nothing.

"If he ever ends up down here, I shall need one of your souls to possess that ridiculous suit of armour he insists on wearing," Freed said, looking to Bickslow. "It would be a nice level of irony that the thing he wears to protect him ends up ripping his bowels out and crushes them as he watches. I'd find that pleasant."

"I'll get em trained up ready," Bickslow said with a grin. "But you don't think they can be cooled off. Makarov and Ivan I mean. They've never gotten along, you said, but they've never gone to war."

"Laxus is trying to calm them both down, but I doubt he'll be of any help. He fights with Ivan as much as his grandfather does," Freed lifted the teacup to his lips again, sipping at the spicy liquid and allowing it to warm his cold blood. "And it seems like their millenniums worth of grievances has come to return all at once. Laxus would have to be a saint as well as a God to get them to even consider being diplomatic."

"So we gotta play clean-up because their pissing contest is gonna get violent," Bickslow surmised, and Freed nodded. "And they don't even have the fucking courtesy to talk to you like an equal."

"They consider themselves to be the most important beings in existence. Annoyingly, existence seems to agree," Freed said with a tired expression. "Why would they care about the ants they're crushing? Or the people who try to help them?"

"Should we be expecting Laxus here anytime soon?" Evergreen asked.

"Perhaps, though not in the next few days. Calming them both will be his priority," Freed stood up, placing his tea in its saucer again. "I suppose they're right, though. We need to prepare if half the world is going to be slaughtered."

Bickslow and Evergreen shared a look.

"Tomorrow," Bickslow said firmly. "We start tomorrow."

"There's hardly any reason to prolong-"

"Tomorrow," The demons said in unison, and Evergreen continued talking. "You've not slept in days, if nothing else allow yourself a night's rest."

"A few hours ain't gonna affect anything," Bickslow added. "And we both know that anything you do while pissed off ain't gonna be as good as if you're calm. So take the night off and sleep."

Freed took a moment to think, then sighed and nodded. He returned to the chair like they so clearly wanted and allowed Bickslow to pour him another cup of tea. He brought it to his lips and watched as his friends smiled in contentment of their actions. It was important that he had these people in his life, and he was glad that they were there.

As tedious as they may be.

~~~

Often disregarded in the story of Freed the Dark is the people close to him. His relationships with both his friends and those he ruled were imperative to his overall decision to enter the war. As leader of the Netherworld, he was shaped more by humanity than any other God, and without this influence it is unclear as to whether or not he would have walked into the fight or not.

The closeness he held to those not of his blood was anomalous for a God, and was part of the reason as to why he was disrespected and looked down upon by some of his fellow Gods. They saw him as impure, tainted by the lesser beings of the land.

It is important to state that not every God looked down upon him. He was not the victim of complete ostracization, and certain Gods looked to him as an ally, friend and, in the case of Laxus Dreyar, a lover.

Laxus was the youngest son of the Higher God's, known colloquially as the Dreyar's. The grandfather and patriarch of the family, Makarov, was known to be God of Expansion and Family. He sat at the head of the God's Table, and was seen by all as the ruler of the Gods. Makarov's son Ivan, the God of Persona, and later the God of Tricksters, showed great levels of jealousy towards his father and tried on many occasions to usurp him, both through manipulations and violence.

The family of Gods were all-powerful and volatile.

However, Laxus showed himself to be different. After being manipulated against Makarov, Laxus chose to leave the skies. It is stated that he was unsure where Ivan's manipulations ended, and his own personality began. His exile was so he could become his own man.

It was during this exile he found himself in the Netherworld, walking through the garden of the castle.

Meeting the God of death, they quickly found solace in each other's company. Laxus understood better than most the hardships of being a God, particularly one involved in the politics of others. They could relate to each other on a level nobody else could, and what started as a mutual fondness quickly developed into love.

Their relationship was kept secret from most, with only those closest to the men knowing in the days before the war. Despite the secretive nature of the romance, both men adored each other. It cannot be overstated how important this relationship was in proceeds that ended the war.

Levy McGarden; An Examination and Retelling of the Fiorean Gods

~~~

Having loved the man for so long, Freed knew what to look for when Laxus was approaching.

Being the God of both Thunder and Lightning, when Laxus was around there was a certain feeling in the air. The slight presence of static, a partial increase of humidity, and a tiny chill to the air. Freed would compare it to the feeling of standing in a cloud that was just about to bear lightning. Most people either didn't notice the feeling, or saw it as an imposition. Freed rather liked the sensation, it was as if he was being wrapped up in the long fur lined cloak that Laxus wore.

The feeling arrived before the man himself. Laxus' abilities allowed him to become one with the clouds and lightning, and to form a cloud wherever he saw fit. So when he wished to visit Freed, he would summon a cloud into the castle, and bring his consciousness into it, his body following soon after.

In the first few instances of his arrival, the cloud had struck lightning and Laxus had formed out of that. Laxus later revealed it was an unnecessary level of showmanship, and he was showing off.

Freed looked back on that confession with fondness.

When the smoke coming from the fireplace started to pool in the air, followed by the sensation of static, humidity and a chill, Freed knew that his lover would soon be with him. The God placed his wine glass at the table beside him with a soft smile, waiting patiently for the cloud to dissipate and for his lover to be by his side.

"Mr Dreyar," Freed said pleasantly, watching as the cloud burst and left Laxus in its place. "A pleasure to see you again."

Laxus didn't say anything at first, but instead stalked over towards Freed and wrapped his arms around the man tightly. Freed couldn't be sure what had spurred the action on, but hugged his lover back with an equally strong grasp. They stayed like this for a moment, tightly embracing one another as the fire crackled beside them.

"Sorry it took so long to get here," Laxus muttered into Freed's shoulder.

"You needn't be," Freed replied almost automatically. "They're your family, and you have a responsibility to them."

It had been just shy of a week since the meeting of the Gods, and where Freed had yet again been dismissed by the leaders. Laxus had been in attendance at the meeting, of course, and Freed hadn't seen him since he had walked out.

The time since then had been mainly spent preparing the Netherworld for the inevitable influx of dead. His demons had been told to be vigilant for new souls and corpses, as when they would come was unknown. The dead had been told to begin preparing buildings and homes for the newly dead, as Freed would not allow for overpopulation. And everyone had been informed that their ancestors and relatives might die soon, and they would need their families to help them adjust, so to prepare themselves for that. It had all been busywork for Freed, and partly because he wanted to distract himself from his lover's absence.

"I should have come to you sooner," Laxus said, burying his face into the crook of Freed's neck.

"You're here now," Freed whispered. "And that's enough. And anyway, Bickslow and Evergreen have been keeping me sane. As has the work."

"I'll thank 'em later," Laxus mumbled, pressing his lips into Freed's neck in a kiss. "You sure you're okay?"

"I believe I've calmed down," Freed said with a nod.

"Can't believe you stormed out like that," Laxus said, removing himself from Freed's arms. "Don't think either of the bastards ever had someone do anything like that to them before, you should have seen their faces after you left."

"I doubt it'll change anything," Freed shrugged, picking up his wine again.

"You pissed 'em both off, that's something," Laxus said with a hint of a laugh in his voice. "You know when they realise we've been together for centuries, they're gonna think that you're the reason I rebelled against them."

"Finally I'll be credited for something worthwhile," Freed chuckled a little at that.

Freed was unaware of it, but Laxus looked towards him with a hint of sadness in his eyes. He had long since been aware of the disrespect Freed faced from both the Dreyar's and many of the other Gods. He had tried what he could to change that, so far as to defend him both before and after Freed had left the meeting a week prior. But the Gods were stubborn, and set in their prejudices. Laxus just hoped that one day they would change their ways.

"I'm sorry they don't treat you right," Laxus apologised, speaking softly.

"Don't be," Freed instructed, standing up and walking to the window. He was in a study overlooking the Netherworld, and looked out over the dead before him. "I should have gotten over it by now."

"You shouldn't have to," Laxus insisted, standing up.

"Maybe it's for the best," Freed sighed, tapping his fingers against the windowsill. "I'm sure if they paid more attention to me then they'd look upon this world with distain. No doubt they'd have hundreds of issues with how I treat my subjects. With their logic they'd want me to torture the good and kneel before the bad."

"And they'd be wrong," Laxus assured him, wrapping his arms around the man. "You're a good man, Freed, and a damn good God, too."

"There's a certain level of irony in calling me a 'damn' good God," Freed chuckled, turning around in his lover's arms, grinning.

He pressed their lips together, Laxus leaning into the kiss softly. They had not kissed in a month and, even with their seemingly endless lives, that was far too long a time to go without it. Freed adored his Lightning God, the beautiful man who split open the skies with a wave of his hand, and created the most spectacular tapestries of light on the canvas of a cloudy night. He was a poet in actions, even if he refused the claim, and Freed was enamoured with the man and wished to show it with his kiss.

Love was something the humans had taught him. He liked it.

When they pulled apart, they stood in each other's arms with content expressions. Laxus looked spectacular like this, with a soft smile and no falseness on his face. He had once confessed that he truly only felt himself when with Freed. Though the sadness of the statement was not lost on him, Freed was thankful that he and his kingdom could offer the man sanctuary.

"You chose to come here through smoke, rather than your own cloud," Freed eventually spoke, and Laxus looked down on him with a quirk in his eyebrow. "May I assume that was so you could hide how you felt."

Laxus sighed. His ability to control the weather was slightly tethered to his emotions. The more emotional he felt, the stronger the impact of his abilities. If he was emotional, the lighting would be more ferocious, the thunder would echo louder, and the rain would be heavier. It also affected the clouds, and the darker his mood, the darker the clouds. Had he not used the smoke from Freed's fireplace, the cloud he summoned would have been blacker than the nights sky.

"I needed to prioritise you without you worrying," Laxus sighed. "You were upset, I wanted to make you feel better."

"I appreciate that," Freed nodded, bringing his hands up to stroke Laxus' cheeks. "But you need comfort too. So would you like to discuss what's wrong?"

Laxus took a moment, before deflating slightly.

"They're gonna fight, Freed," He whispered, almost not believing his own words. "I couldn't talk 'em down from it. I thought I could; Makarov at least would have listed to reason I thought. But neither of them even looked at me, they didn't care. Gramps said that Ivan would turn the world to darkness if left to his own devices, and Ivan said he should have killed him a millennia ago. There was nothing I could do."

"It wasn't your responsibility to stop them," Freed spoke softly. "Don't you dare start blaming this on yourself."

"They're both getting troops together. And nobody else can stop them because they're scared of 'em, so they're just gonna keep dragging everybody into the fight. I don't even think it's gonna be a fight, it's just gonna be the two of them pissed off and sending people to slaughter."

"It's unfortunate," Freed sighed. "But I'll do good by the dead, if that's any consolation."

"It ain't your job to clean up after them. And it shouldn't be the people's job to fight for them," Laxus argued with a growl. "They should just fucking fight between themselves if they need to. Why do they have to drag people into it?"

Freed didn't have an answer to that, so instead took his lovers hand in his own and held it. The man was shaking, and Freed felt that it wasn't entirely because of anger. He looked at the man's face and his heart almost broke. Laxus was portraying anger, but Freed had looked at enough humans faces to know fear when he saw it. He pressed their foreheads together in a gesture that hopefully calmed the man, before he spoke.

"I won't let them take you if you don't want to fight," He promised softly.

"You can't stop them," Laxus sighed, leaning against Freed. "They'll invade this place and rip apart everything you've done if they want to."

"Perhaps they won't want to."

"He called me a strategic advantage," Laxus sighed. "Ivan, my own father, said having me on his side would be a strategic advantage. I command the sky, so having me fight for them would ensue a victory. And gramps didn't say it, but he knows that it's true. They ain't gonna let me hide away. And I'm not gonna let them bring their fight here because of me."

Freed wanted to argue the point, but couldn't. The fight would take place in the skies. Having someone bring lightning down on any oncoming army would be invaluable. But Laxus didn't need to hear that.

"You can stay with me for as long as you please," Freed promised. "But you're right. You probably will be brought into the fight, so I want you to make me a promise."

"Anything," Laxus nodded.

"Pick the right side," Freed said firmly. "There is cruelty in them both, but we both know who the better leader will be. And so long as you have the choice in who you fight for, you must promise me that you pick the right one."

"I will," Laxus promised, and brought both of Freed's hands to his mouth to kiss, as if sealing the promise.

"How long do you expect we have until the war begins?" Freed asked.

"Months, at most," Laxus sighed. "I don't know when exactly, but everyone seems to know this is gonna be important, and neither side is gonna want to make a mistake early on. So they'll take time to build up their support and make their armies stronger. But they both wanna make the first hit, so they can't be building forever. In a year's time we'll be in deep."

"Perhaps we could do something," Freed offered. "Sabotage them in some way."

"They'll have more defences than we can imagine," Laxus rebutted. "Right now, I just wanna sleep."

"My bed chamber is always open for use for you," Freed assured him, unwrapping himself from his lover's arms. "Take all the time you need."

"Only if you join me," Laxus said, voice firm. "Ever and Bix already told me that you've been working yourself hard, and that you've been delaying sleep when you can get away with it. So if I sleep, then you have to too."

"If you insist," Freed said with a smile. "And I suppose it's appropriate."

"What d'you mean?"

"Well, given that we're in the Netherworld, sleeping seems appropriate," He looked to Laxus with a mischievous grin. "Where else is there to rest in peace?"

Laxus barked out a disbelieving laugh. "You've the most fucking morbid sense of humour, it's fucking great."

And, in spite of the situation, both men smiled as they retired to bed.

~~~

I believe that the 'Knight of Judgment' is a unique painting as it shows what was important to Freed in the days of the war.

Located in the lower regions of the painting, you can see both Laxus and the Raijinshuu. They are shown to be sitting at a table, which multiple artists and historians agree signifies how they influenced Freed in his actions. In many ways, this is a representation of Freed's own Table of the Gods, with those he held close holding his council.

The location of them in the painting is also significant. They are placed in his stomach: they are a part of him that he carried with him throughout the darkest days of his life.

It is a great sorrow that he needed to be secluded from them for the war to end.

The affect that the war had on the Netherworld was unique. Although the realm was secluded and the battle never neared the doors to the Netherworld, the impact of the fighting was said to have been felt in different ways. An overall atmosphere of unease is said to have filled the land, and there was an obvious influx of the dead. Both humans and angels were being slayed at an alarming rate.

The horrors of the war were unseen, but not unknown.

It is said that Freed often found himself at the doors of the Netherworld, contemplating seeing the fray first hand. He stopped himself each time, instead putting his focus on the new wave of deaths that came with each day. At this time, he relied on his friends and lover for support. As often told, this reliance could only last for so long.

Levy McGarden; An Examination and Retelling of the Fiorean Gods

~~~

"I'm glad that you're here again," Freed said softly.

The God was lying on his large bed, arm in arm with his lover. Draped in velvet sheets, Freed couldn't help the look of fondness that adorned his features, nor did he care to try. It had been months since he had last had Laxus in his arms, and the loss of his lover's presence was starting to take effect. When he had felt the familiar static, humidity, and chill, he had worn a smile that could almost be described as giddy.

He had needed something to make him happy. The war had brought wave after wave of dead, meaning Freed and his demons were worked to the bone in accommodating them. Every day, hundreds of scared people were brought to his door, traumatised from their murder.

Every day, his anger at the fighting Gods increased.

Freed had worked himself harder than he'd ever needed to. Not only did he go about his usual roles as leader, but he also tried to assist his demons. Sometimes he would search the plains of the Netherworld to find lost souls. Sometimes he would work with The Raijinshuu to merge a body with its owner. Sometimes he would go to the city and build homes for the newly deceased. Ivan and Makarov had already taken their lives away, Freed should do whatever he could to keep them safe in his domain.

He and Laxus had spoken often, but not once in person. Laxus had been doing whatever he could to calm the fighting, even in the smallest of ways. He worked mainly with his grandfather, trying to veer him away from more destructive ways of attack. He had been successful for a while, but Ivan's power was growing and apparently it was getting harder for Laxus to keep Makarov's destructive plans at bay.

The longer the war lasted, the harder it was for Laxus to do anything really.

It was why he had come to Freed's castle. They both knew it.

"Sorry it ain't with better news," Laxus sighed, placing a hand on Freed's cheek with adoration in his eyes. "They're not gonna stop until someone wins. And I think they're just gonna get worse."

"So there's no point in trying to mediate anymore," Freed concluded.

"I think I have to join in first hand," Laxus said in a defeated tone, and Freed stroked his cheek with his knuckle. "I'm not doing anything on the side-lines anymore, they're both too focused on the fight to listen anymore. At least if I join in now, I get to choose which side I'm on rather than being dragged into it against my will."

"And, for full clarity, who's side will you be fighting for?" Freed asked, cautiously.

He was almost certain as to who Laxus would side with, but couldn't be sure. Ivan was a master manipulator and had unfortunately groomed Laxus into being his ideal child before Laxus had left him. It was always a lingering worry of Freed's that Laxus might be manipulated again.

He trusted the man, though. He had to.

"Gramps," Laxus said, nodding slightly to affirm his choice. "The way he's fighting is fucking awful, and he's not acting like he used to. But he's definitely the better of two evils right now. If Ivan wins control, everything he wants is so twisted and cruel. And if we can't get them in a room to talk it out, or stop it some other way, then we have to stop him with force. And, like he said, whatever side has me on it has an advantage. Might as well use it for some good, I guess."

"It's not right that they use you as a weapon," Freed sighed, pressing their foreheads together.

"I'd rather be a weapon for good, than nothing," Laxus mumbled, but there was a level of defeat in his tone.

Freed hated hearing his lover in such a state. His relationship with his father had always been strained, but Laxus had looked up to his grandfather and loved the man dearly. But the way he spoke of Makarov as of late made Freed think he was a shell of his former self. His defence of his values had made him cruel. Makarov preached love and family more than most Gods, and yet he sent people to die to keep these values. He had become a hypocrite of the worst kind, and it seemed to be hurting Laxus more than he would admit.

Placing a hand on Laxus' cheek, Freed looked at him with a soft expression. Laxus closed his eyes and leant into his hand, and it was clear how much strain the man was putting on himself. Freed let his face turn sad for a moment.

"He's not as he used to be, is he?" He eventually asked, speaking about Makarov.

"He's so focused on winning the fight, he's not paying attention to what he's doing," Laxus admitted. "Sometimes, I worry what he'll be like when the war's over."

"You need to make sure he keeps his humanity then," Freed said as he nuzzled further into his lover's grasp. "If you're going to be fighting with him, then you can at least try and keep him sane and kind."

"I'll do what I can, but I might have lost him already."

Before Freed could try to argue the point, Laxus shifted so he was sitting up in the bed. He made a gesture with his hand, and a dark cloud crackled to life in front of them, with lighting shimmering all over it. Freed recognised it as the same spell they had been using to talk when away from each other. It was essentially a looking glass into another location; Laxus was showing him part of the war, something Freed hadn't yet been privy too.

It was abhorrent.

The fighting was taking place over the ocean, and it looked near cataclysmic. Huge waves were sloshing and forming, higher than any wave should be. They crashed into oncoming soldiers with thoughtless ferocity, and Ivan's fighters looked practically ant-like against the attacks from the sea. They were washed away, most probably drowning. Despite knowing what the world would be like if Ivan's troops won, Freed felt something like sympathy for them.

In the centre of the spyglass stood Juvia, Goddess of the Sea, who was clearly controlling the ocean. Her expression was stern and face without regret. Standing either side of her were Natsu, God of Fire, and Lucy, Goddess of the Stars.

Lucy's eyes glowed and she raised a hand into the air. Suddenly the nights sky was plunged into darkness, as if all of the stars had been extinguished within a moment. Even knowing that behind the darkness was a hellish fighting, it was almost a moment of calm. Just the darkness and the sound of the ocean.

And then there was screaming. Fire spread through the enemy forces, illuminating their pain and nothing else. The removal of light had been a distraction that allowed Natsu to climb aboard the ships of the opposing troops. Some of them jumped over the edge of the boats, and found themselves churned up in a whirlpool of Juvia's creation. It was only when he saw the angels battered against the rocks did Freed realise how close they were to the coast.

How close they were to the humans, who had nothing to do with the fight.

It was sickening to watch, made worse by the fact Freed knew the three Gods responsible. Natsu and Lucy were some of the most optimistic people he had met, and had never judged him. And although he didn't know Juvia well, she had always been kind to him. Everything he watched contrasted with what he knew of these people.

"Gramps orchestrated this," Laxus sighed, flicking his wrist, and removing the spyglass.

"Yes," Freed agreed, voice quiet. "I expect it isn't easy to see."

"I told him not to do it," Laxus said with a growl. "I told him that he shouldn't do it near the coast, that people are gonna die because of it. And not just because they get dragged into the whirlpool, but because it's gonna affect the landscape. Juvia can't make water, so she's getting it from the clouds. It won't rain for months so crops are gonna die. And the fish ain't gonna be where they should be, so who fucking knows when they're gonna eat."

"Don't hold yourself accountable for that," Freed said firmly.

"But when I join the fight, it'll be my fucking fault," Laxus exclaimed with equal parts annoyance and exasperation. "But I can't let that stop me, because if I stay out of the fight then I'll either be complacent in it or I'll be dragged into it and forced to do the same crap against my own will. It's just… it's just shit."

Rather than speaking – there was nothing he could say to make it better – Freed kissed his lover slowly. Laxus moved his lips with Freed's, and it was almost in a desperate way. It was awful to see Laxus with such fear in his soul. Freed wished he could do more.

"Even in this war, you are still your own man, Laxus," Freed said softly, pulling apart. "You have your own mind, your own opinions, and your own morality. If you don't want to change, then you don't have to. Hold onto yourself, that's all you can do."

"What if I can't?" Laxus asked weakly.

"You can," Freed assured him. "You have fought against the influences of your family constantly, and you have become the best of them because of it. It will be difficult from time to time, I'm sure, but I know you Laxus. I know you well enough to be sure you will never change your values for anyone, let alone your father and grandfather."

Laxus took a moment to think, and Freed pressed their foreheads together. It was a silent reminder that he was there for him.

"Thanks," Laxus eventually said. "For being here, and for saying all of that."

"I mean it," Freed reaffirmed, stroking Laxus' cheek again. "You have a stubborn side like no other, it's rather an attractive quality for me."

Laxus laughed slightly, appreciating Freed's attempt at lifting the mood slightly. He pressed their lips together in a soft and chaste kiss, wrapping his arm around Freed's waist and pulling their bodies closer to each other. Laxus often felt more comfortable under the protection of Freed's sheets than he did in his own home. Freed's castle felt so far detached from the reality of what was happening, it was like a safe haven for him. The irony wasn't lost on Laxus.

"I'll talk to Gramps about what I can do to help," Laxus eventually said. "While I still can. And like ya said, maybe if I'm fighting on his side then I can try and keep him kind."

"It's probably for the best," Freed agreed, but the worlds felt like acid.

Of course he didn't want Laxus in the fight, but he knew his personal opinion wasn't needed now. If he could have his way, Laxus would happily reside in his castle for the entirety of the war. But that wasn't possible, and Laxus would make a difference. Freed just had to hope that Laxus' inclusion could shorten the length of the war and stop the deaths.

It was an unlikely hope, but all Freed had.

"Can I stay here before I do it," Laxus asked softly, almost weakly. "I need to be with you."

"For as long as you need," Freed promised.

When they fell asleep, they both felt sick with what was to come.

~~~

Many people begin telling the story of how the war ended long after Laxus had become involved. As Freed and Laxus' relationship is often disregarded and forgotten, many people don't see the significance of Laxus' choice to join the fight and leave the Death God in his realm. Most people just see this as another God being forced to take a side and fight, but it was much more.

Laxus leaving to fight was a further hit to Freed. The added work and general disrespect from other God's had already taken affect, and to have these Gods take his lover from him, and to hurt his lover in the way they did, was something of a breaking point.

In retrospect, this is possibly the moment Freed's descent began.

Of course we can only conclude this with the advantage of history. The story of how Freed the Dark got his title is one often untold, and therefore unexplored. But there is a general consensus that it was due to the seclusion he enforced on himself after those he loved were dragged into the fight. This was the first example of this happening for the God, and is seen as the first real hit the man's sanity took.

The change was gradual, and often his own tendencies were the most self-destructive. In the ensuing days and weeks, Freed's temperament got worse and his actions became more thoughtless. It is said that this wasn't clear to most at the time, but with the benefit of hindsight those close to him could see the affect his lover's absence had on him.

To truly explore how Freed became the man who stopped the war, we must explain his descent into solitude. The next step in that process came on the day he sent away the Raijinshuu, and left his castle empty.

Levy McGarden; An Examination and Retelling of the Fiorean Gods

~~~

Humans could be quite antagonising, Freed was finding.

He had always done this. As part of being the lord of the Netherworld, he tried his best to make the realm as pleasant for his subjects as he could. Being in complete control of everything meant he had abilities beyond the regular king, and therefore could be a better server to his kingdom. Because of this, he had always allowed his subjects to talk to him, make requests of him in ways that could improve their afterlife.

Today was one such a day. When the dawn had arisen, a queue of the dead had spiralled around the walls of the castle. The majority of them were recently deceased, and Freed knew the moment he laid eyes on them that they didn't want anything of importance, but rather childish requests that Freed had no interest in granting.

He was in a foul mood before he saw the first person. It did not get better.

The requests were ridiculous. Two ex-lovers had their homes in the same street and spent five minutes arguing that the other should be moved to the far end of the city. An adult man had asked for the water in his home to be turned into wine, and claimed it was because of religious beliefs and denying him would be an affront to his faith; it would be an affront to his alcoholism if anything.

And now he was forced to endure an elderly woman ranting at him, claiming her neighbours had been stealing her food provisions and should be punished for it. Her suggestion was that he and his family be starved for a week and to have his food supplies lessened permanently. It was absurd. He was a God, not a mediator for ridiculous arguments. It was tempting to starve her out of spite.

Still, at least he could let his mind wonder and drown out the obsessive whining of the humans for a little while.

With the hordes of the dead coming to his world because of the war, he hadn't had time to relax. Even when he did have a few moments to himself, his mind usually went to Laxus and whatever he might be doing. That was never for good.

It had been months since they had even spoken to one another. After Laxus decided to join the fight, they had spent a few days together before the blonde had returned to the skies to take his grandfather's side and join the battle. After that, they hadn't so much as seen one another. Freed had no idea what his lover was doing, if he was safe, or if he was in danger. The absence of the man he loved was starting to affect him.

In the past, even on the long stretches where they couldn't see each other in person, they could at least talk. But not this time, and Freed missed him. Now he just had idiot humans to distract him.

The amusement was wearing thin.

Because these ridiculous creatures were not treating him like a God. They were not treating him as something to be feared or looked up to. They were treating him as some odd wish granter who is supposed to care about their damn stupid problems!

"May I interrupt you, ma'am," Freed snapped suddenly, hands gripping the side of the throne.

Apparently the woman was the breaking point for him. She stopped, and looked to him almost affronted.

"Because if I'm completely honest with you ma'am, I couldn't give less of a damn about your problems, ma'am. In fact, ma'am, you're such a tedious person that I'm considering granting your neighbour twice the food than he gets now out of spite of you. So, ma'am, I feel as though it's in your best interest to shut your damned mouth right now before my spite becomes something more sour."

The woman looked at him with a gape. Freed glared at her. Did she not understand that he was a God?

"I allow you my council because I wish to make this place good for you all," Freed continued. He stood up from his throne and started to pace. Those in the room all looked towards him. "I make changes to accommodate you all. And this is what you want from me? To act as a ridiculous mediator for all your petty bullshit."

"Petty?" The woman had the arrogance to actually scoff as if offended.

"Quiet!" He yelled, and the glass in the room cracked at the echoing sound. His jaw clenched and he glared at the woman. "I am a God. I am above you, yet nobody seems to understand that. I am not a fucking serviceman; I am your better!"

Freed's tempered flared, and his eyes pulsated with darkness. From the corner of the room, Bickslow winced a little at the rise in anger. He went to speak but Freed interrupted.

"All of you leave," He roared at the congregated humans in his throne room. "Get out. Now!"

"But we've been waiting since sunset last night," One of the men in the line protested, and Freed turned his glare to him.

"Then you'll learn that next time you should get here earlier, won't you," He spat, acid dripping into his tone and he stalked towards the man. He cowered below Freed, and the God would be lying if he said it wasn't satisfying. When he next spoke, his voice was a calm, threatening tone. "If you have any further objections, I would be delighted to hear them. But be warned of the consequences if I disagree with you."

Bickslow opened the door to the throne room and ushered the humans out before anybody could speak further, shutting the door when it was just him and the God. Freed stormed towards his throne and collapsed onto it, eyes still a shadowy purple glow.

Rather than speaking, the demon simply waited for the God to calm down. Freed was typically a calm man, only reserving his anger for when he had met with other Gods, so to see him acting in such a way as a result of speaking with humans was unusual and concerning. Bickslow knew, when Freed's rage had gotten the best of him, that it was best to allow the man to decompress and let his anger dissipate without interrupting him.

The silence lasted a short while, and was only interrupted when the door to the throne room opened. Bickslow let out a held breath when he saw that it was Evergreen, rather than someone who didn't know Freed and might further his anger. She, too, didn't say anything and waited for Freed to calm, giving him a concerned expression; she must have seen the humans retreating.

"Mindless cretins," Freed eventually said, his voice quieter now. "I am a God, for fucks sake. Does nobody understand that?"

"What actually happened?" Evergreen asked, walking towards Freed and speaking softly.

"The same thing that always happens," Freed growled, though it was aimed more at his lap than at the demon. "I attempt to show an ounce of kindness to people and they see it as weakness. I am their God and they disrespect me, treat me like one of their own. Perhaps the idiots at that intolerable table were correct and I should treat my subjects with cruelty. At least then I wouldn't be forced to endure their mindless whining about their ridiculous problems."

"You know you don't mean that," Bickslow sighed, placing a hand on Freed's shoulder. "She was fucking stupid. You know some people are just up their own asses. There're thousands of people who respect you because you ain't some dictator."

"Perhaps," Freed said, though his voice didn't portray confidence.

"He's right Freed," Evergreen encouraged, sitting on the arm of the throne, and smiling at the God. "Remember what you told Laxus before he left. He has to make sure he doesn't change who he is. You have to do the same thing, keep yourself kind."

Freed didn't say anything, and deflated at the sound of his lover's name. Bickslow and Evergreen shared a look at that.

Though the two of them had known Laxus was important to Freed, they hadn't known just how much the God cared for him until recently. Freed's mood had changed slightly, and he was both more forlorn and had a shorter temper. It was clear that Laxus had been some kind of a light in Freed's life, in some sense, and to have him ripped away from him and into a warzone was harming Freed more than he let on.

The influx of work probably wasn't helping either and the God was facing more stress than he probably ever had before. They did their best to keep him happy, of course, but Freed insisted on keeping himself busy and making more work for himself than needed.

"He'll come back eventually," Bickslow said, in a voice almost soft. He patted the man's shoulder gently.

"He hasn't yet," Freed snapped, looking up with a glare.

"We know he hasn't, Freed," Evergreen sighed, placing a hand on his thigh comfortingly. "But you had to know that it'd take a while for anything to give."

"I suppose," Freed let his gaze fall again.

"You just gotta make sure you're still the man he loves when he comes back," Bickslow grinned. "And that's why you've got the two of us, right? So we can keep you on the straight and narrow for your man. That way, when he comes back covered in scars and even hotter than he was before, the two of you can pick up where you left off and start kissing each other. And you won't have to do it with Ivan Fuckface in charge."

"I suppose not," Freed chuckled, and it was only slightly bitter. "I do understand that what he's doing is important. I just miss him."

"Of course you do," Evergreen smiled. "I don't know what it's like, but the way you smile at him shows how much you care. But you just need to be patient."

Freed agreed with the statement, but didn't say anything. Selfishly he would have rather Laxus not go to the war. He would have offered the man safe haven in his castle and fought off the forces who tried to take him, and he would do so with both tooth and claw. But his demons were right; Laxus needed to fight for the more moral side and Freed couldn't stop him. If Freed were any other God, he too would probably be fighting on Makarov's side at that moment. But he had to look after his people, and doing that meant he had to allow his lover some trust.

"Thank you for putting up with me," Freed eventually spoke again. "I understand that it might get annoying listening to me complain about not being treated well, I'm sorry."

"We agree with you, idiot," Bickslow laughed. "The Gods are dicks to you and some of the new guys down here don't know a good thing when they see it, and they complain about it. You're allowed to rant at us whenever you want."

"Whenever we meet another God's angel and they talk about how they're treated, we realise just how good we get it with you," Evergreen laughed. "And that's quite a claim, because you can be quite annoying when you want to be."

"Oh," Freed raised an eyebrow. He knew Evergreen was baiting him to another, more cheerful topic, and he allowed it to happen. "Give me an example."

"I know," Bickslow grinned, voice loud again to lift the mood. The demons were doing what they always did to get Freed out of a bad mood, wait until he was willing to talk and then be optimistic and loud. "When you saw her looking at the Strauss brother with moony eyes so got him to work in the castle and then you made the climate warmer, so he'd take his shirt off to make Ever implode."

"Yes," Ever muttered. "That was annoying."

Freed chuckled, and his shoulders relaxed, and jaw unclenched. He relaxed in his throne and glanced to the window that had shattered at his shout. He waved a hand towards it and it slowly started to melt back into place.

Just like Laxus' magic was connected to the weather; Freed's was connected to the structure of the Netherworld. He managed to keep his destructive tendencies to the castle, and when he was calm he would fix anything he had broken in his anger. He didn't miss the shared smile of his demons when the window was fixed. They clearly knew that, to an extent, his mental wellbeing was reflected by the structure of his home. Laxus had storm clouds, Freed had crumbling stone.

"The two of you are far too good for me," Freed claimed, cricking his neck.

"You're only saying that because you haven't seen how obedient some of the other angels are," Bickslow chuckled.

Obedience was much less appealing than having friends. Freed wasn't going to say that, though.

"You're fine as you are," Freed assured them.

"That's good. I doubt we'll change anytime soon," Evergreen chuckled, smiling. "But, you do know that if there's anything we can do for you, you just have to ask. We know that this isn't easy for you."

Freed thought for a moment. There was, of course, one thing that he wanted to ask of his demons, but he couldn't. It was a purely selfish request and could endanger their wellbeing. He dismissed the thought almost as it came to him, but apparently his demons had seen the momentary flicker of an idea strike him. They looked at him expectantly, and that didn't stop when he made a passive motion with his hand.

"You needn't do this if you don't want to," Freed began. "In fact it's probably better if you don't. It's a fanciful idea at best."

"Tell us," Evergreen requested.

"Laxus. I need to know that he's alive, and safe," Freed admitted, weakly. "It's killing me not knowing what's happening with him."

"You want us to find him and make sure he ain't injured?" Bickslow concluded, raising an eyebrow towards Freed.

The God nodded, though had no expectations that his demons would indulge his ideas. Bickslow and Evergreen looked to one another and seemed to have a silent conversation between themselves; Freed had often wondered if his demons could actually speak without their voice and they just hadn't told him. After a few seconds of silent communication, they looked back to Freed with a concerning amount of determination in their expressions.

"Will you be okay without us?" Evergreen asked, and her voice was serious.

"You're considering it?" Freed asked. They both nodded, and Freed felt a mixture of sickness and relief. "I-I can merge souls on my own. That's most of your responsibilities as of late."

"We meant if you could look after yourself while we're gone, Freed," Bickslow sighed.

"If I can look after a realm of millions, I can look after myself," Freed spoke with offence shaping his tone. He knew of their reason for asking though.

"We'll leave in the morning," Bickslow stated, and Evergreen nodded.

Freed looked at his demons with shock. He knew they had respect and fondness for him, but hadn't expected this. He was asking his friends to walk into the most vicious battlefield in history, and all because he couldn't bear to not know what was happening with his lover. It was an almost pathetic request and yet they were happy to risk their lives for it.

"Thank you," He whispered, bowing his head to them.

They both smiled, and it made Freed's stomach ache. He loved them both, and they were too good to him, despite their protests. Anyone willing to walk through hell for him was worth more than Freed could give them.

And tomorrow, they would be gone…

He would be alone in his castle.

And he would have to deal with that.

~~~

It is unclear as to how long Freed expected his demons to be gone from The Netherworld, looking for his lover. Many of the records claim it was only meant to be days, but that is heavily contested and criticised. But no matter what the expectations, the time taken to gather any information on Laxus' state was long enough to have a great effect on Freed.

Again, this is something reflected in the 'Knight of Judgement' art piece. The flowers located in both the death Gods eye and heart are reflective of his emotional state.

Art historians claim that the flower located in Freed's eye is reflective of the beauty he saw in the world, and the people. The encroaching purple effect is a show of how, without those he loved to influence his actions, that optimism and beauty he saw in existence was slowly being taken away in his solitude.

The flower in his chest is said to be orange and red as his heart is stained with blood. It acts as a mirror for the more violent side of the man after his loved ones left, something that gets more and more prominent as his seclusion continues.

This can be seen in his interaction with the angel known as Jackal.

Jackal is known to be a cursed angel, a criminal of the war and part of Ivan's Tartaros Nine. He is responsible for some of the most brutal deaths during the war, many of which were humans who he saw collateral damage. He is said to be one of the most sadistically cruel of the angels on Ivan's side, and has often been shown as the man who encouraged Ivan into his most aggressive and twisted attacks.

The death of the angel was seen as a large victory for Makarov's side, and the strike of lightning that sank his ship and led to his drowning is sometimes accredited for a shift in the war. Many people think Jackal's story ends there, but this is untrue.

Jackal's story truly ends in the afterlife, with Freed. And for those with a sensitive disposition, I advise caution into reading the details of this meeting.

Levy McGarden; An Examination and Retelling of the Fiorean Gods

~~~

At the back left of Freed's castle was a tower.

Inside the tower was a room that often went unused. A torture chamber of sorts.

Often, those who might have justifiably occupied such a room were never given an afterlife. Luck seemed determined to spawn their souls and bodies in places where they couldn't be found, meaning the truly cruel people usually had their bodies composted and their souls fizzled by insanity before they could even near an afterlife. Fate must determine that death being permanent a larger punishment than anything Freed could have done to them.

That apparently wasn't seen as true with a certain person. Both the body and the soul of Jackal had formed at the foot of Freed's door. It was practically an offering, and Freed understood what he had to do.

An angel's death was similar to a human's, in the Netherworld. Although they were considerably rarer, the process was the same. Death ripped apart the soul and the body, and if they were brought back then they would be indistinguishable from humans. Other than the demons and Freed himself, nobody in the underworld was different from the other. That meant, whereas previously an angel would have a higher tolerance for pain, they were now as breakable and damageable than any human would be.

This was convenient, given what Freed was going to do.

He knew who Jackal was. The murderer of countless, the angel who bathed in the ashes of his victims, the Demigod of destruction. The titles he gained were overly dramatic, but were not exaggerated. Jackal was a murderer, and even the presence of his soul and body had seemingly sent a shiver down the Netherworld.

And he had been given straight to Freed. As a gift almost. The idea that the leader of the Netherworld would punish sinners was something greatly exaggerated, but Freed felt he could conform to the stereotype for now. It might be rather therapeutic.

Fun, even.

A welcome distraction too. After sending his closest demons into the warzone, he had been alone in the castle. The only interactions he'd had were with the people whose souls and bodies he had merged together, and he had dismissed them without a word. Being alone in his castle was something he hadn't experiences in millennia's, and he wasn't dealing with the situation. He was allowing his anger to permeate, with nobody to use as an outlet.

But now he had someone. His anger at how cruel the war had become, and how it affected those he loved, could now be directed at someone who has responsible for it.

Maybe that was why Jackal had been delivered to him where no cruel man had been before. Freed was now a fate worse than death.

The doors to the tower creaked and groaned as they slowly opened, and the light flittering into the room from behind Freed illuminated the dusty chamber dimly. Cobwebs cluttered the room, the stonework lacked the usual polish of the rest of the castle, and the only things that had any level of care attributed to them were the shackles, manacles and chains that were keeping the man contained.

Jackal couldn't move. Metal bands wrapped around his wrists, ankles, biceps, thighs, stomach, neck, and chest. A large metal plate blocked his mouth and, although it couldn't be seen, Freed knew that there was a rusted shaft of metal holding down the man's tongue and resting in his throat.

Freed looked at the man with no sympathy. He knew what he had done.

"Typically, the devil is meant to confront a person with their sins in a situation like this," Freed began, and Jackal looked at him. His expression was hidden by his bounds. "But I expect you lack the morality to feel guilt."

Jackal made a choking, raspy sound. He was laughing.

Freed's didn't show any reaction other than a slight tensing of his posture. He had heard stories about how Jackal worked. His sadistic nature was prevalent in everything he did, and one way he entertained himself was by toying with people. Many of the dead had been forced to beg for mercy by the man, only to have him kill them a moment later. It would be in keeping with his reputation for him to try and antagonise Freed, and he wasn't going to give the man the satisfaction of getting under his skin.

"No," Freed continued. "You much prefer the hands-on approach, I expect."

Clenching his fist, he slammed it forward in a sharp punch to the man's gut. It was a simple enough movement, but the God's strength mixed with the angel's newfound vulnerability forced out a small choking sound. Jackal quickly manipulated it into another throaty laugh, but the pain the action had caused was obvious. Freed looked at him with almost curiosity.

He punched the man three more times, in quick succession, hitting the same part of his stomach each time. His only partially restored body bruised easier than a living person would, and a purple mound spread from where Freed had punched. Jackal was still laughing.

The reaction was interesting to Freed. That was perhaps not what Jackal wanted from it.

"I'm curious to see what your intention is, with the laughter," Freed said, stepping back and looking at the man plainly. "Because even if you succeed in antagonising me, I won't let you out. You'll be here for as long as I want, and I'll hurt you in whatever way I see fit no matter how much you laugh, or how angry you make me."

He just kept laughing.

"Furthermore, if this is some form of manipulation to make me do something I might regret, then I must inform you that my mortality is not as rigid and clear cut as you might think. And with a man such as yourself, regret is unlikely to take effect."

He was still laughing.

And Freed didn't find himself annoyed by it, for the moment. He knew what a manipulator looked like; he had met Ivan after all. All men like that were clearly after a certain reaction and the worst outcome for them was to be denied it. So Freed turned to the side, looked at the large wheel that was attached to the chains containing Jackal, and began to turn it. The shackles tightened around the man, the chains started to stretch him, and the skin bruised beneath the metal.

"I expect you thought yourself above death, so you probably didn't bother to learn the rules of the Netherworld," Freed continued, removing his hands from the crank and looking back to his capture, who was wincing with his eyes. "Your body won't heal, at all. We have people with the ability to heal it, but they work for me, and they will not help you. So anything I do to you, will be a permanent fixture."

Freed absently ran a sharp nail down the man's leg. It split open as if cut by a knife, and Freed noticed the slight widening of the man's eyes.

Good.

"Of course I might heal you eventually. The definition of your muscles, and the lack of any blemishes, shows you keep pride in what you look like," Freed mused aloud, looking him up and down as one might assess their prey. "Ruining it multiple times in multiple ways might be interesting."

Jackal didn't react to that, but Freed had a feeling he would have a comment if he could speak. He thought only for a moment before placing his hand on the large metal gag, pulling it forward and taking the man's head with it. The leather straps flicked open at the pressure, and Freed pulled the rusted iron out of his prisoners' mouth. He didn't miss the raspy cough that Jackal allowed, nor did he miss his dried lips.

He was more affected than he was letting on. Freed almost felt some sympathy.

But he knew what this man had done. The purposeful attacks on the shorelines just to kill humans and hurt them. The joyous laughter he had projected as the skies lit up with death and anguish. The disregard for anything other than his own twisted amusement. This man had lost his chance at sympathy more times than it was possible to count.

"So you're the corpse fucker Ivan's always talkin' about," Jackal rasped.

"He's yet to come up with a more creative insult, it seems," Freed brushed the comment off. "A pity."

Before Jackal could say anything again, he grabbed the man by his neck and lifted him up. The chains fought against it, and strained their grip on Jackal. Freed's claw like nails dug into the man's neck and a slight trail of blood slithered down one of Freed's fingers. Now without the obtrusive gag, Freed could see more how the man was shaking and gritting his teeth to stop some kind of exhalation of pain. Freed's grasp tightened just a little.

"I'm conflicted on how to treat you, Jackal," Freed stated, forcing eye contact with the bound man. "Given this is a form of punishment, it seems only right there to be some kind of irony involved. Perhaps for everyone you've made cry, I should make you cry. For everyone you've left to burn, I burn you. Perhaps I could invite your victims here, use you as a form of entertainment for them. Have them flog you and laugh as you weep, which you will. Although, selfishly, it might be more fun if I were to make you my personal… plaything."

Jackal laughed hoarsely. "Heard that you were a pacifist. This is a surprise."

"Who told you that," Freed chuckled, pushing his claws further into the man's neck. Something popped under the pressure; he didn't know what, but there was more blood now.

"Everyone," Jackal said, and he gargled. Blood was coming from his mouth. "They say you got corrupted by those fucking half-life's you let in here and those little bitch demons. Say that they made ya weak."

"Perhaps they did," Freed mused. "But do you know what else they did?" He leant close to Jackal, grinning. "They left me. And now it's just you and me."

Freed pushed the man forward, as if throwing him to the side, but the chains kept him where he was. Blood slid out of some of the wounds Freed gave him, but he was still laughing weakly. Freed looked at him with intrigue, but didn't say anything. He let the man laugh for a little while before he tired himself out, then he spoke again.

"You see, I've had a lot of time to think as of late," Freed mused, looking at the man as the amusement was settled. "And I've decided, the war doesn't make me sad. It doesn't make me feel bad. It makes me feel angry. Because an imbecilic man and his equally idiotic father decided to take out their anger on the world. Just to destroy it. Not because they need to fight, nor because anything needs to change. Because they're ridiculous little people with so much arrogance that they think they're problems are the world's problems.

"And then there's people like you. The enablers. The puppet masters, perhaps. The people whispering in their ears, telling them they need to act larger. Get angrier and more destructive. To go bigger and stronger because that's what power demands and that's what happens in wars. And all just to feed your evil wank fantasies. You saw an opportunity and you took it, and expected no consequences."

Freed slammed his fist forward and punched the man in his gut again, and Jackal visibly deflated at the action, coughing up blood. The bruise on the man's stomach got larger, and Jackal's laughter was weaker this time.

"Interesting," Jackal commented, voice gravely and quiet now.

"Speak up," Freed demanded with a sharp tone.

"I said it's interesting. Which of the Dreyar's you chose to mention," Jackal cackled, looking up at Freed with a manic grin. Freed's posture tightened at the statement. "You talk about Ivan and the decrepit bastard. But not little Laxus."

"The point being?" Freed demanded, the sound of Laxus' name on the angel's tongue sounding wrong. Evil.

"We all fucking know about what the two of you fuckers do when he's down here," Jackal laughed manically, and Freed tensed. "And daddy Ivan isn't happy. And when he wins he's gonna come down here and get ya. And I've heard what he's gonna do to ya. And you're not gonna like it. And he's gonna make little Laxus watch as he rips open his demonic little secret."

"Don't assume you have the right to say his name."

"What are ya gonna do to stop me," Jackal giggled, allowing himself to go limp in the chains. "Lock me up. Torture me. It ain't working yet. And that'd be ironic – since ya like irony – that you'd be hurting me because little Laxus is away. Because that's why you're acting like this, and not just letting me die. Because you miss him. Ain't that just fucking sweet."

"Don't say his name."

"Or maybe you just miss him shoving his dick in your ass," Jackal cackled again, eyes wide and unhinged as he looked at his torturer. "You'll might have to get used to it. Because if Ivan has his way, there won't be much left of your fuck toy when the war is done."

Freed paused at that, then his gaze sharpened.

"What do you mean?" He asked, voice cutting. "What does he intend to do."

"Oh, I don't think I want to tell you yet," Jackal laughed. "I just heard that Ivan needs a nice little powerhouse for the rest of the fight and has his eyes on little Laxus. But once he's won, he doesn't need him anymore. And he had a lot of plans for traitors, and your Lightning God is the most traitorous little fucker of all. I won't tell you all of what he'll go through. But I think that it will be spectacular, I just wished I could see it."

There was a moment of silence. Then Freed saw red.

Everything that had happened since the war began flashed into his mind. The endless slaughter of innocent people. The forced involvement of his lover. The decisions made to force his friends into the fray. The slow but persistent chipping away at his kindness. The cruelty shown by all who were involved. Everything was twisted and wrong.

And here, before him, was Jackal. An orchestrator of this hellish existence. A manipulator and abuser.

Someone who deserved agony.

He slammed his hand forward again, eyes glowing. Darkness swirled up his arm and manipulated his flesh, replacing his skin with fur and talons and his hand with a claw. He reached out with a snarl, his drumming heartbeat drowning out the sound of Jackal's laughter. His claw dug into the man's chest, ripping open his flesh as if it were nothing. He dug in further, cutting through the flesh, muscle, and bone before finding his target, and he grabbed it.

The man's heart.

He pulled.

Jackal screamed.

Blood dripped from both the wound and the organ, before Jackal slumped. The removed of a heart was a way of killing the undead. It would ensure that the body and soul were split apart again, and couldn't be returned. The rest of the soul's partial existence would be agony. An infinite hell preserved by the last flickers of consciousness.

Freed dropped the organ, letting it fall to the ground. He spun on his heel and allowed the body to slump and bruise in chains, not sparing the angel another glance.

After leaving the room, his boots clicked on the marble as he walked down a corridor. Either side was a stained-glass depiction of both Evergreen and Bickslow, decorations that hadn't been there before. The castle was trying to tell him something, apparently. Either a warning or a judgment on his morality. Freed spared them a glance but stormed through it without much care for his friend's depictions.

At the end of the corridor, he slammed the door shut. The corridor crumbled to nothing behind him, destroying the glass visages of his friends as it did. It was just wreckage in his wake.

~~~

The hand with which Freed removed Jackal's heart was his right. The 'Knight of Judgement' art piece portrays his right hand as being overtaken by thorn like chains, showing the affect the darkness had on him. It acts as judgment for what he did, and when he allowed his cruelty to overtake him and taint his actions.

After that day, Freed was changed. This art piece shows it.

Although it is argued as to whether Freed's actions were justified or not, it is almost unanimous that this was the only time Freed acted solely out of blind rage and anger. This was the only time in the war where he lost himself entirely to his emotions.

Also often disputed is why Freed had destroyed the corridor leading to the torture tower. Some claim he did so because he wished the block his path from the room off so that he could move on from what he had done and not repeat it. Others claim it was a clear objection to the judgment of Bickslow and Evergreen through their stained-glass visages. Either way, the corridor was one room that was never fixed after its destruction.

Despite the fact Freed never acted out of blind anger again, his mind did not heal immediately. The following weeks, he secluded himself in his castle. No demons nor humans were allowed in. The doors were replaced by walls, the windows bricked up, and moat surrounding it filled with melted stones and magma. He had finalised his own prison.

His self-destruction and seclusion continued for a while longer, the precise time is unknown. What is known is that the next time Freed would see any other creature is the return of his demons to the Netherworld, which is often where the story of the end of the war is said to begin.

Levy McGarden; An Examination and Retelling of the Fiorean Gods

~~~

There was something wrong in the Netherworld.

It was the first thing that Bickslow and Evergreen noticed when they returned. There was a certain edge to the atmosphere that hadn't been present before. Whereas previously the Netherworld had been welcoming by design – death was jarring enough, why make the new environment hostile to the deceased – now it was darker and sharper almost. It was no longer the bustling city it had once been, but instead was a shell of itself, an endless expanse of buildings.

Two demons glanced at each other with concern. The people who should have populated the streets were nowhere to be seen, the ever-present sound of talking that came with humans had been lost, and the feeling of loneliness was practically palpable.

Their immediate concern was for their God.

As they flew through the streets, they could see the dead were in their homes. Some people were working the farms needed to keep food, but only the bare minimum. The Netherworld was a skeleton of what it once was, and everything the two demons saw were making them more worried for their friend. Freed had done whatever he could to make the place better than this, so to see what had happened in their absence was more than concerning.

"Maybe we should have stayed with him," Bickslow sighed. "At least one of us."

"There's no point in dwelling on that," Evergreen said, looking at the abandoned streets with a frown. "We should just get to him as soon as we can and try and help him."

"Guess we should."

The demons sped up their flight through the city, both wearing expressions of concern as they got nearer and nearer to the castle where their God resided. As the building became more than just a silhouette, they both looked at it with wide eyes.

Whereas previously it had been somewhat welcoming, it now stood both secluded and crumbling. The windows had been replaced by bricks, the moat had been expanded to the point where the castle was on its own island, and the drawbridge was lifted and bolted upright. The brickwork was cracked, and it was clear some of the more vulnerable pieces of stone had fallen to the ground below. Doors were removed and any form of entrance seemed blocked up or destroyed. It was entirely closed off, no doubt with Freed inside.

After flitting around the top of the castle in hopes of finding an entrance, their concern grew. Freed was secluding himself. Completely.

Of course, they couldn't allow this. Freed was a man more emotional than he would openly admit, and clearly the toll of the war was affecting him greatly. Worse, he was a powerful man, and it would be entirely possible that Freed's seclusion could lead to something more destructive. It would only take the wrong thing to happen before Freed's emotions contorted into anger, and he use it against his subjects.

It took a little while, but after flying around the walls of the castle, they managed to find a single unblocked door. It was at the back of the castle, and only allowed access to the private garden. The place where Freed and Laxus had met.

When they entered, they saw the state of disrepair was worse inside. Carpets were muddied, dusty and torn, curtains clumped on the floor having fallen form the walls, paintings were either destroyed or removed, light had been eradicated entirely and shards of brick and stone populated the ground. It was a wreck, and the fact that Freed seemed either unaware of it or simply didn't care sent a surge of fear through the demons.

The castle was a reflection of Freed. If he didn't care about the castle, he didn't care about his own wellbeing.

Guided by the light of Bickslow's glowing souls, they quietly navigated the silent castle. They checked Freed's chambers and the study that he preferred, but saw they were both unoccupied and equally as run down as the rest of the building. They then searched more of the rooms Freed could often be found in, before walking towards the throne room. They had hoped they wouldn't need to go there, that Freed would be elsewhere, but all signs pointed that this was where he was.

Freed was never in the throne room for a good reason. It was normally the source of his anger.

When they pushed open the door, they were greeted with the sight of their God. The room itself was more ruined than any other, with streams of light flitting in through the cracks in the walls, hitting Freed in various places. Every decoration was in tatters, burned away or non-existent. The only thing still in its former glory was the throne itself, and that made Evergreen and Bickslow look on in worry. Freed hated that throne, only used it when needed, and yet now it was the only thing he was bothering to keep immaculate.

Why he was doing that they didn't know, but it wasn't going to be for a good reason.

Freed himself looked different too. His face was emotionless, his right hand replaced with an obviously demonic claw, his clothing ripped and in the same state as the castle, and his right eye was pulsating in a dark purple glow.

"You've returned," He commented, looking at his demons enigmatically.

"What the hell happened here?" Bickslow demanded, looking around in almost disbelief.

"Progress," Freed shrugged, not moving from his throne. "I had something of a realisation. Call is an epiphany if you want to romanticise it."

"Okay," Evergreen said slowly, approaching Freed with something akin to caution. Freed raised an eyebrow at that. "And what did you realise."

"That humans brought this upon themselves," Freed said plainly. "They worship these Gods without care for the consequences. They build up their dammed egos to the point where they believe that their Gods can do no wrong, and the Gods believe them right back. They're complicit in their own destruction. They have a hunger for mistreatment, whether they're aware of it or not, and I have granted them their wish. I expect they're thrilled at what they've got."

"Freed, that ain't-" Bickslow began, but Evergreen put a hand on his arm to stop him. They needed the full story before they could help.

"Why did you let the castle get like this?" She asked.

"I didn't see the point in maintaining it," Freed stated, looking at his demons with almost curiosity. "Nobody but me is going to see it, and I don't particularly care for the frivolities of it all. Why waste the effort in making it look respectable if there's nobody to appreciate it?"

"And the moat?" Bickslow prompted.

"There were complaints about the way I was changing things, and people thought it wise to try and change my mind," Freed sighed, in annoyance most likely. "The moat acts as a deterrent. There's no way to approach me, and those who try will have their bodies boiled. It proved quite effective, after the first few attempts were unsuccessfully made."

"And why remove the windows?"

"Predominantly to further keep out anyone who wished to try their luck in speaking with me," Freed glanced at where a window had once been, then back to his demons. "And partly because the light seeping in was a bother. I can see without it; it was simply a functionality for the human's ease. Unneeded now."

The two demons shared a look. They had perhaps expected a blind rage from their God, but this calm, detached nature was a lot more concerning. It was as if all the emotion had been sapped out of him.

"What made you do this Freed?" Evergreen asked, stepping closer again. Bickslow did the same.

"I told you, I came to a greater understanding of the world," Freed shrugged. "Humans are addicted to pain and turmoil. They bring it upon themselves so it makes their short existences seem worthwhile; they force agony on themselves so that they can feel better when they get rid of it. I have been a crutch to them, and they haven't earned my help, so I have removed it from them. I have also removed their influence from me."

While Evergreen looked at their God with concern, Bickslow's eyes widened and he felt a rush of guilt wash over him. He had seen emotions of all type in humans, both repressed and volatile, and he knew what Freed was doing. He was a man of pride and duty, and he wouldn't allow his true feelings to be known to anyone. But it was plain to see that he was lonely.

Bickslow and Evergreen had left him alone when he was struggling. He was more alone than he had ever been, and he had closed himself off.

Perhaps he thought that emotions were the reason he was hurting so much on his own, and was trying to remove their influence from him. Perhaps he just wasn't thinking straight, and his self-inflicted seclusion from the world had led him to make stupid decisions. But it was very clear what was happening; Freed was angry and lonely and didn't know how to deal with it, so was lashing out at the world.

Walking up to Freed, he was met with an inquisitive eyebrow raise and nothing more. Before Freed could stop him, the demon wrapped his arms tightly around the man, pulling him into a tight hug.

Freed went rigid against Bickslow's chest and for a moment he was unmoving.

"I'm sorry we left you," Bickslow stated softly, and his voice quivered. "And I'm sorry you're having to go through all this shit with nobody to understand how hard it is for you. And I'm sorry that people constantly undermine you. I'm sorry we haven't been here for you and I promise we won't do that to you again. But we are here for you, and we love you."

A sob slipped through Freed's lips.

He wrapped his arms tightly around Bickslow, clinging to him as if he might disappear. Bickslow tightened his own grip, and allowed Freed to press his face into his torso for as long as he needed. He was probably crying, and most likely wouldn't end the hug until he stopped. That was fine, he could deal with that.

Evergreen had walked over and was gently stroking Freed's back, and the two demons shared a sympathetic look. They knew now that one of them should have stayed behind to look after him, they knew that Freed wasn't as in control as he liked to think and should have anticipated he might need help.

But like Evergreen had said earlier, they couldn't focus on that.

Eventually Freed did remove himself from the hug, and the dampness around his eyes told Bickslow that he had indeed cried. They didn't comment on anything as Freed rubbed the back of his left hand against his face, cleaning it slightly and making himself look more presentable. The glowing in his right eye diminished now, but the effect of his time alone was still obvious in both the castle and in his demonic right arm.

"I shouldn't need to rely on you," Freed whispered. "And I'm sorry that I do."

"Everyone needs people, Freed," Evergreen said softly. "And the people who think otherwise are the people who start wars and bring cruelty for no reason. You are not one of those people."

"But what I've done over the last-"

"Anything you've done can be fixed, Freed," Bickslow firmly stated, leaving no room for argument. "You're allowed mistakes, more than anyone. People can forgive you and move on, they're good at that."

Freed thought for a moment, before ducking his head in defeat. Evergreen patted his shoulder while Bickslow ruffled the top of his already messy head. Freed chuckled slightly at the action, though his heart was barely in it. The demons wished that they could do more to help their friend, but he could only heal himself. And, unfortunately, part of that healing process would involve the God's lover, something which Freed would soon find out about.

"We found Laxus," Evergreen said after Freed looked up again. The man's head snapped towards her. "And I'm going to need you to promise to keep calm."

"If he okay?" Freed demanded, regret replaced by a small mixture of fear and anger.

"He's alive," Bickslow said calmly, and the lack of affirmation of anything better made Freed tense. "A couple of weeks ago, he was captured by Ivan's forces. They're using him against Makarov, we're not exactly sure how, but they're managed to draw his lightning out of him against his will."

Freed's eyes went hollow as he thought back to what Jackal had said. If captured, they would use Laxus for as long as needed, before killing him.

"Are they hurting him?"

"Yes," Evergreen sighed, placing a hand on Freed in the hope of calming him. "We're not sure, but we think they're using some kind of torture to get him to use his lightning."

"We couldn't save him on our own, he's heavily guarded," Bickslow confessed, looking at the floor with an angered expression. "We did what we could, but we had to leave. We came here immediately because you needed to know. I'm sorry we couldn't save him."

"What exactly are they doing to him?" Freed said, standing up.

"They've got him in chains, and when we were there they were constantly beating him," Evergreen explained softly, watching as Freed moved. "There's these things, they look like crystals, which looked like they were coming from his back and his chest. Every time he was hit, and a spark of lighting came across him, the crystals picked it up and sent it into a metal structure. We think it's a weapon, a lightning canon of some kind."

"They're beating him," Freed echoed quietly. "They're torturing him."

Many things happened next.

The castle seemed to shift around them, stone cracking against stone, shards of glass and rubble lifting from the air and floating towards the walls, ruined tapestries and curtains reforming and returning to their previous places around the room. Light streamed into the room where the windows now reformed. The room was just as it once had been, in its perfected glory, and both demons felt the rumble of movement through the castle that told them the entire building was the same.

Freed himself changed too. Any signs of him being haggard or exhausted were removed, and replaced with perfection. He stood upright, tall, and proud. He was more regal and God-like in that moment than he had ever been.

Two sharp, curved horns twisted out of his head, parting his hair. His eye glowed bright as he looked back to his demons, an expression of barely restrained fury on his face. Air seemed to twist around him and darken, as if magically inclined to support his rage and passion. He was not just a God, at that moment. He was a warrior.

"I will speak to my people," Freed proclaimed, turning on his heal and started to move through his castle.

"And say what?" Evergreen asked, sprouting wings to keep up with him.

"To announce that we will no longer be passive in this war," Freed stated, motioning to the drawbridge which fell with a dramatic shutter, lava sloshing around it. "They have captured the man I love and are using his gifts to slaughter innocent people. His own father is responsible and will show no guilt nor compassion. This war has been happening for years and has twisted those who have been dragged into it. It is a blight on anyone who has seen it yet was born of the whim of two egotists. But it will continue no more."

"What are you gonna do?" Bickslow questioned as Freed walked out of his castle for the first time in months.

"I will bring hell to them," Freed proclaimed. "And anyone who dares try and stop me will do battle with the devil himself."

~~~

The day the doors to the Netherworld opened was the day the war ended. The day Freed ended it.

It was a momentous occasion, one which will forever be recognised in history. The day that the God of Death saw the war for the first time, and decided that he would end it. The day where the dead fought for the living. The day the leading Gods were shown for what they were; weak and uncaring to those below them.

On that day, Freed became a fighter. The horns he grew symbolised that, both as a reflection of the helmets worn by warriors as well as a clear declaration of his strength. The God was a weapon, something dangerous and to be feared. He had no weaknesses, no vulnerabilities. He was something that could not be destroyed by lesser beings, not could be looked down upon. Freed was often assumed to be an incompetent leader of the Netherworld by other Gods, but in that moment he was more devilish than any God could hope to be.

That day, everything Freed did struck fear into the hearts of Gods.

The day the doors to the Netherworld opened was often feared. In prophecy it claimed to be the day the dead rose to overtake the living, angered by their treatment and mortality. Even Gods were taught to fear the opening of hell.

And when it happened, a shiver went through the world.

And even a God as twisted as Ivan Dreyar felt fear.

Levy McGarden; An Examination and Retelling of the Fiorean Gods

~~~

Ivan was a bastard.

Laxus had always thought this, ever since he had realised just how much of his life had been manipulated by his father. The man was a cruel and vindictive person, doing whatever he wanted and hurting anyone he could just to get his own way. The only thing that he had ever thought of was the best way to achieve his own goals, all of which were only designed to increase his power and influence. He had never been a good person.

But now, he was more than just cruel. He was more than just a bastard. He was evil. There was no other term for what he was doing, no other way to describe him.

He had captured Laxus himself. He's set up a diversion, starting a battle on the land and murdering an entire town of humans just for the sake of it. Laxus had taken to the skies to stop the forces, but had apparently left himself open for attack, and Ivan had taken the chance. One of his angels had put Laxus to sleep, and the thunder God had awoken in his father's clutches.

When he had woken up, he was in chains. The room was small and filled with smoke, something of an engine room Laxus guessed. He didn't have time to dwell on that, as when he looked down to see a large, jagged blue crystal had been sewed into his skin. He had panicked instantly, lightning crackling across his skin. It flickered towards the crystal and was absorbed by it, skittering up a large metal column that he was wired up to. It wasn't hard to understand what was happening, this was some way for his father to steal his lighting and use it for whatever he pleased.

Bastard.

Over the next few days, Laxus had been forced to endure a lot. Ivan knew that his lightning was an instinctive thing, and that the easiest way to get it from him was to hurt him. Well, perhaps not the easiest, but Ivan didn't seem to care.

Beatings and threats came thick and fast, the intensity of them depending on how much lightning he needed. For one particularly large fight where the Lighting Dragon – the name he had given the weapon – was needed, Ivan had decided to take a knife to Laxus' face. No doubt a jagged scar would be there when Laxus next saw his reflection.

He tried not to think about it. He tried not to think much about anything that was happening, instead he was just focusing on trying not to show how his father was affecting him.

If nothing else, he would keep his damned dignity.

It was getting harder to do that, though.

Mostly, one of Ivan's angels had been beating Laxus, but Ivan himself sometimes did it. Today was one such day. The old man had rid himself of the metal armour he had constantly been wearing since the start of the war, and was holding something that Laxus had become all too familiar with. A two-pronged weapon that Ivan would have rested against an open flame. It was simple, vicious, and effective. So Ivan either wanted a lot of electricity today, or just wanted to hurt him.

"It really is a shame I have to do this," Ivan commented as he walked forward. "It would have been much easier if you had just followed logic and chosen to fight my side without objection. I wouldn't have had to kill you that way."

Laxus didn't speak. He wouldn't speak.

"Well, perhaps kill isn't the correct term," Ivan continued, gently running the sharp tool against Laxus' torso. "Because if I killed you, you'd go into the arms of that little harlot of yours. Rather, I'll force you into something akin to death."

Gritting his teeth, Laxus glared at his father. He didn't know how the man knew about his relationship with Freed, but it was now one of Ivan's favourite ways to torment him.

"I've a few ways in which I could do that," Ivan mused aloud. "There's burying you alive, of course. Drowning you then resuscitating you only to drown you again. I could do some experimentation on the ways in which a God can replenish their body after grievous injury. Or I could just keep you here and make an example out of you in case anybody had any thoughts about trying to usurp me. The possibilities are endless."

"Fuck yourself," Laxus growled, voice hoarse from lack of water.

"Oh, you're speaking today are you?" Ivan asked almost conversationally, pushing the prong against Laxus' new face scar. "What's got you so chatty?"

"You won't win," Laxus grunted.

"Oh I think that I will," Ivan chuckled, pushing the device further against Laxus' injury. "In fact, I think I'll win rather soon. My father is far too reliant on those angels of his. But I think by the end of the week, they'll be here with you. Think of it as a present, some company for you."

"He'll stop you."

"No. No I don't think he will," Ivan chuckled. "He's struggling already. It's why he hasn't tried to save you yet. Did you know that? There's not even been an attempt. Not even a single angel has been sent for you. Not one."

Laxus growled, and lightning flickered across his skin. The crystals hummed as they absorbed it, and Laxus winced at the fizzing sensation that he was forced to endure. Ivan laughed at the reaction, pushing the hot poker further against his sensitive skin. Laxus grit his teeth and did what he could to force back the shout of pain that was trying to fight its way out of him. His entire body was tensed up, but his father clearly saw the pain Laxus was in. He was almost revelling in it.

The sessions could last days. And with the sadistic glee that the man seemed to be taking in his pain told Laxus that today would be such a session.

He had a plethora of devices that he took delight in using. He had brought them all with him and looked through them, settling on one and raising it up.

Throughout his weeks in his father's clutches, Laxus had done whatever he could to distract himself from his pain. He focused on happier memories; those of his grandfather before he had started his war. His time in the underworld, laughing and relaxing with the Raijinshuu and his lover. It didn't stop Ivan's torture from hurting any more, but at least it was something of a distraction, as well as a comfort.

Even thinking about Freed was calming. Laxus could picture him perfectly. His sharp features, his long silky hair, his strong arms, his beautiful laughter, his ardent passion. Everything about him was perfect, and Laxus missed seeing him so damn much.

They should have spoken after Laxus had left for the war.

He might never see him again.

Shutting his eyes, he tried to let memories of his lover overtake him. The first time they had seen each other, in Freed's garden, where they had spoken about the difficulties of being a God that nobody seemed to talk about. The meals they shared together, where Freed was slowly introducing Laxus to more of the human's culture. Just lying in bed with him, side by side while relishing in the man's beauty. His everything.

He had such an overwhelming presence. When he walked into a room, Laxus could feel him there. Freed had once said that Laxus had an aura to him; something about humidity and a chill. Laxus thought Freed had one too; a level of coolness, like the feeling of running your hand through moss. There was also a smell of damp stone, which was slight and barely noticeable to anyone but Laxus.

It was almost like he could feel it now.

Then, after a moment, he realised he could feel it.

He opened his eyes to see that Ivan had stopped his torment, and was looking around with confusion. Laxus suddenly felt a familiar feeling of comfort overtaking him. The feeling he got whenever he had entered the Netherworld. It was like he was there, with Freed beside him. With his moss like coolness and his stone scent. It was as if the Netherworld was bleeding into the world of the land of the living.

Then, Laxus realised what was happening.

He couldn't help it. He laughed.

"What?" Ivan snapped, glaring at his bound son. "What is this?"

"You can feel it too," Laxus laughed again. "You wanna know what it is, huh? I don't think you'll like the answer."

"Tell me!" Ivan shouted, backhanding Laxus. The blonde kept laughing despite the hit.

"Guess you wouldn't recognise it, since you've not been down there. But that's what I feel like whenever I go down to the underworld," Laxus laughed at the look of panic that flicked onto Ivan's face. "And if we can both feel it all the way out here, I think you can guess what's happening."

"No," Ivan growled.

"The devil's coming out to claim the world," Laxus quoted from one of many prophesies about the Netherworld opening its doors. "I wonder how happy he'll be when he finds out what you've been doing to me."

Laxus continued laughing while Ivan slowly looked towards him, before flicking on his heel and walking out of Laxus' chamber. Laxus allowed his limbs to fall limp in his bounds, closing his eyes and allowing the sensation of Freed to overtake him. Even in the situation, with the residual pain from Ivan's attacks, this was the most comfortable he had felt in months.

Freed was coming. And, at least for Laxus, that meant hope.

~~~

Often, this is where people being telling the story of how the war ends.

The gates to the Netherworld open, the God of Darkness walks out of his domain and lays judgment on those who have caused slaughter. The suffering ends and the war is finished. In the retelling of the God's of Fiore, this is one of the most famous and important moments of history. This is reflected in poems, songs, artwork, and stories told about it.

Again, the 'Knight of Judgement' reflects this.

The dagger laden with an all-seeing eye is a reflection of the strength that he showed in these moments. It is often referred to as the Blade of Judgement. Both the way Freed saw the injustices in the world, and how he punished them. It encapsulates how, in that moment, he was both Judge, Jury and Executioner.

A role which ended the war and gifted him the title 'God of Judgement'.

Levy McGarden; An Examination and Retelling of the Fiorean Gods

~~~

The opening of the Netherworld was near apocalyptic.

From the depths of the ocean walked forward an endless army of corpses. They were all unkillable, without fear nor regret, and brandishing weapons that could kill angels and humans alike. Above them floated their souls, warping and swirling through the air as dark purple fire. The fire of a soul cannot touch a living creature, and thus acted further as weapons against the oncoming fight.

Waves sloshed and churned as the water was toyed with, the armada of bodies waling atop the surface. The boats of the already fighting fleets were taken on the whim of the seas, losing all control, and becoming useless. They creaked and moaned in protest, but the sound fell to nothing.

Instead, there was silence.

The shadow of the God of Death loomed over the entire battlefield. His size was monolithic, and he looked down upon the living with an expression of calm, quelling rage. He towered over both men and mountains alike, and the ferocious wind of battle hit him and flung back the endless green hair that seemed to merge with the cloak he wore. It plastered against the surface of the sea, and the Death God slowly walked forward, creating waves of tidal size with each movement.

The waves gained a purple sheen to them, both by the shade of the God and the aura he exuded. The sensation of death and the Netherworld was slowly tainting the land of the living.

In that moment, eclipsed by the sun behind him and looking on the living with a sneer, he was more of a God than he had ever been. And it seemed everyone who saw him wouldn't dare deny the fact, as they looked upon the man with fear.

With every step, the fighting stopped.

The Death God looked at the congregation before him. At Gods and angels and humans fighting a war that should have never happened. How they had been twisted by pointless agendas and how many of them had been turned to savages. How once good people now saw the removal of life as an everyday occurrence, or even pleasure, rather than the travesty that it was.

Life ending should not be seen as a possibility. It should not be seen as something required for the future. It should be seen as something that only nature and time should control. These Gods had removed fate's hand in death, and for that they must be punished.

"Stand before me, Gods," The Death God demanded, voice echoing through the ocean.

He waited a moment. Nobody came, it felt like nobody moved.

Lifting his hand, the Death God allowed swirls of magic to form around him. Runic lettering fluttered through the air, a language of the Gods often thought to be lost or dead, at his control. They shot off in two directions, hunting down the Gods responsible for the war. A moment later they returned to him, this time carrying two men in their grasps, who struggled against them. The bounds were tight around the ruling Gods, and the Death God looked to them with indignation.

The last time he had seen them in person was when he had stormed form their meeting. He had forgotten just how human they looked. How pathetic they looked. But they had caused such destruction and heartbreak, and all for nothing.

They were ants compared to him.

"Look upon your creation," Freed demanded, making a gesture which turned the two men around.

They were forced to look over the battlefield that they had made. A battlefield Freed had no doubt that neither man had stepped onto themselves. They saw the hordes of corpses Freed had at his disposal, the ocean of souls that had been ripped from their bodies because of the whims of the two men, the angels and Gods that would soon be dead as well, the blood that had stained both the hands of the fighters and the water itself.

"Do you deem your actions good?" He asked, voice loud enough for everyone fighting to hear.

"Not damn near enough," Ivan snarled struggling against the runes keeping him in place.

With a quick hand gesture, Ivan was flung forward. He was tiny in comparison to the Death God, and struggled under the intense gaze of the man who controlled him. He sent a defiant glare to the other man, who looked at him without pity nor fear. He showed no emotion at all.

"Repeat yourself," The Death God demanded.

"I said it ain't near enough," Ivan growled, and the runes tightened around him slightly. "This world needs to change, or it'll die, and I'm the man who's going to change it. And no corpse fucking Demi-God is going to stop me."

"Still with the same insult. You're a tiresome man, Ivan Dreyar," The Death God chuckled, but his face showed no humour.

"I will slaughter you like I have anyone who has gotten in my way," Ivan spat, wincing as the runic bounds got tighter still.

"Like you would your own son?" Makarov spoke up, voice gravely and a growl. "You're disgusting."

"You raised a deviant, old man," Ivan growled to his father. "How you can be proud of him is astonishing to me. You should have killed him at birth, for all the good he's done to either of us. I am proud I have done what is required of me, and once this imposition is dealt with I will finish my work and end his disrespect."

With closed eyes, the Death God sent another flurry of runes to find Laxus. It might take longer, Ivan no doubt kept him hidden, but they would find him.

"He is the only good thing you've done," Makarov continued. "And when I found out whatever you've done to him you will be beaten for each scratch you're responsible for; you can be sure of that."

"It's a shame that you will not live to see that opportunity," Ivan retorted.

"Silence!" The Death God yelled. "You are both unimportant, inconsequential in this war from this point on. Neither of you will make an order, demand, or bring further death. You are both to be silent. Unless you wish to fight me, your war is over."

"You couldn't begin to fight me," Ivan spat, looking to the Death God again.

"Yes, I could," The God snarled back, and Ivan flinched at the sudden emotion. "You, Ivan Dreyar, are nothing but a bug that I could crush beneath me. I have an infinite army of souls and corpses, all rotten by your manipulation. They feel rage and anger towards you that is unrivalled, and that fury will drive them to be more vicious and cruel than your most twisted of dreams.

"My soldiers are unkillable, and immovable. They cannot be reasons with nor can they be stopped. And with every life my soldiers take, we recruit another. And endless spiral of people who can and will put an end to your power, Mr Dreyar."

As the Death God spoke, the bounds around both Makarov and Ivan got tighter. The latter seemed to struggle with breathing now.

"I am more a God than you could ever wish to be, and I will do whatever is needed to end your tyranny on this land," The death God growled, lowing his gaze on the man with sadistic calm. "So help me I will bring rule on it myself if that is what's required of me."

And it would be easy, oh so easy to do it.

He could shape the world in his image, remove those who would cause harm and destruction onto it in the same way that Ivan had to him. He would remove the judgement and prejudices that had plagued his own life, and preach better ideals to his subjects. He could be both the king of the Netherworld and the living.

A flutter of runes suddenly appeared before him, and there stood Laxus.

The God was naked, revealing the extent of his injuries. Scars and bruises and cuts and burns populated his skin where previously there had been none. Marks that connoted restraints were still visible around his arms and legs, and his exhaustion told the Death God that Laxus had not slept nor rested since his capture. He looked more vulnerable than he had ever been, and something inside the God of Death's heart broke at the sight.

He couldn't be the ruler of the living.

Because wanting that might twist him into someone who could hurt another in the way Ivan had hurt Laxus.

All he could be was himself.

Freed made a motion with his hand, his body twisting to its normal size as he stepped through the air. He brought Laxus into his arms and grasped him tight, the two Gods holding one another as if their lives depended on it. They buried their faces into the other's neck, not speaking nor sobbing. But they both felt a rush of exhaustion, relief, and joy flood through them as they were brought together again.

Laxus shook in his arms slightly, and Freed made a quiet promise to him that he would do whatever he could to help the God. Laxus nodded into Freed's neck and pressed his lips against it, feeling a sense of safety that he hadn't in months. A sense of home.

"Fucking disgusting," Ivan rasped.

Pulling away, Freed removed his cloak and wrapped it around Laxus, who took in the warmth of the clothing readily. Freed looked towards the two elder Dreyar's with anger on his face again. Ivan had a sneer which he was trying to maintain despite losing his breath, and Makarov was looking at the display between Laxus and Freed with an expression of confusion and disbelief. Freed ignored it as best he could as he walked towards the two bound men.

"Ivan Dreyar," He began, walking to the struggling man first. Ivan stared directly at him in some ridiculous display of ego. "You are made of cruelty and nothing more. Your actions are done without repent nor regret. Your goals are selfish and the way you attempt to realise them are evil. You have shown no guilt nor understanding of what you have done. What do you say to this?"

"Fuck you," Ivan grunted, the bounds getting tighter and tighter.

"Very well," Freed sighed, raising his left hand. "You cannot be changed. You cannot be fixed. You cannot be trusted. Therefore, you will be killed."

"You can't kill a God," Ivan laughed, and Freed shook his head.

"No. You can't kill a God," He took a step forward. "I can."

The runes around the God started to glow, burning into him. They spiralled around him, their lettering blurring into purple bands that tore into his skin. The sound of their humming could only do so much as to mute out his screaming as his flesh was torn open and scolded. The process was soon covered by a blurring purple halo of runes, which died away a moment later and left Ivan's body desecrated, cut apart and scolding. His soul started to rise from his body, but Freed ripped it open with a flick of his wrist, dismissing it entirely. He would get no afterlife, nor did he deserve one.

Freed turned slowly towards Makarov, who was looking on the body of his son with a look more disappointed than grieving. He looked towards Freed and his expression seemed to be one of acceptance. At least he had some morality left.

"Makarov Dreyar," Freed continued. "In this war, you chose to fight for the freedom of the people you govern. But by doing so, you forgot the value of life. It became unimportant, and people just tools for your victory. Furthermore, you dragged other Gods into this fight and infected them with your violent mindset. You were both complicit and responsible for the deaths of many, and you will be punished accordingly."

"I understand," Makarov hung his head.

"Wait," Laxus said, voice slightly hoarse. "You don't need t'–"

"Let me finish," Freed put a gentle hand up to quell his lover, still looking at Makarov. "This world needs a ruler, and you were once a good one. Throughout the war you have been changed from who you once were, and you need to become that man again. You must relearn the value of a human life, and how important kindness and respect are. Furthermore, you must learn that you are not above the humans, rather their servant and protector. Do you agree?"

"I do."

"Then your punishment will be this," Freed continued. "You will walk this land, and see every inch of it. You will see every human that walks upon it. You will see heartbreak and joy and birth and death and understand it as every human does. No living creature will see you, and you will walk alone. You will use this time to reflect on your actions, and how better you will serve these people. Once you have seen every corner of the land, we will meet again, and I will determine if you're ready to rule. In the time before that happens, your grandson will take the place as Leader of the Gods temporarily, and I will act as his advisor."

Makarov nodded with his head bowed. He seemed to understand that this was a kindness. A mercy. Nothing more.

"Before you leave, I'm sure that your grandson will wish to speak with you. Take the opportunity while you still have it."

He released the runes that were holding Makarov in place, and the two Dreyar's walked through the air and towards one another. Freed watched as they pulled each other into their arms and hugged, Makarov whispering what Freed could only assume was an apology. Laxus seemed to have forgiven him, so long as he accepted what Freed was suggesting was the right thing to do. When Makarov assured him that he would come back a better man, Freed felt a sense of relief. He had mainly offered Makarov the chance at redemption for Laxus' sake.

After the two men had said their goodbyes, Freed made a gesture with his hand and the older God was swirled in runes, taken somewhere on the land that hadn't been completely destroyed by the war, so his punishment could begin.

Laxus and Freed walked towards each other, and rested their foreheads together. They stood in silence for a moment, relishing in each other's presence in such a way that they hadn't been able to do for months. To be together again, in one another's arms, was such a strong relief neither had expected, but both needed so damn much. Neither man was willing to let go, and Freed slowly leant up and pressed his lips against Laxus', uncaring of who saw it.

Kissing his lover was euphoria.

Evergreen and Bickslow, who had watched Freed's proclamations from the side-lines, slowly flew towards both men. When they broke their kiss and pulled the other close, both demons were dragged into the embrace with them. Freed felt tears prickle at his eyes because of it.

The three people he loved more than anything were here with him again. At his side.

"I love you all," He whispered into someone's head. "So much."

They stayed in each other's arms for a time, before eventually pulling apart and looking at the battlefield before them. The fighting had stopped – it felt like the world itself had stopped – and everyone was looking at them. Looking at Freed in particular.

He took a step forward from his loved ones, and made the proclamation to everyone involved in the fight.

The war, finally, was over.

~~~

It was in those moments that Freed gained the title of the God of Judgment. Where he looked at the actions of the two Gods and sentenced them for their crimes. He looked into their souls and saw darkness in one, and potential for good in the other. He used this judgment to change the course of history for the better, and for that the world should be thankful.

His judgment did not end there. In the ensuing days he had every major fighter of the war take council with him, from both sides of the fight. He judged them both on their ability to be good and the possibility for reformation. He devised punishments suited for them all.

Thus, he became the God of Judgement. This is reflected in the 'Knight of Judgment' art piece by the reflection of the scales of justice. The two skulls represent the value someone puts on a life, something pivotal for Freed's own judgment.

This is where some might end the story.

However, this is not an appropriate stopping point for the life of Freed Justine. As established, his actions were heavily influenced by those he loved. It is, in my view, important to explore how these relationships evolved and changed after he had ended the war. Thus, the story continues and ends more happier than some historians may tell you.

Levy McGarden; An Examination and Retelling of the Fiorean Gods

~~~

"At last, you're here!"

At Evergreen's exclamation, Freed chuckled. He walked into the garden of his castle, where a small table had been set up on the patio beside the pond. Both of his demons were already sitting there, and most likely had been waiting for a little while for both him and his lover to leave the castle to meet with them.

They did this once a week. They put aside an afternoon to meet up, talk, and share a drink.

Freed had been the one to suggest it. His time alone in the castle had made him realise a lot of things, and one was just how important his loved ones were. His castle was large, and felt larger when he was alone. He had relied on their support more often that he would have previously admitted, and wanted to treat them better than he had in the past. This was his solution.

There were rules for the meetings. No talking about their various duties. They couldn't bring a bad attitude with them. They had to try something new from human culture each time.

The reason both Freed and Laxus were late was, as the God's in charge of a post-war earth, they always had a lot of work to do. Today was no exception; they had spoken to two of Makarov's high-ranking angels about what they had done during the war and what they should do next to become better. It had taken longer than they had expected, but thankfully for no other reason than one of the angel's had arrived late. Laxus and Freed had done their job and walked from the throne room to the garden quickly, side by side.

"Apologies for the lateness," Freed spoke. "Apparently timekeeping isn't something Mr Fullbuster excels at."

"You know the rules. No work talk," Bickslow chastised, though he grinned.

"Yeah Freed," Laxus chuckled into Freed's ear. "You know the rules."

Freed shook his head, half tempted to point out their short walk to the patio had been dominated by Laxus muttering about the angel in question not arriving on time. Instead, he took his seat close to the pond and absent flicked his eyes over the table. It had been Bickslow's job to decide what part of living culture they would be exploring today, and he usually went for something that could be eaten. Today was no different.

Seemingly picking up on Freed curiosity, Bickslow handed him an empty glass and plate. He poured fresh lemonade into the glass from a pitcher, and then cut a slice of chocolate cake and placed it on the plate. Freed quirked an eyebrow at the cake.

"We're meant to try something new, with the intention of expanding our knowledge of their culture," Freed commented. "The last three times you've been in charge, we've had cake."

"Different recipes," Bickslow grinned. "And if you say it doesn't count, then you're disregarding the time and effort put into this recipe in particular. Which is a real dick mood if you ask me."

"You really are intolerable sometimes, aren't you," Freed chuckled, shaking his head.

After that, they fell into the normal routine of these meetings. They talked, joked, teased fun at each other and enjoyed an afternoon without responsibility. It was a welcome break for them all, and each of them were glad when Freed had proposed they do it. Particularly Evergreen and Bickslow, who had been taking on the slack that Freed's occasional absences had left in the Netherworld.

Although there was no setting sun in Freed's realm, it was clear that the evening was turning to night by the gradual quieting of the world outside the castle. People were returning to their homes to sleep, as their bodies demanded.

Returning the netherworld to its old state had been a large undertaking after the war had ended. First, Freed had been forced to merge the souls back together with their bodies after they had been split for his army, which had taken weeks of literal endless work. Then he had to get back to bringing the culture of the Netherworld to its lively state. The first thing he had done was to make a general apology to everyone for his angered and dismissive behaviour as of late. He then made personal apologies to those in particular he had wronged.

He did so reluctantly to the woman who complained about her neighbour stealing her food.

It was slow and somewhat arduous, but it was working. Slowly he was regaining their respect and improving the Netherworld from what it had once been. There were now more decorations lining the streets, as well as more placed to gather and be social. The open-air marketplace and cafés were particularly popular, and had been very helpful in making the Netherworld feel more human. They had been Laxus' idea.

"Okay," Laxus said, stretching his arms as he stood up. "It's getting late, and we all know that if we don't leave soon Bix'll start teasing Ever about the big guy she likes, and I don't wanna pull them apart again. So I think I'm gonna call it a night."

"I do not like him," Evergreen exclaimed.

"And teasing her about him is my favourite part of the evening!" Bickslow whined.

"Well, perhaps we'll allow you to do it when you don't decide to get us a chocolate cake for us to eat again," Freed said with a smirk, and Bickslow pouted at him. "I think I might be done for the night too."

The Death God stood up also, and moved beside Laxus. The Thunder God grinned and wrapped an arm around his lover, giving a curt wave to Freed's demons after they bid the two Gods farewell. Freed also wished them both a pleasant night as a pure white cloud appeared above the perfect garden, a stream of lighting slamming down and hitting them both, absorbing them inside of it and transporting them to Laxus' own home.

A moment later, they walked through to Laxus' bedroom. The entire place was open and airy, modelled after the architecture of the buildings from the Greek islands. It was a pleasant place, and Freed wouldn't deny he enjoyed the view from above the clouds.

Glancing down, Freed's eyes landed on a large map of the earth placed upon a plinth. It was partly coloured black, signifying where Makarov had walked as part of his punishment. He was making his way across the land, slowly but certainly. When he caught him looking at it, Laxus wrapped an arm around Freed's waist from behind.

"How long d'you think it'll take?" The Thunder God asked.

"About a year, at this rate," Freed said, turning in Laxus' arms and resting against his lover. "Do you miss him?"

"A bit, but he's gonna be better for doing it," Laxus shrugged.

"I hope so," Freed smiled, leaning up and placing his lips against Laxus' in a chaste kiss.

Both smiling with expressions bordering on lovesick, they pulled apart, slid out of their outfits, and climbed into the sun-warmed sheets of Laxus' bed. Laxus pulled Freed into his arms softly, pressing their lips together in another soft kiss before they both closed their eyes. Freed shifted closer to him, letting out a quiet yawn and allowed sleep to overtake him.

And, in the arms of his lover, filled with the warm love of his friends, the God of Death and Judgement found rest.

Again, the amazing artwork in this was made by @fairiesherefairiesthere​ and you should reblog it and show them so much love.

[tangleweave]

Rescue Me (RP)

@akasupergirl

“Help! Help! Someone help me!”

On the streets of Manhattan, it tended to be 6-to-5 and pick ‘em whether such a plea for assistance would actually be fulfilled. If there was a feature of the city to be counted upon, it was the indifference of the average New Yorker. But the odds were decidedly not in favor of the person issuing the cries, not least of which because he looked like some strange hybrid of man and frog… but also because five ornately armored bipedal figures were giving chase via various modes of transportation.

The diminutive target of the group’s ire was fleeing on foot in a general northerly direction. If he got perhaps another 70 blocks, he’d eventually make it to Stark Tower. He was, at the least, giving a good account of himself… his running speed easily matched that of an Olympic athlete, even dressed as he was in bulky, tattered clothing. It might have been more were his hands not bound behind him, and a flashing electronic collar not secured about his neck.

One would have been forgiven for thinking him a fugitive from justice, particularly in light of the five pursuers, whose armors looked strangely reminiscent of a variety of Iron Man configurations. The leading pursuer, in particular, was clad in armor of dark red and gold, festooned with silver spikes, and he was delivering terse instructions to his comrades. “Ramshot, Wysper, get ahead of him. Firearm, Screech, to the sides. I’ve got him from behind.”

“Sure you do.”

Anti-Venom landed atop the assailant’s shoulders before he had time to react, driving him fully into the concrete of the sidewalk. Passersby let out a plethora of colorful expressions and exclamations, none of which he had any time for. His left hand grew to gargantuan size and wrapped about the vigilante he’d just dropped, then slammed him against the nearest convenient brick wall – a narrow separator between a deli and a haberdashery.

“Sentry.” The ivory-skinned hulk snarled. “You and your Jury flunkies really ought to get a hobby besides pretending you have any authority to do what you do.”

“Screech! Get back—!”

“Ah-ah.” Anti-Venom’s other hand came up and delivered a hard slap to the side of Sentry’s head, completely disregarding the spikes there that tried to tear into the flesh of his palm, which simply liquefied and reformed. He pulled the dazed Jurist away from the wall and spun him around to face him. Anti-Venom’s grip kept Sentry’s arms pinned to his sides, and the red-orange glow of his eyes and mouth was reflected in the metal of his helmet. “You just wait right here. Some nice men in clean white coats will come get you directly.”

He thrust his arm out and smashed Sentry into the wall again, back-first, this time leaving him wrapped up in a tight cocoon of white bio-mass that was far stronger than any webbing his red-and-blue counterpart had ever demonstrated.

Anti-Venom launched himself into the air, vaulting in the direction of the distressed hostage the Jury had taken. He was already depressed by the possibilities. When last he’d encountered them, it had been as Venom, and their leader – Gavel – had been quite clear as to the reason for their formation: his escape from the Life Foundation’s Vault had led to the death of their family members. Tragedy and a thirst for vengeance had been their unifying theme, their singular call… but they’d failed to capture and hold him long enough to deliver the sentence they so dearly wanted to visit upon him.

That he was no longer Venom now probably wouldn’t matter much to them if they were still united in that purpose. Eddie Brock’s alter-ego wasn’t well-known (thankfully for his career) but the Jury knew of it. When he’d fled to San Francisco, he’d given them reason to think he was dead, and he’d done his level best to keep things quiet – until the Mister Negative incident, and his transformation into something very different. It was something of a minor miracle they hadn’t tried to come after him upon his return to New York and his attempt to resume some semblance of a normal life… though it wasn’t unreasonable to think Kara might be throwing him a little cover.

But who was the fleeing captive, and what did they want with him?

Two Jurists – Ramshot and Screech – were already between him and the captive. Judging by the smell trailing behind the green-skinned stranger, Anti-Venom figured he was probably a Morlock. It was a little too easy to forget about New York’s sewer-swelling mutant population, driven underground because their appearances were too grotesque for society to tolerate. Anti-Venom knew better than most what that sort of living was like… in two words, unduly harsh. This man certainly didn’t need people like these making it any harder.

Ramshot’s jet-boots were carrying him ever closer to their original target, while Screech had already turned to engage Anti-Venom. An earsplitting sonic scream erupted from speakers mounted on the Jurist’s helmet and armor, focused into narrow channels for maximum effect against a Klyntar symbiote.

Anti-Venom snarled through the wash of noise, raised an enlarged fist, and swept it into Screech with virtually no regard for his attack. The blasts would have shattered Venom, but against Anti-Venom, they were little more than a nuisance. His strike tossed Screech into a nearby lamppost, which snapped off entirely from the force of the impact.

Civilians were actively fleeing the area now, and with good cause. Amidst the warble of shrieking and the rumbling of fleeing feet, he could make out the Jury members re-orienting their efforts around him rather than their first target. In that moment, he knew he had only seconds to act. By attempting to help, he’d drawn their eye, and if he didn’t help their target get away within the next few moments, they’d both be under attack.

He threw himself down the street and hurtled into Ramshot, whose jet-powered boots were just about to carry him to the fleeing frog-man, despite the poor captive’s best (and impressive) efforts to run. Anti-Venom grabbed hold of Ramshot with both hands, his black fangs smiling wide for the Jurist.

“Hi.”

He swung his weight around to disrupt Ramshot’s center of gravity and threw out a spread of tentacles to catch about a traffic light. The Jurist’s flight was thrown horribly by the shifting dynamics and the grip Anti-Venom’s tendrils had on Ramshot’s ankle was such that when the jets pulled him taut, the sound of his foot disjointing was audible. The Jurist belted out a scream of pain and collapsed to the ground beneath Anti-Venom, who quickly jumped to his feet and leapt after the Morlock; he cast forth another tendril to catch about the frog-man’s waist and pull him up into the air.

The Morlock screamed – and after all, why wouldn’t he? – as Anti-Venom caught him in midair and swung hard and fast through the district. By peeling away three of the five Jurists, he had a wide swath of escape routes to the east… if only the Morlock would stop struggling.

“Calm down,” he snarled. “I’m here to help.”

The Morlock whimpered. “You’re… you’re not with them?”

Anti-Venom glared red at his passenger. “Do I look like I’m with them?” he returned. “Hang tight, I’m getting you out of here. What do they want with you?”

“They’re the Jury!” the Morlock cried, as if that offered explanation.

“I know who they are,” Anti-Venom snapped, careening hard around a corner. “Why are they after you?”

“They’ve been trying to round us up out of the sewers! They came into our territory claiming they had jurisdiction and were charging us with vagrancy! Got these collars on a bunch of us before we even knew what was happening! The others managed to help me get out but they’re still trapped – they need help! I thought if I got to the surface…!”

“That you’d find an X-Man or an Avenger and they’d help you out,” Anti-Venom finished. He rolled his eyes behind his living mask. “So sorry you’re stuck with me, then. Hold on…”

Spiked tentacles erupted from his back as he continued to swing fast and hard to elude their pursuit; the tendrils set about the task of tearing into the hand-sheaths and the collar. The Jury’s technology had clearly lost none of its potency – no more than they themselves had lost business dealings with anti-meta corporations, he mused. Even against the strength of his reversed symbiote the shackles were a considerable challenge to break, and it was in no way helpful when the Morlock bucked and squirmed in his hold while he sent tentacles to snap the collar without also snapping the poor victim’s neck.

A crimson energy blast sizzled past them both, causing the Morlock to shriek and Anti-Venom to momentarily glance back. Firearm had caught up with them – he was astride a hover bike and he was already releasing a flurry of variable ammunition at them. Missed shots were peppering buildings and windows.

“Not inside the city!” Anti-Venom roared in irritation. Goddamn it, they had the nerve to complain about vigilante property destruction but the moment they themselves did it…

He shot one more look to his passenger. “All right, listen, what’s your name?”

“A-Arthur,” the timid mutant stammered.

“Arthur, I’m gonna to need to drop you off, and then I need you to get below, fast as you can. I’ll deal with the Jury, if they’re up here they aren’t down there. Get to Stark Tower. Help is there.”

“S-Stark Tower?” The frog-man’s eyes bugged out even further than their natural disposition. “You mean where Supergirl lives?”

“Right. Where Supergirl lives.” He felt himself wincing – this guy was in the middle of a traumatic episode, he wouldn’t even absorb more than the first five words he spoke in any given sentence. He probably only vaguely understood what was about to happen. “Listen, Arthur, this is important. Are you listening?”

“Y-Yes!”

“Good. Listen close. Tell Supergirl, ‘Eddie’s in trouble.’ Say it back to me.”

“Uhh… um, Eddie’s in trouble!” The Morlock frowned. “Who’s Eddie?”

Yep, traumatic episode. He wasn’t putting it together and Anti-Venom wasn’t about to do the math for him. “Never mind that. Just tell her that. Understand? Eddie’s in trouble. Got it?”

“Got it! Eddie’s in trouble!”

“Good. Here we go. Three-two-one!”

The rapid countdown wasn’t quite enough time for the poor Morlock to prepare to be dumped off, and the frog-like mutant shrieked as Anti-Venom released him to tumble in a heap in a wide alleyway. But the white symbiote-clad vigilante had, at least, deposited Arthur next to a sewer entrance – whose manhole cover he immediately tore from its sconce. Arthur was, thankfully, quick on the draw and leapt headfirst into the hole, proof positive that either he knew where he was going or he was truly desperate to escape his captors.

Hopefully both, Anti-Venom thought, as Firearm and Wysper, riding a hover board, arrived on scene to engage him. He swung the manhole cover about on a loose tentacle like a deranged yo-yo and was able to smash into Firearm’s bike engine, forcing him to dismount before the vehicle crashed in a fiery blaze.

A sustained laser beam erupted from one of Firearm’s weapons – Anti-Venom held up the manhole cover to deflect the energy blast but the lid soon became orange-hot and too much for him to handle. He snarled and slammed it down atop the open manhole before any of the Jury could think to descend into it.

If Screech was adequately named, Wysper was even more so – there was some trick of her technology that made it possible to suppress sound within the immediate area. Anti-Venom was abruptly disoriented without his sense of audition, and he was pummeled by a pair of energy blasts that drove him to his knees.

He whipped a scythe-like tentacle towards his attackers, but it appeared Firearm and Wysper both had achieved their stride, and they dodged the attack with apparent ease. Firearm brought his rifle up again, and this time what emerged wasn’t red – it was ice blue, and to Anti-Venom’s skin it felt like frozen fire trying to insinuate into his veins. The arm that caught the beam blackened almost instantly, and the armor of the reversed symbiote fell away, revealing Eddie’s all-too-human arm at half the length beneath it.

Damn it, they’d figured him out fast. Way too fast. Fire and sound didn’t hurt him anymore, but cold and silence…?

He brought his other arm up, expanding the ivory skin outward to create as broad a shield as he could muster. It would last all of two seconds against a weapon like that, but maybe it was two seconds he could use to conjure some other solution…

What happened in the seconds that followed seemed little more than a haze of pain and fury for him. Sentry arrived, with Ramshot and Screech approaching only moments thereafter, and suddenly the alley didn’t seem so wide anymore. Anti-Venom was thrown about from one Jurist to the next, one awful, disabling strike after another, bits and pieces of him falling away with every blow. If they’d been cops, SWAT, even military, they wouldn’t have been able to penetrate the symbiote skin – but the Jury had developed their weaponry very carefully, and a precision freeze ray aimed at Anti-Venom’s leg froze him in a block of ice from ankle to thigh, joining solidly to the ground beneath him.

Ramshot drove a hydraulic punch into the side of Anti-Venom’s head, knocking the white symbiote flesh away from nearly half his face – the pained scowl that followed was with one eye of glowing red and one of blue.

Sentry stepped forward and grabbed Anti-Venom about the neck with one hand. The glowing eyepieces of the Jurist’s helmet seemed to narrow at the vigilante… but if he spoke, it was consumed by Wysper’s noise suppression.

Anti-Venom stared at his attacker in defiance. Go ahead, he thought. Let’s see you make a difference. I already made mine.

[firewoodfigs]

Summary:

“Fate must be so kind to reunite us like this -”

Riza grips his hand so hard, he can almost feel an incoming fracture. Her stiff upper lip makes it clear that she’s not interested in idle chatter. “This is a fate worse than death, if I do say so myself.”

(a/n: this was the piece I originally wrote for the @royaiweek prompt ‘old wounds’ (aka the high society au no one asked for), but I got hit with the angst / hurt & comfort truck xD it’s meant to be a prologue of sorts to a multi-chap which I'm not too sure about atm. feedback & concrit are always welcome! <3) 

prologue: of old flames and old wounds 

~x~

It’s impossible to miss Roy Mustang even amidst the crowd of handsome bachelors sprawled out like chess pieces on the tessellated ballroom floor tonight. He sticks out like a sore thumb; five feet eight inches of saviour complex wrapped in corded muscle, armed with a damnably dashing smirk and a lascivious glint in his eyes as he scans the crowd for a particular someone.

Ordinarily, he might've been content with another run-of-the-mill socialite hanging off his arms, but tonight’s debutante is special - because it is finally a certain lady’s turn to make her official debut in high society."

As if aligned with the stars, the lady enters, dressed to the nines in a stunning blue number; aureate locks done in a tasteful up-do to reveal her pretty countenance in its full glory. Independence hangs off her shoulders proudly, the way diamonds cascade down her neck. Her lips are painted a bright, bloody scarlet, and a subtle blush adorns her cheeks like the genesis of tulips blooming in spring. She’s exquisite - dangerously so - and even as she trails behind the other girls with the smallest hint of awkwardness in her gait they fade into the background like shadows.

Elizabeth Hawkeye bows courteously as her grandparents introduce her to the eager audience. Raucous applause envelops her being, and cameras everywhere are quick to go off. She grimaces subtly at the attention, but just as quickly schools her expression and returns to her seat along with everyone else.

And - quite unfortunately, Roy thinks - they’re seated on opposite ends of the dining table tonight.

Notwithstanding, his eyes continue to linger on her, and Roy can’t help but notice just how much she’d grown from the last time he saw her. Any childlike roundness that might’ve once rested on her lovely face was replaced by distinct angles and prominent cheekbones, and her delicate, cuplike bosom made her maturity very, very evident.  

Before he can continue his observations, though, he’s interrupted by an inviting, outstretched hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mister Mustang,” says the girl seated beside him. “I’m Juliette Astor.”

Juliette Astor is attractive, as all upper crust socialites generally are, with a soft smile that beguiles hidden insecurities and vanities. An innate thirst for approval makes its presence known from under fluttering eyelashes. Roy manages a half-hearted smile in response as he shakes her hand politely, forcing himself to make eye contact.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Miss Astor,” he pauses, contemplating his next move. “That shade of blue compliments your eyes very well, I must say.” Juliette grins widely this time. It’s concealed behind a carefully-positioned palm and well-manicured nails, but it’s all very deliberate. All part of the game.  

The other girls seated within his vicinity begin to do the same. They introduce themselves to him, to the other women around the table with all the enthusiasm of old friends reuniting despite any underlying tension that might be there.

The sea of names are lost on him eventually, but Roy smiles all the same, and they’re disarmed by his charm.

Dinner is finally served after all the frivolous formalities, the first appetiser of the night being a luxurious beef carpaccio. Chateaubriand, to be specific. There’s certainly no scrimping on a grand affair like this tonight (thousand dollar wines are poured with largesse as a live orchestra plays), and neither would Roy Mustang be skimping on his efforts to rekindle the old flame between them. 

~x~

It’s all very methodical, really, like simple geometric progression. Every so often, a girl will reach out to check her reflection on the back of a silver spoon before puckering her lips in an attractive pout, desire seeping from beneath. Another will bite down on her appetiser slowly, careful not to smear her crimson lips, and chew daintily before flashing a set of pearly whites invitingly at Roy - a dance, and then a kiss or two? Finally, yet another will shyly refuse any dessert on the menu and look at him as if he were the intended substitute of the night.

Once in a while, Roy responds with an appreciative, crooked grin as his eyes take in the creamy expanse of milky thighs gleaming from the slits of their dresses. But he finds himself getting bored easily, mind wandering back to the girl who’d stolen his heart since time immemorial.

(Riza, however, doesn’t do any of this, doesn’t dabble in any of this needless seduction - but she doesn’t need to, not when she already has him, amongst many other gentlemen tonight, wrapped around her fingers.)

He continues watching Riza quietly now and then while trying to keep the girls around him entertained with senseless talk. Her back is ruler-straight the way all girls in high society had been taught by their governesses to do so, but the slightest hint of discomfort mars her sharp features - such things had never been her cup of tea, after all.

Perhaps somewhat ironically, despite their differences Roy had always been more accustomed to such events than Riza. Despite being the Grummans’ - who were practically royalty, even in the world of socialites - heiress, she’d always been disinclined to make an appearance at such events, which to her mind were honestly just riddled with false niceties and fake pretenses.

Neither made for a particularly comfortable night for her.

Roy, on the other hand, fits in with unnerving ease, despite the fact that he didn’t descend from a long line of aristocrats like Riza, and was perhaps way too good at playing the role of a shameless flirt whenever the need arose. The ladies, of course, enjoyed this terribly. With every crooked grin, every deliberate wink they’re quick to fall head over heels for him.

But of course, it’s impossible for anyone to be universally loved. For every woman who was head over heels over his debonair charm there was someone speaking of him with decided malice, disguised envy. Unlike the others in the room, Roy Mustang was not born with a silver spoon in his mouth - he was raised in a bar (occasionally turned brothel), for goodness’ sake!

Relative to the people of this perfectly manufactured world, therefore, he’s practically made from nothing. An anomaly amongst the crowd of corporate darlings who’ve always had the backs of their disgustingly wealthy families to ride on.

Which, of course, made him quite the topic of discussion.

Once upon a time, the yammerings and yakkings might have bothered him, but he’s learnt to disregard the irrelevant thoughts of others. It’s all background noise to him, and if he’s being unabashedly honest he would even admit that he’s come to even revel and relish in such gossip. For he’s made his way here, to this exclusive circle, and being able to unravel the insecurities of the rich with his mere dastardly presence certainly did wonders to his ego.

“Are you alright, Mister Mustang?” The girl sitting across him (what’s her name again?) asks pleasantly, but there’s a hint of well-disguised jealousy to her honey-sweet voice.

“Why, of course,” he replies distractedly, placating her with a reassuring smile before turning back to observing a certain blonde.

Finally, Riza turns to meet his gaze - but it’s met with a baleful glare, as if she’s admonishing him for even existing .  

Despite her infuriation, though, she’s quick to resume her role as the civilised, well-bred lady. Riza turns back to the other bachelors sitting with her after that moment of self-indulgence, keeping up her semblance of perfect calm amidst bubbling champagne and scandalous gossip and julienned vegetables.

Roy grimaces internally. Of course she would be angry at his sudden reappearance, after his equally abrupt disappearance.

The girl - ah, yes, Cornelia - tries again, resting a palm atop his knee under the table. “So, what are your... preferences?” she asks coyly.

Roy observes her for a brief moment. She’s a waifish lady with splendid brown curls, styled to perfection.  

“Brunettes,” the lie slips from his lips naturally.

It works like a charm. Cornelia Adler lets out an easy laugh, spilled with prodigality; a blush gracing her delicate features as she sends a coquettish wink his way and sits a little more upright to better display her willowy physique.

Roy smirks appreciatively in response, if only to mask the guilt beginning to flare up his throat.

The wine quells it, but only slightly. Despite the chatter and laughter around him his mind continues to wander back to a certain blonde incessantly (of course, blondes were his definite preference, but Miss Adler didn’t need to know that). For as much as he wanted things to go back to how they were, he knew he’d done wrong by Riza. Terribly, terribly wrong.

And though he was inclined to think that his departure was… explicable, he wasn’t sure if she would even be willing to hear his explanations.

In the end, Roy simply resigns to playing the role of a conceited flirt to belie the turmoil stirring within. The other ladies on the table make his job exceedingly simple, and he does his level best to keep up with Miss Adler’s mindless chatter with well-timed laughter and rakish smiles.  

~x~

As was tradition at every debutante that marked the official joining of society, females were required to dance and socialise with the eligible bachelors lined up before them after dinner. Elizabeth Hawkeye, now a stunning lady of twenty-one was no exception.

She queues reluctantly behind a slender brunette as she awaits her turn, feeling every bit like a lamb about to be led to the slaughterhouse.

Her first companion whisks her into a slow dance eagerly. The first song of the night is a traditional waltz - rather unfortunate, if Riza said so herself. Slow dances were, in her opinion, one of the worst inventions of mankind, because it was the perfect opportunity for mundane, aimless conversations.  

“So, Miss Hawkeye,” her partner says, in a husky voice which he must have wrongly assumed to be - seductive? “Has anyone had the good fortune of catching your eye yet this lovely evening?”

“No,” she replies curtly. Most certainly not you, if that’s what you’re asking.  

“What a pity, Miss Hawkeye. You’ve caught the eye of many gentlemen, myself included.” She shrugs casually, unimpressed by his flirting.

“How are your shares faring?” Riza asks disinterestedly, but he takes to the bait like a fish. Almost immediately he launches into a speech about how they’ve never been performing better - with the recent acquisition his company has only expanded in size, and the share prices have only been going up ever since.

Surely, a remarkable feat for someone who’s not even thirty yet -!

“All in a day’s work,” he quips. Riza doesn’t even remember his name, but she manages a dry chuckle.

His ramble continues, peppered with a witty joke here and there; an eloquence reeking of opulence. Riza’s lips tug upwards with practiced politeness, but if she’s being honest she doesn’t care at all. Regardless, she’s content to listen to white noise instead of having to do any further unnecessary talking, and he’s more than happy to stroke his own ego in front of the blonde.

Finally, the song ends, and Riza manages to get a momentary reprieve when he finally lets go of her hand.

It doesn’t last for long, though. From her peripheral vision she catches a glimpse of a certain - damned horse! - again. It’s an unwelcome barb at an old wound, one that could’ve been easily avoided if she had just been a little wiser.

Ah, the folly of man.  

Because, god - it’d been so easy at the start, when they were just somewhere in between acquaintances and friends, back when she was still just Riza Hawkeye. Eventually, though, his aunt had pointed out that she was the perfect girl with the perfect family to raise his social standing, to turn his pipe dreams into a reality with their wealth and power and connections.  

And Riza, naive, silly Riza had agreed. He'd been the ideal candidate to stave off the many bachelors who looked at her with yearning and desire, and suited her purposes just as well.

So really, it was a win-win for the both of them.

Riza had thought of him as tolerable, at the very least. He was someone whom she could sustain a conversation with, and was most certainly preferable to another loaded chauvinist who just wanted her to look nice at galas and giggle prettily and flutter her eyelashes.

Eventually, it became a rather - dare she say, enjoyable? - companionship. Between dinners under crystal chandeliers and brunch at posh cafes, it seemed like something more than what either of them had bargained for had developed - trust? - a luxury that the wealthy darlings of their world sadly could not afford. Everything was going fine, though there was nothing to make the relationship ‘official’ (because the term girlfriend sounded disgustingly juvenile to Riza’s ears, as did its counterpart).

And then, Roy had left without a word, jetting off somewhere to pursue his lofty dreams with the financial backing from her family. Her family, of all things. It made her feel like she’d been nothing more than a pawn on his chessboard, and it didn’t take long for her to come to loathe him in his absence.

Riza Hawkeye had her pride, after all, and she was not going to let herself be used by some manipulative bastard who conceived of her as nothing more than his one-way ticket to high society. So excuse her if she was affronted, angered by his sudden reappearance; if she couldn’t keep up with all the niceties and gaieties, because - damn it! - she had every right to be.  

She feels his gaze lingering on her again, but before he can so much as utter a word she’s ushered to another bachelor again.

The torturous cycle repeats itself.

It’s a welcome distraction for once, though. Riza would rather dance with the sandy blonde droning on about his investments and yacht parties and how beautiful she looks, than the raven-haired bastard inching dangerously closer towards her.

Patience, Roy thinks, as he waits for his turn to finally dance (and talk) with Riza. There’s an uncomfortable lump in his throat, and though he tries to attribute it to the cool, dry air and the countless conversations he’s had to sustain for the night it’s undeniably because of nervousness.  

Nonetheless, he plays it off suavely. The ladies are absolutely enthralled by him. Roy allows a pleased smirk to grace his handsome features before switching partners again.

~x~

“A dance for the lovely lady?”

Riza rolls her eyes, but not wanting to cause a scene and draw any more attention to herself she obliges. Very begrudgingly.

Roy takes her hand gently in his, resting the other on her cinched waist as they glide smoothly across marble like old lovers dancing to a familiar tune - but he can almost feel the displeasure radiating off her skin, despite the gloves separating their palms.

“Fate must be so kind to reunite us like this -”

Riza grips his hand so hard, he can almost feel an incoming fracture. Her stiff upper lip makes it clear that she’s not interested in idle chatter. “This is a fate worse than death, if I do say so myself.”

He ceases the fruitless flirting and keeps his mouth shut. Roy’s lips are pursed in a tight smile as he continues to lead her in the dance.

The tension between them feels like a violin string strung far too tightly, waiting to snap and slap him in the face at any moment. It’s an unsettling, almost eerie silence, and he scrambles for something appropriate to say in order to break it.

Nothing comes to mind. The quietness lingers, along with Riza’s frown. He swallows, guiding her awkwardly as they continue to dance.

Mercifully, the orchestra begins to play a faster-paced waltz. Five steps per measure. The words lay unspoken on his tongue as they concentrate on the steps, adjusting to the rhythm. Roy spins her once, twice. Her dress flutters gracefully as she twirls, a lovely shade of blue that matches her hair, the way the sky complements the sun, and is -

Coincidentally, the exact same shade as Roy’s tie.

Riza blanches visibly when she realises this. Any fondness for the dress she’s wearing (which, even then, didn’t amount to much) disappears into thin air immediately, and Riza finds herself suddenly overcome with the overwhelming desire to change out of her gown and perhaps incinerate it afterwards.

Roy, on the other hand, thinks she looks positively divine, and is somewhat pleased that they match even without any prior planning. Before he can control himself, the words pour out like a gushing stream. “You look stunning, Riza.”

The string snaps.

“Who said we were on a first name basis, Mister Mustang ?” she asks, hostility clouding her vision.

For the first time that night, Roy feels his confidence beginning to crumble, but he keeps himself in check. “I do apologise for my impoliteness, Miss... Hawkeye...” he trails off unsurely, but decides that it’s now or never. “Amongst many other things.”

She doesn’t respond. Roy tries again, waltzing her in time with the tempo. “I mean it, I’m really sorry, Ri -”

“The fact that you vanished for years without a word after using me for your dastardly plans is really helping your point, I’m sure,” Riza remarks drily before he can finish addressing her by her first name - the bloody temerity of him to do so, really - once more.

Silence falls upon them once more as the elephant in the room finally makes its grand appearance. Riza feels the familiar jabbing of the old wound that she’d buried deep within her heart once again. It’s uncomfortable, almost painful, but she purses her lips tightly instead of making her hurt known.

“You… you have every right to be angry with me.”

It’s the first thing he gets right the entire evening. “You’re right on that front, at least.”

Roy, at least, had the decency to look shamefaced. He’s speechless for a moment, but he lets his yearning, his longing for her make itself known. “You can’t deny the chemistry we have, though,” he murmurs under his breath, leaning closer to her.

“Had,” she corrects sharply. “And the last I remembered, you managed to blow up quite a number of things during your chemistry experiments.”

The insinuation behind her witty comeback is clear. You’ve blown this one up too.  

Roy swallows, choosing his next words carefully. “Look, I’m… well, I’m aware that whatever I did wasn’t the nicest -”

“Lovely to know that your self-awareness has improved, but I’m not some piece of garbage you can recycle after you’ve realised what it’s worth.”

It’s a bit of a struggle for him to keep up with the beat now, but they continue their dance nevertheless. Being accomplished social dancers themselves, it’s easy to make their movements look natural, graceful like flowing water despite the ongoing argument.

Roy doesn’t have an answer. No matter his explanations, there’s an undeniably painful truth to her acerbic words.

Nevertheless, he’s always had a bit of a short fuse - one that only worsens whenever he doesn’t know how to deal with his emotions. The guilt that’s been lingering in his throat all night finally makes itself known in the form of an indignant retort. “I never said that you were a piece of garbage,” he bites. “And… I’m genuinely trying to make amends here, but you’re not even giving me a chance, Ri -”

“What’ve you done to even deserve one?” Riza counters angrily.

“I’m back now, aren’t I?”

“And how, pray tell, is that supposed to make anything better?”

Their steps slow down as the orchestra’s playing draws near to a close. “Because…” Didn’t you miss me while I was gone?  

“If you thought I’d just wait around, pining for you during your absence…” There’s a traitorous spark of hope that lights up in Roy’s heart, but it’s instantaneously trampled upon. “You’re terribly wrong.”

The song finally ends, as does their dance. “Well, have a wonderful evening.” Riza flashes him a beatific smile before kicking his shin with the pointed tip of her stiletto. Hard. “And break a leg.”

“I think I just did,” Roy manages to sputter out weakly.

Riza gives him a patronising, unsympathetic pat on the shoulder before storming off, leaving him alone on the dance floor with a bruised leg and an equally bruised ego.

[vampirrediaries]

Enemies Of The State : Dark!Klaroline {5}

summary:

This fiction follows the events of just how Klaus Mikaelson and Caroline Forbes lost everything that tied them to their humanity, leading them into something neither of them can come back from.

—————

{10 years ago}

Caroline felt paralysed. She felt her breathing quicken with Damon’s words as she looked down helplessly. The room fell silent, nobody knowing what to say. Elena Gilbert was the first to break it.

“What?” She finally breathed out, her expression gone from concerned to shocked. Caroline felt her eyes water for what seemed like the millionth time.

“I-It was a long time ago,” Caroline admitted with a cracked voice “It’s over now. I swear.”

Bonnie was the next to speak up. “He’s killed so many of our friends,” The witch said with a hurt tone “He’s the reason my mom’s a vampire, Caroline!”

“He killed Jenna,” Elena choked up “He’s the reason Alaric is dead, why Jeremy died. How could you?”

The blonde vampire responded with nothing but silent tears, looking around to see if anyone was showing her the least bit of sympathy, but all she could see was disappointment and rage.

“I’m sorry,” Caroline said with a small voice “I’m so sorry. I don’t know w-what happened”

“I’ll tell you what happened,” Damon spat out. “You found someone who’d give you the time of day, and God knows poor Caroline Forbes is never the one that anyone chooses.”

Caroline didn’t feel angry at his words like she did the day before. She felt daggers in her chest, merely looking down at her shoes. She didn’t bother trying to cease her tears because Damon was right. He wanted her to hurt, and he did just that with the truth. non of her other friends stood up for her either. Not even Stefan, who usually was the one person in her life that she could always rely on. His face shone with distress and disappointment like all the others, which made Caroline’s heart clench even more.

“It’s over now,” She tried saying “I swear. He’s gone.”

“Caroline,” Stefan spoke up for the first time. She looked at him with tear stricken eyes. “You still felt something for the person who’s caused so much pain to all of us. To me.”

“I-I know.”

Elena looked at Caroline blankly. “It was because of him, wasn’t it?” She questioned “The reason why you started acting like that. Like him.”

Caroline looked at Elena with a broken gaze. Oh, how badly she wanted to let it all out, to tell everyone how she liked it. She liked showing her hostility, her rage...her bloodlust that was so hidden inside.

“It wasn’t because of him. I don’t know why I started acting like that.” She replied meekly. That was a lie. She knew perfectly well why, but she kept it to herself in efforts for redemption.

“But you’ve never done that before,” She countered “The Caroline I know wouldn’t dare be like that.”

“I don’t know what else I can say besides that it’s over. It’s been over ever since he left”

“Then what’s this?”

Caroline whipped around to see Damon dangling what looked like a piece of paper, quickly realising what he meant when he turned it around. That was her paper. Her drawing she kept so near to her heart.

No. Please, No.

“Thank you for your honesty,” Damon said with a grin as sadistic as ever. “From Klaus.”

Elena quickly snatched the parchment from Damon’s hands, looking over at what was drawn incredulously. Her expression went from disappointed to angry as she roughly slammed the drawing onto the table, looking over at Caroline.

“It’s over, huh?” The doppelgänger laughed humourlessly. “How many more lies does it have to take for you to really let go of him?”

Caroline was paralysed with regret and sadness building itself up. She wanted to disappear, to tear into a human’s throat until it didn’t hurt anymore. Anything to make it not hurt anymore.

“I-I don’t know why I kept that,” She said weakly. Elena rolled her eyes, anger prevailing in her expression as she took steps away. Stefan had sadness in his, picking up the parchment with a heavy hand.

“I’m sorry,” Caroline started sobbing. She just couldn’t keep it in anymore. Not after this. “I didn’t mean for t-this to happen”

“But it did,” Damon said with a proud glare “It happened because you give yourself up to any man who looks at you with want” He got really close for the next part, whispering in her ear that stung Caroline more than she could handle.

“I know that’s what happened with me. Pathetic.”

Out of the corner of her teary eye she could see Stefan give her that sympathetic look she was looking for ever since the truth’s were uncovered. He could hear him, and he didn’t care to defend her.

Her tears ceased immediately with the epiphany she had, striking her at an alarming rate.

She was never the one.

It wasn’t like Caroline wasn’t used to being thrown to the side. No, she was used to having her feelings be completely disregarded. She was used to be called names that many thought couldn’t possibly bruise her massive ego, even if she didn’t have one in the first place because nobody cared enough to know her like that. Nobody except him.

Caroline felt anger. She felt rage like never before, threatening to burst out of her at any second as her friend’s remained silent. How could they hate her for finally thinking about herself for once? She shouldn’t have to be miserable for the rest of her life because it didn’t agree with the people she thought were her friends.

“I just can’t believe you’d do this-” Elena starts speaking up, but Caroline immediately cuts her off.

“I’m done,” she says under her breath, avoiding eye contact as the harsh emotion she feels starts to rise to her surface. She couldn’t control it. Not anymore.

Elena stares at her blankly, raising her eyebrows as if to say what do you have to say for yourself now?. Caroline chuckles humourlessly, raising her hand to wipe away the evidence of her emotions.

“I’m done,” The vampire says more strongly “I’m done with all of it.”

“What do you mean you’re done with it?” Damon scoffs “We weren’t the ones fraternising with the enemy-”

“I’m done with never being the one!”

Caroline finally let it all out as she screamed those words. The anger and rage came rushing to her surface like a hot wave of malice, the sort of emotion she’d felt like the past few days, but this was stronger. Darker. Hostile.

The room stared up to Caroline in shock, as if she had stolen their breath. Caroline’s eyes were growing bloody red by the minute. She didn’t bother trying to control herself either. No, letting out her true inner predator for everyone to see was much more satisfying.

“Caroline?” Stefan was the one to speak up now, staring at Caroline incredulously.

“You never let me have anything good,” Caroline spits out, her fangs evident “Never let me have anything I deserve. The one man who cared about me left for good reason, but God fucking forbid any of you ever let me have happiness because it’s someone you hate!”

She says these words with venom dripping in her tone, taking pleasure in seeing the people she once cared about, terrified of her.

“Don’t you see yourself?” Elena speaks up shakily “You’re turning just like that monster,”

“The problem, Elena” Caroline gets closer to her, whispering in her ear “Is that i already am like him.”

The whole room looked horrified, it being so quiet you could hear a needle drop. She wanted them to be terrified of her, to feel regret about how they treated her for years of so called friendship.

She knew, in that moment, that she was far better off without any of them.

Caroline gave them one last look full of revulsion, her outside matching her inside with the features that made her vampirism evident.

“Don’t do this-” Stefan started saying, but Caroline didn’t give him a chance to finish. She swiftly turned around, flashing out of the house making sure to slam the door on her way out. The rest of the group went silent, the aura of Caroline’s rage was still present in her absence.

Caroline didn’t shut it off. Her humanity was still inside her, this being the reason for when she stood outside her own home, she began questioning what exactly she did, her features slowly fading to normal.

You’ve just lost everyone you cared about.

She saw it happen with Stefan. The time when he was on the brink of losing control of his bloodlust. He often said it felt like his humanity and vampirism were at war in his mind. Caroline felt like that. She felt it as strongly as ever.

Carolune instantly felt her knees give in, and she started to scream. Screaming her lungs out with hands knotted in her blonde locks in efforts to let it all go, which led to laughing crazily at the absurdity of her actions, which led to sobbing her eyes out until she felt numb.

I’m not going crazy, you’re not going crazy. Make it stop please just make it stop. You’re okay. It’s okay. Just stop.

She mumbled these words under her breath, tasting salty tears as she pulled her knees to her chest, slowly rocking back and forth to calm herself down. It wasn’t working.

She looked around desperately, in hopes that someone, anyone would be there for her. Hoping one of her friends would come up behind her, telling her that she was going to be okay. Hoping her mother would be home, putting her daughter first for once. She looked around pathetically, her tears never ceasing, but she was alone. She was all alone.

If she had someone there with her in her last moments of feeling something, Caroline Forbes wouldn’t have done what she did.

If someone had chosen her for once when she desperately needed them, Caroline Forbes wouldn’t have done what she did.

Caroline Forbes was all alone when she closed her eyes, whispering to herself you’re going to be okay, when someone else should be doing that for her. She wrapped her arms around herself, because she only had that. She only ever had herself.

She sat on the hard concrete as she closed her eyes with a damp sleeve, knowing that this was the only way she’d survive, knowing that this was the only way she could live with herself this way.

Darkness and light had a very thin line, and when her light dimmed, darkness would be there to take over. To consume her whole as it overpowered every inch of her mind and body.

And so Caroline Forbes closed her eyes.

And she shut it off.

—————

Klaus Mikaelson entered his mansion in long strides, his shirt bloody with evidence of the murder he’d just committed.

“You killed the Deveraux witch I presume?”

Elijah stood at the top of the staircase, looking emaculate in his suit that Klaus often made jokes about. The hybrid smiled twisted like, showing his hands that were now partially covered in dried blood of the witch. Eiljah looked scornful as he descended from the stairs, handing his brother cloth to clean himself up.

“She is over and done with, i’m afraid” Klaus said with fake sympathy, cleaning his hands on the pristine white cloth, turning it bloody.

“You should have been more merciful, Niklaus.”

“The witch and I had gone well past the concept of mercy,” Klaus scoffs as he leans against the far wall. Elijah looks at him with distress.

“You were smart to unlink Katerina, brother” He simply says “The outcome would’ve been quite unpleasant had you done otherwise.”

“I did it because you dared to threaten Caroline,” Klaus growls as he advances towards his older brother. “I wouldn’t try it again.”

“I’m assuming your to go back to Mystic Falls for her? You’re done with what you came here to do”

“No,” Klaus says in a low tone “I’m done with Mystic Falls. That sad little town is too frail for my taste”

“What about the girl?”

“What about Katerina?” Klaus countered in order to divert the subject “I assume she’s ridden off into the sunset with the freedom I granted her.”

“She is in that sad little town, in fact” Elijah hummed “She has business to attend to with the Salvatore boys.”

“So she left you again,” Klaus chuckled, shaking his head “I cannot say i’m not surprised in the slightest.”

“She’ll be back shortly,” Elijah said sharply “Unlike you, who only leaves the things they care about behind them.”

“Watch it,” Klaus growled “I left for good reason-”

“And what has that given you, Niklaus? You left the only girl who was willing to love you.”

Klaus Mikaelson was not familiar with love. He lived his life believing that love was a vampire’s greatest weakness, and it was love that he was completely and utterly terrified of.

Was Caroline willing to love him? He knew deep in his heart that yes, she was. He’d convinced himself that he left her because she was better off without him, when the truth was that she completely terrified him. She was his weakness. Someone like him couldn’t afford such a thing.

He remained speechless, staring at his brother at these little realisations came flooding into his mind. Elijah looked almost content, thinking that he’d finally gotten through his sibling’s hard exterior. The little humanity that was trapped within.

But just as Klaus was about to retort something back, not wanting to show softness, the doors suddenly flew open. The pair instantly whip around to see Kol Mikaelson by the entrance.

“I am not in the mood for your bloody games today, Kol” Klaus harshly says to his younger brother, but surprisingly, his face showed no mischief or amusement of any kind. Kol looked ashen.

“Is everything alright, brother?” Elijah said with concern as he approached the distraught vampire. Kol shook his head, looking sympathetically in Klaus’ direction.

“I thought you dealt with it, Nik” He said lowly. Klaus raised his eyebrows, confused.

“What are you on about? Dealt with what?” Klaus asked sharply. Kol looked anxiously at Elijah, who looked just as concerned as he was expected to be. The room felt heavy.

“Tell me what happened this instant,” Elijah demanded. The younger Original merely looked towards the ground, the following answer that he gave leaving the pair shocked and in awe, as if the room were stolen from its breath.

“Katherine Pierce is dead.”

——————

masterlist

[justanotherdumpingground]

Rant on RCD

Normally I don't rant about stuff because doing so feeds negativity, but Red Carpet Diaries continues to nag my mind. I know it's a story most people, including me, hate, but I also think it had potential. Note: In this post, I'm using the name Jessica to refer to the MC, as that's her default name. Also, this post is pretty much personal opinion.

Initial Expectations

For starters, I don't mind the concept about being an up-and-coming actress trying to work her way up to stardom, the underbelly of the film industry, and the relationships she builds up from the bottom. In fact, it has the potential to have some variety if it focuses on building up one's career from the ground up properly, like gradually climbing from the bottom and learning a lot from experience along the way.

Reality

The execution, however, destroyed my expectations. Even though my interest in this story started decreasing since about Chapter 5, Chapter 8 is when I officially dislike this series because of Markus von Groot upgrading Jessica's supporting role to a lead one in Tender Nothings without much effort shown. This reeks of Mary Sue vibes that also makes me dislike her as quickly as I dislike the series, which dragged too long with little substance along the way. After all, it shouldn't be easy to get a lead role, and to see Jessica doing it without getting through so much of the trouble actors go through sends a bad message that you don't have to do much to get to the top. This applies to all professions instead of just acting.

I also notice people's complaints that the HWU characters are sidelined, but since I've never played the game, I wouldn't want them to hog the story. What they could've been is having the same level of significance as the HSS characters from the original app: supporting characters at the most while the new cast continues to dominate the spotlight, just like the HSS series in Choices.

One character I utterly despise is Markus von Groot. He shows unprofessional behavior towards others like attacking them for their insecurities, wasting resources and other people's efforts by rewriting scenes at the last minute (hypocritical of him because he claims to value practicality), and valuing property over people. I also hold him responsible for making Jessica a Mary Sue and singlehandedly ruining my enthusiasm for this series. He's also a pretentious snob who looks down on others for not having the same level of "intelligence" as him, which points out to his massive ego. Not to mention that his disorganized way of directing the movie shows how useless he is in the end. It was good riddance that he never came back for Tender Nothings.

The last scene of Chapter 12 is, without a doubt, controversial. Thank goodness the writers changed Victoria's reaction from a physical attack to a verbal one, but the damage had already been done, and I blame Pixelberry for daring to write such a scene like this in the first place while not doing so to acerbic male love interests. Now, this comes as a shock to others, but when I first played the scene, the person I was angriest at wasn't Victoria, but Markus. Honestly, Victoria has the right to react angrily at betrayal, whether real or suspected, though having her physically assault Jessica is too much. As for Markus, there's trouble brewing among the cast members, yet he gets mad not because of a quarrel breaking out but because a priceless painting gets destroyed. I get that such a painting is valuable, but diffusing tensions, which he never did, is a much higher priority than a broken painting. Can't he just take a good look at the mirror and realize all the blunders he committed towards other people? It doesn't help that he insulted the actors and studio executives evaluating his work, which he has no right to do. That makes him the ultimate asshole in the scene.

Inner Circle, particularly the Love Interests

I like that all of the love interests are unique in their own ways. Each have their own personalities, backstories, and struggles. Matt wants to prove Hollywood that he can be a versatile actor. Seth talks about getting rejected for his ideas. Teja has to put up with feeling unappreciated for all the hard work she has done. Victoria struggles with sexism and ageism in an industry that treats women as expendable despite the skills they've built up. All these prove that they are much more than meets the eye.

As for which love interest that fascinates me, that would be Victoria Fontaine. She's the best LI in the series as well as the only one I like, though moderately. Look, I know she started with a rocky relationship with Jessica, but that doesn't mean I excuse the bad things she has done. In fact, I disapprove of her mind games during Jessica's audition. Even if characters are supposed to be flawed, they should make amends for their mistakes, and she's no exception, such as burying the hatchet, which is what she did (albeit in a premium option). She also acknowledges her own shortcomings, such as criticizing the tension between them as unprofessional. She even apologized immediately for the verbal assault when she had the chance. What seals her as the only love interest I like is that she's aware of reality's harshness and gives good advice on celebrity life and some scenes for Tender Nothings, in part because she has a good amount of depth in many of her scenes, whether free or premium. For example, she works in an industry where women are treated as commodities with a short shelf life. Directors and tabloids judge her by her appearance and disregard her acting skills, prompting her to prove them wrong, swallow her pride when working with Jessica, and surprisingly make efforts. It doesn't justify her initial hostility, but what it does is that it gives sense to her actions. It's far too easy to demonize her just because of personal bias against certain character "types", but doing so is a disservice to her character by assuming she's a one-dimensional character, which she isn't and shouldn't be. After all, she provides the harsh reality of the film industry looking down on women.

Knowing Pixelberry's disregard for its female characters, my anger's directed at the writers for doing her a grave injustice, such as giving her a very negative first impression, delaying the progress of her storyline in favor of unnecessary screen time with Matt, and paywalling her, up to and including her involvement in the movie. All because of her gender and Pixelberry's blatant pandering to their target audience without regard to the story's quality. This post essentially sums up Pixelberry's mishandling of such a well-crafted character. I get that Pixelberry is ultimately a business, but in an app explicitly titled Choices and focused on telling stories, nothing can justify this mistreatment of a character with a good deal of depth in her just for the sake of pandering to your target demographic.

Unfortunately, all love interests have uneven screen time. Matt continues hogging the spotlight even though most of his screen time is pointless fanservice. Seth and Teja don't have a lot to offer, while Victoria has the least, and not enough to progress the story in a meaningful way. Honestly, Pixelberry made a mistake by adding too much screen time for Matt without addressing him as a character. Sure he's nice, but most of that screen time should be given to other love interests, particularly Victoria because of her story having a slow progress. By lavishing all attention on him at the cost of other love interests, Pixelberry has created a self-fulfilling prophecy that discourages players to pursue other love interests not favored by Pixelberry, and this has been going on in various stories.

As for Chazz, he's the only member of Jessica's inner circle that I dislike. For a best friend, he comes across as unreliable, such as lying about his house and job to his own best friend. I get that there are times that he's helpful, such as giving moral support to her when she was down, but his job as her agent means he has to be sincere at all times, even if it means giving the unflattering parts of his life and career.

Book 2

Fast forward to Book 2, and we get a warning about mature themes in this book. Sounds exciting that RCD will tackle serious issues in the film industry inspired by the #MeToo movement, yay?

Unfortunately, it's badly executed. At first, it seems alright. Viktor Montmartre established himself as a threat by attacking Jessica and using his power to make her career and even life as miserable as possible. After all, that's what a villain should be portrayed as. However, he more or less remains on the background while using Tommy Phelps as his proxy to do his dirty work, which makes it hard for me to think of him as a real threat throughout the story. Even worse, the last third of Book 2 turned the book from a mildly interesting plot regarding an important issue into a nostalgia filler for characters I don't know. Not only does this left me confused, but disappointed. In the end, it irritates me that Viktor Montmartre receives a mere slap on the wrist by being hounded by paparazzi. Why can't he be put in jail instead? It's a huge disservice to people who have experienced this kind of stuff, considering the amount of effort and pain they went through to get their story heard.

Even the love interests were done dirty. Matt, who spent Book 1 proving his versatility as an actor, ends up in an action movie again, even though he's playing the villain this time. Look, I get that action movies are his specialization, but would it be better if he tries something that doesn't throw his efforts to waste for once? It doesn't help that him starring in the same movie as Jessica means he ends up hogging the spotlight again until Chapter 10. Seth finally gets to work with Teja, who gets to direct her own movie. Unfortunately, they end up bickering like kids while expecting Jessica to take one side over the other. This is a far cry from their personalities back in Book 1, where they were sensible and addressed serious issues of their respective careers. It's like the writers decided they no longer cared for both of them and screwed their personalities. Victoria is shoved aside to a movie of her own and given no storyline, rendering her superfluous, which is another huge disservice done to her, especially since it's revealed that her experience resembles Jessica's the most. That could've given her some opportunity to help Jessica in a major way while not imposing her as the main love interest. All this happened just to build up Thomas Hunt, a character from the HWU app, as a love interest. As someone who has never played that game, I wonder why he should be a love interest even though he already has a story that paid its due, especially since he may already have a love interest to someone who isn't Jessica in some people's games, which made me uncomfortable. Not to mention that she never knew him on a personal level in Chapter 10. It was a no-brainer for me to reject him.

Chazz does yet another thing that proves how much I dislike him. Instead of quitting when his own best friend got attacked, he quitted when Matt got injured even though he wasn't responsible for Matt. If he is really Jessica's best friend, he would've quitted right after she got attacked. Some friend...

As for the HWU characters finally becoming supporting characters during the last third of Book 2, it gets ruined by the Viktor Montmartre arc, which addresses an important issue, getting sidelined. It gets worse with Thomas Hunt becoming a love interest just to pander to nostalgic HWU players while ignoring the important issue that is sexual harassment in the film industry. Look, I get that there are people who have played HWU who want to see more of them, but it shouldn't be done at the cost of the storyline, especially one that addresses an important issue.

And what about Apricott Persimmon and Chadley Fortnum? Honestly, I agree with this post that Apricott's insecurities should've been hinted at early during her debut and developed throughout her screen time instead of dumped at the last moment possible as a buildup to a premium option. Doing so would've given another perspective from a sheltered individual, especially one serving as a foil to Victoria, who clawed her way to the top instead of being born and raised in fame like Apricott. I also think her method of "I'll help you if you help me first" makes it hard to understand and sympathize her or even convince players to pick the premium option to accompany her. Chadley's okay, though I think he can be a better friend by standing up to Tommy and Apricott.

What could've been done to make it more interesting

Make the protagonist a veteran actor trying to disprove the tabloid rumors about being washed-up a la Victoria, or even make her the protagonist: I know the latter's controversial because not everyone likes Victoria, and doing so means altering her character in some ways, but I find the idea of a veteran defying the odds a more interesting story than that of a newbie rising to the top. To be honest, I prefer playing as a character who starts out having flaws in behavior and skills and doing their best to overcome them.

Work with the HWU crew since Book 1: I admit that working with the HWU characters in the last third of Book 2 was fun because of how helpful they've been, especially Holly Chang. Then it struck me: Why wasn't this in Book 1, where Jessica could've been at least content to get a supporting or minor role and sticking with it? Having her work with the HWU characters alongside the love interests would've been a better way to use them, like with the HSS old guard. That would've at least pleased HWU players who expect to see more of them. I think their lack of real involvement in Book 1 is one factor in the series' failure, which contributed to demands for more of their appearance in Book 2. Unfortunately, their growing prominence derailed the #MeToo-inspired plot by sidelining it. Since I prefer having the protagonist being a veteran instead of a newbie, have her work with them as a last resort to prove the tabloids wrong while addressing important issues of her time.

Get rid of Markus von Groot: The previous point brings me to the conclusion that Markus is ultimately unnecessary, in addition to being loathsome. I've already mentioned the reasons why I hate him, though I started disliking him when I first played the last third of Book 2. Ironic because he doesn't appear on that part.

Do not make Thomas Hunt a love interest: No offense to those who are romancing Hunt, but his setup as a love interest raises too many red flags on creepy older men taking advantage of younger women. A mysterious note in your room telling you to meet that person in a dark, secluded area? What could possibly go wrong with that? Another factor is that Jessica didn't know him on a personal level during the bridge meeting. Look, I get that he's not a bad guy like Viktor, and he's a capable director, but Jessica was still suffering from the attack, and Hunt hates Viktor as well, so the latter should've known better than to meet Jessica in a secluded place. Not to mention that as a HWU character, Hunt has no business hogging the spotlight, let alone as a love interest.

Stick to one tone: After reading this post, I couldn't agree more on the weak points of RCD. The weak execution of the harassment issue and the shift in tone despite its original presentation as a light-hearted take on Hollywood is proof that Pixelberry is desperate to keep making it lucrative no matter the long-term results and costs.

My thoughts on Book 3

Honestly, I was furious at the announcement that there will be a third book and Pixelberry continuing such a horrible series just because it was "popular" with the "silent majority". If this book eventually gets released, I'll just play it as a diamond mine and for Victoria Fontaine and the ocelot. If I'm feeling optimistic about it, which I'm not, all the love interests have equal face time, I get to see more of Holly Chang, and Markus von Groot never appears. Unfortunately, the more I think about RCD, the angrier I feel, bringing me to the conclusion that it's a lost cause and irrefutable evidence of Pixelberry's mismanagement of time, resources, and effort. If it weren't for the few characters I like in this series, I would've shunned Book 3.

[hoe-imaginess]

HCs or draft scenario of Sasuke having a thing for Itachi’s s/o.

in some AU where the Uchiha massacre either didn’t happen or it happened later on bc i need Sasuke to be at a decent age to actually like Itachi’s s/o who is probably a good few years older than Sasuke k anywayyyy here we go

Sasuke

It was just a crush. A childish, naive crush. Sasuke was mature enough even at a young age to try and convince himself of that. There couldn’t be any other explanation for it.

But as the years went by, the spiral of confusion and want grew worse. It’s then that Sasuke’s childish crush manifested into an actual fixation.

He was older then, old enough to know that a shinobi should never let feelings overshadow his duties. But it was becoming difficult. Time he should have spent focusing on training was interrupted by thoughts of them. Thoughts of his brother’s lover. It was wrong, somewhere he knew that. But most of all, it was unfair.

Jealousy had always made a barrier in the love Sasuke felt for his brother, especially in recent years. Itachi was the prodigy. The family’s pride. The perfect shinobi. He had everything Sasuke didn’t. And now, he had one more thing that Sasuke could never have.

For a while, he was thankful that Itachi was so secretive about it. The less Sasuke had to hear about it, the less it hurt him. Itachi never brought his partner to meet the family, not at first. Sasuke knew it was the right thing to do. Hide all evidence of a life outside duty from their father. That’s how he wanted it.

But the truth came out sooner than Sasuke expected. Their father wasn’t pleased, as anticipated. Sasuke remembers his angry voice carrying through the house as he reprimanded Itachi. He went to eavesdrop, wanting to hear how his big brother would defend himself. Itachi was collected, not at all discomposed. He defended himself with the deference of a son to a father.

It upset Sasuke, for some reason. Why did his brother have to be so respectable? So perfect, all the time? How could he trust composure in this situation? 

Itachi told their father the truth, that he had a lover. But duty always came first. He could manage his personal life as well as his shinobi life. It was an easy compromise for Itachi. He wouldn’t lie, he wouldn’t try to save himself from the admonishment he knew was inevitable.

Sasuke never found out how the ordeal concluded. But some time afterward, Itachi brought his partner to the house for the first time.

At first, Sasuke thought it was a stupid joke. Maybe Itachi had snapped. He was going to bring his partner before their father as an act of defiance. He was going to risk it all.

But no. Itachi’s partner had dinner with them that night. Sasuke couldn’t take it all in. They ate like a family. Harmonious, calm. Sasuke tried hard to find the underlying tension in the room, but there was nothing. He tried to find the disapproval in his father’s eyes. There might have been a scrutinizing gaze every now and then, but nothing that suggested he preferred Itachi’s partner not be there.

Sasuke almost felt guilty for being so disappointed by his father’s tolerance. Never did he think he would deplore the absence of his father’s fury and judgement.

Even after Itachi’s partner leaves, Sasuke expects the discourse to ensue. Their father will likely begin his delayed critique. Tell Itachi he doesn’t approve, and that this should be the last time he ever brings his partner around again.

But no, he does no such thing. He doesn’t seem entirely pleased, but there’s no blatant disappointment like Sasuke expected. Fugaku just doesn’t comment. He goes to his study without a word.

Their mother asks for Sasuke’s help cleaning up after dinner. As he puts away plates, Itachi returns from walking his partner home.

“______ seems very nice, Itachi,” Mikoto says as she washes a bowl. “I’m happy for you, son.”

“Thank you, mother.” Itachi comes to stand at Sasuke’s side. At first, he thinks Itachi expects feedback from him too. He searches his brain for something that will satisfy both Itachi’s expectation, and his own spite. But then he takes a plate from Sasuke’s hands. “I’ll take it from here, Sasuke. Go sleep. You have academy tomorrow.”

Sasuke doesn’t complain, he leaves without a word. But his anger is still profuse, so much so that he gets almost no sleep that night. His mind is swimming with thoughts of his brother’s lover, and how desperately he wishes his feelings for them would just disappear.

~

“Sasuke?”

His kunai hits the bullseye just as he turns at the sound of his name, at the sound of that voice. He knows it’s them without needing to look, but he has to, no matter how badly he wants to ignore them.

“_______.” He hopes he sounds as bland as possible. Any little effort to brush them aside serves to soothe his ego.

They smile at him. It’s a friendly smile. An innocent, non-intimate smile. An obligatory smile you would give your boyfriend’s younger brother. It aggravates Sasuke. It makes him feel so… irrelevant.

“I was wondering if you’ve seen Itachi,” they say. “He was supposed to come back from his mission this morning, but I haven’t seen or heard from him.”

Sasuke feels a twinge of annoyance. Itachi had come back that morning, just as scheduled. It must mean he was too busy to bother giving his parter notice. It frustrates Sasuke in two respects. How could they expect his older brother to take time out of his busy schedule to report his whereabouts every second of the day? It was naive of them… Then again, how could Itachi leave them in the dark? It didn’t seem fair. They deserved to know, as Itachi’s partner. If anyone can empathize with the pain of feeling neglected, it’s him.

But ultimately, he turns his anger onto his brother’s partner. Why come to him? Why was he his brother’s keeper? Why couldn’t they have gone to bother his parents? He’d endured it all his life. Living in Itachi’s shadow. People only bothered paying him any attention because of that. 

“I don’t know.” He looks away from them then, throws another kunai. It hits the bullseye.

They wait for more, but nothing comes. It seems as though he’s completley returned focus to his training.

“Oh… okay.” He hears the uncertainty in their voice. The awkwardness. He almost regrets his attitude, but he won’t go back on it now. “I’ll see you then, Sasuke.”

He doesn’t say goodbye. He won’t even turn to watch them leave.

~

Sasuke can’t remember how many nights it’s been now. It feels like an endless cycle of frustration, humiliation, and hurt pride.

After the first night Itachi had his partner over for dinner, Sasuke would have assumed it to be sufficient enough. And rightfully so. All that was meant to be accomplished was introducing them to their father. He didn’t even need to approve of them, only acknowledge. That should have been enough. There shouldn’t have been any reason for them to keep coming over, acting so congenial, like they were supposed to be some sort of family.

Yet here they were, sharing dinner with his family once again. Sasuke had found reasons to skip dinner the last two times, but his mother wouldn’t hear it this night. She said it was rude, even disrespectful to Itachi’s partner.

“Please forgive me if I’ve been imposing,” they say at one point, sincerely apologetic. Sasuke wishes there were a flattering undertone to their words, that they were merely feigning the sincerity just to gain the favor of his parents. But no, it’s genuine. Sasuke can see that, and so can his parents.

“No need to apologize, dear.” Mikoto smiles at them. “It’s a pleasure to have you over.”

“I just feel so intrusive sometimes.” They pick timidly at their food, still not completely assured. Then they bow just slightly. “I understand how busy you are, Fugaku-san. I would hate to feel as though I’m taking away from the only time you have with family.”

Fugaku only gives a hum in response. At first, Sasuke thinks that’s all he’ll offer. Guilt and anticipation rises in him once again, hoping that his father will disregard them as a simple nuisance. He shouldn’t be so pleased with the thought. But then Fugaku continues, much to his surprise, “It’s no trouble.”

Sasuke feels his heart rate pick up. It wasn’t fair. How could their father be so lenient? And now, out of all times? When Sasuke’s composure was hanging by a thread?

Itachi’s partner seems relieved and pleased, maybe even grateful. Their smile is gleeful, but they compose themselves. “Thank you.” They bow again from their sitting position. “Please let me know if my presence is ever an inconvenience.”

There’s a silent consensus then. Their family was always one to forfeit prolonged conversation where they felt it was unneeded. Itachi’s partner’s courtesy was satisfactory, it seemed. But to Sasuke, it was just pathetic. 

They eat in silence for a few calm moments. Sasuke succeeds in containing his frustration for only that long. But there’s a point he can no longer stay quiet. 

“Now.”

The rest at the dinner table pause their eating to look at him. No one says a word, expecting him to continue. When he doesn’t, Mikoto cocks her head. 

“What is it, Sasuke?” she asks.

“Now,” he repeats again, more firmly this time, not meeting any of their eyes. Itachi watches him closely, the calmest out of the company.

Sasuke sees that no one catches on. And although the confused, expectant silence he receives is enough to make him regret his outburst, he doesn’t care at this point. 

“You’re being an inconvenience now.”

There is no reply from anyone. Maybe they’re trying to decide whether he’s serious, or if it’s just some cruel joke. He can feel their gazes. Confusion. Disappointment. Anger. Embarrassment on his mother and brother’s part.

“Sasuke,” his mother hisses under her breath, as if no one else in the confined room will hear. He looks to see his mother’s expression, a desperate plea for him to go back on his word. To explain himself. To apologize. But he won’t.

Itachi’s voice is the one that starts to break down his facade. The fluid coolness behind it seemed to have that effect. “Why do you say that?” he asks Sasuke.

It’s not at all said in anger. It’s much less a serious inquiry than it is a critique. Even his expression is calm. Unreadable, as usual. That makes it even more unsettling.

Sasuke finally looks at Itachi’s partner, the gaze he had been avoiding the most. He sees the hurt in their eyes, the inevitable hurt that shouldn’t disturb him as much as it does. Yet his anger can’t subside. 

“If you’re so uncertain about whether you’re imposing or not, then why do you continue to impose?” In spite of his racing heart, he tries to sound as impassive as possible. He should stop while he’s ahead, he knows that. He’s only digging himself into hole. 

Itachi is looking at him, and Sasuke feels the sweat gather at the back of his neck. Will he respond? Will he defend his partner? Sasuke can’t be sure. 

“Sasuke, don’t be rude.” It’s their mother that reacts again, her voice thin and anxious. Fugaku says nothing, only watches the scene unfold. 

“Sasuke…” Itachi’s partner is having trouble finding their voice, expression a painful mixture of sorrow and uncertainty. “I’m… sorry if I did anything to make you think that.”

Sasuke doesn’t respond. He doesn’t think it warrants a response. He wouldn’t even know what to say. He’s done enough. He knows that. 

He pushes off from the table, stands, and leaves before anybody can say anything else. He thinks he hears his mother protest. Itachi’s partner looks to him for an explanation, but he says nothing. 

They look down into their lap, feeling an embarrassing, ashamed heat warm their cheeks. They feel like crying. Being in the Uchiha clan leader’s presence was stifling enough. But to have their insecurities confirmed, by the youngest of the household, no less, was defeating.

“I think I’ll go,” they say, standing and trying to quell the threat of tears. 

“No, _____, it’s alright.” Mikoto pleads, but her reassurance doesn’t reach their ears. Fugaku remains silent, neither approving nor disapproving.

Itachi too offers no reaction, undisturbed even as his partner leaves without a word. He can only stare at the spot where Sasuke once sat. 

~

He’s sitting on the back porch when Itachi finds him. Not that he had really been looking. He knew it’s where Sasuke would be. Too proud to evade the damage he had done and leave the house, but too anxious to face anyone directly. If he was going to contemplate what he had done, it would be here in his own home.

Sasuke knows the footsteps that approach him are Itachi’s, but he doesn’t look back. He doesn’t quite know what to expect. He’d been trying to anticipate what this confrontation would look like. Part of him appealed to the cynicism that had thrived thanks to his jealousy. Maybe Itachi didn’t care about his partner. He wouldn’t be angered by Sasuke’s words. A slight on his significant other would not be a slight on him. Maybe Itachi had even been hoping that someone would chastise them, that a weight would be lifted off his shoulders. Maybe Sasuke did him a favor.

But that was unlikely. Sasuke knew his brother well. Itachi wouldn’t invest time into someone he didn’t genuinely care about. Maybe he was angry. Maybe this had damaged their relationship permanently. 

Sasuke would be lying if he said the thought didn’t hurt him, but he couldn’t face his regret and despair now. He couldn’t let Itachi see it.

The older Uchiha stops behind Sasuke, keeping his distance. 

“I’m sorry, Sasuke.”

Sasuke won’t turn around to look at him, but his chest tightens. He pretends not to know what Itachi is talking about. But Itachi sees through it. 

He knows. He had known the entire time. His dinner outburst was the last confirmation, the push Itachi needed to finally amend for the turmoil he assumed Sasuke had endured all this time.

But Sasuke’s back is still to him. He won’t dare look at his older brother. He doesn’t want to see his pity, his fruitless remorse. It would only make it all worse.

“I didn’t know it would come this far,” Itachi tells him. “I didn’t know it would affect you this much.”

Distress rises in him. “What are you talking about?” Sasuke knows he doesn’t sound convincing. Even if he did, there’s no fooling his older brother. But it’s the only thing he can do now to salvage what little pride he has left.

Itachi seems to respect this, even though he doesn’t back down. That wouldn’t be fair to Sasuke. “I should have known not to bring _______ here. Not this often. It was unfair of me. For that, I’m sorry.”

Sasuke says nothing in return. He can’t process all of this. Knowing that his brother had been aware all this time is both embarrassing and infuriating. How could he let him go on like this? Looking like a fool? Itachi was right to admit his own discretions, at least. He should have known better than to bring them around, he should have better than to jeopardize his younger brother’s sanity.

Sasuke felt betrayed, in one way. Somehow understanding, in another.

“Do you even like ______?” he asks his older brother. It comes out quietly, a sentiment that had been floating in the back of his mind for years now. He regrets it immediately. He didn’t seem to know when to hold his tongue when it came to them. Itachi narrows eyes.

“Yes.”

Sasuke doesn’t know what answer he was looking for. Even if he had said no, he wouldn’t be any more disappointed or relieved.

“It’s not what you think it is,” Sasuke insists, even though he knows it’s useless to snake his way out of this now. Itachi knows. Apparently, he’s always known. What more was there to hide?

“Whatever you say,” Itachi says. Not condescending, but acknowledging that he won’t break Sasuke’s bluff no matter what he does. He’ll respect that. “What do you want me to do, Sasuke?”

Sasuke suddenly bubbles with anger. He stands, rounding on his older brother. “Don’t make any decisions just because of me.”

“I won’t, unless you want me to.”

Again, Sasuke doesn’t know if that makes him happy. His older brother was a loyal man. To his family, and to those he cared about outside of his family as well. He respects Itachi for that. He always has. The fact Itachi was willing to choose him over his own lover should please him, but it doesn’t.

“I won’t say a thing to anyone, Sasuke,” he promises, as if it will mend the situation. Itachi knows it won’t. “I never did this to hurt you. Just know that.”

And Sasuke does. He never once imagined Itachi was parading his partner around to spite him. It was just an unfortunate coincidence that Sasuke felt something for the same person as his brother. He never imagined they would be in this situation.

He doesn’t respond to Itachi. It’s not to be difficult, not to be petty. He simply has nothing more to say. Nothing will repair his pride now, and nothing will change what’s been done.

Itachi understands, and figures his brother wants to be alone. He’ll need some time to himself before going back in to face their mother anyway, furious and ashamed by her son’s behavior. Itachi wishes it didn’t have to be this way.

Nevertheless, the consequences are set in stone. Itachi leaves his brother, knowing this. But he wonders where it will lead them.

~

Itachi stops bringing his partner to the house. At first, Sasuke feels a twinge of guilt.

He loves his brother. He does. That Itachi made a sacrifice like that for him is touching, but upsetting. He didn’t like knowing he was being pampered. That a routine was being modified for his sake. For his stupid, confusing feelings.

There’s even a point where Sasuke is certain they’re no longer dating. He pondered it often. Did Itachi break up with them? When? And how? How did he do it? What excuse did he make? Even Itachi made up a lie, some scapegoat to save Sasuke’s pride, Itachi’s partner would have to know it was a result of what had happened that night at dinner. Sasuke hated that thought.

It seemed that all he had tried to do up until this point was make them dislike him. Maybe it would keep them away, and his feelings would die down. It was the only solution. Yet now that it had happened, he wasn’t satisfied at all. He felt only empty.

He finds himself training more often, and more ardently. It takes his mind off of the anxieties swimming in his head. He thinks he’s found a solace there alone in the woods, wearing himself out day after day, something to take his mind off of the confusing, harrowing reality of his situation now. But anguish always seems to find him. 

He can sense their presence before they even say anything. His heart nearly stops. Why the hell did they always find a way to disrupt his peace of mind?

Their footsteps stop somewhere behind him. How far, Sasuke doesn’t know. But he can sense they’re keeping their distance. Good, Sasuke thinks. They should know better than to provoke him after all that had happened. Yet another part of him wishes he had the courage to face them, too look into their eyes and see the damage had had done.

“Sasuke,” they say. He doesn’t like the sad reticence in their voice. The guilt he had hoped would stay dormant creeps in once again. “I’m sorry. For whatever I did, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause trouble between you and Itachi.”

Sasuke works his jaw, never cursing his own brashness as he did now. He should have never said anything that night. He should have kept his mouth shut. He should have let his brother be happy. He should have let his lover be happy. 

“It’s nothing you did,” Sasuke tells them. But it’s a lie. They made his feelings run out of his control. He didn’t know how. He didn’t know why. But they had succeeded in making him vulnerable in a way he hadn’t known before.

They smile a sad smile. Even though Sasuke can’t see it, he can feel the change in the air. They probably don’t believe him, but there’s a grim acceptance between them then. 

Part of him wishes they would just leave. The other hopes that they don’t, fearing that this will be the last semblance of peace they’ll ever have between each other again.

It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care about them. As far as he can tell, he succeeded in ruining his brother’s relationship, which had never been his official goal, but he supposes it only aids the process of ridding himself of trivial feelings. So why did it hurt so much? 

“Whatever happens, Sasuke, I hope we can still be friends. If that’s what you want.”

He grits his teeth. What reason did they have to be so congenial? After all he had done to them? It was stupid of them. It was pointless. How could they be so pathetic?

“I don’t care,” he responds. He takes a kunai and throws it at its target. He thinks it lands the bullseye. But he’s not paying attention. He can see, hear, and feel nothing but their disheartening presence. It’s almost overwhelming.

They would be disheartened, but they expected this sort of reaction. 

They asked Itachi before whether speaking to Sasuke would be ill-advised. Itachi didn’t seem to have an opinion. He said it was their choice. Whatever would ease their mind. But he did warn them that Sasuke would likely not react well. 

And above all, Itachi said they shouldn’t mention that they were still together. 

Itachi didn’t tell his lover about Sasuke’s feelings. He would respect his brother’s privacy. All Itachi said was that any talk of their relationship would be better left unsaid. And they understood that. It didn’t seem to make Sasuke’s spirits lift at all though. That’s what was so disappointing.

“I’ll see you around then, Sasuke.”

He’s still resonating with silent anger as they say it. He can’t stand the guilt within him. But before he can turn around and even think about amending his mistakes, they’re already gone.

Sasuke sighs in dismal defeat, but knows it’s better this way. 

[warsofasoiaf]

Traitor Primarch Analysis Grand Finale: Horus Lupercal, Warmaster of the Imperium and Chaos, and his Luna Wolves.

Horus’s story is one that has been told countless times through countless cultures. The son rebelling against the father, the corruption of the hero into the villain, these are all powerful storytelling themes.Horus is ultimately a story on the ruin of pride, on the terrifying nature of disregarding everything for the self. The fears and insecurities led to the belief that only he was worthy, and this is the ultimate end of pride: everyone else is simply secondary and plays a supporting role, at best, to the story of you: the main character of the universe.

Horus Rising gives us a view of Horus almost a 180 from the man in Galaxy in Flames. This was a man who gave a dignified funeral to an Emperor who murdered one of his favored captains, simply because showing the man some respect would make the conquered systems easier to incorporate into the Imperium. This knack for diplomacy extended to his brothers as well, Horus was quite capable of identifying his brothers’ unique skills and personality quirks in order to get them to be part of a whole. While the Emperor’s tremendous psychic might and force of personality indeed kept much of the early Imperium together, Horus formed the vital glue that could keep eighteen of the most titanic egos mostly in check. Horus was also incredibly humble, refusing the honor of naming his Legion ‘the Sons of Horus’ as he did not wish to elevate himself over his brothers, though he did accept the title of Warmaster. Given that the Emperor was leaving for Terra to complete his secret Webway project, the title Warmaster was necessary, there needed to be a chain of command in place in the Emperor’s absence, and Horus was the man to fill it.

Yet while Horus was exceptional in a lot of ways, he had his own flaws, chief among them pride. This does seem odd in light of the previous mention of humility, and it is indeed one of the issues to wrangle with pre-Davin Horus. Was his acceptance of the position of Warmaster truly as he said, simply for the pragmatic necessity of having a senior leader in the Emperor’s absence, because that does keep in line with refusing the honor of Sons of Horus title, but can’t be the same thing seen in False Gods. In the Emperor’s declaration on Ullanor and the establishment of the High Lords of Terra, Horus saw a future without him in it. The Imperium would be ruled by petty human bureaucrats whose contribution to the war effort was paperwork, not the gene-crafted sweat and blood of the Astartes, and they would preen and pat themselves on the back as the rulers of the galaxy while the Astartes were shunned, their toils and sacrifices forgotten. The future was in sight and Horus wasn’t in it. Worse still, the Emperor left, taking the credit but not putting in the effort as he had in the earlier eras. The Imperium was taking the efforts of Horus and his fellow Primarchs, and the Astartes they led into battle after battle, and claiming the fruits of them as their own without sowing the seed, and this is Horus’s first chink in his psychological armor.

This notion of the unappreciative bureaucrats and politicians back home claiming the soldiers’ victories as their own is a strong one both in real-life military culture and in military fiction. Leon Silverburg in Suikoden II even said that strategists are forgotten in peacetime and only sought after in war, only to be forgotten again when peace comes. The same concept applies to soldiers and this cut Horus deep. What was he to do when peace came, and did he have to give this peace to those who put forth no effort to earn it? This shook Horus’s confidence to the very core, making him doubt himself, his legions, his brothers, and his father and the Imperium as well. Of course, by Istvaan, Horus cared nothing for the soldiers, only for the grand mission. Thus, Horus became what he hated and feared, a common motif for fallen hero stories.

Of course, Horus did not simply fear at the future. We see into his mind that he believed that Sanguinius was the better choice for the Warmaster, that he embodied all the traits of their shared father and was the greater general, warrior, and man. This even factors into his strategic decision-making, as he attempts to have the Angel killed rather than converted to the worship of Chaos, as Sanguinius might even become the true Warmaster of Chaos. This is given to us second-hand, who knows how true it is, though given that Chaos tries to convert him on Signus and on Davin, it might be true indeed.

His resolve is what led him to be susceptible to the vision on Davin. The vision shows the length to which Chaos worked to needle him, and pressed upon all his pain points. His fear of having no place was exemplified by showing Horus the future where the Emperor was worshiped as a deity and some of his sons were venerated as grand demigod heroes, but Horus was forgotten. Favored son Sanguinius had a holiday in his name, where Horus was nothing. The Emperor retreated and became a god, sacrificing his sons for the sake of ultimate power (or so the Chaos gods led Horus to believe), and this confirmed what Horus was feeling. Magnus couldn’t offer a compelling counterargument to Erebus and the Ruinious Powers. By stating it was only one potential future, Magnus couldn’t give Horus the assurances needed to overcome his fears borne of insecurity. Even worse, given what we see with Eldrad and other seers and prophecies (to say nothing of Magnus entombed upon the Golden Throne), they are hardly ironclad. Magnus is completely right when he tells Horus about the future, but even being right is hardly convincing when the other side is saying exactly what wants to be heard. Pride became Horus after that. During the vision, the Chaos Gods offered the galaxy to Horus in exchange for the Emperor. This seems like a complete 180 and symptomatic of the Chaos corruption, but Chaos never looks far to corrupt. The galaxy is the natural extension of Horus’s fear of being forgotten; he can hardly be forgotten when he runs the place.

As might be expected of the Warmaster, Horus attacked the Imperium with vigor, winning loyalists over with his interpersonal relationships with his brothers and needling on their weaknesses the same way Chaos needled upon his. Fulgrim was already susceptible thanks to the Laer Blade, Lorgar worshiped Chaos already, and Angron and Mortarion could be lured away with their hatred of the Emperor with Perturabo being won over by his rivalry with Rogal Dorn and his snubbing. Curze is a fascinating case, tormented by his visions and so willingly turning in his belief of predestination along with his nature to attack all those he perceived to be corrupt to include the Emperor. Alpharius, as mentioned before, had his own motivations for joining, and so Horus built a mighty coalition. He then distracted loyalists with traps and false information, had Leman Russ attack Magnus, all to cement his plan. Eliminate the loyalists in his own legion at Istvaan, then strike a devastating blow against the loyalists and given himself numerical advantage.

Yet, for all Horus’s strategic brilliance, Chaos does not lend itself well to strategic planning. Slaanesh is all about sensation and the Emperor’s Children abandoned their plans to seek out greater thrills. Khorne cared only about bloodshed and so the World Eaters sought out more blood to shed. Hence, despite Horus’s commanding advantages, he could not capitalize due to the nature of Chaotic corruption.

Interesting to note in this entire thing is Horus’s excursion to Molech, where the power that the Emperor gained was sought by Horus in order to properly challenge him. This continues the son fighting the father thematic motif, but it is interesting to see what it was that Horus acquired. The Emperor had been powerful long before, the tales of him conquering the Void Dragon and other feats mean that the Emperor did not have to go to Molech to transcend human limitations, but clearly there was something on Molech, and Horus needed the same might to challenge the Emperor on his own terms. Given the Siege of Terra, Horus at least had something crazy in the tank, able to kill Sanguinius with barely any damage (previously, Sanguinius and Horus were considered the most powerful and roughly evenly-marched) and mortally wound the Emperor.

Also fascinating to consider is whether the Chaos Gods wanted Horus to win, or if he was a sacrifice meant to enact the horrifying future that the Cabal saw. Horus would be a pawn, meant to wound the Emperor and die, so that the misery of the rotting and dying Imperium would feed the Ruinous Powers the way the hedonism of the lost Eldar Empire birthed Slaanesh. This is the belief of Abaddon and why he views Horus as a fool and the Chaos Gods as snake oil salesmen offering poisonous gifts. It would certainly fit them to use their pawns for their own purposes, and it would fit Horus, blinded by pride to not see the noose around his neck.

The Luna Wolves exemplify what it means to be Astartes, excellent in tactics and strategy, exceptional in leadership and spirit, whether loyalist or traitor. Loken fought with ferocity on Istvaan, but the same Luna Wolves, and even the Black Legion now, emphasize the brotherhood of the Astartes and the overall excellence given to them by their gene-crafted lineage and training in all aspects of war. Whether it’s Torgaddon or Abaddon, the Luna Wolf/Son of Horus/Black Legionnaire chooses what they want and pursues it with a physical and mental zeal the likes of which no mortal can hope to muster.

Thanks for the question, Necro. These were a lot of fun to explore. Hopefully this allows people to see characters like Angron or Horus in a new light.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

[happy-meo]

Save Me. (Yoongi x Reader) PROLOGUE.

"It swallowed me, this lunatic. Please save me tonight. Within this childish madness, you will save me tonight." - ["Save Me" - BTS]

Summary: It was an unprecedented love that bloomed within the halls of your high school, until secret words were overheard, and shattered the budding romance. It changed your life forever, leading you down a path you had never thought you would be on-- training to become a secret agent. You chose it to escape Yoongi and the results of how things ended between you two, but as fate would have it, that very same choice ended up leading you right back to him. Will you be able to save your clients and solve mysteries together despite your history? Will you be able to save each other? Will you able to save yourself...from yourself?    

Yoongi x Reader (ft. Jin & all the other BTS members)

Secret Agent AU

Mystery, Action, Angst, & Fluff (contains some violence, mentions of murder, death, and bullying)

PARTS: Prologue | 1  | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 (Finale) | Bonus: The Letter

A/N: Hi everyone ~ Sorry it’s been a little while since I’ve updated! But I’m happy to present to you my new story ^_^ & CONGRATS TO BTS FOR WINNING TOP SOCIAL ARTIST AT THE BBMAS WOOOO! Let me know if the “Keep Reading” link doesn’t work!

           It was a cliché high school love story, without the happily-ever-after.

           You were one of the quietest and most diligent students in your high school, a shadow to most students, but preferred and known by all the teachers. On the other hand, Min Yoongi was extremely popular and beloved. You two were different ends of the spectrum; your orbits were never meant to interact. Gravity shouldn't have pulled you in stronger than it did.

           And it wasn't love at first sight. Definitely not.

           In fact, you were hardly concerned about the people around you, merely pleased with a good book under your nose. Until one day...

           "Good morning Y/N!"

           You glanced up from your dictionary to give one of the only people that you considered a friend, a warm smile.

           "Good morning Jin." You greeted.

           He had a bright aura, not too overwhelmingly positive, but friendly and comforting. Ever since the first day of your freshman year, you noticed he consistently made an effort to remember everyone's names and wish everyone a good morning. He was known and loved for his friendly personality, despite not being the most attractive or physically skilled. Jin was average by all means. He wore round glasses and an unfailingly bright smile, and never missing a haircut, a new hairstyle, or any changes from his fellow students. He was easy to get along with, and easy to like.

           Even though you didn't really respond as enthusiastically as he did in conversation, the boy still continued talking to you, about everything and anything. It seemed he had a knack for reading people because every day, he gave you jokes and puns as a challenge. It really broke the ice, because you loved thought provoking questions so you found yourself really looking forward to them. You never got any right, which irritated you at first, but down the line, you ended up enjoying the way Jin would rush to the punch line then crack up at his own joke, slapping his knee or his leg in hysterics. You tried to shake your head in disapproval, but you couldn't help the smile or the giggle that surfaced, because his laugh was contagious and often times, his shamelessness at telling such lame jokes was so incredulous that all you could do was laugh along. And soon, it became a normal part of your day. So much so that almost every year after, you two chose to sit next to each other.

           And nothing was any different, even now in your third year of high school. You were still close friends, still in the same class, still seated beside each other. You did open up a little more to a few other classmates, thanks to Jin's infectious personality, but you still preferred your books, your quiet life away from attention and dramatics.

             "I need you to do me a big favor." Jin grabbed your hands, his face and tone serious.

           You glanced up at him worriedly. "What?"

           "Hear me out first okay?"

           "Jin, you're scaring me. Just tell me." You raised an eyebrow.

           "Okay, so they're choosing the Class Officers today, and I really, REALLY want to be Class President for our Junior class." Jin whispered, looking around cautiously just in case someone was listening in.

           "Do you want me to nominate you?" You blinked.

           "No..." Jin stared at you intently. "I want you to run for VP."

           "What??" You bellowed, causing everyone to turn their attention to you two. Immediately, you pried your hands from Jin's so as to not be part of any dating rumors. You knew how vicious gossip could be.

           "Shh!" Jin hissed and opened a book to make it look like he was checking answers or reading something with you.

           "Why do you want me to be your VP?"

           Jin shrugged. "You're like the only person I find reliable and trustworthy enough to keep me levelheaded. I tend to get carried away at times and fool around a little too much, and you always reel me back."

           You exhaled, "Jin, no one even knows who I am. I won't stand a chance even if I run."

           "Oh please." Jin waved his hand. "Y/N, people know who you are and they know how studious, intelligent, and responsible you are. We'd make an awesome pair! Pleassseee!"

           You stared at your friend, in contemplation. Your teachers had recommended you to join a club or activity to become well-rounded for college applications, and sports weren't too appealing to you. Maybe being part of the Class Council wouldn't be so bad, especially if you had a say in things, and Jin was leading it.

           Jin grinned widely, already seeing your hesitation dwindle away with each new thought. "You're totally going to do it, and I love you so much."

           You rolled your eyes. "Alright. I'll do it...only cause I need a club to join anyway. I need more than academic achievements on my college applications, and time's running out."

           Jin embraced you tightly. "You're the best, Y/N! You won't regret it, I promise you!"

           You chuckled and let him hug you.

           And unsurprisingly, with Jin's support for your instatement as VP beside him, no one else dared to oppose you. So just like that, you made it on the Class Council, locked in to lead a class of students you hardly had spoken to, but always observed.

           With one request, one choice, one step forward, you were thrown into the world of people. Standing in front of the entire class without a book to hide behind or a problem to quickly solve on the board, you meekly and nervously positioned yourself beside Jin. You weren't used to standing before a crowd, so bare, so vulnerable.

           As Jin spoke, you took the time to look around and get accustomed to where you would be standing throughout the rest of the year. For the first time you truly looked up to scan the faces of your classmates. You had only really heard their voices, disregarding them out of shyness, out of fear. And in your innocent observation, your eyes coincidentally connected with one particularly quiet, mysterious, and handsome boy in your class.

           Min Yoongi.

           He always sat in the back corner of the classroom. You had never seen it yourself, but he would always get in trouble for staring out the window or for sleeping during class. Every word he spoke was either witty or blunt, and he was very nonchalant and relaxed, almost to the point where he looked like he didn't care about anything. However, he still maintained fantastic grades, and was one of the star players of the school basketball team. You two had been in the same class along with Jin for the past 3 years, so you knew him by name and from the very brief times you had spoken to him. But it was the first time you had truly taken the time to look at him closely.

           Yoongi had always been alluring to you, not because of how he looked, though he was handsome no doubt, but because of how he acted. He never cut corners with his words, and he did whatever he wanted. It wasn't out of rebellion or out of an attempt to create a chic image, but it was just who he was. He stayed true to whatever he felt was right to do at the time. He was well-known, but wasn't boisterous. He had a confident air about him, without the inflated ego. And you would always find yourself the only one giggling or snorting at a witty comeback he would mumble in the middle of class. Not many people understood his wit, but you surely did. For someone who seemed to only have a max of two emotions - sleeping or sleepy, it was intriguing that he had a sense of humor.

           You had had insignificant encounters with him before. Gazes locking as you passed through the hallways, fingers grazing as you passed papers back to him, lazy good mornings when he was half asleep walking into the classroom. You hated to admit it, but you had developed a very tiny crush on this popular boy. And you intended to keep it a secret. He was merely someone who intrigued you and caused your heart to flutter temporarily with any mere sign of his attention--nothing less, nothing more.

           He hadn't been on your radar at all freshman year. You dismissed him as someone you would probably never get along with, given how students flocked towards him, and the occasional bullshit responses you heard him tell students and teachers. It made you laugh, no doubt, but it was also embarrassing to hear someone be so shameless. He was talented at sports, and didn't have a bad brain, but that was all you really cared to know about him at the time.

           But then he captured you out of the blue during sophomore year.

           You had stayed up until sunrise to cram for a big exam, and you had vowed to yourself to pull an all-nighter and not sleep. However, you betrayed your promise and opted on taking a quick nap to rest your mind and body. But napping caused you to wake up later than usual, so you had rushed to get ready and ran carelessly out of the house to make it to school before the bell rang. In your haste, you had forgotten your jacket. In your hurry, you didn't feel the frosty weather nipping at you as you ran. But you surely regretted your forgetfulness after school.

           Dreading walking home in the freezing cold, you stared at the doors leading to the outside, trying to figure out alternate solutions. As you were contemplating grabbing your gym clothes and layering up regardless of how peculiar you would look, you felt something warm fall on top of your head and wrap around your shoulders. Surprised, you glanced beside you to find Min Yoongi, at the time, the young ace of the basketball team. To say you were stunned speechless would be an understatement. Your mind went blank at being in his presence and at the realization that he had just placed his sweater on you. Before you could say anything though, he inhaled and sprinted out of the school, into the cold, in a light jog. Gratefully, you pulled it over your body, finding the fleece incredibly soft and warm; large enough to shield more than half of your body from the frosty weather.

           You had waited until after school the next day to return it to him, washed thoroughly and folded neatly into a nice gift bag.

           "Um here." You mumbled. "It's washed and dried already. I never got to thank you for lending it to me."

           He smiled a little, grabbing the bag from you. "No problem, Y/N."

           And the way your heart raced at the mention of your name signaled you that this boy had already gotten to you.

           "Y-you know my name?" You stammered uncoolly.

           Yoongi glanced at you, slightly amused. "Well yes, we've been in the same class the past 2 years."

           You blushed. "Right..."

           "Ayo Yoongi!" One of his teammates bellowed.

           "Yeah, yeah I'm coming." he grumbled then turned back to you. "Thanks again, Y/N. Get home alright."

           You smiled and nodded. "Have a good practice."

           And since then, you'd occasionally steal glances down the hallway or around the classroom. You attended some of his games and watched the way he lit up and burst with energy on the court, unlike his usually relaxed, seemingly lethargic self in the classroom. A year later, and here you are gawking at him from in front of the classroom this time.

           Your eyes darted away from his stare to the decorated bulletin board in the back of the classroom, praying you hadn't been caught. You tuned into Jin's first speech as Class President, where he discussed future trips and class activities he had in mind. Everyone murmured enthusiastically at the mentions of doing something fun. You smiled proudly. Jin really had good ideas for the year, and it exhilarated you, the idea that you would be part of something big for once. But in the pit of your stomach, you also had butterflies fluttering around with the thought that being a class rep would mean getting more opportunities to talk and work with people in the class. It was exciting and nerve-wrecking at the same time.

           It wasn't until a few weeks later that you finally had your second full-blown encounter with Yoongi ever. You were on your way to your teacher's office with the entire class's homework notebooks in your arms. Wanting to go home as soon as possible, you had lifted all of them at once instead of breaking them up into smaller, manageable piles. They weren't heavy but the height of the stack blocked off your vision, meaning you relied on your hearing and everyone's sense to make it through the hallways unscathed. But you didn't account for the possibility of someone turning the corner at the same time you were crossing it, without notice. You were knocked slightly backwards, wobbling to keep the stack steady, and yourself upright.

           "Whoa." You heard a deep voice, and immediately recognized it. The hairs on your skin stood on edge at the coincidence. Out of all the people in the entire school you could bump into, it had to be Yoongi.

           You ducked your head into the stack and attempted to walk around where you saw his feet, embarrassed. But suddenly, half the notebooks were pulled away from you, clearing your line of sight. Your breath got caught in your throat at his close proximity.

           He grinned, staring straight at you without no hints of nervousness. Of course, why would he be nervous; it was just little, old you after all. "I thought it was you, Miss VP."

           You bowed, "Sorry."

           He turned to his friends beside him. "You guys go ahead. I'll help her out or else our homework may not get to the office in one piece."

           The guys chuckled and waved, before obliging.

           You huffed at the underhanded attack. "I was doing fine until you bumped into me."

           He glanced at you, amused. "Um I think a 'thank you' would suffice."

           You blushed and averted your eyes as you two started walking side by side in silence. It was awkward. There was a torrential storm brewing inside you, swirling with possibilities of topics and things to say and the embarrassing ending results. You didn't know what to say or what to do. And you hesitated so long that you two had made it to the teacher's office without saying a word to him. Sullenly, you entered and handed the homework to your homeroom teacher.

           "Oh, what a rare pairing we have here." She smiled at you and Yoongi, causing you to blush profusely at the mention of being a "pair" with the popular guy beside you.

           "She was a danger to the students." Yoongi snorted. "She nearly killed me, Teacher!"

           You gasped, not wanting to look bad in front of your favorite teacher. "I did not! You bumped into me!"

           She giggled. "It's nice to see you two interact is all I meant. It'll be a good friendship to develop."

           You raised an eyebrow at your teacher. "It would?"

           "Why? You don't want to be friends with me?" Yoongi chuckled.

           You blushed and waved your hands apologetically, "No, I didn't mean it--"

           "Relax. I got you." he patted your head warmly.

           "I just think you two would learn a lot from each other is all." Your teacher smiled and pinched Yoongi's cheek. "Like how to be a good student and use your brain instead of that smart ass mouth."

           Yoongi whined and you giggled.

           "And for you to come out of your shell and be yourself a little more, Y/N." she glanced at you. "This boy right here doesn't care much."

           You blinked, and spoke before you realized what you were saying. "But I think he acts this way because he does care a lot."

           Silence.

           You gasped and covered your mouth frantically. "Well, I have to go! See you tomorrow!"

           You hurriedly bowed and sprinted out of the office; your face was entirely red with shame and embarrassment. He must've thought you were insane and having delusions about who he was. How could you have spouted your assumption like that?

           "Aigoo, aigoo." You stood in front of your locker, smacking your lips, angry at them for acting on their own. Hearing oncoming footsteps, you switched into your outside shoes and attempted to book it outside, but you were stopped by someone's fingers wrapping around your wrist. You tensed and gulped.

           "I believe I never got my thank you, Y/N." his taunting voice and the feeling of his hand around your skin had your heart fluttering.

           "Um thank you." You mumbled, still facing the door, not daring to look at him.

           He chuckled at your apparent embarrassment so he walked in front of you, your eyes instinctively casting down to avoid staring at how handsome he was.

           "I've come for an explanation." he stated, still not letting go of your arm, so all you could do was stare at way his fingers were making contact with your skin.

           "On what?" You muttered.

           "Your opinion of me."

           You looked around awkwardly. "I don't have an opinion of you."

           He chuckled. "Want me to go call our teacher over to repeat what you said?"

           "No." You grumbled. "I said it by mistake, don't worry about it."

           You tried to step around him, but his grip tightened around your arm. "And what if I said you were right?"

           You froze. "What?"

           "What if I said that you were right that I act like this because I do care a lot?" he repeated. "But I want to know how you found me out."

           You glanced over at him, hoping to see that he was joking, but he was in fact, very serious and curious.

           "Um..." you looked behind you at the incoming flock of students coming out of their clubs.

           "Come with me." he grinned.

           "What?"

           "Come with me." he gestured. "Get those school shoes back on. I won't let go of you until I get what I came for."

           His words had your cheeks warm.

           "Well, you holding on to me will make putting my shoes on quiet a venture."

           He shrugged. "You'll never know until you try."

           "People will be looking at us weird."

           "I don't care." he whispered. "Now, let's go."

           You blushed.

           Obviously, you had already internally agreed to go since he first asked, but you didn't want to be too eager for fear of being found out. He brought you to the school rooftop, which you knew for sure was against the rules, but he chastised you for being too uptight for a kid.

           "Look." he brought you closer to the wire fence that prevented anyone from falling off the roof, and pointed at the horizon.

           You breathed as you saw the picturesque sky donned like a canvas splattered with orange, pink, and purple hues. The sunset was absolutely breathtaking.

           "Aren't you glad you broke the rules a little?" he teased.

           You glared at him. "Only if we don't get caught."

           He laughed as he grabbed the fence, "Can't argue with you there."

           You two stood in silence, taking in the vast expanse of the sky and the untainted beauty of nature.

           "So?" Yoongi urged.

           "Hm?" You hummed.

           Yoongi turned and leaned against the fence, his hands stuffed into his pockets suavely. Your heart was racing immensely. You were in a romantic spot on a rooftop with your crush. It was overwhelming, and fantasies flooded into your mind, disabling you from any coherent thought or word in his presence.

           "What gave it away?" he mumbled as he glanced straightly at you.

           You blinked. "Gave what away?"

           "My true personality." he grinned.

           Your eyes flitted towards him then back to the ground shyly. "Well...I just think you act like you don't care or don't expect anything, because you actually care too much about not being disappointed. It's scarier hoping people will like you for you, than hoping people will like you as someone else."

           "So you don't think I've been acting like myself?" he stepped in front of you, causing your back to hit the fence.

           You were flustered at his proximity, you willed your eyes not to dart towards his lips, but they did anyway.

           "I-I-I think you've been acting like a version of yourself is all. Just an opinion...of someone who doesn't know you..." you grabbed onto the fence behind you to hold onto your sanity.

           Yoongi laughed and stepped back, crossing his arms. "That's the funny thing, Y/N."

           You exhaled, feeling relieved. "What's funny?"

           "It seems like you actually know me better than most people." he hummed.

           You glanced at him surprised. You had thought you were assuming too much, deluding yourself into thinking that he had more depth to him than he let on, all to feed your crush. But to think that you were correct, that he had an underlying meaning to his actions, that despite being so popular and talented, he still had insecurities and secrets; it was stunning.

           He must've seen your surprise because he chuckled.

           "But I know about you too, Y/N." he smirked.

           You furrowed your brows. "What do you mean?"

           "You don't open up to anyone, because you don't want to be hurt and disappointed either. That's why you hide behind your books and your studying."

           "Well, I'm not sure if that's really a secret." You chuckled.

           He laughed. "Most people think you're cold or shy you know. I think you're actually the one who doesn't care too much about appearances."

           You smiled.

           "Well Y/N," he stretched. "I'd say this makes us friends, don't you think?"

           "Hm?"

           "We know each other's secrets." he grinned. "If we're not friends, then we're enemies, and I don't think I'd want an enemy knowing my secret. So I might have to kill you unless you solidify our friendship."

           You giggled. "Are you threatening me to be your friend?"

           "Merely coaxing you with a possibility of violence." he cheekily stated as he outstretched his hand. "What do you think? I mean you've also become my accomplice in this crime of trespassing."

           You grinned and slotted your hand into his, with your heart beating wildly. "I don't think having a partner in crime is so bad."    

           And after that day, Yoongi would take time to talk to you in the mornings, surprising everyone in class, including Jin.

           "What was that?" Jin questioned after he finally had witnessed it. "THE Min Yoongi just talked to you...with a SMILE on his face."

           You blushed and your lips turned up shyly.

           "What happened?"

           "He helped me out with carrying the homework stack the other day, and we just became friends." You shrugged. "I'm not really sure how it happened either."

           Jin glanced at Yoongi then frowned. "Just be careful, Y/N. He's popular and you know it gets tricky being around popular people."

           You laughed, "You're popular too though, Jin."

           "You know what I mean. I'm friendly popular, but not in the popular clique popular. A lot of vicious girls are vying for his attention, Y/N. If you get too close, you'll get mixed up into that mess."

           You smiled and patted Jin's hand. "I know. Don't worry. We're just friends is all. I'm sure it's refreshing to have a girl that's not fawning over him."

           Jin chuckled and ruffled your hair. "That's true. Cause you're in love with meeee ~"

           You rolled your eyes then turned back to your notes. You were sure friends was all you would ever be with Yoongi, and as thrilling as that was, the more you thought about it, the more it saddened you. With each conversation, with each thing you learned about the man, you wanted to be something more. But you didn't want your feelings to get in the way of your budding friendship, so you suppressed and buried them as much as you could.

           "Mind if I sit here?"

           You nearly choked on your food when Yoongi appeared beside you in the courtyard. You usually ate outside instead of the canteen, preferring the quiet sound of nature to the loud voices of people. You nodded as you coughed, and he chuckled.

           "Didn't know I had that effect on you?" He sat down and unwrapped his sandwich.

           You rolled your eyes as you swallowed down water to compose yourself.

           "What brings you here, Yoongi?" You questioned, trying to sound calm and collected.

           "Just a change of pace." he shrugged as he chewed. "It does get tiring being popular."

           "Oh? I never noticed." You jeered.

           "You're a cheeky little thing aren't you?" he waved his sandwich at you.

           "Must've rubbed off from your hand." You shrugged.

           He chuckled and glanced up at the clear blue sky. "I'm more than my basketball."

           "Yes, you're a person." You teased.

           He glared at you. "I'm being serious, Y/N."

           "Sorry." You coughed and turned to him to give you your undivided attention. "So you're more than your basketball?"

           "Okay, why does it sound lame coming from your mouth?" he huffed.

           "It was already lame coming out of yours." You snorted. "But carry on, what happened?"

           Was it supposed to be this easy? Although your entire body was filled with butterflies, your responses came out naturally and comfortably. Even though afterwards you felt embarrassed about things you said and did, during the conversation, everything seemed to flow well. Yoongi made it easy to converse, made it easy to joke around, made it easy to be yourself.

           "Nothing happened." he hummed. "I just think having you to talk to made me realize a lot of the things I had been putting up with."

           You tilted your head, waiting for him to explain.

           "Like these lunches where everybody just talks about their work outs and gossip, shallow things." he bit into his sandwich. "I was sitting there and I was like 'well this is a waste of my time'."

           You smiled, "Well, what do you want to talk about?"

           Yoongi turned to you so that you two were now sitting facing each other on the bench. "Mm maybe like what you want to pursue in the future? Other interests and hobbies? Funny childhood memories? Something more than what happened recently."

           "Well then, Mr. Min." You grinned. "What do you want to pursue in the future?"

           Yoongi chuckled, "You'll never be able to guess."

           You weren't sure how it happened, but soon, you and Yoongi became a daily part of each other's lives in secret. There was an unspoken agreement between you two to maintain a low key friendship, knowing how the unfair yet prevalent social system of the school worked. Occasional public conversations between higher class social circles and lower class were deemed appropriate and friendly, but anything more than that, was frowned upon. You two eventually exchanged numbers and e-mails, and began communicating that way.

           He even walked you home at times, especially when your Class Rep duties had you stay later than usual. You would meet up sneakily outside of the school and go home together, since you two coincidentally lived in the same direction. Sometimes, he would come over to study after practice. Other times, he would just appear to tell you about some exciting new comic or electronic device that is being released that he wanted to save up for. During school, he'd sometimes ask you to meet him at the rooftop to ask you a thought-provoking question weighing on his mind or just to tell you about something ridiculous or funny someone had said that he needed to say in person.

           Your developing friendship went undetected for most people, with the exception of one.

           "Alright. What is happening between you and Yoongi?" Jin confronted you after school one day.

           Your eyes widened as you looked around, praying no one was around to hear his statement.

           It was one of those late nights where you two were at the school until the darkness covered the skies, doing your class rep duties. The school festival was coming up and you and the other class reps were brainstorming what each class was going to contribute.

           "Nothing, Jin." You whispered. "I told you we were just friends."

           "Bullshit." Jin growled as he wiped his glasses and put them back on.

           You gasped, having never heard your long time friend curse.

           "I see you two eat in the courtyard, and I see him wait for you if you're staying late. I see him make faces at you while we're taking roll call in the morning." Jin accused, pushing you back against the lockers roughly. "What is happening?"

           "Really Jin." You exhaled, a little nervous about this new, aggressive side of your dear friend. "I promise you we're just friends. Why can't you accept that?"

           "Because I can't accept that anyone would want to be 'just friends' when they finally get to know you!" Jin bellowed.

           You stared at him surprised. Why was he getting so worked up over you and Yoongi?

           "Is everything alright here?"

           Your heart fluttered at Yoongi's voice, but you could feel Jin's intense gaze still on you.

           "Y/N?" Yoongi glanced between you and Jin. You realized your questionable position.

           "Uh yeah." You slipped away from Jin. "We were just having a little argument over nothing."

           Yoongi nodded. "Ready?"

           "I'll walk her home." Jin turned from his spot to face you two.

           Yoongi stared straightly at him. "It's perfectly fine. I know you live in the opposite direction as us. She's on the way to my house. No need to trouble yourself."

           Jin clenched his fists, knowing Yoongi was right. "I'll call you later then, Y/N."

           You nodded, not liking the dangerous look on Jin's face. You wondered what was happening with him.

           "What were you arguing about? If I may ask?" Yoongi asked after a few minutes of walking in silence.

           "Oh he just asked me what was going on between us, and wouldn't believe we were just friends." You chuckled.

           There was an awkward silence. Had you just friend-zoned yourself? Shit.

           "What's going on with you and Jin?" he questioned.

           "Me and Jin? Oh we've been friends since freshman year. Granted, he does most of the talking, but he's entertaining to listen to. Plus he's super friendly, so it's easy to get along with him." You shrugged.

           "Have you ever liked him...liked him?" Yoongi mumbled.

           "Jin? Oh, no." You chuckled. "It's not like that between us at all."

           "Never? I mean all 3 years you sat next to each other. Now, you're even his VP. That's a lot of time to spend with a guy."

           "Oh please." You rolled your eyes. "Like you aren't always being fawned over by half the female population of the entire school."

           "But I don't spend a majority of my time with them."

           "But you have to admit you like the attention and find some of them attractive."

           "Well do you think Jin is attractive?" he fired back.

           "Well, I'd say he's charming, yes."

           "And what about me?"

           You stopped walking. "What?"

           "Do you find me attractive?" he questioned.

           You gulped. You couldn't say no and offend him, but if you said yes, would it make things awkward?

           "I mean, I guess." You settled for a vague response, but before you could start walking again, he grabbed your backpack, pulling you back to face him.

           "What do you mean, 'you guess'?"

           "Well, I mean uhh..." You stumbled over your words. "It's not that you're not attractive..."

           "So I am attractive." he grinned.

           "Gah!" You flailed your hands, embarrassed. "I'm not answering this question, pass!"

           "Then answer this." He steadied you with his hands firmly on your shoulders. You glanced up to find him being unusually serious. "What would you say if I said I was attracted to you?"

           Your throat closed up immediately, and you could hear your heart hammering loudly against your chest.

           "Wh-what? Stop joking around, Yoongi." You laughed nervously, sweating intensely.

           "I'm not joking, Y/N." he stared into your eyes.

           "You find me attractive?" You repeated in a low whisper, not believing the words yourself.

           "Have you never had someone say that about you?"

           You shook your head. "No."

           "That's a shame." Yoongi whispered. "But good for me."

           Your eyes traveled up to see him looking at you intently. "Well... thank you for finding me attractive."

           You tried to escape, but his grip on your shoulders kept you in place.

           "I had been contemplating this for a while now, but seeing you with Jin today, it really just...it didn't make me feel good at all." he stated.

           "What? Why?"

           "Be my girlfriend, Y/N." he straightforwardly requested. "I don't want to meet you just in secret anymore. I don't want guys like Jin or whoever in our class is noticing how good looking you are now that you're standing in front of the class as our VP, to take you from me."

           You grabbed his arms and slid out from underneath his grasp, not trusting your hearing. He stared at you curiously as you tried to piece his words together.

           "Wait, what?"

           He chuckled and cupped your cheek. "Did I surprise you?"

           "Um yeah, wow. Please don't do that." You hurriedly shied away from his touch. "I think my heart is going to explode."

           "In a good way?" Yoongi laughed as you jogged a little in place to compose yourself. He hummed and crossed his arms as he waited for your reply. "Will I get my answer sometime in the next few minutes? I'm awkwardly standing here, unsure if you like me back or not."

           "Oh wow. Hold on. It's just... a lot to take in." You distanced yourself from him. "So let me get this straight. You, Min Yoongi, handsome, popular, basketball star, is attracted to me?"

           "Yeah." he nodded.

           "And you, Min Yoongi, popu--"

           "Y/N, stop giving me stupid titles." he growled.

           "Okay, so you want ME to be YOUR girlfriend?" You repeated. "Like..."

           He ran his hand through his hair sheepishly. "Yes, Y/N. I want you to be my girlfriend. It's not a damn command, but if you have any inkling of feelings for me, I want you to give me a chance."

           You stared at him in awe. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be roundabout like this. I just...I just had a lot of daydreams and stuff about this happening so I want to make sure it's real before I answer and make a fool of myself. This is real, right?" You pulled at your cheeks to make sure.

           Yoongi grinned widely, your statement subtly confirming that you reciprocated his feelings.

           "Should I help you check?" He bit his lip and stepped closer to you.

           "Hm? How?" You looked up questioningly.

           "Like this." he whispered as he titled your chin up and pressed his lips against yours lightly.

           You stared at each other for a few seconds, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

           "I think I'm going to need you to repeat that a couple more times." You smiled as it dawned on you that this was, in fact, reality.

           Yoongi chuckled, and obliged, capturing your lips once again.

           You were dizzy with happiness, elated and floating on cloud nine. After a year of crushing on him, a few months, falling deeper for him, you were now Min Yoongi's girlfriend.

           And it was everything and nothing like you had expected.

           In an effort to be honest and maintain your open, strong friendship with Jin, you called him and told him what had happened on your way home, bubbling with excitement. But for some reason, he didn't sound too happy about your news.

           "I'm tired Y/N. Thanks for clarifying."

           "No, I'm sorry I kept my feelings about him a secret. But I really didn't think it was possible for him to like me back...much less ask me out." You gushed.

           "Well...I never had a doubt you could make someone fall for you." Jin stated.

           "Thanks Jin."

           Without another word, he hung up on you.

           Jin didn't come to school the next day, and so you had to lead roll call, and talk about the school festival in his stead. You were so nervous that you thought you were going to barf, but you just asked yourself what would Jin say and do, and acted on that. It didn't turn out so bad. The class was receptive to your ideas, and even asked you questions, throwing out their own suggestions. You felt like it was a successful meeting, and Yoongi gave you a thumbs up in the back to confirm it. Smiling to yourself giddily, you returned to your seat.

           Your homeroom teacher arrived and Yoongi immediately raised his hand.

           "Yes, Mr. Yoongi?"

           "Do you mind if I sit next to Y/N today? I forgot my contacts and glasses today, and I really can't see the board."

           You glanced over at him surprised. He grinned at you then returned his attention back to the teacher.

           "Uh sure. I don't see why not since Mr. Jin is absent today." she shrugged. "I, for one, am surprised you actually want to pay attention today."

           The class snickered as Yoongi shrugged nonchalantly, transferring to the table next to you.

           "Laugh all you want kids, but even if he doesn't pay attention, he still gets higher grades than half of you." Your teacher pointed out, earning a groan from everyone.

           "Mornin'." Yoongi grinned as he sat down.

           "Morning." You smiled.

           You couldn't concentrate the entire class because all you wanted to do was stare at him, so beautifully close to you. He was nodding off as usual, so you would nudge him every so often. He'd grumble shove your elbow in return. You shook your head, amused, and gave up. Some habits can't be broken right away after all.

           "When did you realize you liked me?" You asked Yoongi during lunch. He had prepared a picnic blanket for you two to sit on in the courtyard.

           "It's a secret." he hummed as he settled himself on your lap with a yawn.

           "What? Why?" You huffed.

           He smiled. "One day I'll tell you."

           You pouted. "Then I'll keep mine a secret too."

           "You started noticing me when I gave you my jacket." he smugly grinned, his eyes closed.

           "No." You tried to smother down your surprise.

           "Your tone just confirmed my guess was right." he cackled.

           "I said it wasn't!" You urged.

           "I'm calling your bluff." he poked your cheek, one of his eyes looking up at you. "Yah."

           "What?" You glanced down.

           "Come closer."

           "Why?"

           "I have to tell you something."

           "Well just tell me. No one's here."

           "It's embarrassing to say too loud."

           You were intrigued that something would be embarrassing for this shameless man to say. You dipped your head closer to his face to listen, but instead of saying anything, he kissed you. You straightened up immediately and glanced around. Blushing profusely you smacked him shyly, but he was already resting with a triumphant grin on his face.

           "Doesn't matter when or how we ended up liking each other." he hummed. "The fact is we like each other, and we're together now."

           You smiled and carded your hands through his soft, dark locks. "You're absolutely right."

           For the first few days of your new relationship, you two continued to be secretive with your closeness. You and Yoongi talked more openly and walked to class more often, but you kept any sign of your new couple status hidden. Until one day, Yoongi took a leap and intertwined your fingers in the middle of the hallway. You were panicking inside, but he kept talking, as bold and as confident as ever.

           "Hey." he smiled, seeing your evident nervousness. "Relax, no one's going to jump you."

           "Not yet, anyway." You whispered.

           "Do you not want to be with me?"

           "Of course I do." You squeezed his hand. "I just-- I don't know how people are going to react to...me."

           Yoongi smiled. "I'm sure they'll see what I see when they get to know you better. Trust me."

           You returned his smile, hoping that he was right.

           But he wasn't.

           When he wasn't around, people would confront you, call you names, subtly throw things, and pull your hair, antagonizing you. But you just let it pass, knowing that at the end of the day, you would be the one going home holding Yoongi's hand. To make things worse though, Jin began distancing himself from you. He wasn't as chatty with you as before; he wasn't as bubbly. He was still the same Jin, but not to you. You didn't have anyone to turn to.

           You thought the harassment would die down after a month or two, but it didn't; it only intensified as time passed, as people realized that you and Yoongi were serious. You began getting threats, and sometimes your outside shoes would go missing. But you were still happy regardless. Whenever Yoongi was around, no one bothered you two.

           But weekends were your favorite, because you could just be a regular young couple going on a regular date. Not Min Yoongi, star basketball player, and some random unattractive nobody. It was freeing, and you cherished the sense of normalcy where you could focus on just your boyfriend and spend quality time with him. He introduced you to his childhood best friend, Hoseok, who went to a different high school, and you introduced him to your family. Most weekends you two spent lazily, but sometimes, you two planned a big date to eat a new restaurant, go to the mall, to an indoor water park, or an amusement park.

           It was everything and nothing like you had imagined.

           When nationals approached for his basketball season, Yoongi wasn't around much anymore, but he called and texted you as often as he could. He couldn't walk you home or see you on weekends, so it saddened you a bit, but you understood that it was an important and busy time for him. He could potentially be scouted by colleges already, and he was vying for the position of captain of his team, which you always reassured him, he was a shoo-in for. But with his absence in your life, the degree of bullying picked up. And you pushed through it and hid it from him, because you knew it would hurt him to know his "friends" were like that, because you knew he cared about his image far more than he let on. You loved him, and this was the price of being with someone so admired.

           And you thought he felt the same, up until you walked into the classroom early one morning just to meet up with him after a long time.

           "So I know it's been a few months, but like...what's up with dating Y/N? Are you serious about her?" Jin's voice echoed in the classroom.

           You stepped back, unseen, and listened in.

           "Yeah, man. Like come on, you have so many hott girls lined up and throwing themselves at you." his teammates nudged him. "But Y/N? What? Is she good in bed or something?"

           "Hey." Jin scolded. "Let's not go there."

           "Oh Jin, you're so old fashioned." the boys chuckled. "So what is it Yoongi? You can't be serious about her, right? She's just temporary? I mean, next year we'll be seniors and you KNOW there's a bunch of hotties coming up from middle school. And if you're basketball captain-- WOW- you'll have your pickings."

           Yoongi laughed and nodded, "Yeah, you know. She's just super nice and friendly you know? I'd catch her staring at me from afar. Whenever I needed something, she'd give it to me right away. I didn't have the heart to turn her down when she asked me out. And you know, I didn't really have any interest in anyone so I figured why not? I mean, let's give everyone hope right?"

           The guys cackled and hi-fived each other with the exception of Jin who stood up and began walking away.

           "Poor girl. She thinks you're dating her for real, but it was out of sympathy. I bet she waits for you thinking you have basketball practice, but you're actually out with us and the older brothers hitting up clubs to meet college basketball coaches." they snorted.

           Your heart dropped and your eyes welled up at hearing everything. Had it all been a lie? Some of his story didn't add up, but why had he never told you about when he started liking you? Was it because your feelings for him were obvious and so he asked you out just to give you what you wanted and then dump you? Had he just toyed with you this whole time? And had he really lied to you about practices when he was going out? You would've understood so why did he keep that from you?

           "Are you serious, Yoongi?" Jin spoke out. "This is what it was this whole time?"

           Everyone stared at Yoongi intently. He glanced around in silence. Your heart was hammering intensely, praying he was just kidding, that he didn't mean anything he had just said.

           "Yeah, of course that was it the whole time. Why would it have been anything else? You can't seriously think I'd be steady with someone like her?"

           "You son of a--" Jin hissed.

           "Well then." You stepped out, fists curled up in a ball.

           "Y/N." Yoongi scrambled out of his chair, stunned.

           "Thank you for your precious time, Min Yoongi." You took off his varsity jacket he had given you to adorn. "But I won't be needing your sympathy anymore. Let's break up."

           You threw his jacket on the ground and sprinted away from the classroom.

           And that was that. 

           You waited for him to call, maybe to apologize or explain himself, but it never came. You two were back to being strangers, cold and unforgiving. You passed each other without batting an eye, and returned to your own orbits before ever becoming friends. You were beyond hurt. His words replaying inside your mind, night after night. How much had you endured for him? How foolish had you been? How many more things had he said about you while you weren't around?

           Rumors spread like wildfire that you had dumped Min Yoongi harshly. Extremely outrageous versions of the truth were created, all to make Yoongi look like the victim and you, the criminal. Some reported that you had punched and slapped him for no reason. Others claimed you had cheated on him and he had caught you with another man. You were flabbergasted, but sadly, no one was on your side. Everybody believed the rumors, and made sure you knew that they did.

           You were pushed down the stairs countless times, shoved into garbage cans. There were times when your desk disappeared from the classrooms. Times when you were the sole target during gym class. People vandalized your locker, locked you in bathrooms, dunked your head in the toilet, and even went so far as breaking into your house to take some of your things. You came home with cuts and bruises, and an extremely heavy heart. You regretted your stupid crush so much. You wished you had said no. You wished you had never decided to become his friend. You wished you had just brought your own damn jacket your sophomore year so you would have never noticed him. You felt so helpless and so appalled. This was exactly what you had wanted to prevent. This was exactly your worst fear, why you preferred books to people. People were cruel. Some people had no heart, had no qualms about hurting others.

           Instead of eating at the courtyard now, you hid behind the dumpsters during the break, hiding from the people hunting you down. And you weren't their lone target. Another boy from your class-- you couldn't remember his name at all-- but you knew he was one of the quiet ones who used to hang out with the popular boys, often ate behind the adjacent dumpster in hiding as well. You'd glance at each other, but never spoke a word. Even though you both were on the same boat, he would leave you if you got caught first and in turn, you did the same to him. Every day solely focused on survival, and your heart had hardened and turned cold through your experiences. Now even those who were just as unfortunate betrayed each other.

           Finally, your homeroom teacher stepped in and called you and your family into her office since your grades had been severely suffering as a consequence. You confessed everything that had been happening as of late, and she ended up privately teaching you in your house for the rest of your Junior year. Since students were still harassing you even in front of your house, your parents decided it was time to move. Your teacher helped your family choose a good school for you to transfer to in your new area, and helped get the paperwork together.

           "I'm truly sorry, Y/N." she hugged you tightly. "I had no idea that any of that happened. My heart hurts."

           You wept and shook your head. "No, thank you. You helped me more than you know just by letting me stay home. I hated that feeling, not knowing whether I was going to get caught by those students, when I was going to be shoved or attacked. If I would make it home alive."

           "I know. I'm so sorry. I'm really, truly sorry Y/N. And I hope you find good friends and happiness in your new school. Please." Your teacher wiped your tears. "E-mail me and update me as well. I'll always be on your side."

           "Thank you." You smiled sadly.

           And off you went, to escape the dark days of your life, to escape the thought of the boy who you loved that played you, and the resulting pain that he and your classmates had caused.

           Your new school was amazing. You actually made a fantastic group of friends, and joined a few interesting clubs with them, particularly robotics and fight simulation club.

           "Morning Mr. Bang!" You greeted your favorite teacher warmly.

           "Morning Y/N!" He smiled. "Tae and Jimin already started a training simulation in the back room if you want to join in for some morning exercise."

           "Always." You giggled then glanced over at him piecing a few new robot parts together. "New project?"

           "Yea. Trying to make a small laser that could be installed into a pin." he hummed.

           "Interesting." You blinked. "Good luck."

           "Thanks." Your teacher stated emotionlessly, already back to intensely focusing on his daunting task.

           "Morning boys!" You hollered as you put on your simulation suit and helmet.

           "Y/N!" The two greeted excitedly. "Good! We need you!"

           "Yeah, cause Jimin still isn't good." Tae whined.

           "Hey! I'm improving!"

           You snorted as you pressed a button on your helmet and joined them on the simulation pad. "Well, now that the gang is all together, let's get this mission completed."

           You really, absolutely enjoyed your time in this club, going so far as to take up martial arts lessons and frequenting the shooting range as hobbies. Through Mr. Bang's guidance as well, you found that you had a knack for robotics and inventing new things. You enjoyed the way your intellect now had a real life application, past textbooks, papers, and quizzes. You liked the challenge of coming up with battle plans, assigning roles, figuring out how different devices go together, etc. But as far as your future plans went, you had no idea what you wanted to do with your life. Luckily, you, Jimin, and Tae were all on the same boat so you didn't feel too left behind. However, the end of your Senior year was approaching, meaning you three needed to decide on a school and a legitimate, achievable career plan.

           You sat in Mr. Bang's office, since coincidentally, he was your homeroom teacher and in turn, your guidance counselor.

           "Y/N. What're your plans in terms of college and career path?" He questioned as he pulled out your information sheet. "You had written 'to be decided' earlier this year."

           You bit your lip.

           "Are you still undecided?"

           You looked down. "Yes..."

           Mr. Bang smiled. "Great."

           You glanced up, surprised at his response. "Great?"

           "Y/N. Have you ever thought 'Wow, I wish something like this fight simulation and robotics club could become a career'?"

           You blinked, "Yeah, actually."

           He grinned. "Well, it can be."

           "Really?" Your heart fluttered excitedly.

           "Have you ever heard of Big Hit Agency?"

           "Um no..."

           "Good, 'cause it's a secret agency." he laughed.

           "A secret?"

           "Y/N." Mr. Bang leaned in closer. "Would you like to be trained to become a secret agent?"  

            Your grin widened and your eyes lit up brightly. It dawned on you immediately. This was it. This was exactly what you had been searching for, what you wanted to do with your life. You wanted to gain the power to protect others, and make the world a far better place than the one you had experienced, without needing to be tied to one place for too long.

           You were going to become a secret agent.

           So you packed your bags, and went to Big Hit Agency's training sect in your city, disguised as a small college. It was 4 years of intensive training, and once you "graduated", you would be assigned a career in the agency, based on your performance and rankings cumulatively from all 4 years. And it was run similarly to a college. You stayed in dormitories, had to go to class, and participated in fun competitions and events, except they were far cooler than regular colleges. Your classes consisted of hand-to-hand combat training, weapons training, fighting simulations, robotics & invention seminars, piloting aircraft lessons, and Survival 101. The competitions were a wide array of combative tournaments in various specializations such as archery, shooting, robot fighting, etc. Every day was a dream. And coincidentally, Tae and Jimin also were invited by Mr. Bang to join the agency, which made the experience all the more enjoyable for all of you.

           And you hadn't thought of Yoongi, your first love, the boyfriend that had humiliated you and broke your heart all on the same day, for years. No, you didn't become an undercover agent just so you could become someone new, someone different, someone better. You didn't graduate at the top of your training class to prove to him that, unlike what he had said back in high school, you were worth it, you were enough, you had something to offer.

           And yet, when you finally convinced yourself that you had escaped his hold on you; that you were going to step into the new world of being a secret agent, filled with adventures, thrills, and challenges, there he appeared, tauntingly flashing his gummy smile as you entered the room with the rest of your training class. How you had spotted him amongst the crowd of graduates from various training sects, you had no idea. But you felt yourself sink back in line, praying you were hallucinating and praying you two would never have to cross paths, because there were sheer thousands of training agents and only limited spots in the most coveted division of the agency-- the SA -- the Special Agent Division. The SA was specifically reserved for the most promising agents of the highest caliber, because this division was in charge of taking on the most advanced, and highly secretive and sensitive cases and investigations. These agents were always on the field, putting their skills to the test in life-or-death situations. But why was Min Yoongi here out of all places?

           "Y/N."

           Your name being called out by an official at the podium pulled you out of your thoughts. Your class separated to make a path for you to walk to the stage. You had missed the entire shpeal leading up to your name being called, but you could only assume you were getting recognition for being the top training agent in your class. You kept your eyes peeled forward, fighting back the urge to check Yoongi's reaction to your presence, not wanting him to know that you were already aware of his. Smiling brightly, you stood beside the official with your head held high and your shoulders back confidently.

           "I am proud to announce that Y/N of Class #1 has unanimously been chosen to be part of the Special Agents Division, for her outstanding performance in all training modules. Please give her a round of applause!"  

           You grinned happily and your eyes briefly flitted to where Yoongi was. He was wearing a stunned expression. Your eyes locked with his, but you averted hurriedly, heart beating wildly.

           "And unprecedentedly, the SA has chosen her partner among the other accepted training agents, for they both had achieved perfect scores on all simulations and training modules. We look forward to cultivating their amazing potential. Without further ado, her partner is none other than, Class #9's resident genius, Min Yoongi!"

           Your eyes widened in pure shock, and your ears seemed to drown out the thunderous applause that erupted from the announcement. Yoongi, with his irritatingly disarming grin, made his way towards you, eyes never leaving yours until he positioned himself next to you.

           As was custom when receiving your life long agent partner, you both turned to face each other and bowed deeply. Then you extended your hand boldly, and his slotted into yours gently, as it once had many years ago. He smiled warmly and squeezed your hand.

           "Long time no see, Y/N."

PART 1

[theworldsmosthatedakacr7]

A defence of O Capitão

Logical cross-examination of the most recent criticisms of Cristiano Ronaldo

Another year, another prime selection of milestones achieved for Cristiano Ronaldo. Portugal’s most capped player. The only player to ever score in four Euros. Another Champions League title with Real Madrid. Portugal’s first major tournament trophy. Now, his 4th Ballon d’Or.

Certainly not a bad year. But perhaps it wasn't as good as I thought? I was reasonably convinced that Ronaldo's 2016 was his best ever until reading a piece by respected football writer, Graham Hunter. I recommend that the reader pause here to give his article the once-over before proceeding:  http://www.dailyrecord.co.uk/sport/football/football-news/cristiano-ronaldo-decline-hes-not-9444338

It’s important from the outset that I emphasize the intent of this piece. It is indeed meant as a riposte against Mr. Hunter’s argument as well as the generally negative reactions to whenever Ronaldo wins an award. However, while pointing out that logically fallacious reasoning is unbecoming, I’d like to make an effort to recognize that Mr. Hunter’s article does have some merit. However, I believe his assertions to be lacking context, thus distorting whatever truth value they might otherwise hold.

The title of Mr. Hunter’s article juxtaposed with the opening paragraphs leaves some doubt regarding the true intent of the piece.  The “Ronaldo in decline / he’s not as good as Messi” title quickly becomes a query about whether Ronaldo is in fact worthy of being included in the conversation on great footballers altogether, particularly with respect to the likes of Marco Van Basten, Johan Cruyff, and others.

It would be easy for me to mischaracterize Mr. Hunter’s comments, but whether intentional or unintentional, there is clearly a dismissive tone with regard to the legitimacy of not only Ronaldo’s 4th Ballon d’Or, but the claim that he is a great footballer altogether. That Ronaldo’s status as a football legend is still being challenged, even through masked or camouflaged questioning, is lamentable on a number of levels. How does one substantiate that a player as singularly distinguished as Ronaldo not be included in a discussion about football’s greatest-ever players? Well, I don’t know, so I’m not going to attempt that irrational feat.

What Graham Hunter seems to be insinuating is that it is an affront to those great players of football past, the Van Bastens, the Gerd Müllers, the Zidanes, to include Ronaldo in this discussion. Why? I cannot begin to assume, and I’m not going to linger on it because the more significant fallacy committed here is that this discussion has absolutely nothing to do with whether Ronaldo is in decline or not as good as Messi. Opining about comparisons between Ronaldo and other great footballers is a separate line of reasoning that in no way addresses Ronaldo's skill or how well he equates specifically with Messi. In logic, this is known as a Red Herring fallacy, an irrelevant distraction that subtly diverts the reader’s attention away from the core issue. It is a premise or set of premises (“Ronaldo probably shouldn’t be considered as great as Zidane, Van Basten, etc) that has no genuine relation to the original proposition (that Ronaldo is in decline/not as good as Messi).

The next section of Mr. Hunter’s assessment of Ronaldo’s Ballon d’Or credentials is equal parts offensive and uninformed. First, that “big old lump” as Mr. Hunter so crassly describes him, is not named Éder. It’s simply Eder, no accent. This is significant because it leads me to question how many additional facts in this discussion were investigated with similar negligence to detail.  Here’s one other finding just to round out that claim: Mr. Hunter describes Portugal’s Euro 2016 squad as a “team of relatively limited ability.” This is despite Portugal’s Young Player of the Tournament winner (Renato Sanches, although you might argue that Raphael Guerreiro was even more deserving) and several others selected in the Team of the Tournament including Ballon d’Or nominees Pepe and Rui Patrício.

In his article, Mr. Hunter seems to be asserting two mutually exclusive rationales: that Portugal weren’t a very good team that required Ronaldo to push them onward, AND that Portugal as a team (or maybe just Eder) actually won the Euros independent of Ronaldo. Stated in this fashion, only one side of the argument can be true at any given moment. Wouldn’t it be more rational to conclude that Portugal were truly one of the top teams at the Euros AND were buoyed by Ronaldo’s critical contributions? Instead, Mr. Hunter tries to simultaneously deprive both Portugal as a team, and Ronaldo as an individual of any real credit, and no matter how hard I try, I cannot rationally authenticate that particular conclusion.

This paragraph culminates with the proposal that Messi’s plight over the last few years has simply been harder than Ronaldo’s, what with all those Copa America and World Cup finals defeats. 3 finals in a row, and not one victory. Why? According to Graham Hunter only because the likes of Higuain, Kun Agüero, Ángel Di Maria, and others couldn’t do for Messi what that “big lump Éder” did for Ronaldo.

But categorically his assertion is a Begging the Question fallacy in which the argument made – that Messi’s effort to win a major tournament with Argentina has been fraught with greater difficulty over the course of his career – is a foregone conclusion. It is regarded as fact before it has been reasonably proven with logical argument. In an effort to prove his point, Mr. Hunter simply blames Messi’s teammates for falling at the last and crucial hurdle, ultimately depriving him of the Ballon d’Or. Would Messi himself agree with that assessment?

Moreover, Mr. Hunter seems to be ignoring the fact that an overwhelming majority of voters apparently disagree with his stance that Messi had the better year as evidenced by the landslide margin in favor of Ronaldo (745 votes to Messi’s 316). He’s free to disagree with them of course, but within the international football community at large, the case in favor of Messi clearly isn’t as cut and dry as he claims it to be.

This brings me to my final point regarding Mr. Hunter’s article before I speak more generally about Ronaldo’s reputation. Op-eds like this one are meant to provide a stage for a writer to declare their free thoughts and ideas. In that sense there is certainly room for anecdotal observation and even some emotional appeal. Graham Hunter and others are justifiably entitled to declare their opinion that Messi is a better footballer than Ronaldo.

The problem is that argument nearly always hinges on some form of logically erroneous paradigm. As Ronaldo has aged, and as he collects more accolades, there seems to be a similarly growing “emotional need” to try to discredit him. There are many reasons why this is the case. Admittedly, some of it is a reaction to Ronaldo’s overactive ego. Some of it is that Messi is considered to be the more likable person of the two. A portion of it is evidence-based, and Mr. Hunter does include some reference to player metrics (goals/assists) and other means of assessing individual worth. (If he had simply said, "I consider Messi to be superior because he scored more goals and created more assists," I might not agree with that assertion entirely, but at least it'd be rational.)

But a large segment of the effort to discredit Ronaldo entails unmitigated disregard of facts, specifically those facts which are uncomfortable for anti-Ronaldo propagandists to accept. The intent isn’t as much about comparing him to Messi as it is to suggest he’s not deserving, period. Those are two very different assertions. Most people seem to want to find a way (any way will do) to prevent Ronaldo from being labelled as one of the greatest ever footballers. But if you compare his achievements with those of other footballing greats, there is clearly every reason (even outside the 4 Ballon d’Ors) to include Ronaldo alongside them. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't see anyone making similar inquires about Messi, nor should they. His status like Ronaldo's isn't debatable any more. Why then is it acceptable to constantly undermine Ronaldo's claim as a footballing legend? Because people don't like him? Is this really an acceptable standard for rational argument in our day and age? I sincerely hope not, but I fear in this case it is.

To invoke a scientific platitude, Ronaldo’s career status as one of the greatest footballers of all time has been substantiated “beyond a reasonable doubt” by the myriad of individual and team achievements he has collected. The body of evidence is so convincing in fact, that it requires football writers, fanboys, American pundits who know nothing about football, and everyone else to try to fashion an emotionally charged, logically invalid contention that is usually more directed at Ronaldo’s character than anything else. Is Ronaldo in decline? Maybe, but not nearly as much as the potency of those arguments meant to deprive him of the prestige that he has rightfully earned.

I’ll close by pointing out that I have made no personal attacks against Graham Hunter, Messi, or anyone else for that matter. But whether you consider Messi to be superior to Ronaldo or not, shouldn’t we all agree that they are both going to be regarded as two of the greatest of all time? Isn’t it remarkable that Ronaldo has 4 Ballon d’Ors, period?  

I’ve always despised the Ronaldo-Messi debate because it provides just the right stage for incoherent and unreasonable babble that is too rooted in prejudice to have any real merit. I hate to see Graham Hunter get caught up in that because I’ve always liked his work. But enough is enough, Ronaldo is one of the greatest ever footballers, full stop. All this talk of him never deserving anything needs to come to an end. There’s so much more I could say, but I don’t have time or space.

I’m appealing to reason. If you don’t think Ronaldo is as good as Messi, ok, but that opinion should never be used to suppress Ronaldo’s worth as a footballer. There’s never been much to separate Ronaldo and Messi, and that was just as true in 2016 as it has been in every year since 2008. But realize it isn’t necessary to disprove everything about Ronaldo’s worth as a player just to esteem Messi. They can both be great. They both are great. This isn’t a zero sum game. Stop feeling and start thinking. Ask harder questions, submit your own arguments to greater scrutiny, and appreciate that you got to see Ronaldo at the top of his game this year.

Nathan Motz

[alolarp-blog1]

Meet Librarian AALIYAH HASSOUN. Born SEPTEMBER 16, currently 22. She’s COURIWAY TOWN born and has recently been given a MAREANIE(M) and x2 LUXURY BALLS and a x2 MAX REVIVES.

‶ this wasn’t supposed to be written in a way that’ll give readers an exposure to something relatively close to a sob-story. this isn’t supposed to provoke tears or the like, but rather, give some hope for those who look to thrive simultaneously from the same hand that condemned them otherwise...…… ″

here with us, we have a girl. the youngest out of three others with a home to shelter five, total. when given everything with a chance, the item becomes plentiful. whether or not the thing is a dream, an idea, or a necessity that contributes to the body to function; it is always needed. so she grew up in the center of the earth, the corner of a village on the region of kalos where abundance was a living tale and scarcity was a myth. the old, ancient house, with its unending tracts, had many of the large rooms and chambers and stark facilities. a house, fairly too large for a sum of five people to live in and communicate with each other, on the brinks of unison as a family. but, disregarding all of the criticism, was a house privately built on the mainland of couriway town, kalos. that her father felt threatened, to sooner or later boast about his entitlement to wealth. money, greed, and wealth; the same bystanders that feeds the spitefulness of man. a house too large for one man’s ego. a house too large for five to subside.

through and through the misfortune that makes one so low, a man only proud of his fortune, is all but a humble town. the young girl is a native: and all she has ever known was couriway.

kalos was already in the midst of the country’s late summer season when the child was born. under the year of the snake, symbolizing wisdom and humor, september 16th was a day of pronounced significance. it had been long decided that the family would not wallow in their disappointment for the birth of their third child, a girl, in introspection that she may not be capable to inherit the knowingness of a professor. that the burden of traditionalism weighs on their lineage by an important amount, the pressure is heaving. their youngest daughter is named aaliyah. the name bears the soul of a girl who dreams and loves.

before she leaves, she visits her ill grandfather. on his deathbed he tells her: ‘don’t be a bum.’ in which, ironically, is a little startling seeing as the words weren’t sifted through a filter to promote something courteous. they were raw and unexpected, though she had always known that he’d always been like this way. she touches his leather hands, eighty-something years of labor and care. and at dawn, he closes his eyes.

she adores the studies of the past world. a world that began unhibited, before laws and regulations to construct anew. that her days were alive with adventures through nameless forests, having an abundance for adventure. that she knew every dated encyclopedia within the shelves of her father’s room. a girl of knowledge was what she wanted to become, rather than a girl of emblems for many pokemon battles. to prove her self worth through turmoil of history that she adores.

aaliyah couldn’t recall her age in numbers, but she had known that she was coexisting between the milestones of youth and adulthood. and yet, she was a lover of books. she was a lover of books much more than her pokemon pets, at the time of growth. she never discriminated any form of writing, nor the genres, but was simply captivated by the voices, written, nearly living, in compressed pages of a novel. she loved the idea of reading and to absorb stories that she could retell in her mind, as well as in her dreams. reading was her only gateway to visit places she had never been to, to meet people she will only long to meet, and oblige to the nature of fictional setting. she felt closer to büchner’s work, having been based on j. hamasaki’s diary, publishing a memoir on behalf of the entity belonging to a retired breeder.

it is today that she uses the strife of yesterday to keep her going. use the bits and pieces of humble beginnings to create herself anew. father used to tell her that those lacking with half her talent can surpass her, if they studied and excelled and tried hard enough in replacement for her losing efforts. she learns to master a certain gift given to her, let it not be a complete waste. for the rule of trickery and cleverness, is also an extra added technique.

[samuelfields]

Win The Small To Conquer The Big: A Life Strategy

I recently experienced one of the most satisfying experiences of my life. I’d rank the feeling right up there with getting into college or landing my first job.

As a first-time captain, my team won the annual Labor Day weekend softball tourney! There were 40 players, and I was chosen as one of four team captains to do a player draft, make a batting lineup, and decide on fielding positions.

This was an exhilarating experience because I had zero experience. I had to do a lot of research in the hot tub about each individual player and figure out how to lead a group of men and women I hardly knew. I had so much anxiety about not looking like an idiot that I dreamt of several players making fun of me for drafting so poorly.

I want to go through with you some of the strategic processes that affected this positive outcome. You’ll be able to decide whether preparation means anything. Maybe you’ll change your attitude about how much luck and effort play a part in achieving your goals. Or maybe you’ll simply not make the connection that how you approach small tasks can make all the difference when it comes to tackling bigger missions. 

The Strategy For Winning It All

1) Sleight of hand. 

I joined this softball league because I needed some diversification from tennis. My goal was to find some new friends to hang out with over a game that I love. Early retirement can get very lonely sometimes.

With over 1,000 players in the meetup group, and 100 regulars, I quickly began to observe who were the easy going folks and who had bigger egos – you know, those guys who love to relive their high school glory days (like I might do with this experience in 20 years) or who repeatedly bring up blue moon plays they made that nobody remembers. Good thing we keep stats that shine light on reality.

Instead of trying to be the best player, I just tried to take it easy and have fun. I didn’t want to injure myself in a recreational activity that would negatively affect my ability to take care of my son or play league tennis. I was already suffering from lower back pain.

For example, I’d bat lefty instead of my normal righty just to test it out, disregarding how it might negatively affect by batting average. I’d play right field, where fewer balls are hit, no problem.

To the players, and to the Commissioner (organizer), I was known as the easy going utility player. The Commissioner would constantly tell me to get down for balls, use two hands, swing harder, and run faster. Clearly, I wasn’t very good in his eyes. Perfect.

When it was time for the Commissioner to choose tourney captains, he chose four players whom he thought had similar abilities. Me, a 58-year-old guy named Peter who couldn’t run, a heftier guy who had a lower batting average than I (.500 vs .582), and another guy with suspect fielding skills and an even worse batting average (.458).

This situation was perfect because I strongly believed one of the X Factors for winning was the captain’s performance on the field, not just his analytical abilities. This experience is different from winning a fantasy football league because my physical performance mattered.

Here are the hitting stats for the championship game between me and Peter, the other captain who could run:

Me: 3 singles, 2 doubles, one out, 4 RBIs, 1 run

Peter: 0-4, a walk, 1 RBI

2) Do not underestimate the power of preparation.

After playing in the softball meetups for a year, I had a pretty good idea of the skill level of most of the regulars. However, there were about 5 out of the 40 players in the draft pool who I didn’t know.  So, I did homework and looked up their stats and asked around. I was also aware of my own player biases.

I drafted based on defense, intelligence, fighting spirit, and harmony. Players who thought they were better than they really were, were not picked. Players who wanted to be a hero when the bases are loaded, instead of taking a walk when they were ahead in the count, were out. Players who loved to hit under pressure were in.

I focused on drafting the best available shortstop possible, the best available left fielder, best third baseman, best center left fielder, best pitcher, best center right fielder, best second baseman, and finally the best right fielder. As for first base, I knew I could play it just fine.

While the other captains picked showy big hitters, I was focused on choosing the best fielders because defense is what wins championships. For example, one of the captains picked a big hitter who could not throw the ball farther than 30 feet because of a shoulder injury. Yet, this player insisted on playing left field instead of first base. Absurd! We lit up left field in the championship game like Independence Day and scored four runs because of his inability to throw.

When asked whether I wanted to pick 1st, 2nd, or 4th in the draft after Pete, the 58 yo picked 3rd, I chose to go 2nd. I knew everybody wanted to choose Clint, an obvious top choice. But because we are friends, I knew he would be hosting two consecutive nights of salsa parties the Friday and Saturday before our Monday softball tournament. Further, he hadn’t played in the two most recent games, so he may have been rusty.

So, I zeroed in on Roger, a power-hitting left-handed batter. The ability to pepper right field with bombs was my #1 goal given teams often put their worst players at either RF or catcher. I figured teams with a poor defensive strategy would not shift a good fielder into right field when Roger is hitting.

I also figured the Commissioner would put me on the worst field next to a sewage plant, which had a shorter right field than the better field (derivative thinking). My gambit worked. Clint, who was picked first, went 2-5 in the consolidation game, while Roger went 4-6 with a walk and 4 RBIs in the championship.

As a rookie captain, I knew the three veteran captains would try to take advantage of me once the draft was over by making some preposterous trade proposals. But I held my ground and was secretly bemused by some of their draft picks.

For example, one captain, who loves the ladies and is single, really likes this one particular girl. As a result, he drafted her in the 5th round, when based on skill set, she should have been drafted in the 7th or 8th round. Peter, the 58 yo, drafted two pitchers, even though he was already the best pitcher! This caused one of the pitchers he had drafted to become extremely bitter. He publicly wrote on the message board, “this makes no sense!”

Control what you can control through extensive preparation. If you study for only 30 minutes before a final exam and get a C, that’s on you. Why not study for 10 hours and get an A? If you sleep in every day when your competition wakes up at 5am, you must live with the results. You will never regret trying your best when it’s all said and done.

3) Be a leader and set the tone.

If you make me the leader, I am going to lead by example through hard work and preparation. Once you get the respect of your colleagues, it makes working towards a mission a whole lot easier.

The first thing I did was create this easy to read chart with various fielding and lineup proposals. I printed out copies for all my players to review. Then I created the team philosophy. No other captain did this.

I then took several of the veteran players aside and asked them to weigh in with their thoughts. It was not only important for me to make sure I didn’t have any blind spots, but it was also important to get the veteran players to feel included.

Once I got a consensus agreement from the entire team for field positions and the batting order, I appointed an outfield captain and an infield captain to keep the communication going. I firmly believe that in softball, having a high game IQ makes at least a 10% positive contribution to the outcome of the game.

Finally, I made sure every teammate read the Team Philosophy at the bottom of my sheet. Given none of us are pros, we were all going to make some type of error. I wanted my teammates to know that making an error was no big deal and to stay positive. People tend to perform better when they feel less pressure.

All but two of my ten teammates maintained positive attitudes throughout both games. One made a snide remark to me when I hit a pop up. He ended up going 1-3 with two strikeouts in the final game. The other negative guy, who found out he had been drafted lower than he thought appropriate for his skill set, went 0-9 and didn’t even try to play defense.

As the team captain, I could have criticized them for their lack of effort and/or positivity. But I knew the 0-9 guy was already emotionally hurting from finding out he’d dropped to the 4th round. Further, he was annoyed that he couldn’t play shortstop because I had already drafted a better one. After going 0-5 in the first game, I decided prudently to not poke the bear. Instead, I kept on being encouraging even though he kept muttering things like, “we’re going to get killed;” “you see, the shortstop missed the ball;” etc.

Even if you feel unqualified to lead, you must lead with confidence. Having a positive mindset matters folks. Know your role. Do it well. And watch the wins pile up once you get buy-in from the team.

The Championship Game

Here is the score sheet for the final game. We are the top row for the score and the team on the left for the lineup. I’m second to the bottom of the lineup and Mr. Negative 0-9 is last.

After two innings, I was worried. The opposing team (bottom row) power hitters were slugging balls past our outfielders. Three of their batters were over 6’2″ and 215+ lbs, and one hitter was a giant 6’10” who batted 0.700! Getting scored on 8 times in the second inning was extremely disheartening. Despite the barrage, I kept the faith.

Slowly, we chipped away at their lead. Down 16-18 at the end of the 6th, we finally surged ahead 22-18 in the top of the 7th after three of us chugged beers because by then we’d run out of water. Not only did we have power at the top of the lineup, we also had power at the bottom.

I decided to let my last pick in the draft, a sufferer of Dunning-Kruger, play second base. Meanwhile, I played catcher the entire game despite the suggestion of several teammates for me and my last round draft pick to switch positions or play my usual first base, which was currently occupied by Mr. Negative. I decided to roll the dice and keep them where they were because we had momentum. You should never change what’s working.

While Dunning-Kruger ended up costing us two runs with two errant throws to first, I managed to even out his lapses with two critical plays at home plate: 1) by catching the incoming throw and tagging out the runner on a bang-bang play and 2) snatching a one-hopper to the plate to save another run.

Final Lessons Learned

Despite seeming calm on the outside, on the inside, I was knotted up with anxiety. Behind my jet black shades, my eyes were contorting after each error or missed opportunity. But I stayed positive.

Winning a Labor Day softball tournament really means very little in the grand scheme of things. But it’s how you approach the little things that will carry forward to how you deal with bigger challenges. Win the small to conquer the big!

Here are some final takeaways from the game that may pertain to your business, your job, your investments, or your life.

1) If you never give up, good things just might happen. We started off slow, but heated up towards the end and finished strong. Meanwhile, they cooled off as we made some critical outfield adjustments thanks to our outfield captain. Last long enough and you will eventually catch a lucky break.

2) Never let up until the mission is accomplished. Despite being up 22-18 in the 7th inning, nobody took his foot off the gas pedal. As team captain, I made sure of that because our opponents clearly had the firepower to make up the deficit in just one inning. If you reduce your intensity by 10% because you think your victory is assured, while your opponent increases their intensity by 20% because they’re down, you are often screwed.

3) Know when to motivate, and know when to keep quiet. Managing egos is a huge part of coaching / captaining. You’ve got to make your players / employees feel like they matter the most. It’s important to get them to buy-in to the greater good. Otherwise, their cancer starts to spread.

4) Always analyze risk / reward scenarios and go with the best ratio. If you get your decisions right 51% of the time, in the long run, you will clean house like all the casinos in the world. Better preparation creates a 10% – 20% competitive advantage. As a result, it makes sense to put in the due diligence beforehand and press when the odds are in your greatest favor.

5) Recognize luck and give credit. After we won, I was asked to give a speech. In my speech, I talked about how close all the scores were and how it was just a few unlucky bounces here and there that made the difference, which was true. I gave credit to everyone on my team and pointed out specific plays each teammate made that made a big difference.

In the end, despite getting little recognition for captaining the team or going 5-6 in the championship game, I feel great because I know I’ve continued to maintain the underdog status. Nobody will ever know my sports background or coaching experience.

I hope everyone can find pleasure in the little things in life.

Related:

Are You Smart Enough To Act Dumb Enough To Get Ahead?

How To Drastically Improve Your Betting Odds

Be Rich, Not Famous: The Joys Of Being A Nobody

Stealth Wealth: Why You Should Keep A Low Financial Profile

Readers, what are your keys to winning? How important do you think preparation is to achieving a positive outcome? If it’s important, why don’t more people prepare more? What other scenarios do these lessons pertain to in work and in life?

Note: Thanks for allowing me to document this moment. If I didn’t write this post, I wouldn’t remember all the details years from now when I revisit this story with my boy. I didn’t document the historic HS tennis conference victory because kids were involved. 

The post Win The Small To Conquer The Big: A Life Strategy appeared first on Financial Samurai.

from Finance https://www.financialsamurai.com/win-the-small-to-conquer-the-big-a-winning-strategy/ via http://www.rssmix.com/

[ronaldmrashid]

Win The Small To Conquer The Big: A Life Strategy

I recently experienced one of the most satisfying experiences of my life. I’d rank the feeling right up there with getting into college or landing my first job.

As a first-time captain, my team won the annual Labor Day weekend softball tourney! There were 40 players, and I was chosen as one of four team captains to do a player draft, make a batting lineup, and decide on fielding positions.

This was an exhilarating experience because I had zero experience. I had to do a lot of research in the hot tub about each individual player and figure out how to lead a group of men and women I hardly knew. I had so much anxiety about not looking like an idiot that I dreamt of several players making fun of me for drafting so poorly.

I want to go through with you some of the strategic processes that affected this positive outcome. You’ll be able to decide whether preparation means anything. Maybe you’ll change your attitude about how much luck and effort play a part in achieving your goals. Or maybe you’ll simply not make the connection that how you approach small tasks can make all the difference when it comes to tackling bigger missions. 

The Strategy For Winning It All

1) Sleight of hand. 

I joined this softball league because I needed some diversification from tennis. My goal was to find some new friends to hang out with over a game that I love. Early retirement can get very lonely sometimes.

With over 1,000 players in the meetup group, and 100 regulars, I quickly began to observe who were the easy going folks and who had bigger egos – you know, those guys who love to relive their high school glory days (like I might do with this experience in 20 years) or who repeatedly bring up blue moon plays they made that nobody remembers. Good thing we keep stats that shine light on reality.

Instead of trying to be the best player, I just tried to take it easy and have fun. I didn’t want to injure myself in a recreational activity that would negatively affect my ability to take care of my son or play league tennis. I was already suffering from lower back pain.

For example, I’d bat lefty instead of my normal righty just to test it out, disregarding how it might negatively affect by batting average. I’d play right field, where fewer balls are hit, no problem.

To the players, and to the Commissioner (organizer), I was known as the easy going utility player. The Commissioner would constantly tell me to get down for balls, use two hands, swing harder, and run faster. Clearly, I wasn’t very good in his eyes. Perfect.

When it was time for the Commissioner to choose tourney captains, he chose four players whom he thought had similar abilities. Me, a 58-year-old guy named Peter who couldn’t run, a heftier guy who had a lower batting average than I (.500 vs .582), and another guy with suspect fielding skills and an even worse batting average (.458).

This situation was perfect because I strongly believed one of the X Factors for winning was the captain’s performance on the field, not just his analytical abilities. This experience is different from winning a fantasy football league because my physical performance mattered.

Here are the hitting stats for the championship game between me and Peter, the other captain who could run:

Me: 3 singles, 2 doubles, one out, 4 RBIs, 1 run

Peter: 0-4, a walk, 1 RBI

2) Do not underestimate the power of preparation.

After playing in the softball meetups for a year, I had a pretty good idea of the skill level of most of the regulars. However, there were about 5 out of the 40 players in the draft pool who I didn’t know.  So, I did homework and looked up their stats and asked around. I was also aware of my own player biases.

I drafted based on defense, intelligence, fighting spirit, and harmony. Players who thought they were better than they really were, were not picked. Players who wanted to be a hero when the bases are loaded, instead of taking a walk when they were ahead in the count, were out. Players who loved to hit under pressure were in.

I focused on drafting the best available shortstop possible, the best available left fielder, best third baseman, best center left fielder, best pitcher, best center right fielder, best second baseman, and finally the best right fielder. As for first base, I knew I could play it just fine.

While the other captains picked showy big hitters, I was focused on choosing the best fielders because defense is what wins championships. For example, one of the captains picked a big hitter who could not throw the ball farther than 30 feet because of a shoulder injury. Yet, this player insisted on playing left field instead of first base. Absurd! We lit up left field in the championship game like Independence Day and scored four runs because of his inability to throw.

When asked whether I wanted to pick 1st, 2nd, or 4th in the draft after Pete, the 58 yo picked 3rd, I chose to go 2nd. I knew everybody wanted to choose Clint, an obvious top choice. But because we are friends, I knew he would be hosting two consecutive nights of salsa parties the Friday and Saturday before our Monday softball tournament. Further, he hadn’t played in the two most recent games, so he may have been rusty.

So, I zeroed in on Roger, a power-hitting left-handed batter. The ability to pepper right field with bombs was my #1 goal given teams often put their worst players at either RF or catcher. I figured teams with a poor defensive strategy would not shift a good fielder into right field when Roger is hitting.

I also figured the Commissioner would put me on the worst field next to a sewage plant, which had a shorter right field than the better field (derivative thinking). My gambit worked. Clint, who was picked first, went 2-5 in the consolidation game, while Roger went 4-6 with a walk and 4 RBIs in the championship.

As a rookie captain, I knew the three veteran captains would try to take advantage of me once the draft was over by making some preposterous trade proposals. But I held my ground and was secretly bemused by some of their draft picks.

For example, one captain, who loves the ladies and is single, really likes this one particular girl. As a result, he drafted her in the 5th round, when based on skill set, she should have been drafted in the 7th or 8th round. Peter, the 58 yo, drafted two pitchers, even though he was already the best pitcher! This caused one of the pitchers he had drafted to become extremely bitter. He publicly wrote on the message board, “this makes no sense!”

Control what you can control through extensive preparation. If you study for only 30 minutes before a final exam and get a C, that’s on you. Why not study for 10 hours and get an A? If you sleep in every day when your competition wakes up at 5am, you must live with the results. You will never regret trying your best when it’s all said and done.

3) Be a leader and set the tone.

If you make me the leader, I am going to lead by example through hard work and preparation. Once you get the respect of your colleagues, it makes working towards a mission a whole lot easier.

The first thing I did was create this easy to read chart with various fielding and lineup proposals. I printed out copies for all my players to review. Then I created the team philosophy. No other captain did this.

I then took several of the veteran players aside and asked them to weigh in with their thoughts. It was not only important for me to make sure I didn’t have any blind spots, but it was also important to get the veteran players to feel included.

Once I got a consensus agreement from the entire team for field positions and the batting order, I appointed an outfield captain and an infield captain to keep the communication going. I firmly believe that in softball, having a high game IQ makes at least a 10% positive contribution to the outcome of the game.

Finally, I made sure every teammate read the Team Philosophy at the bottom of my sheet. Given none of us are pros, we were all going to make some type of error. I wanted my teammates to know that making an error was no big deal and to stay positive. People tend to perform better when they feel less pressure.

All but two of my ten teammates maintained positive attitudes throughout both games. One made a snide remark to me when I hit a pop up. He ended up going 1-3 with two strikeouts in the final game. The other negative guy, who found out he had been drafted lower than he thought appropriate for his skill set, went 0-9 and didn’t even try to play defense.

As the team captain, I could have criticized them for their lack of effort and/or positivity. But I knew the 0-9 guy was already emotionally hurting from finding out he’d dropped to the 4th round. Further, he was annoyed that he couldn’t play shortstop because I had already drafted a better one. After going 0-5 in the first game, I decided prudently to not poke the bear. Instead, I kept on being encouraging even though he kept muttering things like, “we’re going to get killed;” “you see, the shortstop missed the ball;” etc.

Even if you feel unqualified to lead, you must lead with confidence. Having a positive mindset matters folks. Know your role. Do it well. And watch the wins pile up once you get buy-in from the team.

The Championship Game

Here is the score sheet for the final game. We are the top row for the score and the team on the left for the lineup. I’m second to the bottom of the lineup and Mr. Negative 0-9 is last.

After two innings, I was worried. The opposing team (bottom row) power hitters were slugging balls past our outfielders. Three of their batters were over 6’2″ and 215+ lbs, and one hitter was a giant 6’10” who batted 0.700! Getting scored on 8 times in the second inning was extremely disheartening. Despite the barrage, I kept the faith.

Slowly, we chipped away at their lead. Down 16-18 at the end of the 6th, we finally surged ahead 22-18 in the top of the 7th after three of us chugged beers because by then we’d run out of water. Not only did we have power at the top of the lineup, we also had power at the bottom.

I decided to let my last pick in the draft, a sufferer of Dunning-Kruger, play second base. Meanwhile, I played catcher the entire game despite the suggestion of several teammates for me and my last round draft pick to switch positions or play my usual first base, which was currently occupied by Mr. Negative. I decided to roll the dice and keep them where they were because we had momentum. You should never change what’s working.

While Dunning-Kruger ended up costing us two runs with two errant throws to first, I managed to even out his lapses with two critical plays at home plate: 1) by catching the incoming throw and tagging out the runner on a bang-bang play and 2) snatching a one-hopper to the plate to save another run.

Final Lessons Learned

Despite seeming calm on the outside, on the inside, I was knotted up with anxiety. Behind my jet black shades, my eyes were contorting after each error or missed opportunity. But I stayed positive.

Winning a Labor Day softball tournament really means very little in the grand scheme of things. But it’s how you approach the little things that will carry forward to how you deal with bigger challenges. Win the small to conquer the big!

Here are some final takeaways from the game that may pertain to your business, your job, your investments, or your life.

1) If you never give up, good things just might happen. We started off slow, but heated up towards the end and finished strong. Meanwhile, they cooled off as we made some critical outfield adjustments thanks to our outfield captain. Last long enough and you will eventually catch a lucky break.

2) Never let up until the mission is accomplished. Despite being up 22-18 in the 7th inning, nobody took his foot off the gas pedal. As team captain, I made sure of that because our opponents clearly had the firepower to make up the deficit in just one inning. If you reduce your intensity by 10% because you think your victory is assured, while your opponent increases their intensity by 20% because they’re down, you are often screwed.

3) Know when to motivate, and know when to keep quiet. Managing egos is a huge part of coaching / captaining. You’ve got to make your players / employees feel like they matter the most. It’s important to get them to buy-in to the greater good. Otherwise, their cancer starts to spread.

4) Always analyze risk / reward scenarios and go with the best ratio. If you get your decisions right 51% of the time, in the long run, you will clean house like all the casinos in the world. Better preparation creates a 10% – 20% competitive advantage. As a result, it makes sense to put in the due diligence beforehand and press when the odds are in your greatest favor.

5) Recognize luck and give credit. After we won, I was asked to give a speech. In my speech, I talked about how close all the scores were and how it was just a few unlucky bounces here and there that made the difference, which was true. I gave credit to everyone on my team and pointed out specific plays each teammate made that made a big difference.

In the end, despite getting little recognition for captaining the team or going 5-6 in the championship game, I feel great because I know I’ve continued to maintain the underdog status. Nobody will ever know my sports background or coaching experience.

I hope everyone can find pleasure in the little things in life.

Related:

Are You Smart Enough To Act Dumb Enough To Get Ahead?

How To Drastically Improve Your Betting Odds

Be Rich, Not Famous: The Joys Of Being A Nobody

Stealth Wealth: Why You Should Keep A Low Financial Profile

Readers, what are your keys to winning? How important do you think preparation is to achieving a positive outcome? If it’s important, why don’t more people prepare more? What other scenarios do these lessons pertain to in work and in life?

Note: Thanks for allowing me to document this moment. If I didn’t write this post, I wouldn’t remember all the details years from now when I revisit this story with my boy. I didn’t document the historic HS tennis conference victory because kids were involved. 

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