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m1ckeyb3rry · 1 month ago

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MY DEAREST MIRA HAPPY 1K 💯🤍 wowow your blog grew sm so quick i literally blinked and boom ur at 1k !?!?!!? congratulations i have and always will be in love with your writing i seriously need to catch up on ur works eheh..

i know the bare minimum about pokemon but google was indeed my friend so… may i request a team consisting of kaiser and arctibax (dragon + ice) 🫡 you know me and angst, plus the fact that i’ve been wanting to read fantasy as of late 🙂‍↕️

── SWORD OF THE SAINT

Synopsis: Shortly after the death of your mother, you meet a mysterious man in your family’s chapel, and as the days grow colder, you find that he is the closest thing to a savior you might ever know.

Event Masterlist

Pairing: Kaiser x Reader

Word Count: 18.1k

Content Warnings: pseudo-christianity written by someone who is NOT christian, fantasy au with nonexistent worldbuilding #deal with it, death, angst, no happy ending, sickness, killing, reader is kinda delicate but it IS for a reason beyond just “omg women weak” HAHA, kaiser is an angel, kaiser is also kind of a jerk, kaiser is probably ooc idfk at this point, kaiser pisses me off, i don’t like kaiser, this is based on an actual myth but in the way pjo is based on greek mythology (so basically not at all)

A/N: ANGELLLL HI MY DEAR!! omg hehe i know i feel like i was just at 500 it’s crazy that i already managed to hit 1k 😩 you were an og though fr my seventh follower or smth like that LMAOAO we’ve been through it all together!! anyways sorry this actually rlly sucks but uh…kaiser’s in it ig…and it’s a fantasy au…and it’s kinda sad…and it has an angel…because you’re an angel…😭

The winter before the plague broke out, the river spilled over its banks, stealing your stores of grain and leaving serpents to litter your streets. They were vipers of the diamond-scaled variety, with blue tongues and slit eyes and thin teeth, white with venom and red at the tips. Their killing was random and indiscriminate — the trails of blood they left behind them dried on the cobblestones, and no one dared to wash the dark smears away for fear of their retribution, for fear that they would be the next victim.

It was an omen, that much was clear, though no matter how many stars the king turned to, he could never quite understand what it portended. Anyways, before he could divine the significance, the snakes vanished, leaving the city devoid of life, bar the bronze-footed horses and those individuals who had had the sense to remain inside and away from the dark-mouthed beasts.

The harshness of the winter never abated any; you were never given anything resembling reprieve from terrors after terrors, which came in quick succession. The departure of the serpents was followed by a fortnight of storms, raging winds lashing at your tightly-shuttered windows, shards of ice like daggers driving from the sky into the hard, barren ground, and after the storms there was, for a brief week, a time of eerie stillness where nothing grew nor prospered.

That week, your every word turned to fog in the air — at least, when you deigned to speak, which was rare — and even the ermine-trimmed cloak your youngest uncle had gifted you two birthdays ago did little to ward away the cold. Your mother, who was of a delicate constitution, shivered near-constantly, wasting away by the fire which burned at all hours with a forlorn expression on her wan face.

It grew warm again, in time, but your mother’s trembling never did cease. You added your cloak to the pile of furs she was buried in, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing could seem to warm her, to breathe life into the husk of a being that she had become — she was hollow like a rattling cicada shell, her cheeks sunken and her eyes blank.

Right about when your father was at his wits’ end, there was news of the first death: a peasant, one of the farmers in the king’s employ, who had grown unbearably cold and subsequently wilted into a corpse, spending his last few days alive in the same manner a skeleton might.

Your father, the eldest of the king’s younger brothers, had enough power still that he could command every physician in the kingdom to search for a cure. It was obvious that this was the affliction poisoning your mother, who grew worse and worse daily anew. Yet no matter how hard they searched, they could not find any herb nor method of soothing her.

In the meantime, the black-cloaked disease visited homes with even less discernment than the vipers had. There was nary a family who did not have at least one member with the sickness; eventually, the physicians came before your father and the elder of your uncles, the king himself, bowing their cowardly necks and saying there was nothing to be done about it. It was doom. Anyone who had the illness would surely die, and the best thing that could be done for your mother now was to leave her be so that you, too, did not fall victim to her plight.

You stood abruptly at the announcement, which ordinarily would have earned you glares from the surrounding noblemen but today only entitled you to their pity. Gathering your skirts in one hand, you ran towards your mother’s quarters as fast as you could, ignoring your father’s shouts for the guards to stop you.

She was where she always was, and even the slamming of the door did not cause her to flinch. The firelight reflected in her eyes, which shone like mirrors, and when you knelt by the armchair she rarely moved from, she exhaled slightly.

“Mother,” you whispered, drawing her hand out of the blankets and holding it to your cheek. It was bony and thin; already, she was more skeleton than woman, but something in her must’ve prevailed, must’ve rallied and clung to existence, for her heart still beat in her chest, however shallowly. “Mother, don’t — please don’t —”

She sighed softly. You wondered if she could even hear you, or if she was too fascinated with something beyond your vision to know that you were there. You clutched her hand tighter, her knuckles digging into your palm, her fingers like snow on your face.

“Y/N!” It was your father, bursting into the room, guards flanking him as they raced towards you. You pressed closer to your mother’s chair, gazing up at her. To your surprise, her eyes had widened, reflecting a radiance that made even the hearth seem pale. Her lips, once lush and painted, now dry and cracked from dehydration, parted in wonder, and then for the first time since she had grown sick, she spoke.

“Michael,” she breathed out.

“Michael?” you repeated. Even your father paused, tremulous hope brimming in his irises as your mother smiled slightly. Her hand on your face balled into a fist against the bone of your jaw, and then abruptly it loosened. “Mother? Mother, what do you mean, Michael?”

She laughed. It was a wheezing sound, brittle and reedy, breaking off at the end into something painful. For the first time, she tilted her head towards you, and it was as if she were met with a stranger, though eventually recognition did flash across her face.

“Ah, daughter,” she said, her voice hoarse as she smoothed her hand over your hair. “He is here. Right in front of you. Don’t you see him? He is so beautiful. As beautiful as the paintings.”

“There is no one,” you said, your throat thick with tears, your voice barely able to escape it. “No one is here but us.”

The soft motions of her fingers stilled, and she settled back in her chair, suddenly content. You gripped her wrist, willing her to come back, but she was no longer awake, her eyelids sealed shut, a faint smile still lingering on her face.

“You shouldn’t be here,” your father said gruffly, as if waking from a dream. Before you knew it, one of the guards, a handsome boy with hair like marigolds and eyes like autumn, was lifting you from the ground, carrying you out of the room despite your half-hearted protests and depositing you on the ground in the corridor with a bow.

“My father is still in there. You ought to retrieve him, as well,” you said. The guard looked towards the door and shook his head.

“If your father wishes to stay, then it is not my place to stop him,” he said.

“I see,” you said, for there was no point in further argument. Leaning against the stone wall, you wrapped your arms around your torso; compared to the sweltering heart of your mother’s chambers, the corridor was all but frigid. “Do you think this plague is some sort of a punishment?”

“For what, your highness?” the guard said. He was humoring you only because your father, to whom he was sworn, remained in the room even now, so you only shrugged.

“I’m not sure,” you said. “Perhaps the people have committed some wrong, or perhaps it was my uncle, his majesty the king.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “I am not so well-versed in the matters of theology.”

“Only of the sword, I’d reckon,” you said.

“That’s right,” he said.

“My mother mentioned Michael,” you said. “Right before you dragged me out.”

“My apologies for that, your highness, but it was your father’s command,” he said.

“It’s alright,” you said, finding some diversion in the conversation, which at any rate was a welcome distraction. “I do not blame you. Do you know who Michael is?”

“Doesn’t everybody?” he said. “Though I suppose you might know more than I do.”

“Likely it is the case,” you agreed. “He’s the emperor of angels, or so they claim. Perhaps we are biased because he is our kingdom’s guardian; well, anyways, according to the stories and the songs, he is the one who enacts divine will unto us. Supposedly he amongst his peers is the most merciful by far, but there are as many or more poems of his rage as there are of his kindness, so who can say?”

“I didn’t know the last part,” the guard said. You patted his armored shoulder, motioning for him to follow you — he did so hesitantly, with a backwards glance at his broad-backed counterpart, who stayed behind to watch over your still-absent father.

“It’s true, though I doubt rage and kindness are things he can really understand,” you said, weaving through the hallways of the palace until you reached a familiar wooden door.

“What does that mean?” the guard said.

“It’s a personal theory,” you said. “But how can we expect angels to understand the turmoils of humanity when they are so removed from it?”

“I confess I’m lost, your highness,” he said, ducking his head. “I shall continue to pursue the ways of the sword and leave such philosophical questions to you and your ilk.”

“Maybe it is for the best,” you said. “I don’t know that my uncle would be so pleased to learn I am becoming a preacher to the common folk. It’s not the kind of role best-suited to a princess.”

“Certainly not,” the guard said.

“Have you ever been here?” you said as you strode past the tapestry-lined walls of the gallery without pause. The guard shook his head.

“I’ve never had cause to,” he said. Arriving upon the painting you wished to show him, you stopped abruptly, pointing at the gilt-framed portrait, reveling in the shock which twisted his features.

“It’s him,” you said. “The one my mother spoke of. Naturally, the painter has been lost to time, but the subject can never be forgotten.”

The background was plain — a muddy field, gray clouds brewing on the horizon and threatening rain, sunlight breaking through in a halo over his brow. He was tall and regal, a sword in his right hand, pointed at the neck of the viper upon which his left foot was planted. Gold hair cascaded down his shoulders, the shade of the sun at midday, and in his right hand was a rose, the same impossible color of blue as his eyes. The vines of it crept up his arm and curled around his neck, and from his back sprouted a pair of wings, the feathers silver-brown like an eagle’s, unfurled like banners in the air behind him.

“Michael,” the guard said.

“Yes,” you said. “He reveals himself to us very rarely, and only if there is some message which he wishes to impart. I wonder…I wonder what it means that he appeared to my mother.”

“He’s a healer, isn’t he?” he said. “Perhaps with this blessing, she will be the first to recover from this plague.”

“Perhaps,” you said quietly. “Well, I suppose I ought to return to the court and apologize for my misconduct.”

“Nobody blames you, your highness,” he said. “Nor do they think poorly of the reaction.”

“Regardless, it was unruly and childish,” you said. “I do not wish for my father to fall from my uncle’s favor because of my behavior. It’ll be better if I show that I am remorseful. Come, then, let us go. Unless my father has banned that as well?”

“He has made no such demands,” the guard. “After you, your highness.”

“Very well,” you said, and with one final glance at the painting of the severe angel, you led the guard out of the gallery, back towards the throne room you had fled from earlier.

Your father spent the night in your mother’s chambers, though his advisors begged him not to; perhaps it was a form of precognition or intuition, for he ignored their advice and lay at her feet until the next morning, whereupon he exited the room and informed you all, his countenance faded and dull and lifeless, that she was dead.

The carriage ride to your family’s summer estate was silent and awkward. As soon as your mother had been buried in the royal cemetery, your father had insisted you escape to your riverside manor, which had remained mercifully untouched from the winter’s floods. And so, although it was still barely spring and more people fell to the plague by the day, you packed your things and took leave from the castle, at nighttime when there would be no one to see you go. So quickly was it all done that the earth over your mother’s grave was still freshly turned, and you didn’t even have the time to wish her farewell before your father was ushering you into the carriage and whispering to the coachman to hasten his preparations.

“It will be better for us,” your father said again and again. It was such a hollow refrain that he kept repeating, clinging to it like it was sanity, but it didn’t become any more believable the more times he said it.

Yet regardless, you responded with the same thing every time: “Yes, father.”

“Perhaps this plague is a curse on the castle, in which case we are justified in fleeing,” your father said. “And I have already told my brother.”

You pulled your cloak tighter around you to ward away the nip of the nighttime air. “Yes, father.”

“Besides, who can blame us? Not when — not when your mother—” he broke off.

“Yes,” you said miserably. “Father.”

He might’ve ordinarily snapped at you, but today he only sighed and nodded slightly. You supposed you should’ve been grateful that he had enough of a handle on his grief that he could refrain from spitting poison at you, but gratitude was one emotion you could not bring yourself to muster just then, so all you could give him was an exhausted upturn of your mouth which resembled a smile in its barest form.

In the sprawling grounds of the summer estate, it was easy to pretend that nothing wrong had ever happened. There was no sign of serpents amongst the prickly evergreens, for the needly undergrowth was hostile to their pale, soft bellies, and so few servants remained there year round that, of their small number, the majority weren’t even aware a plague had broken out in the first place.

“It will be better for us,” your father said again, this time with finality, helping you down from the carriage and brushing himself off. “This was the right decision.”

You wanted to tell him that there was no world in which you earnestly agreed with that, because you had left your mother behind, and how could that be right? Yet he was so determined that you did not have the heart to, so you only exhaled and shuffled after him, the thought of staying outside for even another moment all but unbearable.

There was much less to do in the lonely manor, where you sat by yourself at all hours of the day, so eventually, despite your reluctance, your thoughts turned to the last time you had seen your mother, replaying that final conversation over and over in your mind until it was all you could see.

On the third day of this self-imposed torture, you dragged yourself out of your bed, trudging to the chapel which your father had commissioned — not for himself, for he was never religious, but for your mother, who often found solace in the marble of its walls and the gold of its altar.

The door, heavy and wooden and large enough to admit a pair of horses at once, opened with a groan and a plume of dust, revealing the inside of the chapel, which was as ornate as you remembered. Your father had spared no expense in its construction, and the floors and walls alike were covered in intricate, patterned mosaic, the high windows rimmed with marble and the ceiling painted with delicate, jewel-colored pigment.

In the middle of the room was a figure, and at first you thought he must be a statue, but then he moved slightly to face you and you realized he was a man; at least, if one could consider someone like that a man, for he bore all the resemblance to the cheerful guards of the palace that a dove did to a common sparrow. His hair was choppy and short and gold, though the ends faded into a blue shade as they trailed down his back, and his bright eyes were lined with something the color of blood that only threw the azure of his irises into greater relief. There was a sort of perfection to the slope of his nose and the curve of his neck, his shoulders held straight and true, his chin high and proud — strangest of all, however, stranger than any of these things by far, was that there was a rusted sword clenched in his fist, the sheath of which sat empty on his hip.

You were quite certain that he did not belong there, but you did not have the wherewithal to question him, so you only shut the door behind you and sat in the entrance, leaning against the walnut frame and closing your eyes, clasping your hands together in front of you and wishing you had something to pray for.

“What have you come here in search of?”

The voice was unfamiliar and keen, like a dagger in your heart or a fang in your calf. You knew without knowing that it must be the man speaking; opening your eyes, you were unsurprised to find him peering at you with no small amount of disdain.

“Whatever do you mean?” you said. He stared at you with a discomfiting intensity, his fingers playing with the hilt of his sword, his eyes wide and endless like the sky, his brows furrowed.

“People don’t come here unless they want something,” he said. “So what is it that you pray for?”

“The things I want are impossible to obtain, so I do not pray for them at all,” you said.

“Hardly anything is impossible. What a limiting way to think,” he said. You narrowed your eyes at him.

“At least it is not an arrogant one,” you said. “Unless you believe that resurrecting my mother is truly something which can be done?”

“Arrogant?” the man said. “Certainly, your mother could be brought back, so for you to accuse me of arrogance is unfounded. The question is whether she should be revived.”

“What a pointless differentiation,” you said. “I doubt you believe she should be.”

“No, of course not,” he said. “Though I don’t believe anyone should, so you ought not to take it personally.”

You swallowed, hugging your knees to your chest, resting your chin atop them and averting your eyes from the strange man. Likely you should’ve felt angry at his callousness, but in the moment, the only feeling you could summon was resignation.

“Perhaps that is the truth,” you said. “Then it is the same regardless. She won’t ever come back. This is her chapel, you know. I thought I might find some reprieve by encasing myself in this place, but I suppose it isn’t so. There is no reprieve. I think of her always.”

The man made no move to offer you any words of reassurance, nor did he drop his sword. He just stood there and watched you with the sort of wary caginess that one might expect from a half-tamed animal, shifting and unsettled and pacing. You found it almost comforting that he did not offer you any platitudes nor condolences, for you had heard enough of those that you were sick of them.

“Who are you, anyways?” you said. “A servant? I don’t recognize you, but then it has been some time since I last came to this estate, so it isn’t a surprise.”

“I am something along those lines,” he said.

“And what business do you have in this chapel?” you said. “As far as I know, only members of my family are permitted entry.”

“Nobody has ever stopped me,” he said. “So why shouldn’t I be allowed? Do you mean to cast me from here?”

He was already shifting from foot to foot, as if he expected you to strike him or throw him from the chapel; it wasn’t an incorrect sentiment, exactly, for certainly if you were your father you would’ve, especially for his earlier impudence. What cause did a mere servant have to talk to the king’s family in such a way? But you could not summon that same indignation, so you only shook your head, standing on legs which had grown sleepy and electric from inactivity.

“No, I have no great desire to,” you said. “If you do not disturb me, then I won’t disturb you. Might we coexist in that manner?”

His eyebrows raised almost involuntarily, and then he shrugged. It was an odd way of doing it, though you couldn’t exactly point out what was odd about it, and then he tapped his sword against his leg.

“I suppose it isn’t a tall order,” he said.

“You should leave your sword at the door, however,” you said. “Aren’t weapons forbidden in places like this?”

“It stays,” he said with finality. You peered at it; it was a comely instrument despite its age, the hilt gold and embellished with roses, dark corrosion creeping up the blue-white blade like vines, the tip as sharp as a thorn. His fingers were wrapped around it like a vice, and you tilted your head when you realized that there was something black drawn on his hand, resembling an emperor’s crown, though you were too far to ascertain if that was what it truly was.

“As you wish,” you said. “It’s not me who you’ll have to answer to, anyways. At least I tried.”

“Your efforts will be appreciated by someone or another, I’m sure,” he said.

“I’m sure they will be,” you said with a scoff. “Ah, wait, sir. Before you leave — can I ask for your name?”

“My name? Why, so you may curse it?” he said.

“So that I may call you by it,” you said. “If we happen to meet again, here or elsewhere.”

“Is it important to you?” he said.

“It’s a courtesy,” you said.

“Since when has the king’s family ever known courtesy?” he said. You thought he might shirk away after the brazen statement, but he only gazed at you levelly, as if challenging you to respond.

“We are trained in it from birth, and must practice it from then on,” you said.

“Courtesy and etiquette are not the same thing,” he shot back.

“Will you tell me your name or not? This exchange is tiresome,” you said. “I shall assign you a name of my own if you do not give it. I doubt it will be to your tastes.”

“Kaiser,” he said. “You can call me that, if you are so insistent.”

“Kaiser,” you repeated, tasting it in your mouth. There was a familiarity and a power to the word, but you could not place your finger on what it meant; deciding it was unimportant, you nodded. “I am Y/N.”

“Yes, I knew that already,” he said.

“It would’ve been rude if I did not introduce myself to you as well,” you said.

“And there is the difference between courtesy and etiquette,” he said.

“Hm?” you said. He did not even look at you, lifting his chin so that he could admire the ceiling.

“What a beautiful scene,” he said.

“Beautiful?” you said, frowning. You had never taken the time to understand it, but now you saw that it was a depiction of Michael killing the hellish viper that was his bane. The roughness of the strokes, however, lended a gruesome quality to it that the painting in the king’s gallery did not have — Michael’s face was twisted into a grotesque leer instead of a gentle smile, and his sword was stabbed through the serpent’s throat instead of pointed at it in warning. Red-glazed pebbles wept like tears along the snake’s body, and the sword in Michael’s hand was made of cruel ivory, his eyes chips of blue glass that twinkled with delight instead of solemnity.

“Isn’t it?” he said, smiling for the first time, not at you but at the mosaic.

“Well, there’s a quality to the workmanship,” you said. “But it’s too gory for my tastes.”

“The truth of things can never be too gory,” he instructed you, and though he had no qualifications in the way of priesthood, you were somehow inclined to listen. “The truth is the truth. If that is how it happened, then you must accept it.”

“Who are we to know how it happened?” you said.

“Who indeed?” he said.

“You speak in riddles,” you said. “It is distracting. I do not mind it, though, because there is much I wish to be distracted from at present, so I am not chiding you, necessarily, but I hope that you know.”

“I know,” he said, amusement in his tone. “It’s something I’ve been accused of many times before, and by men several orders of magnitude more important than you as well.”

“I see,” you said. “Regardless, I believe my father might search for me soon, and as I have found some merriment in you, I do not wish for him to find you here quite yet, so I shall take my leave. But I will return! Please be here when I do.”

“I will be here,” he said, despite the fact that you hadn’t mentioned when you would next visit the chapel. You didn’t question it; he felt like the kind of person that was better left a mystery, or at least figured out slowly, so that no layers were missed.

The next morning, you entered the chapel as the bell rang upon the hour, peering in through the door and smiling slightly when you saw him perched upon a bench made of the same rich walnut as the entryway. He was perfectly still, his back straight, his sword laid across his lap, and he did not turn to greet you, staring straight at the flickering candles of the altar. Your footsteps echoed as you crossed the room, sitting on the bench directly opposite him, facing the candles as well.

“Did you light them?” you said.

“They were already lit,” he said.

“Hm,” you said. “It wasn’t me.”

“Naturally,” he said.

“I suppose someone else visits this place, too,” you said.

“What will you do about it?” he said.

“Nothing,” you said. “If it brings them solace, then who am I to deny them that? The nearest church is a long walk; even this is not so close to the manor. I am weary already.”

At this he did glance at you, his eyes lowering for a moment before he returned his attention to the front of the room.

“You are frail, then,” he said. “The walk is not that long.”

“My mother was the frail one,” you said. “I have inherited my father’s good health, or so I am told.”

“Ah,” he said.

“I will have to come on my horse next time,” you said, only half-joking. Perhaps the distance was not quite long enough to warrant riding, but you really had been winded, and the constriction of your chest was more than a little unpleasant, like there was a stone pressing into your heart.

“If that is what you require,” he said, clearly disinterested in the conversation. You wondered what he saw in the candles, if there was something he could divine from the small, captive flames.

“Was your mother a moth?” you said.

“What?” he said, blinking at you in alarm. “Are you an idiot?”

He said it so genuinely that it felt more like concern than anything. You suppressed a smile, pointing at the beeswax dripping into the golden bowl set there to collect it.

“I’ve only ever seen moths be so enamored by candles before,” you said.

“So you are an idiot,” he said, clicking his tongue. “What a foolish thing to say.”

“It was in jest,” you said. “My apologies. I shall remain serious in your company henceforth.”

“See to it that you are silent as well,” he said, and so you were, sitting across the aisle from him and watching the candles until they burnt out. Even then, he stayed facing the wisps of smoke, tracking them with his eyes as they fluttered into the air with the briskness of a wasp, so eventually you left him behind, him and those blackened stumps marring the air and the altar alike with their crumbling, papery ash.

“There is news that the plague is worsening,” your father said one day at dinner. The news of the plague brought to the forefront of your mind your mother, who you had done so well at ignoring until then. It was easy to pretend that the sickness had never existed, that those days of flooding rivers and viper-lined streets and shivering women had been nothing more than horrible dreams in quick succession.

“I suppose it shouldn’t come as a shock,” you said. “Winter has come early this year.”

“Do you think so?” your father said. You gulped, pushing at your food with your fork.

“Already, there is a chill in the air,” you said.

“What horrible luck,” he said. “We’ve hardly had time to recover and replenish our stores of grain. If frost comes to the fields early, then we are doomed.”

“I am surprised it has not yet bitten the earth,” you admitted. Your father, who had always trusted you more than most men would trust their daughters, groaned, dragging his hand over his face.

“There is still time?” he said.

“We can hope,” you said.

“I will order the fiefs to begin their harvesting at once,” he said. “By all rights, summer is still yet to fade into autumn, but even if it is premature, the crops should be serviceable, and the fields can be replanted at once. If it goes well, then our yields may nearly double.”

“A sensible decision, father,” you said. “That should be more than enough to last us all until the next spring.”

“Thank you for your counsel, my girl,” your father said, and if you were not seated at the table, he would’ve patted your shoulder or kissed your cheek or shown his pride in some other such affectionate manner. “I will be lost without you.”

“I am not going anywhere,” you said. “Am I?”

“Not yet,” he said. “But one day you will leave this manor for your husband’s home, and then I shall be on my own.”

“That is still some years away,” you said.

“As many years as possible,” your father said. “There are no suitors in this kingdom worthy of you, anyways.”

“I will trust you when you say that, father,” you said. The lines around his eyes deepened from the force of his grin, and it heartened you to see, for he hadn’t smiled much since your mother had died. Setting your cutlery down, crossing them over your plate as was neat and expected, you placed your hand over his, the skin of his hunt-worn palms rough against yours. “For now, I am content here.”

“And here you shall stay,” he said, firm and sure in the way that only the brother of a king could be. What he said was what happened. He commanded things into existence and so they did occur; it was the kind of power that very few were afforded, and hardly ever in a greater quantity than him, so when he spoke, it was always with the weight of expectation behind it.

You really did ride your horse to the chapel after that dinner with your father. Now that you had mentioned it to him, you could not help feeling the signs of the impending ice of the dead season, and only hugging the warm neck of your little bay palfrey as she trotted along could ward it away. She was gentle and game enough to not mind it, nuzzling you when you got off and dropping her head to graze where you tied her. You pulled your gloves off and tucked them in your pocket, rubbing the whorl of a white star on her forehead before ducking into the chapel.

It was later than you had been the other times you had come, but Kaiser was there anyways, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his forehead pressed against the altar. Never had you seen such misconduct, but you thought he must be sleeping, so you did what you could to be as silent as possible, tiptoeing over to stand behind him, reaching out your hand to jostle him.

“Don’t,” he said, flinching back and glaring at you over his shoulder.

“You were awake?” you said.

“Yes,” he said.

“I thought you were not,” you said. He squinted at you.

“Your powers of discernment are frightening,” he said.

“Because of their uncanny strength?” you tried.

“The opposite,” he said. “You are fumbling and blind. I do not know how you have made it so far in life.”

“Maybe it’s a miracle,” you said, sitting beside him, mirroring the arrangement of his legs, your elbows digging into your thighs so that you could rest your chin in your hands. “My birth was one. Why not the rest of my life?”

“I assume you want me to ask what you mean by that,” he said.

“It’s not that I want it,” you said, swiveling eagerly so that you could face him. He snorted, not offering you the same dignity, the gold of the altar reflecting on his cheekbones. “But I’ll tell you if you’d like!”

“I wouldn’t,” he said. You waited, but he did not budge. The sword was at his side, his one hand placed over it, so instead of telling him any stories, you bent so that you could inspect the weapon.

“Where did you get this, anyways?” you said. “It’s of a make I don’t recognize.”

“And you are well-acquainted with every blacksmith in the entire kingdom, I expect?” he said.

“The ones of note, yes,” you said. “The ones with the talent to make something so fine. Don’t you remember whose daughter I am? I was loved by knights long before my father laid eyes upon me. They taught me a little.”

“What use does a princess have for smithing?” he said, though he did not make any moves to pull the sword away, allowing you to inspect it. You dared not touch it, lest he yank it back, but it seemed the lingering of your eyes was permissible, so you were unabashed in allowing them to rest upon the gleaming metal.

“Not much,” you said. “But a knight has very many uses for the matter.”

“You are no knight,” he said with a sneer.

“Of course not,” you said. Now that you were closer, you saw that the centers of the roses blooming on the hilt were sapphire, and what you had thought was rust had a different shade to it, something dried and burgundy that you could not identify. “But they were. The ways of the sword were all that they knew, so I was raised on such tales instead of the more typical stories.”

A gust of wind blew through the windows, and you shuddered, tucking your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. Kaiser gripped his sword tighter, the veins of his hand standing out blue and angry, but otherwise he did not react.

“One blacksmith brands his work with a bull,” you said. “Another with a dog, and a third with laurels. Many and many things, yet the rose has no place on the list. It’s too sacred. Nobody would dare carve Michael’s symbol into a mere mortal weapon. Who are we, anyways? To compare ourselves to someone who does such grand things?”

“You said grand,” he noted. “Not great.”

“Great implies an antonym,” you said. “But I don’t think such concept really exist to him and those of that kind — good and bad and all. There are different scales, different evils, but the ways in which the angels impact our lives can only be grand or minute. It’s unfair to assign morality to it.”

“Yet if these acts, whether grand or minute, change your life for the better, or alternately for the worse, then can you not judge them to be either good or bad?” he said.

“I can, and indeed many do, but they are not my concern. I speak only of Michael, and I maintain that it is impossible for him to turn that judgment unto himself,” you said. “You know, my mother saw him right before she died. Everyone thought it was a stroke of good fortune. He’s a healer, so he must’ve been there to heal her — yet they forgot, in their desperate hope, that he also comes to escort us to our final resting places. As he had come for my mother.”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s true.”

“Well,” you said. “That’s it, then. Is he evil for taking my mother? Can I liken him to a villain for what he did? I would like to. It would be easier…if there was someone to blame, then it would be easier. I wish I could hate someone for it, but I cannot. There is no one. Michael did not take her to hurt me; that is just what he does. I can point my finger at that ceiling and curse him, but what good will it do? It won’t change his nature.”

Kaiser was silent. You must’ve bored him, and you wished you could disappear into the floor, melt into a mosaic, and freeze in place before he could mock you.

“Angels are above humans,” he said after a while.

“Everyone knows that,” you said.

“So how can humans do something that an angel cannot?” he said. “How is it possible?”

“I suppose it’s not unique to them,” you said. “Asking an angel to understand a person is like asking you or I to empathize with a dormouse. The best we can do is impartiality; it’s the same for them, I’d say.”

“Dormice?” he said. “I don’t think it’s the same at all.”

“No?” you said. “I’m not that learned. I don’t take offense. There’s as many theories about these obscurities as there are stars in the sky; I pass the time by coming up with more by the day, for I have little else to do when I am not here, but of course they would not hold under examination. I’m hardly a priest.”

There was another gale, this one howling and accompanied by your horse huffing anxiously outside. You doubted it was anything more than an oncoming squall, and ordinarily you’d wait for it to pass, but you did not want to leave the mare alone in the rain, so reluctantly you stood, dipping your head at Kaiser in the politest farewell you could muster.

“Wait,” he said when you reached the door, his voice still a dull, quiet monotone that you had to strain to properly listen to. “Next time.”

“Next time?” you said.

“Tell me the story of your birth,” he said, and then he was glowering at you again, demanding and haughty and piercing all in turn. “I will understand you.”

“Who said you won’t?” you said rhetorically. “Farewell for now. Please be safe in returning to your quarters.”

Your mare pranced the entire way back to the stables, her ears pricked towards the sky, her tail held high and the whites of her eyes showing. You tangled your fingers in her mane, the coming storm seeping through the fabric of your cloak as you urged her forward, hardly making it to the stable before it began to pour, ducking under the stone lip of the roof and holding onto her reins with sweat-slicked hands, trembling from the relief of the near-miss and leaning against her muscular neck to regain your bearings.

At the end of that week, you were met with a visitor — the youngest and dearest of your uncles, who loved you as if you were his own eldest daughter. He had set out from his own manor as soon as he had heard the news, and such was his haste that even now, the grit of his travels lined his clothes and features, but that did not dampen his jovial spirit any.

“You must rest, uncle!” you said, wincing as he regaled you with a story about the strange twins he had met while riding to the manor, with faces like crocodiles and mouths that only spoke lies, right up until he cut their tongues out, after which they could no longer speak at all.

“My, my, how you fret! Lovely niece, you are more and more like your mother every day,” your uncle said. “You must be so proud of her.”

This was accompanied by a good-natured punch to your father’s arm; anyone else would’ve been reprimanded, but at his brother’s antics, your father could only roll his eyes and cuff him on the ear, just as good-natured and half-heartedly.

“I don’t think it’s possible for a man to be prouder,” he said.

“Thank you, father,” you said, curtseying before brandishing an irreverent finger at your uncle. “But really, I insist! Let me take you to your chambers. You have come so far — surely you are weary.”

“Now that you’ve mentioned it…” he said.

“There will be plenty of time for your stories tomorrow over breakfast,” you assured him, taking the stairs slowly, so that he did not overexert himself. “I am sure you have many more.”

“Of course,” he said. “Though not all of them are as lively.”

“Is there cause for alarm?” you said. Your uncle turned away guiltily. Slipping the key to his chambers into the lock and rotating it, you waited. “You must tell me if there is.”

“I don’t want to cause undue stress,” he said. “Especially after everything with your mother.”

“You have already said it. Better to be done with the affair and tell me the whole of things; it’ll only stress me further if you leave me to conjure scenarios of my own in my mind, so there is no avoiding it now,” you said.

“Come in with me, then,” he said, following after you into the chambers where his luggage was already waiting. You sat on the edge of the bed, allowing him to collapse into the desk chair, his head in his hands. “The queen.”

“No,” you said, praying it was paranoia that forced your thoughts down the ugliest of paths. “No, you don’t mean—”

“She has taken ill,” he said. “Her condition is deteriorating at the same rate your mother’s did. My brother the king is…not optimistic. She has been secluded in an attempt to contain the affliction, though of course we do not know how long she has been sick and how much longer she has been contagious. The entire royal family, barring you, your father, and I — if we stay away from the palace, that is — could succumb before the flowers next bloom.”

“Only the three of us will be left?” you said. Your uncle nodded.

“It seems that even in death, your mother is looking out for you,” he said. Something scratched at the back of your throat, and despite how you tried to swallow it back, it only clawed its way up, coalescing into a small whimper. Your uncle’s face softened, returning ten years of youth to it. “Don’t be afraid. We are safe here. As safe as can be.”

“How does it matter?” you said. “If everyone else is gone, how does it matter?”

To this, your uncle had no response, so he only gave you a pitying look and bade you to return to your room, promising you both would meet again and discuss it in the morning, when your father could join you. Whether he would’ve held true to that oath or not, you didn’t know, because as soon as you heard the murmuring of the servants awakening, you threw on a pair of house-slippers and fled the manor, running as fast as you could to the chapel where you knew Kaiser would be waiting.

In the watery light of dawn, he was almost ghostly, ephemeral like smoke or a wraith, the blue of his hair iridescent, the gold closer to a soft cream. Today he was far from the candles, sitting on one of the benches again, his back to you. You panted from the exertion of your earlier pace, but he did not move, did not try to assist you or even greet you.

“There was a prophecy,” you coughed out, flopping onto the closest bench, lying on it with your feet hanging off of the ends. “About my mother. It said that my father’s blood would spell her death.”

Kaiser did not say anything, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t listening, or at least that was what you assured yourself with. He must’ve heard you. He must’ve known.

“My uncles commanded him to take a second wife. The prophecy must’ve referred to their progeny, and indeed every heir they attempted to conceive died in her womb before it could kill her in turn, further proving the point. My father refused, however. He wouldn’t do that to her. If he could not have a child with her, then he would not have one at all,” you said. “I’m sure you know where this is going.”

“They prayed,” he said. “In turn, they were gifted with a child.”

“And my mother did not die,” you said. “That’s why people say I’ve been agreeable for my entire life. I did not fuss, either. I was good, or so I’ve been told. The best of my cousins by far. At the time of my birth, my father was away on some campaign for my uncle the king, so he did not even hear of it for many months, and he could not return for many more. It’s why I was raised by knights and nuns.”

“And why you spout theories and smithing as if you were born to them,” he said.

“That as well. Anyways, the nuns always praised me for defying that prophecy,” you said. “For saving my mother from a certain death. Do you understand?”

“Prophecies are hardly ever so straightforward,” he said. “You can divine one million meanings from them, but it is the million-and-first which will come true. It’s foolhardy and presumptuous for one to claim they understand the truth behind the future. You can only know it once it has come to pass.”

“Yes,” you said. “I don’t disagree.”

“Perhaps it was still your father’s blood that led to your mother’s demise,” he said.

“How? She fell to the plague,” you said.

“It ended with the plague,” he said. “What did it begin with?”

“Snakes,” you said. “No, before that. A flood.”

“And before that?” he said, condescending as anything. It would’ve been infuriating if it was not so at home with his severe countenance.

“There was nothing before that,” you said.

“If that’s what you think,” he said. “Anyways, is that what you came to tell me?”

“The queen is ill,” you said, gripping the back of the bench and using it to push yourself to a sitting position, swinging your legs down so that your feet were planted on the ground again. “They think it is the same disease which ruined my mother. It’s likely that the entire royal family will be lost — except my youngest uncle, my father, and myself, for all of us fled before the outbreak could reach the castle and have not yet shown any symptoms of the plague.”

“Maybe they deserve it,” he said, with no small amount of contempt. You trained your eyes on the ground, unsure of how you could even fathom saying something, and in your mother’s own chapel, as well. Surely you would be judged for it, but for some reason you thought that you owed honesty to Kaiser.

“Maybe they do,” you said. “Likely they do. But they are — they are still my family. I don’t want them to die.”

His sword caught the sun, and for a moment the maroon on the blade seemed to writhe and drip, coming alive in the light and only stilling when clouds passed across the windows once more. Kaiser’s shoulders still did not face you, but he tilted his head so that he could regard you as he spoke.

“You think they deserve it,” he said, phrasing it as a statement of fact instead of a question.

“I don’t know,” you said. “They must. We all must. These disasters are likely a form of punishment, though I know not what we are being punished for.”

“There is cruelty in this kingdom,” Kaiser said, his voice so cold that it caused a nervous tremor to shoot through you. “And it takes its purest shape in the L/Ns. That must be why they are facing the worst of it.”

You wished you could disagree with him. You wanted to. You wanted to tell him that your father and your uncles and your ten cousins were kind and good, but neither could you lie. Neither could you reassure him of a falsehood, when the both of you knew that had it been anyone else in your family who had found him in the chapel, he would’ve lost his head by now.

“They are cruel,” you said. “I know it. But I cannot bring myself to hate them, not when they love me.”

“It does not absolve them,” he said.

“It does not,” you said heavily. “And I suppose it does not absolve me, either.”

This time, he stood, hefting his sword and pacing in the same frantic way that a leashed dog might. He did not try to brandish the sword, allowing it to drag along at his side, but neither did he let it go. You watched him until you were dizzy from the repetitive nature of his path, and then you covered your eyes and listened to the thud of his boots against the ground.

“You are more like your mother and the queen,” he said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” you said. “Is it because I am a woman? I have cousin-sisters as well, however, and they are as L/N as me.”

“No, it is not that,” he said. “You have been dragged into the sins of the L/Ns against your will, and now you must reap their consequences alongside them. Whether or not you have earned them is irrelevant at this point; you will receive them.”

“It’s already begun,” you said. “My mother — my mother — and who else? They will all be gone, and my father and uncle aren’t so young, which means I shall soon be alone. What will I do then?”

Kaiser was a servant, so by all rights such things were beyond him, but never once had he spoken to you with the deference that his station implied. You didn’t think he knew what it meant to bow his head and comply blindly, so you waited for him to respond, to bestow some small wisdom hidden in the biting jaws of his blasé attitude.

“You won’t be alone,” he said.

“You don’t know that,” you said.

“I do,” he said, as if it were an undeniable truth, written in the foundations of the world. You had never been the type to feel comforted by platitudes, but something about the way it sounded coming from him made your heart swell. “Y/N L/N, you will never be alone. That I am sure of.”

“Do you guarantee it?” you said. “Even though it’s impossible, do you swear?”

“I do,” he said. It was the kindest thing he had ever said to you, so you smiled slightly, although there was no amiability in his tone.

“Then I will believe you,” you said.

“Believe me or don’t,” he said. “Your feelings will not affect that outcome.”

“Hm,” you said. “Well, thank you for reassuring me.”

“That isn’t why I said that,” he said.

“But you managed it anyways,” you said. “I need to go, though. I did not dress to be outside, and it’s a bit cool today, isn’t it?”

“No,” he said, a peculiar lilt to his voice. “No, Y/N. I don’t think that it is.”

With your uncle there, it was harder to find time to visit the chapel. Where once Kaiser had been the only one to occupy your time and thus your thoughts, the only one with enough of a mystery to his being that even the bleakest of your grief could be warded off by it, now your uncle was there to distract you, with his stories and his tricks and his gifts. Never one for religion, just like your father, he laughed when you suggested visiting the chapel, and often by the time you were freed of his company, you were far too exhausted to even think about leaving your chambers, let alone the manor.

He was a whirlwind of a man, your youngest uncle, a tempestuous person whose sword was as ready as his smile. Quick to anger and slow to forgive, he had been the spear of your father’s campaign, slicing through the villages they conquered in the name of the king with brutal, clinical efficiency. You were the only person who had never been subject to his wrath, for you were the youngest and mildest of your ten cousins, and thus cherished by the rest of your family in a way that the others were not.

“Have you finished enough of those to go in the woods with me? There’s a place I’m thinking of going hunting, but I’d like your guidance before I do so,” your uncle said one morning, when the sun shone and the sky was as blue as if it were made of ceramic. You were sitting across from him in the parlor, embroidering handkerchiefs with your family’s sigil, folding them and placing them on the table for your father’s use. Your father himself was out for the day, checking on one of his vassal’s progress in the early harvest, which was likely why your uncle was asking you for assistance instead of him.

“It’s only something to while away the hours,” you said, tying off the end of the thin thread in a perfect, imperceptible knot, shaking out the newly completed handkerchief and then setting it with the rest. “I can go whenever you’d like.”

“I’ll send word to the stablehands to tack our horses, then,” your uncle said. “Have you gone to the river’s shore before?”

“Once or twice,” you said.

“If there’s anywhere to find deer, it’ll be there. What do you say about venison for supper by the weekend?” he said.

“Father will be pleased,” you said. The youngest of his brothers and yet the most talented when it came to hunting, your uncle was known in your family for his aptitude at picking out the rarest of game. Your father always told you that if there was anything resembling an afterlife, he would spend it all eating whatever your uncle brought home, and you had no doubt that he would be delighted to return from his trip and find a freshly-slain stag waiting for him.

In order to reach the river, you had to ride through endless swathes of green — some were tilled and tended, but the majority of those fields were wild, home to nothing but rabbits and robins, both of whom fled upon hearing the clip of your horses’ hoofbeats. At first the cleared paths were wide enough for you and your uncle to ride side by side, but eventually they grew narrower, the tall grass scratching at your legs, pollen leaving yellow streaks on your horses’ haunches, and so you were forced to ride in front, for your mare was as sure-footed as your uncle’s charger was flighty and spooky.

“Be careful,” your uncle said as you pushed her forward, kicking her when she pinned her ears at your uncle’s stallion. “The grounds in these fields are always treacherous. Snakes make their homes amongst the grasses and hide the entrances; even one misplaced footfall can be disastrous.”

“Ah, she is good,” you said. “I trust her to know where her feet are better than I would.”

“Smart girl,” your uncle said. “You must get it from your uncle.”

You swatted away a horsefly before it could land on your leg. It was gray and fat and lazy, but you knew that its bite burnt like a bee-sting, so you steered your horse away from it the slightest bit, in the hopes that it would dissuade any further pursuit.

“Of course,” you said. “Though more than smart, I trust that my father’s men have trained her well, in these very fields.”

“Do they come here often, then?” he said. “We won’t be able to find anything if there are many people passing by.”

“Not that I know of. This section of the riverbank is reserved for our family’s use. Nobody would dare come up this way unless they were on my father’s orders, and my father rarely issues such commands,” you said.

“Good,” your uncle said, relaxing in his saddle, taking his bow off of his shoulder and holding an arrow in his right hand. “If we are very quiet, then we may find something today.”

“So soon?” you said.

“Why not?” he said. “We must be silent, however, lest we frighten everything in a few leagues’ radius away.”

Soon, the only thing that could be heard was the whine of the crickets in the grass that your horses disturbed. It was a high sound, shrill and thin like a flute, insistent in the way of begging, and if your uncle had not been there, you would’ve covered your ears to muffle it.

You couldn’t tell how long you wandered along the riverbanks for, but eventually, there was a faint rustling in the brush. You and your uncle locked eyes, and then you reined your mare to a stop, allowing him to trot forwards, eyes locked on the place where the noise had arisen from, his bow held at the ready, a single arrow in place — because a single arrow was all he would need. Your uncle had never once let fly an arrow which did not then make a home in its target, and you doubted he would begin to do so any time soon.

Another minute passed before the rustling grew louder and something burst from the copse of saplings, crashing through the tightly interwoven branches. You gasped when you saw that it was not a deer or any other such game but a boy, his hair dark and long over his eyes, his shoulders narrow and bony, more like perfect, sickening corners with skin draped over them than anything.

“Please,” he said, dropping to his knees, gazing up at you, his pupils like black pinpricks in the expanse of his blank eyes. “I didn’t — I didn’t mean to! I wasn’t — I got lost, but I didn’t mean to end up here! I was only waiting for you to pass through so that I could return home.”

“So you knew that what you were doing was wrong. Expressly forbidden by the prince,” your uncle said.

“Uncle, it was clearly a mistake,” you said uneasily.

“Mistakes are made when one does not have knowledge,” your uncle said. “This was not a mistake, nor was it an accident.”

“I was looking for rabbits,” the boy pleaded. “My sister likes them.”

“So you were hunting on the prince’s land?” your uncle said.

“No!” the boy said. “No, she — we don’t eat them, she likes to pet them, she’s still young and our mother is sick so I thought I would find one for her but there aren’t any near our house, so I began to wander, and I don’t know how but I ended up here — please, I didn’t mean to! I didn’t!”

“It’s alright,” you said, loosening your foot from your right stirrup and preparing to dismount. “Where is your home? We can escort you—”

“Stay on your horse,” your uncle said to you. You froze, unaccustomed to hearing him speak in such a way. “You. Boy. You admit your guilt? You have trespassed?”

“Yes — no — I don’t—” the boy stammered. His lips were bluing at the edges, you saw, and you realized he, and likely his mother who he had spoken of, was cursed with the plague, which choked his mind and judgment as well as it did his throat and heart.

“He is unwell, uncle,” you said quietly. “Let him go home.”

The boy was not long for this world, and wasting the precious time he had remaining with this pointless interrogation caused a pit to form in your stomach and a glacial feeling to crawl down your back and shoulders, the kind which could not be chased away even by the strongest of fires.

“Crimes cannot go unpunished,” your uncle said. “If we let him go, then we will have to let the next go, and the next after that. Where do you draw the line?”

“Here,” you said. “That is where I draw it. We both know that he is closer to my mother than to us at this point. Forgive him this time. He will not return, I am sure of it.”

“I won’t,” the boy said, voice cracking. “Your royal highnesses, I won’t.”

“Tell me where you live,” you said. “Not far, surely?”

“Just over the hill,” the boy said, staggering to his feet. “The house with the hyacinths in front of it.”

“I will take you there,” you promised him.

“You will do no such thing,” your uncle said. “Y/N L/N. If you ever wish to be the lady of an estate, then you must learn how to punish those who disobey your rule.”

“Don’t!” you said, but you were too late, far too late. Already, the arrow was cutting through the air and piercing through the boy’s heart. He fell in the way a leaf might, silent and crumpling and brittle, a motionless heap staining the earth with his blood. You screamed, or at least you tried to, but there was not enough air in your lungs, and you could not inhale or exhale without the ringing in your ears climbing into a pounding sensation.

“Where are you going?” your uncle said as you tugged on your mare’s left rein, turning her around, away from the still body and your uncle’s stark figure. “Y/N! Wait!”

Tightening your calves, you cued her into a gallop, taking off along the riverbank, water spraying into the air wherever her feet fell. Dimly you were aware of your uncle shouting after you, and then he, too, was galloping in your pursuit, but his stallion was recalcitrant, rearing and gnashing at the bit with every step, slowing their progress immensely and allowing you to fly out of their sight.

Turning into the fields that swept towards the manor, you paid no heed to your uncle’s earlier warnings, pushing the horse faster instead of slowing as you should’ve, your surroundings blurring into nothing more than smears of viridian and mustard in your peripheral vision. You had to reach him before your uncle did. You had to, you had to, you had to —

Abruptly, your horse skidded to a stop, scrambling for purchase in the ground and snorting nervously. You were thrown up her neck but did not fall, sitting back and scanning the area for what might’ve spooked her. In the beginning you did not see it, but then there was a soft hiss from the ground that caused her to dance backwards uncertainly, and you bit your lip hard enough to draw blood.

“You are meant to be gone,” you said to the viper, which was baring its fangs at you, its dark tongue flicking out periodically to taste the air before it. Your words bordered on hysterical as you shifted in your saddle, eyeing its coiling body with equal parts fear and disdain. “Your kind vanished! Why are you back? Do you mean to torment me?”

The serpent did not move to strike, but neither did it shift out of the way, its slit-pupil eyes never blinking, its white teeth like pearls against the roof of its black mouth. You looked around, but there was no other path as clearly demarcated as the one you were on, and you dared not risk going into the grasses where thousands more of the snake’s brethren could be lying in wait.

Behind you, you could once more hear your uncle calling your name, and you knew that the precious few seconds you had gained on him would come to naught if you continued to dither about. When all was said and done, there was only one thing you could do, so apologizing to your horse, you squeezed her onwards. She lurched forwards with a start, her tail swishing, her movements jerky as she inched towards the snake, which grew eerily still at your approach.

Death was supposed to be a mystery or a surprise, but for some reason, as your horse took that final step forwards, you were excruciatingly aware that the next few moments would likely be your last. The snake would dart up, as quick as a whip, and it would latch onto your leg, slaying you instantaneously. What a swift revenge it would be, that your uncle had killed that boy and now he would be met with your own body, pierced through with snake venom as that child had been skewered upon his arrow!

You could’ve done a great number of things in those final seconds, but your mother’s final words came to you, and you found yourself mulling them over. He is here, she had said. Right in front of you. Don’t you see him? He is so beautiful. As beautiful as the paintings. Michael himself had appeared for her, but then who was by your side? Who would accompany you after your death?

There was a flash of movement in the corner of your eye, something azure and fluttering — a butterfly, surely, or some small bird frightened by the commotion. It was unimportant in the end; what mattered most was the color, which was so reminiscent of the person you had set out for that it broke you from your daze, heartening you enough to sit up and raise your chin, facing the snake with enough courage that even your horse ceased to shy away from it. Instead, she let out a squeal which sounded like a trumpet, and then she leapt into the air, bucking upon the landing and galloping away from the viper at such a speed that white lather frothed on her neck and streaked down her shoulders.

You reached the chapel in a time that should not have been possible, and even before you had pulled the mare to a stop, you were leaping off, your fingers clumsy as you tied her to the first fence post you saw. Your legs protested as you took the stairs two at a time, but you paid them no heed. You could not allow them to fail you, not when your uncle’s strides were twice the length of yours.

“Kaiser!” you called out when you entered the chapel. He was standing by the altar, a shower of sparks falling from the flint in his hands onto the charred cloth placed on the table, and instead of greeting you, he blew on the smoldering edge. A flame blossomed to life, and he used it to light a new candle, smothering the cloth under his boot once the fire had been transferred. “Kaiser, you must leave at once.”

“Why should I do that?” he said. “Who are you to dismiss in such a way?”

“It’s not me,” you said. “My uncle is furious, and if he finds you — if he finds you here, then he’ll cut you down, and not even that sword of yours will be enough to stop him.”

“Your uncle and his moods have little to do with me,” Kaiser said. “His tantrums are meaningless.”

“You don’t know him like I do,” you said.

“Don’t I?” he said.

“He just killed a boy for trespassing,” you said. “I couldn’t even stop him. It was the most I could do to return in time to warn you before he came here to pray for that child’s life.”

“You disobeyed your uncle and ran from him for the sole purpose of…warning me?” he said.

“Yes, but it will be meaningless if you don’t hearken to my words,” you said.

“Why is that?” he said.

“Enough with your riddles and your questions!” you snapped. “Are you incapable of taking anything seriously? You will die!”

“Answer this one and I’ll oblige your inane demands,” he said.

“Being with you is the only time I do not fear or mourn,” you said, your nails carving crescents into your palms as your gaze switched rapidly between him and the door. “My mother…my family…the plague and the vipers and the floods…I can forget about them all when I speak to you. If you are gone, then I will have no one. So please, please run. I cannot bear the thought of your blood being shed as well.”

Kaiser looked at you, and then, inexplicably, he laughed. It was a sound so lovely that it grated on your nerves, like a bell ringing too close to your ears. “Your uncle is not a man who could ever shed my blood, and he’d have to have an inordinately high opinion of himself to think he could.”

“You said you would oblige me,” you said, having half-expected such an arrogant response from him but finding that you were vexed by it anyways. “It doesn’t matter what you think of him. You must go, and only return once he has left this place.”

The door slammed open. You spun, drawing your cloak tighter around your shoulders and standing as straight as you could, dismay spiking in your stomach when your uncle walked in. The two of you had spent too long discussing, your explanation had been too lengthy, you had remained frightened of the snake for more time than you should’ve — at the end of the day, the reason didn’t matter as much as the result, which was that your uncle was here and Kaiser was still standing behind you.

“Y/N,” your uncle said, coming down the aisle, his stride light and elegant, the picture of a gentleman. You took a step back, reaching your hand out behind you to prevent Kaiser from saying something callous and damning, as he was wont to do.

“It’s not what you think,” you said. “Uncle, it’s not — please don’t —”

Yet when your uncle reached the altar, he did not draw his sword, nor did he command Kaiser to kneel before him. He only gave you a puzzled look, directing his attention to the candles burning behind your back.

“You played with your life just to come and light the candles a little earlier?” he said.

“What?” you said.

“I know it must’ve been upsetting to see, but rules need to be upheld, or else they cease to be rules and turn into mere suggestions,” your uncle said, patting you on the head.

“Aren’t you angry?” you said in trepidation.

“With you? No, of course not,” he said. “It was the same way for me, the first time I witnessed my father performing an execution. You’ll grow out of it.”

“Er, okay,” you said, too bewildered now to even comprehend his words. What was Kaiser’s magic, that he had escaped your uncle’s stern reproach and careless sword, which had felled countless men?

“Will you stay with me while I pray?” your uncle said. It was the only time he ever changed his mind about religion — after every life he took, he pleaded for forgiveness, as if that could be enough to exonerate him. You weren’t sure if it would be or not, but it didn’t really matter what you thought — it was the only way he had, you were quite sure, to go on. To continue living despite everything he had done.

“No,” you said. “Come — ah, what?”

You had turned to beckon Kaiser, but when you did, you realized that he was gone, vanished without a trace, though you had not heard or seen him leave. Your uncle gave you another strange look before returning to one of the benches and bowing his head, leaving you to wonder if Kaiser had ever even been there in the first place.

The stablehands were confused when you brought your drained mare back to them and demanded they ready another horse for you, and it was only worsened when you commanded them to also bring you one of the rabbits that were raised for their meat. Yet they could not argue with the princess, so they did as you said, bringing you the smallest of your father’s mounts and placing a young rabbit in your arms once you were in the saddle.

You could not tell whether you or the rabbit quivered more — the rabbit from confusion and fear, you from fatigue and the temperature, which had dropped rapidly since you and your uncle had set out in the mid-morning.

Taking a longer route so that you avoided the fields where you had seen the serpent, you trotted towards the riverbank, cradling the rabbit to your heart in the hopes that its warmth would transfer to you. Halting by where the boy’s body still lay, undisturbed and almost peaceful, you set the rabbit atop a tree branch so that it could not escape, and then you jumped off of your horse and crouched so that you could lift the boy onto your saddle. Draping him over it with every bit of strength you could summon, you took the rabbit back in one arm and used the other to lead the horse after you as you trudged towards the direction of the village, mud soaking into your boots and flecking the hems of your clothing.

You crossed the hill at a snail’s pace until you reached a small stone house with purple hyacinths littering the courtyard and a brown goat grazing on the scrubby grass, and then you knocked on the door and stood there until a man opened it. He was tall, his face lined and burnt from the sun, trenches like crow-feet digging into the corner of his eyes, his clothes patched and mended by inexperienced hands many times over. He squinted at you, like he was trying to recognize you, but eventually he gave up and cocked his head at you instead.

“On what business have you come knocking, miss?” he said.

“Your son,” you said. He rolled his eyes affectionately.

“Ah, that rascal. I hope he was not bothering you?” he said. You tried to swallow back the lump in your throat and found that it was impossible, so you stroked the ears of the rabbit and squeezed out a response anyways.

“He’s dead,” you said. “No. He was killed.”

“Pardon?” the man said. “Killed? On what — on what account?”

“On a whim,” you said, a tear splashing onto the rabbit’s back, turning the gray of its fur into a color like tar. “If there were a better explanation, I’d give it to you, sir, but the truth is there isn’t one.”

The man stared at you in disbelief, and you tightened your grip on the horse’s reins, waiting for him to say something. Yet he was silent, staring and staring as if by doing so he could turn your words to lies.

“I brought him back for you,” you whispered, the words digging into your windpipe as they went. “I brought him back.”

The man made a small nose which seemed to come from deep within him, guttural and low and keening, and then he fell to the floor.

“Please say it isn’t so,” he wept, pressing his forehead to your feet. “Lady, lady, say this is some cruel prank and go. His mother is sick already; you cannot say I will lose them both in such short succession. Say you are lying to me.”

“I can’t,” you said, your lower lip wobbling and your vision blurring. “Sir, I cannot do that.”

He wrapped his arms around your ankles and bawled like a child, folded over your boots as he cried and cried. You were motionless, wishing that there was something you could do but knowing that it would all be meaningless — just like Kaiser could not bring your mother back, so, too, were you incapable of resurrecting this man’s son, who had been put down at the hands of your own uncle.

“Thank you,” he said after some time had passed, standing and wiping his face, taking your horse’s reins from you. “I will see to it that he is taken care of. Might I have your name? So that I can repay you?”

“No repayment is necessary,” you said. “Please refrain; I’ve done nothing worthy of repayment. I only ask that you tell me if you have a daughter.”

“Yes,” the man sniffed. “Yes, she’s inside, sitting with her mother. Do you require her?”

“Only to give her a gift,” you said. “And then I shall take your leave.”

The man nodded at you, and you swept inside, brushing past him before he could exit the house and relive his grief anew upon seeing his son’s body in the flesh. You had been there the first time; the second time, you thought, should be something private, belonging to him and him alone.

Sitting by a fire and covered in straw was the wretched woman that could only be the boy’s mother. She appeared worse than your own mother ever had, even in the hours before her death, and her chest rattled with every breath. Squatted by her side was a girl, likely half your age and hardly even a third of your weight, her hair lank and heavy around her shoulders, her cheeks flushed a pink that promised the plague had not clawed into her body yet.

“Hello,” you said. The mother did not move, but the girl looked up at you in a manner reminiscent of a puppy or a foal, a certain naïveté to her features, which resembled her brother’s so much that for a moment you were breathless.

“Hello,” she said. Her voice was a brittle murmur, and her lips barely moved when she spoke, but her eyes shimmered with a slight curiosity, widening when you knelt before her. “Who are you?”

“Your brother sent this for you,” you said, avoiding her question and handing the rabbit to her. She inhaled in delight, taking it from you swiftly and burying her nose in the fur around its neck before beaming at you.

“Really, he did? He always called me foolish when I told him I wanted a rabbit! Said that rabbits are wild creatures and only fairies can catch them,” she said, kissing the rabbit atop its ears. “Are you a fairy, miss? You have to be, right?”

“Certainly, I am not,” you said, kneeling on the stone of the floor and placing your hand against her cheek, which burned with the heat of the fire she was tending. “Dear girl, please remember that it was not a fairy who brought this rabbit to you — it was your brother, who loves you more than anything.”

She still did not know about any of it. She did not know that her brother was dead and her mother was all but. She only saw the object of her desires encircled in her arms, so she was, at least for now, happy, and you could not bear to steal that happiness from her, not when you knew that you how fleeting it was.

“Okay,” she said gravely. “I’ll remember it well. Mama, look! It’s a rabbit. You like rabbits, Mama, so please wake up and look at it.”

“Your mother is resting,” you said when she bent to shake her mother awake. “You should not bother her.”

“She’s always resting,” the girl said. “And if she speaks, it’s only to say that she’s cold.”

“Is that what the straw is for?” you said. Even if she wasn’t sick, you’d have agreed with the woman; you, too, found it to be growing colder out than it ever had in the past, but she had been cursed with the plague, and so it must have been tenfold worse for her than it ever could be for you.

“Yes, it’s the best we have,” she said. “My brother, father, and I share the blanket because we don’t sleep near the fire, and so we only have straw left to warm her. I think I’m going to start working soon as well, and hopefully then I’ll be able to buy the best blanket in the world for her.”

There would be nowhere that would hire her in time for her to give her mother a blanket, except as a burial shroud, so you undid the clasp of your cloak and draped it over the woman’s body. She did not acknowledge you, but you saw her shoulders fall into an exhale, and you knew it was her form of thanks. The girl gazed at you in wonder, her eyes settling on the gooseflesh which pimpled your upper arms without the protection of the cloak, and then she returned her attention to her mother, whose expression was a degree less distraught with the added shield you had provided.

“Not now, and not for some years to come, but when you are old enough, come to the L/N manor,” you said. “You will find work there.”

Outside of the house, her father was digging, and on the ground beside him was a heap of canvas that no doubt disguised her brother. The girl followed you towards your horse, lips pursuing as you used a nearby tree stump to remount.

“How? It’s impossible to be employed there. All my family’s tried, but they’re ever-full,” she said.

“They will admit you, as long as you bring that cloak with you,” you said. “And if you tell them that Princess Y/N sent you.”

Her lips parted in awe, and the rabbit’s nose twitched as you smiled at her, as kindly as you could. In a few hours, she might despise you — after all, you had been the one to bring her brother back, and even if she never learnt of the role you had played in his death, she might resent you for that fact alone — but for now, you were someone she admired, the princess who had come from the manor and left her with a cloak and a rabbit and a promise.

Without your cloak, it was brutally cold, and you soon grew more preoccupied with trying to warm yourself in some way than with guiding the horse home. And although it was tamer than the rest, your current mount still belonged to your father in the end — it was not of the same reliable temperament as your own mare, who would’ve doggedly brought you back to the stables. As you slumped further and further into the saddle, your vision swimming, the horse only halted in the middle of the field you had somehow ended up in, unsure of what to do without a rider’s direction.

“You are a surprising person, Y/N L/N,” a soft voice said, and then someone was prying the reins out of your hands and taking them over your horse’s head. You would’ve been frightened, but though your eyesight was blurred, you knew who it was as soon as he spoke. “Foolish and surprising in turn.”

“Kaiser,” you said. “How are you here? Where did you go earlier? I thought my uncle might find you, but you weren’t there…”

“Don’t concern yourself with such trivial matters. They are beyond your understanding,” he said, clicking his tongue to encourage the horse forward. “I came here for you because earlier, you came for me, no matter how unnecessary it may have been. That’s all that matters.”

“Aren’t you cold?” you said, leaning forwards, collapsing against the horse’s crest, too tired to hold yourself up properly. “I’m cold.”

“I know,” he said. “You’ve been cold for a while, haven’t you?”

“I suppose so,” you said. For a moment, there was silence, and when he finally spoke again, his tone was tinged with melancholy.

“I wish that you were more like your father,” he said.

“Hm,” you said drowsily. “Why?”

“I want to condemn you,” he said. “Curse you. Rebuke you. Damn you.”

“And you cannot?” you said.

“I can,” he said. “All too easily.”

“Then?” you said.

“Then nothing,” he said. “It’s only that it makes me feel strange when it shouldn’t.”

“Strange,” you said. “What a vague word.”

“I cannot explain it further,” he said. “So don’t ask me to.”

“I see,” you said, though really you didn’t — you only did not want to upset him when he was the only savior you had. “Wait, Kaiser, you must know — there is a viper, one of the ones from the flood, it’s in the fields and it might yet strike. I am not sure if it is the only one of its kind, as well.”

“No vipers will dare cross my path,” he said, a laugh trickling into the cadence of his speech. “Not while I have this sword at my side.”

“Even now, you have it?” you said, your eyes closed against the light.

“Yes,” he said. “I cannot sheathe it yet.”

“What does that mean?” you said.

“It is meaningless,” he said. “You ought to be silent, lest you waste what meager amounts of energy your body has managed to retain thus far.”

You weren’t sure how much longer the two of you walked for, but suddenly you were by the stables and there was a clamor and you were falling off the horse’s shoulder, into the arms of one of the stablehands. He was speaking in a panicked rush, commanding someone to fetch your uncle and another to send word to your father before asking you something, his voice harsh and breathy, nothing at all like Kaiser’s needle-precise words. You would’ve answered, but the slight rocking motions of his gait were enough to lull you into a sleep before you could even understand what his question was in the first place.

The stablehand must’ve carried you to your room, for when you awoke, you were in your bed and the sun had set. Your father sat at your desk, a lamp lighting the letters he was writing. Wrinkling your nose and then wiggling your fingers and toes to regain some feeling in them, you yawned, sitting up with a rustle of the sheets.

“Father,” you said, your mouth cottony from sleep. “You’ve returned?”

“Y/N?” your father said, dropping his quill and jumping to his feet, racing over to your side and catching your hand in between his own, holding it to his forehead. “Oh, Y/N, you must swear never to do something so idiotic again. I was so frightened — I thought — I thought you might never wake again.”

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Why would you go riding without dressing for the weather?” he said. “And without at least asking for someone to accompany you?”

“I’m sorry, father. I wasn’t thinking,” you said again, because you knew without a shadow of a doubt that you could not tell him the truth behind your escapade, or he might find some way to penalize the family who had not been at fault and had already lost so much.

“You’re lucky that that horse was so intelligent,” he said.

“What do you mean?” you said.

“It managed to find its way back to the stables even with you all but unconscious on its back,” he said.

“No, someone led me home,” you said. “A servant.”

Your father furrowed his brow. “Ah, what do you mean? There was no one.”

“There was, I’m sure of it!” you said.

“Nobody saw anyone leading you back, daughter,” he said. “You must’ve been having visions from delirium. It’s not uncommon for those who have been so compromised.”

“Visions,” you said. “I suppose there is that explanation.”

“Setting that aside, how do you feel now?” he said.

“Much improved,” you said.

“A night’s rest will do you well,” he said. “We can speak again in the morning, yes?”

“Yes, that sounds appealing,” you said. “Goodnight, father.”

Oftentimes he, like the rest of his siblings, had a somber and unyielding expression upon his angular face, but never when he looked at you — because when he laid eyes upon you, he was no longer the prince of the kingdom. He was only your father, the man who had half-created you and loved you more than he had ever loved anything or anyone, excepting, of course, your mother.

Maybe it was because you had slept half of the day away, but the next morning, you were awake even before the sun. You lay in your bed for a moment, willing sleep to take you once more, but when it became evident that it had fled from your grasp for good, you pushed your blankets to the side and stood on shaky legs, finding comfort in the consistency of readying yourself for the day.

You had none of your usual composure when you entered the chapel. The moment you saw Kaiser standing with his hands laced together and his face tilted towards the sun, your heart skipped an irrational beat, and then you picked your way towards where he stood, careful not to slip on the precious stones of the floor, which today seemed to be more treacherous than usual.

When you reached his side, you were not sure of what to say, so you opted for the truth, however blunt. “I dreamt of you yesterday.”

“I’m flattered,” he said, in that same amused way he said everything, his every word a private joke you could never be in on.

“You saved me,” you continued. “If it hadn’t been for you, I would’ve died.”

“You wouldn’t have died regardless,” he said dismissively. At first, you raised your eyebrows, because how was it that he always said such things with such conviction that you could not help but believe in them? Who was he to inspire such faith in you? Then, before you could lose your nerve, you embraced him, your arms around his neck and fingers dangling in the space between his shoulder blades, his thrumming heartbeat reverberating through your bones like a hymn.

Many seconds passed wherein he was motionless, a being made from stone, before, slowly, hesitantly, he pulled you even closer to him, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other arm wrapping around your waist so that you did not crumble. He was hot like a hearth, his skin blazing with the kind of warmth you had not felt in so long that tears sprang to your eyes.

“You saved me,” you insisted, weeping in earnest, wishing that there was some way you could stay by his side forever and then wondering where such a desire could even have sprung from. “Even if you were only a vision conjured by my mind, I know that I would never have made it home were it anyone else I saw. Had it been anyone but you, I would’ve been lost until the end.”

“Enough wailing,” he said, but it was devoid of the typical thorniness. “Y/N L/N. Stop it.”

“I cannot,” you said.

“Pathetic girl,” he said; however, for the first time, you detected a hint of wavering in his voice. “Pathetic, idiotic girl. If only there were a way I could un-know you. If only it were possible for me to forget you entirely.”

“Don’t,” you said. “Please don’t.”

“I won’t,” he said. “If I were capable of it, I would’ve done so long ago, but as I haven’t, it can only mean that I never will.”

Somehow, you returned to the manor before anyone could raise an alarm at your second disappearance. Joining your father and uncle at the table for breakfast, avoiding your uncle’s greeting and sitting next to your father, you realized that it was not a miracle that you had escaped notice; rather, it was that everyone was supremely concerned with the letter your father was scanning, storms swirling in his eyes as he read it over.

“They’re summoning us,” he said, a second later. “Oh, Y/N, you’re here. Good.”

“Who is?” you said.

“My brother the king,” he said. “There’s been a prophecy. Very soon — in two weeks or even less — the queen will be dead.”

All of you set off at once, your father and uncle riding ahead, leaving you to cocoon yourself in a nest of furs atop the cushioned bench of the carriage. The guard from before, the handsome one with the hair like fox-hide, was requisitioned to accompany you, and so he sat across from you instead of riding in the company of your father and his retainers. You were the one who had asked for him specifically; he was kind and familiar to you, so in such a terrifying moment, you preferred his stalwart nature to any other’s.

“Tell me again,” you said, your voice muffled by the squirrel pelt wrapped around your neck and chin. “What did that prophet see?”

The guard did not know any more than you did, but in the monotony of the carriage ride, there were few other things you could occupy yourself with besides the obsessive question-and-answer game that you played with him. He was happy to follow along, or, if he was not happy, then at least he did as you asked without much complaint.

“Three things,” the guard said, holding up his right hand, the white calluses standing out against the pink of his palms. “Firstly, an eagle fell from its nest and broke its wings.”

“A clear omen against the L/Ns,” you said. “Eagles represent royalty, so for one to fall and lose its ability to fly in such a way…”

“Yes,” the guard agreed. “Secondly, upon reading the entrails of a sow, it was determined that the eagle was referencing a woman in particular.”

“And if it is a woman, then it could only be the queen,” you said.

“Correct, your highness,” he said. He could not see it, but you smiled at him — just barely, for you had not had enough to drink during your journey, so your lips were cracking from dehydration, and you did not rest well anymore, so you were constantly weary. “And finally, they consulted the mirrors, whereupon they saw death from disease tarnishing the pureness of the silver.”

“So they combined the symbols and divined that she would perish from the illness which has plagued her, as it once did my mother,” you said. “I wonder if it is worse or better to be aware that your death is approaching.”

“I suppose she must have known already, don’t you think?” he said. “In the moments before her death, your mother saw the angel Michael. I am sure the queen has had such a visitor as well.”

“Perhaps,” you said. “Though then again, I doubt that he would make appearances so frequently.”

“If he came to escort your mother, then would he not come for the queen? Forgive me for being candid, but it’s true that the queen’s station is far loftier than mother’s was,” he said.

“It’s alright. You’re not wrong, but even then,” you said, and then you sighed, sinking deeper into the plushness of your blankets. “Well, I don’t know. The affairs of angels are beyond you and I.”

“That’s true,” he said. You screwed your eyes shut, colorful spots painting the blackness behind your eyelids, the world spinning peculiarly, in a manner which was unrelated to the swaying of the carriage wheels.

“I think I will sleep now, sir,” you said. “If you do not mind very much.”

“I am only here to do as you command, your highness,” he said. “If you wish to sleep, then by all means, please sleep. I will wake you if anything happens.”

The journey to the castle was longer for you than it was for the riders, who could take narrower paths and cut across fallen trees and flooded bridges that the carriage needed to circumvent. By the time you reached, there was already a procession underway, and as the guard helped you towards the church, holding onto your hand and shoulders so that you could walk, you had to be wary of the spectators to the parade, who were shoving one another so that they could have the best possible view.

“They’re praying. For the queen’s health, and for the end of the plague,” you said, coughing hard enough that your chest ached from it, covering your mouth with your hand in shame, for you had been coughing more and more frequently as of late.

When you removed your hand, you noticed that there was something wet and wine-colored speckling it, and right when you were about to reach an understanding you should’ve come to long ago, a man’s shoulder rammed into your side, knocking you off-balance. Only your guard’s quick reflexes were enough to catch you, and he picked you up before such an accident could be repeated, taking care to push the man away rougher than he really needed to when he passed.

“Are you alright?” he said.

“Yes,” you said, half in a daze, the image of your stained hand imprinted in your mind. “Can you hear what they are saying, sir? Are they begging for forgiveness?”

“They are,” he said. “They’re repenting in the hopes that there will be mercy.”

“It’s late for that,” you said. “For me, anyways. But maybe the rest of you can still be saved.”

“What do you mean by that?” he said. Without you to slow the guard down, the two of you covered ground at twice the earlier speed, and you reached the steps of the church before the throngs of worshippers could. You saw them coming, the gathered masses of people, with the king and your father and the queen at the forefront of it all, and then you coughed again, because until you had seen that blood you hadn’t comprehended it, but now you did. “Why don’t you include yourself amongst our ranks, princess?”

“What is your name, sir?” you said.

“Kunigami, your royal highness,” he said. “Are you quite alright?”

“Kunigami,” you said, clenching the fabric of his tunic in your fists. “Kunigami, it’s not cold out today, is it?”

“No,” he said. “No, princess, it’s not. It’s mild and lovely.”

“It hasn’t been,” you said, and then you were crying, because you were afraid. You were more afraid then you ever had been, and you only had this bewildered boy to comfort you — and what slim comfort he provided! He, who was meant to be your staunchest defender but could never defend you from this. “It hasn’t been cold in many months, has it?”

“No,” he said. “Actually, it’s been rather warm. This year marks the warmest summer we’ve had since the time of the last king, or so I’m told.”

“The warmest summer?” you said. “I see now. I see. Oh, oh, Kunigami, you must go and fetch my father at once.”

“You are confounding me, your highness,” he said. “What is the matter?”

“Please bring my father,” you said. “Please, I don’t — I don’t want to be alone when it happens.”

Your poor father — some higher power had decided he deserved this. Your father, who was cruel, who killed and conquered, who was the horrible prince of the kingdom. Your father, who had already lost your mother. Your father, who would soon lose you.

“I don’t understand even now what you mean,” Kunigami said, setting you on the steps and straightening his shirt. “But I will do as you say. Wait here.”

He charged down the stairs, cutting through the crowds effortlessly with his imposing presence. You watched him go before turning back to the church, marveling at the building, the white pillars and the silvery dome which shone in the sky like a daytime moon. Statues of angels and muses lined the roof, and across the facade, there were words engraved. You could hardly read them, but you knew by heart what was written: On this mountain, I shall build my home, and thereupon I will give you the keys with which to reach me.

You didn’t know when your legs buckled, but they must’ve, for suddenly you were lying prone on the stairs, the stone freezing against your face, and although it was hardly the place for it, you found your tucking your fists under your forehead, exhaling and thinking of how sublime it would be to drift off now, drift off and not wake up for many hours or days…

“Y/N L/N.” The voice was the same, but there was something else behind it. Never had he spoken with such strength and such sadness in combination; his typical apathy had been chased away entirely, replaced with a fond if not distant pity. “I told you that you would not be alone. Did I not?”

Hands like embers held your face carefully, thumbs brushing against your cheeks as he tugged your jaw up so that you could look at him. You hardly had the strength to lift your head — how had you not known that it was coming? How had you ignored the symptoms of your own condition? Was it that you did not want to know it and so you refused to recognize the simple fact which had been looming over you for months now? But ignoring it did not make it go away. Ignoring it did not make it false. Ignoring it did not change the truth of the matter: that you were dying, that you had been dying for a long time now.

“Kaiser,” you said. He appeared different, though you could not place it; there was something hazy and golden about him, but regardless you were assured that it was him and no other.

“Some know me by that name,” he said. “Most do not.”

“What do you mean?” you said.

“Michael!” It was your father who was screaming the name, and when you shifted, you realized he was doing his best to run towards you, though your uncles held him back, shock reflecting in their faces as your father bawled. “Michael, divine lord, don’t take her, too. Anybody else, be it the queen, my brothers — even me! Kill me, kill the entire kingdom if you must, but leave Y/N. Spare her, and I will repent! I will change my ways, and I will force the others to change as well. Spare her and I will do whatever you ask — but please, please spare her.”

“You should’ve come to this conclusion longer ago,” Kaiser said, and though he spoke at a regular volume, his voice rang through the square like he had shouted. “The time for begging is long gone. The plague will continue until all of you are dead. By my sword, I swear—”

“Michael,” you said. He was silent immediately, and you fought to keep your eyes open. Noticing your lowering your eyelashes against the sun, he reflexively spread his wings to cover you in shade, allowing you to admire him in full for the first time. “Has it been you all along?”

“Yes,” he said, a soft breeze running through his feathers and ruffling his hair. “Yes, it has been.”

“My mother was right,” you said. “You really are as beautiful as the paintings. Though, you were right as well. There is nothing resembling serenity in your expression.”

To your surprise, he chuckled, though there was a distinct tinge of sorrow behind it, so that it was as similar to a sob as it was to a laugh. Something moist splashed onto your face, and at first you thought he, too, was crying, but then you realized it came from his sword, which he brandished even now. Blood, that was what it was, the source of those sanguine stains which were now animated and lively, weeping down the length of the blade and dripping onto the white marble beneath his feet.

“Of course there is not,” he said. “When there is so much injustice in this world, how can I ever be serene?”

“You brought this plague upon us,” you said. “And the snakes, and the flood.”

“I did,” he said. “It was divine will. In the face of it, even I am powerless.”

“By your sword,” you said. “Is that why you hold it before you always?”

“How intelligent you are,” he said. “Oh, if only it were not you.”

“But you can stop it,” you said. “If you deem us worthy of being saved, you can prevent anyone else from dying.”

“Not you,” he said. “It’s too late. Even if I do that, I cannot save you. Not this time.”

“That’s alright,” you said. “You needn’t save me again. Once was enough. I’ve not done anything to be deserving of a second time.”

“No,” he said firmly. “You are the only one who I want to save. If you are lost, then there is nobody worthy of surviving. What have any of the rest ever proved to me? What goodness have they ever shown? What virtue or introspection? They are all brutes, and so they have earned it.”

“I cannot say whether that is true or not,” you said. “I don’t know about anyone else. But if even one other person like me exists and your inaction kills them, too, then will you ever be forgiven?”

“I am an angel,” he said. “I seek no forgiveness. I have not done anything to necessitate it.”

“I will not forgive you,” you said.

“What does it mean?” he said. “What will any of it mean once you are gone?”

Your father had fallen to ground, repeating every prayer he had ever been taught, and even your uncle the king, who was typically stolid in the face of adversity, who had not placed a foot wrong the entire time he had thought his wife was the one prophesied to die, had tears shimmering in his eyes.

“Forgive them,” you said, and then, to your surprise, Michael, or Kaiser, or whichever name you called him, for it was irrelevant when they were all in reference to this singularly grand being — was dropping to his knees and tenderly taking your head so that it could rest on his lap. “As I will forgive you, forgive them. Please.”

Nobody even breathed. Every single body in the kingdom was stationary; the rabbits, the dormice, the people and the snakes, all of them waited to see what he would do. For a moment, it was nothing, and after that he merely hunched over and pressed his lips to your temple, his wings arcing to cover your body from any who might dare to glance at it.

“Very well, then,” he said. “I cannot save you, Y/N L/N, so this time, without riddles nor fuss, I will oblige you.”

A small smile graced his face, albeit an anguished one more characteristic of men than of angels, and as one blazing hand grew hotter and hotter against your rapidly-cooling cheek, he raised his sword in the air; then, for the first time since the plague had begun, he sheathed it.

#kaiser x reader #kaiser x y/n #kaiser x you #michael kaiser #bllk x reader #bllk #blue lock #reader insert #fantasy au #m1ckeyb3rry milestone #m1ckeyb3rry writes

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scattered-irises · 1 year ago

Note

How about Kaito gets bombarded with star wars facts by chris as a prompt?

Hi I have never watched Star Wars my entire life so have some Kosmo stuff instead sorry

"And so, it turns out that Dorothel's aunt had been Dark Elphaiber the entire time!" said Christopher. "Isn't that the very pinnacle of storytelling?"

Kaito stifled a yawn, his face nearly collapsing into the bowl of popcorn.

"Mm," he grunted.

Christopher's face fell.

For a moment, he was taken back to when he was just a nerdy, sweaty teen who had too many Dorothel posters in his room. The rejection unexpectedly hurt. He didn't want to admit it, but his stomach twisted itself into a knot. At a birthday party, the cool kids had laughed at him while he told them about the latest Kozmo episode.

His lips trembled. He forced himself to make a brave face.

"How could you be bored by this?!" he asked.

"I'm more into things like Star Trek. More science than fiction. Kozmo's just...a bit too out there. I don't like magic," mumbled Kaito.

Christopher's mouth opened in shock.

"It's not magic! It's the Energy Arts!" he protested.

Kaito's eyes slowly slid over him.

"Yeah, that's a magic system."

Christopher gritted his teeth.

"You literally saw the face of God, who is a dragon. You also witnessed me using my Barian powers. You were also just brought back to life. How could you not like magic?" asked Christopher incredulously.

Kaito shrugged.

"It feels like an easy solution to the hard things in life," he said.

Christopher balled his hands into fists. Kaito was wrong. Kaito was so, so wrong! He had spent hours debating with haters on message boards in his youth. Looking at Kaito's indifferent expression as he watched Dorothel sob over her prophesized destiny brought a wave of anger up Christopher's chest. There were so many things he could say, mixed in with sharp Internet-borne insults.

"I think you're an unseeing idiot," he spat, all the pent up rage he had as a teenager rising up again.

Kaito gave Christopher a mildly disappointed look.

"All this? Over a show?"

How could Christopher tell Kaito that this was more than a show? It was his childhood and adolescence, all wrapped into one. Not a day passed by without him thinking of it. His collection of Kozmo figurines were worth a fortune. His cosplays were carefully kept in his closet. Hell, he even spent last year streaming his Kozmo game playthroughs WHILE IN COSPLAY. He could strangle Kaito for this.

"It's not 'just' a show!" began Christopher, his anger building. "It's a part of my soul, just as much as the Numbers were!"

Kaito's incredulous expression grew. He used to think Christopher was cool. Like, really cool. Like rides-a-horse-in-a-stormy-hurricane-shirtless kind of cool. Not a sweaty-palmed, spit-spraying nerd who had a hard-on for fictional women.

"You don't understand, do you?!" continued Christopher. "The magic of the moving picture!"

Frankly, Kaito never watched TV growing up. It was either because he was too busy building things or taking care of Haruto. He gave Christopher a blank expression. Christopher got upset over the most random things.

"We can go and watch Barbie, if that makes you happy," Kaito awkwardly offered.

Christopher's frown seemed to sink down to his shoulders. His eyes seemed to bulge out of their sockets.

"Did I hear Barbie?!" yelled Thomas as he ran down the stairs. "It's not as good as the Bratz Movie but I'll watch!"

Christopher glared at Kaito, steam almost coming out of his nostrils.

"Have fun," he snarled as he stormed off.

Tonight, he will talk to his Dorothel bodypillow and posters. Surely, she would understand him.

Thomas plopped himself next to Kaito and grabbed a handful of popcorn. He looked after his brother and snorted.

"You made fun of his hobby?" he asked.

"I just said I didn't like magic," mumbled Kaito.

"Yeah, he's spent too much time on message boards. To him, you basically just trashed his entire livelihood," snorted Thomas as he flicked through the films.

"He needs to go outside more," grumbled Kaito as he took a handful of popcorn.

Thomas snorted.

"He's kinda like your Ken," he noted.

"Just more grumpy," added Kaito as the introductory logos began.

"He's gonna cry into his Dorothel pillow. Just you wait."

Kaito briefly raised his eyebrows. Then he went back to watching the movie. If he strained his ears hard enough, he could hear sniffling.

#kaito tenjo #christopher arclight #zexal #chris arclight #writing from iris #yugioh zexal #ask iris #its okay chris someone out there understands

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honorhearted · 1 year ago

Text

Lantsov's words only served to infuriate. Each chilling dismissal heaped upon the pyre of Benjamin's rage, the crackling flames of his ire building and growing until a raging inferno overtook him from heart to soul.

Lantsov raised his weapon, but Benjamin already fired his shot. The startling bang! thundered within the tight space, causing the horses to nicker and dance about in nervous displeasure. While the smoke cleared, the older man slid down against the stockade wall and into the hay, the proof of his injury leaving behind a gory streak of red.

Trembling with adrenaline, Benjamin kept his finger poised over the trigger, the taste of bile entering his throat as he dared to creep closer.

"Wretched rebel," Lantsov hissed. "You'll hang for this..."

Finally, a cold clarity overtook Benjamin and he started reloading his weapon, his hands no longer shaking while he maintained his unyielding stare. "If it means having ridded the world of you, then my death will be worth it," he hissed.

With his flintlock prepared, it suddenly occurred to him that an end by musket ball would be too merciful -- no, Lantsov needed to suffer for what he did to Genya, just as she had suffered at his merciless hands.

Unbidden, an unrelenting fury licked up and down his spine, and with a low snarl, Benjamin ripped the musket from Lantsov's hands, whipped it around, and then smashed the butt of the weapon into the man's nose. Blood gushed from the wound in thick spurts of crimson, and filled with unspeakable ire, he tossed the gun aside before pounding his fist into any vulnerability he could find.

Barely able to see through his tears, Benjamin finally shoved Lantsov to the ground and stomped his boot into the wound in the man's chest, several soft, hitching breaths catching wetly in Benjamin's throat as he wept. This man had hurt her -- he didn't know how he knew, but Lantsov hurt her -- and withdrawing his flintlock, he pointed it down at the gurgling man before firing his shot straight into Lantsov's misshapen face.

This time, a horse whinnied in terror, but Benjamin felt nothing but relief, a certain lightness as he unsteadily lowered his weapon. With his heart in his throat, he pocketed the flintlock and moved out in search of Genya.

The butler that greeted him didn't seem particularly inconvenienced, nor even shocked to see a strange man inquiring about one of the servants. If he noticed the blood staining Benjamin's knuckles, he failed to remark on it.

"Please," Benjamin said, trying to conceal his desperation. "I'm Miss Saunders' cousin. My father has recently passed, and he's left a fair sum to her in his will."

That lie finally seemed to do the trick, and after the butler took him upstairs to a secluded room, he unlocked the door and gestured him forward.

"Thank you," Benjamin said. "Might we be alone?"

The butler seemed a bit put out, but turned and made his way back down the stairs. Once Benjamin was certain they truly were alone, he entered the room and held his breath. Genya was standing in front of the bedroom window, but facing away from him -- in fact, she seemed determined to not turn around, given her hunched shoulders and defeated posture.

"Gen?" he entreated. "Genny, it's me...it's Ben." Despite the blood on his hands -- literally and figuratively -- Benjamin found himself smiling as he shut the door behind him. "Quickly," he encouraged, "gather up your things. We don't have long...I'll explain to you along the way."

"Where is she? What have you done? Where is she?"

"She's where she belongs," Lantsov spat, his index finger hovering over the musket trigger, "Out of your damned reach!"

"You're no man, sir -- you are a dirty rat."

"Ha! That's the pot calling the kettle black, boy."

"If you truly believed in mercy and goodness, you would let Genya choose the life she wishes," the soldier persisted, only serving to irk Pyotr, "This is not what she wants. And unless you relinquish your hold, I'm afraid I'll have to draw blood."

"You mistake my action for something it is not," he corrected, taking a step forward, "I don't care what it is she wants. I care about what I want, and what I want is for you to turn around and leave the way you came and never attempt to contact my servant again. That, or your life can end here and now -- senselessly."

Regardless of Pyotr's threatening tone, the man was persistent, the tight smile a little unsettling, "Forgive me: I never like to lie. I'm not 'afraid' at all -- in fact, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to spill your unworthy blood."

Brow twitching with resentment, the old Tory bared his yellowed teeth and raised his weapon, but before he could so much as inch toward the trigger, a shot had been fired straight into his chest, sending him falling backward into the stockade. The horses whinnied and nickered in displeasure as Pyotr slid down into the bloodied hay, clutching his wound with wild eyes.

"Wretched rebel," he sputtered, "You'll hang for this..."

#pagetreader #hearts and minds #ben x genya #violence tw #character death tw

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silvercaptain24 · 2 years ago

Text

Safe

HI THIS IS ENTIRELY KEE'S FAULT BLAME HER BUT AHKFEJFKJHFKAJFH-

YES I WILL BE CONTINUING THIS YES THIS IS THE AU I'VE BEEN TALKING ABOUT ALL DAY

@goosekee @pokegeek151 @here4dragons @catreginae

He could hear the crowd’s roaring swell as he stepped out of the shadows and next to the guard. He shoved down the emotion as he saw the kid in custody. A literal kid. He couldn’t have been any older than fifteen.

Artemis began some sort of speech. He couldn’t hear it. Not over the pounding in his ears as he looked at the kid.

“Begin,” Artemis ordered lazily. His heart stopped.

No.

“NO!” He shouted, and surged forward, catching the whip. It stung his hand, wrapping around and around his gauntlets.

But it didn’t hit the kid.

The crowd went deathly still. He could hear his own breathing against every other little sound. The rustle of clothes in the wind. Wood creaking. Artemis standing.

Oh.

She was furious. Her face was nearly wine red with fury.

“You dare betray your Queen?” She shouted.

“This is wrong and you know it, Zelda!” He shouted back, unsure where this new courage came from. The kid trembled behind him.

Artemis’s face went such a deep shade of red that Warriors hadn’t even known it was humanly possible.

“Fine then,” She forced out, trembling with rage, “If you want to act the traitor’s part, you can take the Traitor’s punishment. Guards! Strip him!”

“ Get back to your family, kid,” he whispered, knowing what was coming. The kid scrambled up and off into the crowd as the guards descended on him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hyrule slammed into Time’s arms, trembling.

“It’s alright, son, I’ve got you,” Time said, feelings of relief and foreboding filling him.

“T-Time. They-They were going to-”

“I know. I know.”

“A-and he- and now-”

“I know, son, I know.” Time forced out. He’d saved… the stranger had saved his son.

The crowd went quiet as the Queen stepped forward.

“Today you stand here to witness the punishment of this man for acts of treason against Hyrule!”

Hyrule began to sob, and buried himself further in Time’s chest.

“For the worst act of all!”

Sky held Wind close and put a hand over his eyes.

“Don’t look,” he whispered.

“Today, Captain Link has been caught in the aiding and abetting of a traitor to the throne!”

Time gasped as the Queen brought done the first lash herself. He wasn’t…

The boy was one of them.

He cried out at the severity of it, hunched over the whipping post. The crowd ignited, but not in protest. The guard took over, hitting hard and fast. Link’s cries could barely be heard over the roaring crowd.

The crowd grew louder as blood began to flow, the boy’s cries drowned out. Four hid his face in Twilight’s pelt. But Time’s focus was on the Queen.

The Queen who looked extremely, cruelly happy.

Time promised himself then and there that he would take her off of her throne himself.

“Time,” Twilight whispered shakily, “They’re long past twenty five.”

“What?” Time whispered back.

“Rule was supposed to get twenty-five lashes,” Twi flinched as the whip hit again, “That last one made forty-five.”

Time snapped his gaze to the boy in the square’s center.

“He’s not going to be able to take much more,” he said under his breath. He didn’t mean for Hyrule to hear him, but he did, and his sobbing began again.

Around the fifty-second lash, the crowd began to quiet with anticipation.

At fifty-three, Link’s cries became shrill and weak.

At fifty-four, they stopped.

At fifty-eight, he sagged, unconscious.

“Take him to the dungeons!” Artemis ordered.

Time looked at his boys.

“Get to the inn. We need to make a plan.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So Wind and Four will be outside with medical supplies and the horses. Sky will be with them. Legend, you’re job-” “Is to figure out where he is. We’ve been over the plan three times, Old Man,” Legend said, but his voice held no hint of malice.

“We know, Time. We’re worried too,” Sky said, rubbing Wind’s arms. He hadn’t said much since the whipping.

“I don’t know that any of us will make it to nightfall,” Twilight whispered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They had one cell left to check. Time was getting very, very worried. There wasn’t any guards, other than the ones at the front gate. And no captain.

“It’s empty!” Legend hissed.

“Where is he?” Wind asked, eyes widening.

“I don’t, I don’t-” Legend popped back into the wall, slipping into the cell. Time began to run through backup plans in his head. Had he been taken out of town? Had he bee-

“I found him!” Legend whisper-shouted suddenly, the cell door flying open.

“There’s a secret cell, I just found it, Time it’s bad-”

Time was already pushing past. Legend hit the catch, and the hidden door opened with the sound of grinding stone.

They were immediately faced with a troop of Sheikah.

“And here I thought no one would be coming,” Impa sneered, almost bored.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Time said evenly.

“And disappoint my Queen?” Impa asked, and stuck forward.

Minutes, maybe hours, were lost in the fight. Time was strange, measured in opponents rather than any standard measurement. After who knows how long, Sky suddenly shouted,

“Down!”

Time hit the deck, feeling a wave of blue energy wash over him. The remaining Sheikah were knocked to the edges of the room, unconscious.

Time finally got a chance to look over at their newest member. It… wasn’t good. Blood covered nearly all of his skin. Smoot locks that had been blonde that morning were now choppy and nearly pink with blood. A wound on his chest oozed some sort of green liquid.

“Rancher, help me get him down,” He ordered. Twilight nodded, looking worried.

“Is he alright?” Hyrule asked, voice shaking.

“He will be,” Time answered.

#warnings for a lot of blood #and injury #definitely violence #Artemis is not nice #at all #whatsoever #silver writes #lu warriors #lu time #lu hyrule #lu wind #lu sky #lu twilight #linked universe #sorry i couldn't come up with a good name #this will be continued at some point don't worry

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slightlymore · 4 years ago

Text

red

part of the ‘soulmates collection’

(slytherin) doyoung x (ravenclaw) fem reader

others: (gryffindor) haechan | renjun mentioned like once

warnings: oral f and m, penetration, unprotected, marking m receiving, body possessiveness in a magical way (? i made this up lol I hope its not that weird. like the plot point is a little cringy but I found it hilarious as I wrote it so I hope you don’t get mad at me when you discover what’s it about lol); a lot of bickering and insults; swearing

words: 9.5k (lol)

requested by anon that wanted academic fights turn into mad sex aha I got inspired by that to make a longer fic with more depth to it (if it's alright) hope you like it! this is one of my favourite pieces I’ve written so far!!!! 👀👅👀

_____

As the rays of the sun hit the announcement board, your eyes darted on the pages filled with small characters.

A little crowd of people started to chatter behind you, trying to see the ranking sheet as well, but no one dared to come close enough to push into you - the Ravenclaw Prefect.

“Renjun? Whose dick did you suck to get 6th?” a voice giggled before a loud smack transformed the airy laugh in a dramatic “ouch”. “Lee Haechan, I swear I’ll-” but you didn’t get to hear the rest as your vision got suddenly blurry with rage and your ears started to whistle when your shoulder got bumped forcing you to make a few ungraceful steps to the side.

“What’s that face for, YLN?”

You tightened your fists.

You could have recognized that annoying voice in a thousand others: Kim Doyoung, the Slytherin Prefect and the person you hated most in the whole universe.

“Ah, right,” he hit his fist on one palm turning his head with fakely widened eyes. “You’re second place. Again.”

You hated Kim Doyoung and everything that had to do with him.

His voice? Hideous.

The fragrance of the fabric softener on his clothes? Repugnant.

His favourite dishes at the cafeteria? Revolting.

His favourite authors? Idiots.

Everything reminded you of him and one time you had a literal meltdown in a supplies shop as every notebook and pen has been seen in his backpack at a certain point.

“I see that manners are still very difficult for you to master, Kim,” you spit out his last name.

Doyoung laughed. “I apologize profusely for not following useless societal rules such as manners the way your finite mind intends.”

An echo of little “ohh” surrounded you but abruptly stopped as you threw a venomous glance at the little crowd behind you.

“Is this what you’ve been doing to get in the first place? Not following the rules?” you cocked an eyebrow at Doyoung.

The tongue inside his cheek moved around for a few seconds before he crossed his arms on his chest and got closer until his feet clashed with yours.

You didn’t step back.

“Is this an accusation?”

You pursed your lips as if thinking and Doyoung let you put on the little theatre act before he could hear your “Maybe?”

A single dry and unamused scoff came out of his lips as his eyes stared you down from head to toes.

“So you’re resorting to - this?” he gestured vaguely. “You’re that bitter that you couldn’t keep your first place for two whole semesters now?”

“Oh? It hurt so badly the first time that you kept track of it, baby boy?” you cooed.

The new nickname threw him off for a split second and although he was quick to come back to his usual expression you noticed it and you smiled triumphantly.

The crowd was collectively holding its breath.

He opened his mouth to say probably something stupid as usual when the voice of the professor interrupted you and the spell got shattered.

“Come inside little roosters. Preserve that energy for the class debate.”

Previously silent to not miss a single exchange you had with Doyoung. everyone suddenly started to chat while making their way inside the classroom.

You both still didn’t move a single muscle, your eyes still trained on each other like predators. “I said-,” the professor clicked his fingers between your faces, “-come inside.”

_____

“I can’t fucking believe this.”

Your university was overall a good place with good and proficient rules. You followed them all and you enjoyed it. But there were also a few rules you suddenly realized you hated. Like the “your seat in the study room will be your seat for the rest of the semester and whoever seats in somebody else's seat during the year, said somebody can slash their shins”.

You would have loved to see Doyoung sitting at your place. His long legs could use some kicking. But unfortunately, something even worse happened.

He was sitting right in front of you.

“Why are you here?” you added, throwing your bag on the desk in front of him and making a few of his papers fly on the floor.

Doyoung sighed seeing his stuff gently falling around and raised his eyes with the most venomous smile he could pull off.

“The Gryffindor gentleman over there-” he indicated towards his previous’ semester desk, “took my seat so I had to find another one.”

You followed his pointed finger and spotted Lee Haechan in the midst of popping a chewing gum bubble.

He winked.

You rolled your eyes.

He made an obscene gesture revolving a tongue in the cheek and hand motions.

You returned the favour with your middle finger.

“And you had to sit here of all places. You let a Gryffindor snatch your place.”

Doyoung licked his lower lip before taking it inside his mouth for a moment.

“Miss ‘manners’ and miss ‘following the rules’ is mad that I, mister ‘fuck useless rules’ and fuck ‘useless manners’ didn’t smack a boy in the head to get a desk?”

You breathed in slowly and exhaled before you could scream at him.

“I don’t want to see you every day in front of me.”

Doyoung pinched the base of his nose before speaking.

“Listen, I also don’t want to see your face this close every day for a whole semester but it is what it is. All the other seats are taken. Stop whining or go and suck Lee’s dick to get his desk instead.”

You scoffed incredulously and plopped down with force, ignoring the boy’s sighs as the movement made some other papers fall.

"You're insufferable,” he whispered.

"I am insufferable?" you stopped taking the books from your bag then suddenly dropped the heaviest one, making the whole desk tremble.

Doyoung looked at you then smirked. "You're in a worse mood than usual. Is it because you couldn't reach the top?"

He leaned in as if about to share a secret. "Are you frustrated that I'm always in your mind 24/7?"

His dark eyes looked like two abysses and suddenly you felt like falling into them. Then he blinked once, slowly, and you blinked too, the sudden silence chatter of the study room bringing you to the surface.

Fuck Slytherins and their weird-ass magnetic eyes. You wanted to smack him in the fucking face.

"So I see you keep wanting to be ridiculous as always," you replied but you both realized how soft your tone got.

You cleared your throat - don’t talk to me anymore! it said - and you opened your books, eyes unable to look at Doyoung's face.

He got the hint and leaned back into his seat amused, playing with his pencil. It rolled on his fingers, then on his knuckles and when he placed it on the desk with sudden force you jolted.

"If you want to surpass me, stop staring at my hands and get on studying."

Doyoung had to slide away with his chair for you to not reach his throat and choke him.

_____

"So do you want to choke him with his tie or do you want him to choke you with his tie?" "I want to choke you." Haechan smirked. "I'm not sure I'm into that stuff but we can try it out." "I can't believe you did this to me." "Ah come on. Everyone is having fun. He's having fun. You're the only one taking it too seriously." "I am not taking it seriously. I'm just annoyed every time I see his face. 'The best option is to reinvent yourself'" you mocked Doyoung's voice during philosophy class. "You can reinvent the world first. What kind of selfish nonsense is that?" "Slytherin nonsense. But still, he had good points to his discourse- ahi." "Go and be his friend then." "I would, but I'm stuck here with you because--ahi."

"You're always getting hit, Lee," that voice interrupted your discourse.

You rolled your eyes and breathed out so heavily that for a split moment you thought someone transformed you into a horse.

"Hit on, by girls." "I will hit you too if you don't leave my desk," Doyoung smiled peacefully. "Well," Haechan got up slowly, "I wouldn't mind that either."

Doyoung bit his lower lip amused and to your absolute shock he winked at your friend. Haechan laughed and left you two alone.

"What was that?"

Doyoung sat down ready to get to work. "Huh?"

"Were you friendly just now?"

Doyoung blinked at you as if processing the question. "Yeah? I am friendly usually."

"Why are you not friendly with me?"

Doyoung's expression suddenly trembled on his face like a mask. He looked up surprised and for a split moment, he appeared weirdly younger, with his open lips and wide eyes. You stared at each other for a few seconds and it was the first time you didn't feel like opening up his guts.

But then he smiled and it all got back to you. "Because I hate you,” he explained.

_____

The ball was okay. A normal ball just like all of the other boring balls you were forced to attend each start of the semester. No alcohol, at least not offered from the university but definitely offered by the older students. All said students dressed well, but following the decency rules which led to boring outfits.

Your red dress was the boldest thing around and Ravenclaw cheered upon your entry in the Grand Hall.

A cool Prefect? Yeah, you had to be one if you wanted to beat Kim Doyoung.

At the moment everyone liked him more since he let his people smuggle liquor into the university but you weren’t about to fall to such low standards to win.

But food? Hell yeah.

It was not illegal and everyone wanted to have pizza instead of finger food made of hell knows what.

“Y/N, if you continue like this, I’ll probably fall in love with you,” a random dude smiled, helping himself. You smiled back at him, glad that cute guys wanted to talk to you.

“Well-,” you started, ready to bat your eyelashes, but the guy suddenly jolted, the piece of pizza he was holding literally flying from his hands and landing on his face instead.

You yelped, bringing your hands to your mouth in shock, staring at the way it slowly slid from his nose down on his impeccable white shirt.

“Shit,” he threw the pizza away on the bin at his right and made his way through the crowd with spicy tomato sauce in his eyes.

“You got all kinds of pizzas and not my favourite topping,” Doyoung suddenly materialized near you with a dramatic sigh, scaring the shit out of you. “You!” you turned your head to him and pointed your finger at his face. Doyoung stared at your fingertip then at your eyes. “You did that to the guy just now!”

The boy blinked at you as if you were crazy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he shook his head but when he took a piece of pizza and started to munch on it, one hand waving at you and walking towards his friends, you noticed the way he smiled.

_____

A few hours later, people were scattered around the campus, most of them in bed “sleeping”, some of them actually already sleeping since it was almost morning.

The prefects were still in the hall, wrists twisting and eyes annoyed at the chore of having to clean up after the ball.

“It’s going to take you only half an hour, my children,” the headmistress chuckled brightly. “You’re prefects for a reason. Other children don’t have your advanced magical power and would end up cleaning for a whole day. Responsibilities. Am I right?”

“She could clean in 5 minutes yet here we are,” the Gryffindor prefect mumbled after she left, leaving behind an obnoxious perfume cloud.

If the ball would have at least been fun, it would be different now, cleaning while at least being a little euphoric.

But not only was it the most boring and uneventful party ever, you also had to do Kim Doyoung’s part since he was as slow as a snail.

“Get your shit together. We can clean much faster if you get your ass up,” you stared him down with hands on your hips.

Doyoung looked up at you from the chair he was sprawled on, one hand to sustain his head, the other twisting while his finger lazily transported a flying bottle of beer across the room.

“I am working.”

You scoffed. “You’re the best at object moving. If you wanted, you could also finish everything in 5 minutes.”

The boy tilted his head to the side, suddenly focused and amused. “Are my ears failing me, or did you just compliment me?”

“If you need my praise to do your job, then yes, Kim, you’re very good at this type of magic.”

Doyoung chuckled happily and got up. With a smack of his lips, he rolled his wrists and all the trash disappeared from the floors and tables appearing into the trash cans instead. The Hufflepuff prefect whistled, impressed, and the Gryffindor sighed upon realizing he had worked his ass off for nothing.

You put your tongue in your cheek annoyed but also secretly happy he actually did it. “Floors.”

Doyoung took out his tongue in the most annoying habit he had. Your eyes involuntarily darted towards it and he smiled.

“You’re such a snake when you do that.” “Okay, crow. Deal with your floors yourself then,” he passed you and walked towards the exit.

The other prefects already left, too tired to deal with your bickering and probably relieved that someone else could clean up much faster.

You stared at his back, annoyed, then twisted your wrist to pull his body back towards you. His black jacket moved as if a gentle breeze blew across him and Doyoung stopped.

“Wait, sorry-” he laughed and turned around, his voice echoing in the gigantic empty room ringing inside your skull. “-were you perhaps trying to do-” he twisted his wrist and you yelped, feet dragging across the pavement as if your body was being pulled by an invisible force until you clashed on his chest, “-this?” he finished.

Your hands were up on his shirt and for a few moments your brain couldn’t think anything besides, first, how good he smelled, and second, it was the first time for you to actually touch each other.

“If you’re so good at this, then clean the floors as well, so we can finally go.”

He stared you down.

“Ask nicely.”

You scoffed incredulously. “I’d rather clean it with my own hands than do that.”

He smiled. "You want to kiss me so badly, Y/N."

“I-- what? Are you drunk?”

“Why are you so flustered?”

“I am--not-” you grabbed the hand he raised to cup your face, “flustered! I am appalled.”

“I want to kiss you.”

Breathing has never been a difficulty for you and you’ve always laughed at main characters in books talking so extensively about air, but at that moment, your hand still holding Doyoung’s one, your chests pressing against each other and his eyes, fuck, you actually started to slightly pant. What was wrong with him?

“If you stopped using your snake powers-” “This is no power. It’s just you being attracted to me,” he finally cupped your face and this time you didn’t move away. “Check on it. You can pull away.”

He was right. But if that wasn’t some slytherin doing then you were probably going crazy because you saw your hands move almost on their own on Doyoung’s shoulders.

Then you actually leaned in and he met you halfway.

Your limbs were trembling when he brushed his lips on yours and to your surprise, they were warm and soft.

Then he pulled you even closer and you whined for no reason besides your brain yelling ‘this is so nice!!!! we love dopamine!!!’ at you.

And you sought for some more.

When you licked his lower lips, Doyoung’s hands had a tremor on your waist but he was quick to adjust to your sudden burst of passion with the same energy.

Of all the things that you anticipated that night, making out with Kim Doyoung was definitely not one of them. Then why you felt relieved as if finally doing somethig you’ve ached to do for so long?

Did he want to kiss you?

He was currently kissing you at that moment?

Absurd.

Yet there you were, panting and desperate for each other, unable to stop drinking each other’s breaths.

“I’m taking you to my room,” he whispered and the look in his eyes was something you’ve never seen before.

____

Suffocating.

You were suffocating as your breath was taken away from your lungs at Doyoung's every touch on your back.

First your neck with his cold knuckles, then your spine to reach the zip of your red dress. He opened it slowly imitating the pace of his soft lips on your jaw. And when the fabric fell to your feet you turned around, your arms quick to pull him into a messy kiss, while his hands fell on your hips, pushing you towards the silky bed.

You sat down and got quickly on your knees to be able to reach his face again.

Doyoung, standing near the edge of the bed, closed his eyes when you drifted your attention from his lips to his neck then chest, placing a kiss on the newly exposed skin every time you made a button pop open. His abdomen twitched every time and when you reached his navel you palmed his torso up, enjoying his shaky breath when the shirt fell off his shoulders.

A little chuckle coming from you made him look down at your sultry face, the hue of the red lights and lit candles dancing on your skin. Then he stared at his own body. Dozens of kisses adorned it in the colour of your lipstick.

"If I can't mark you, I can at least do this," you raised one eyebrow at him, hands gently dealing with his belt. "Who said you can't mark me?" "Hm?" you opened his pants zip and you could have sworn that Doyoung's eyes flickered. "You really want to go around all covered in hickeys?"

The boy smiled and cupped your face, his thumb slowly caressing your lower lip. "Do it where it can't be seen then."

So you let your tongue out on your amused lips and leaned down to reach the skin above the waistband of his underwear. Your tip wetted his skin making his take in a deep breath. "Is here alright?" you whispered against his warm body.

Doyoung's hand found his place on your nape and you took it as consensus, gingerly taking his skin inside your mouth and sucking on it. A red spot already started to form and you sucked again near it, and again, before suddenly placing a kiss on his clothed bulge instead.

Doyoung drank air through his teeth at the unexpected touch and his fingers got to your shoulders, pushing you into the bed before your legs could wrap around his waist.

His tongue inside your mouth was as delicious as the silk your body was rubbing against. It made its way down your neck then chest and when it reached your perked nipples your knees buckled and you grabbed that red silk with your fists. Little soft whimpers escaped your lips and they became louder as Doyoung's fingers got between your legs. They scratched the lace of your panties and you lifted your hips as he dragged them down. The boy, then, palmed your skin and placed open kisses on it from the ankle down and every touch closer made you lose a bit of your self-control.

You really were about to fuck Kim Doyoung.

What kind of sick and twisted situation was that?

Were you bewitched?

Did he do something to you?

But when his lips reached your dripping core, tongue quick to collect your juice, it didn't matter.

If this was the consequence of you getting bewitched, you wanted it to happen every day. And you told him. You hand gripped his hair and your back arched, profanities quickly spilling out of your chest. Doyoung cupped your ass, pressing his thumbs into your flesh and you let your thighs drape over his shoulders.

Why was he that good? It honestly offended you to find out that Kim Doyoung aced pussy eating too besides everything else.

And when he stopped to breathe, you saw his eyes and his juicy lips.

It was the sexiest view you’ve ever seen in your life so you yanked his head toward your face and he obliged with a panting smile.

Making out while his long fingers pumped inside of you was the highlight of your university career, and you cared about the curriculum a lot.

And when he curled them upwards, touching spots inside of you that made you lose vision, you were ready to beg him to do it to you as often as possible.

"Cumming- I'm--ah-"

Doyoung got back between your legs and added his tongue to the action again.

It was too much.

His books flew from his shelves as you reached the highest climax of your life.

He chuckled, peppering your shaking body in soft kisses. “I thought you weren’t good at object moving.” You breathed heavily a few more moments before finally finding your voice again. Doyoung reached your lips and you shivered upon feeling his hard cock resting between your legs. He stared at your expression as he lightly hit your oversensitive clit with its tip then rubbed himself between your folds with a sigh. “You’re the one good at moving, so please, move.” The boy bit your lower lip, stretching it out a little before sucking on it, one hand to cup your hip and the other grabbing the silk near your head. He got you so wet that he didn’t need much to easily slip inside of you. He cursed with heavy breath and you wondered if your nails were leaving marks on his back skin as he moved his hips.

You didn't have Doyoung only in your brain like usual, thinking about him day and night. You finally had him physically so deep inside that you thought you were about to lose your mind.

So this was it, the sweet overwhelming sensation of being in the present instead of chasing something in the future.

It was just like everyone described it to be, everything.

But it wasn't a moment in time or space as you’ve anticipated. It was a person and that person, you realized, was Doyoung.

If your mouth wasn’t busy spilling his name out of it inside his soft lips and if his hums didn’t make your whole being vibrate, you would have probably laughed at the destiny.

"You are, so fucking, hot-," you whispered breathlessly, eyes barely able to stay open to drink in his image. "So you admit it. You think I'm sexy," you could see his smirk even in the red darkness of his room. "I wouldn't let you ram into me like this if I thought otherwise." "Oh really? And yet I was here thinking you were doing charity since 'no girl would want to make my dick wet'." You chuckled before the sounds could get interrupted by your high moans instead, the frustration that phrase gave to Doyoung translating into his hips thrusting even harder. "I take that back." "Are you trying to say that you want me to slow down? You can’t take this?" "Oh, no, I love how you're fucking me as if you hate me." "But I don’t actually hate you”, you wished to hear at least for a split second but no word came out of the boy's lips, his hips slowing down instead as he buried his face into the crook of your neck.

It was as good as his fast thrusts, his strokes so fluid and deep it made you grunt every time he pressed into you. He was so good that it irritated you.

"You really like to do the opposite of what I want, huh?" "Yeah," his voice inside your ear made your skin get goosebumps. “I love your frustrated expression and mannerism.” "Ah, shit-" you dug your nails into his back as the bed started to creak. "A good girl like you swearing like this? Who taught you?" "It's your influence." "Am I turning you bad?" "Yeah. Every time you're around I want to do bad things and I have no idea what's going on." You didn't expect to be that honest but Doyoung's intimate presence was like a drug, making you feel so high that you were ready to get twisted by him in every way he wanted.

No. You desired it. You wanted Doyoung to play with you and for once you would not resist it at all. You would beg for more.

And when he actually took you there, in a place where your thoughts did not exist anymore, where only his touch grounded you, the hand that pushed you over the edge and the one bringing you back up, you did just that. You asked for more, shaking uncontrollably on his luscious bed and he did what you wanted. For once he granted every wish you had and even beyond that.

_____

Your desire to leave his room that night was not as strong as you anticipated.

Doyoung arms didn't want to let go and you didn't fight him at all.

Sighing, you got back to his chest and didn't comment on the way he tightened his hold on you. If this wasn’t the way people-that-hate-each-other-but-like-to-weirdly-fuck-for-some-reason behaved, it would be a concern for your conscious mind and not for your fucked up one.

His scent was inebriating and if you didn't know the way he could make you feel, you would have thought that it was the highest form of aphrodisiac.

And maybe it was actually making you feel high because under your lids you could have sworn that the room slowly changed colour.

You opened your sleepy eyes and stared at the wall behind Doyoung’s shoulder, blinking hard.

It was dark blue, almost black, with a myriad of little bright lights.

The candles went out and the room did get dark after Doyoung rolled over breathless, his cum dripping slowly on your thigh, but you were pretty sure there were no stars before.

And when you shifted to rest on your back you almost choked on your own spit.

You weren’t looking at the night sky.

No. You were inside the sky.

Purple, whites, yellows and pinks all melted together to form galaxies and cosmic dust.

No roof, no walls, no pavements, just the bed, Doyoung and you in the middle of everything.

Your fingers dug into the arm Doyoung had thrown across your chest and perhaps you made some type of sound because the boy opened his eyes to stare at your profile. “Do you like it?” he murmured. Your head snapped towards his face and his eyes reflected the infinite little lights as if he held two other universes inside of them. “How is this possible?” He smiled sheepishly. “Slytherin rooms. They change based on the owner’s mood.” You felt your mouth open on its own. “This is your doing?” Doyoung hummed and closed his eyes again, pulling you towards him to hold you like before. You let him place his chin on top of your head and breathed in his scent yet again.

“So the red room?” “I was horny.” You smiled. “And how do you feel now?” “A little less horny. If I’m not careful you’ll see a whole star engulf us soon.” “This is so unfair. We don’t have such cool rooms.” “Or maybe you do but being Ravenclaws you’re all thinking of boring, brown looking rooms.”

You rolled your eyes even if he couldn’t see you and gently, you placed a hand on his chest, close to your face and above his heart. You could feel the calm and peaceful beats in syntony with the night sky. To know that inside that boy’s mind could be such beauty made your heart not beat as calmly as his heart did.

You had no idea what you were doing, hugging so intimately with your sworn enemy, and maybe it was the romantic vibe that made you do it since there was no rational explanation to any of it, but you raised your face to meet his lips.

And you just kissed him. Slowly and softly, barely brushing them with yours.

Doyoung opened his eyes for a moment, as if surprised, but upon feeling you pressing yourself on his body he closed them again and pulled you on top of him.

The universe didn’t change, although, when you let your tongue inside his mouth, slowly, as if having all the time in the world at your feet, the stars flickered and got brighter.

“Are you trying to see a star up close? I can make it happen without you rubbing yourself on me,” he smiled on your lips. “What happens when you suddenly lose control?” Doyoung’s pupils trembled and the room started to shake. You knew it wasn’t real but you still jolted and looked around terrified. “Let’s find out.”

_____

"I, saw, you, leave, with, Kim, Doyoung, last night," Haechan chanted teasingly as he sat down with his breakfast tray.

You wanted to keep a poker face but your facial muscles weren't under your control so you smiled.

"Oh!! Look at her! Oh my God. So- wow. Okay. Okay," Haechan tried to compose himself. "Is he any good?" he leaned in lowering his voice.

You sighed and nodded. "So fucking good."

Haechan squealed and hit your shoulder before wrapping it with one arm and wobbling you around.

"Stop it!" you hissed amused. "Everything hurts." "EVERYTHING HURTS! So he's got a monster cock."

"Shut up!" you pressed your hand on his mouth scandalized as Doyoung made his way inside the cafeteria with his friends.

You breathed in slowly and just as slowly you exhaled, trying to relax. Haechan made an effort to appear calm as well. "Sup, Kim." You smiled.

The other boy looked your way as he walked behind your table. "Hey, Lee," then he turned to you. "Y/L/N."

And left.

Just like that.

He looked at you for one second and continued on his way to the Slytherin tables.

No smile.

No acknowledgement.

Cold just like before.

As if nothing had happened.

You stared at his back, feeling your limbs heavy like stone. Turning around slowly, you grabbed your fork and started to eat in silence. "Hey." Haechan lightly bumped your arm with his shoulder. "He's probably just feeling awkward." You munched slowly and took it as an excuse to keep quiet. "Hey, come on." "What?" Haechan sighed. "You can say that you're disappointed that he-" "I don't know what you're talking about."

_____

For the first time, instead of feeling rage inside your gut, you felt anxious.

Doyoung was in front of you, face almost hidden under his hair as he typed into his computer. He greeted you as he usually did before the, well, before you let him see the deepest parts of you, figuratively and physically. But after that single “hey” no other words came from his part.

It wouldn't have been that weird if only a few hours ago he didn't kiss your lips in heaven.

When you woke up that morning, the night sky wasn’t there anymore. At his place were clouds. White fluffy clouds in the middle of a pink sky.

It was breathtaking and you felt like flying.

And he did kiss you softly.

And now he acted as if you weren't even there.

Maybe Haechan was right. Maybe he was feeling awkward. It's not like he could suddenly act lovingly in front of the whole campus. You were still enemies after all. And maybe you were also right.

You've just fucked. It's not like you started to date. He had no obligations towards you.

Yet, when his fingers drew your spine and his sigh caressed your lips, it didn't seem just fucking to you.

Was Doyoung like that? Was that his personality? Was he doing that to all the girls he brought into his room? Making them cum multiple times and showing them his soft side? Was that a well-plotted plan? Was he trying to hurt you?

You were ready to let him do whatever he wanted to you the previous night, yet at that moment, under the bright sunlight of the study room, you felt sick. It was a weird feeling. It grabbed at your throat and travelled down to your heart making it difficult for you to breathe.

You trusted him with your feelings and you let him see your vulnerable side.

Did he laugh? Was he feeling triumphant now? Did he win a battle against you? He had you on his palm? Because, God, he did have you on his palm now and with only a twist of his wrist he could get you into his arms again.

And you would have let him.

You hated it. You fell so hard it hurt everywhere. You were dizzy and confused and you couldn't look at him anymore.

_____

It was easy to avoid Doyoung for the following days. It was almost too easy as if he was trying to avoid you too. So walking towards the library you jolted hearing his low voice inside one of the classrooms. You stopped in place and after a few seconds of thinking you peeped inside. Then you gulped and hid under the door window.

He was resting his hips on the professor's desk, eyebrows furrowed and arms crossed on his chest. In front of him was standing one of the most beautiful girls you've ever seen.

She was talking with a peaceful tone and Doyoung suddenly laughed. You got up and quickly walked away.

_____

"How the fuck would I know?" the girl asked.

Doyoung rolled his eyes. "Your dad designed them. You must know more than me."

"Listen. We're the only house with mood rooms because we're the only people who can control their emotions. It's not my fault you're a terrible Slytherin and your room has been pitch black for the past days."

Doyoung sighed in irritation. "What the fuck does that even mean though?"

"Usually mourning."

The boy shook his head. "No one died."

"Then it can be a general pain. Or confusion," the girl explained.

Doyoung raised his gaze on her. "What would I be so confused about?"

She shrugged. "You're the only one that can know. Chill out maybe and stop thinking when you're inside of it. I'll ask my dad how to turn it off and I'll let you know. Now leave me alone, I'm busy," she said and left the classroom.

_____

"Hey," Doyoung said. "That's my pencil."

You looked down at your fingers and furrowed your eyebrows.

"No. This is mine."

The boy sighed. "I can sense it's mine."

"I legit bought it yesterday. And what are you? A psychic? 'I can sense it's mine'."

"I'm a Slytherin. We're snakes. Everything I lick is mine. And I can sense that's mine."

Your mouth opened slightly and you waited for him to laugh but Doyoung remained serious.

"That has to be a joke."

"Okay, keep it. It just makes me feel giddy when things I own are used by other people." "Because you're selfish." "It's a real sensation. I know when something I licked is being used by somebody else," and he raised his eyes on you. You stared back and the weight of his words made your throat close.

I hope it doesn't work with people too, you wanted to ask, but the noise on your left interrupted you.

"Can I talk to you?" the same girl from a few days ago suddenly made her appearance near your desk. Doyoung looked at her surprised. "Yeah." "Bring me to your room," she ordered.

_____

You shouldn't have been there.

It was useless and it would only make you further lose your mind.

But your feet descended the Slytherin corridor, nose following the trail of the girl's perfume until arriving at Doyoung’s door.

You remained still for a moment and after a few seconds of indecisiveness you suddenly turned around going back.

That was too creepy. You had absolutely no reason to be there. If Doyoung wanted to fuck that girl, so be it.

But then you stopped again.

Fuck.

Just, just a little glance. Just a tiny little glance. Just the colour. Just to be sure.

You didn't turn around to actually see anything. With your back towards the door, you twisted your wrist, doing the most illegal thing one can do inside the campus - transparency spell. A tiny portion of the wall disappeared at your silent command and you could see the red hue spilling outside of it on the dark pavement at your feet.

It was enough and you barely saw the stairs when you got out of the basement.

_____

"You weren't lying when you said it's pitch black. It even absorbs magic light."

Doyoung sighed.

The girl presumably turned around because Doyoung heard her voice more clearly when she spoke again.

"Okay, so this is what we're gonna do. Sit down somewhere and relax."

The boy let himself fall on the carpet with a grunt.

"Close your eyes."

He obliged even if he could have let them open too for all it mattered.

"Now, think of someone of your choice."

Doyoung's mind automatically drifted towards you and the room besides being dark, felt suddenly very cold as well.

"No, okay, Doyoung, change the person." "She's the only one I can think about." The girl sighed. "Well, at least we know the reason for all of this. God, it's so fucking cold, try to not think about anything for a second!"

"It's hard, okay?"

"Okay, fuck. Think about her but imagine something else. Think of a good memory you have with her."

Doyoung sighed irritated and furrowed his eyebrows even more. "I don't think this is going to work."

But when he let his mind imagine your panting expression underneath him, a slight red hue started to create from the floor going up to the walls.

The girl exulted. "Yes! Don't stop. Continue thinking about that!"

Doyoung opened up one eye as the girl exulted again and he could finally see the furniture in his room.

It was a dark red, not the bright red he actually had his room painted in when he held you into his arms, but enough for him to not get a headache 24/7.

"Well it's not like I can think about--that, every time I need to be in my room, can I?" he got up.

The girl knew what red meant and she chuckled.

"Don't you have any other good memory with her besides fucking?"

The room got bright red.

The girl laughed even harder.

"Ah, shut up." "Hey, I helped you out." "Barely," he plopped on the bed and put his face into his palms.

It could have been considered a gesture coming from embarrassment if the lights didn't start to get dim again.

"God, you're really all over the place, huh?" she sat near him. "What happened? Is she your ex?”

Doyoung sighed and directed his gaze upon an indistinct point in front of him. Maybe he was tired, or maybe it was the dark room and the fact that Doyoung didn’t even remember the girl’s name, making her a safe stranger, but he whispered.

"I made a mistake. I thought she was into me so-- fuck, I went down on her."

The girl made a surprised sound but waited for the most important part.

“Well, she’s not into me, but I am.”

"You're so stupid!"

"Yeah okay, thanks."

"We're Slytherins! It's not like we don't give head because we're prude, it's to prevent this! You horny dumbass." "I thought she liked me! I had no idea she'd- fuck someone else right after!" Doyoung grunted frustrated and fell back on the bed, the room getting to the pitch-black from before.

The girl let the silence calm him down a bit before talking.

"I am sorry. I had things used by others but I don't know what it feels like with people."

"It's not necessarily painful but- knowing the reason, it's just-"

"Yeah. You just have to let her go so the bond is receded. Like with things, you know?"

"It's easy to let go of a thing that's yours. How can I manage to let go of her?"

The girl sighed and remained in silence.

_____

You had no idea how you managed to remain seated in front of Doyoung that morning.

His complexion was paler than usual and his eyes were very tired. As if he didn't sleep enough last night. Or at all.

You had to breathe in and out slowly to ease the pain inside your stomach.

"You look terrible."

Doyoung's dark irises under his low lids made your skin crawl when he looked up at you.

"Is someone keeping you too active to get enough sleep?" you asked again, trying hard to get back to the tone you both were used to before.

The boy tightened his lips in a mockery smile. "Yeah. As discussed, I have no problem keeping my dick wet."

"Well-," you frowned with a raised chin, your lips forming a pout for a moment before you forced them to keep the poker face, "-I started to see someone lately too."

He looked unbothered. "As in dating or hallucinations?"

You ignored his comment.

“We’ve already been on three dates,” you lied.

“And you’re telling me this because-?”

You shrugged. “Conversation.”

“I hate small talk.”

“Is there something you don’t hate?”

“Silence. And smart people, which given your latest test results, you’re not.”

You had no idea what it was.

You and Doyoung had always called each other names, insulted each other’s intelligence and the sorts, yet at that moment, maybe because of your failing tests, the alignment of stars or the fact that you were actually in love with him, you burst into tears.

It took Doyoung a few good seconds to realize that you were wailing in front of him.

“Hey?”

He crouched on the desk to be able to see your face from underneath your arms. You hid it even more.

“Y/N,” he lowered his voice. It was as soft and delicate as when he whispered your name under the sky.

You suddenly took your stuff and ran away from the study room.

_____

Doyoung was slowly but surely losing his mind.

One day, two days, three days and you were still nowhere to be seen.

His room has been different shades of grey, which was better than black but now the walls had water running on them and the floor was constantly wet.

Altogether, not a good time.

“Holy shit, are you that depressed?”

Doyoung raised his eyes from the book he was reading before rolling them so far up that Haechan thought they wouldn’t come back anymore.

“What do you want?”

The Gryffindor took a step inside the room with hands behind his back and took a lazy stroll to where Doyoung’s dresser was crying. “Your flowers are all dead. Throw them away.” “They keep appearing every time,” Doyoung started to read again, the little line between his eyebrows showing how hard he tried to understand whatever the pages were trying to say but failing.

“I’m here because it’s boring to not have you yell at Y/N in the study room as always,” Haechan spoke again nonchalantly, fingers rubbing against each other, as to get rid of the imaginary dust they collected from Doyoung’s furniture. Given the situation, the room probably made up piles of mud as well.

"Who's the guy?" Doyoung suddenly asked.

Haechan furrowed his eyebrows. "What guy?"

"The one she's fucking."

The other blinked at him surprised.

"You mean, Kim Doyoung?"

The Slytherin's eyes widened and Haechan saw how he looked with flushed cheeks for the first time in his life.

"Aw, come on. Of course, I know everything."

"If you know everything, then tell me who the fuck this guy she's been fucking beside me is!" Doyoung got up from the bed.

"There's no other guy. What are you talking about?"

"Fuck, I felt it how he touched her and it drives me crazy!" Haechan opened his mouth to talk but jolted, eyes staring at Doyoung’s arm extended to hit the wall behind his head expecting to see a dent in the hard brick from how much force he put into that.

"Is it you?" “Uhm? What the fuck?” "Answer me." "Okay, first of all, take a step back."

Doyoung leaned in even more and Haechan gulped.

"Okay! Okay, gosh. No. There's no guy fucking her as far as I know."

"Where is she?" "I don't know." "What kind of friend are you if you don't know it?"

Haechan crossed his arms on his chest. "Am I seriously getting scolded on friendship values by Kim Doyoung right now? You that made her cry in the common room? You that made her rest her weapons in front of you just to see you treat her like scum? After using her? We don’t have mood rooms but we have things like hearts and mouths which we use to, you know, ask other people how they feel-" "I don't have enough patience and you know that."

Haechan breathed in and out before finally opening his lips again. "She's in the dorms. Obviously. Where the fuck would she be-"

Doyoung turned around on his heels like a tornado and walked towards the towers.

"She doesn't want to talk to you!" Haechan told the other boy's back but he wasn't sure he heard him.

_____

She doesn't want to talk to you.

Fuck it.

Doyoung knew he was self-centred and he knew that your absence had something to with him but for once he really wanted to be wrong.

Used you? You really thought Doyoung used you? When you used him and then got somebody else to touch you like that?

Fuck, if Doyoung were in his room at that moment it would probably resemble a killing storm.

"Hey, you can't be here," some random guy stopped him as Doyoung stepped into the Gryffindor common room. "How did you even enter-"

"Shut the fuck up."

Doyoung looked around, eyeing all of the different doors and chose left, venturing down the corridor, for once - and cringingly so - listening to his heart.

Haechan was right. You didn’t have real mood rooms but he could physically feel the energy of each and one of them with his heart.

He knew it was your door before even getting close to it, the feeling coming from it making his blood boil in his veins just like he would feel when you were around.

With a twist of his wrist, he tried to open it but it didn't work.

"Are you seriously trying to barge into a girl's room like that, Kim?" a scandalous voice said behind the door.

"How did you know it was me?" Doyoung placed one palm on the wood.

"Only you could force open a door without even knocking," you replied. "And the spell is made for you specifically, so I know."

The boy rested his forehead on the door and closed his eyes. "You were waiting for me."

The silence on the other side made him sigh. "Open up. Let me talk to you."

It got even quieter than before. "I wasn't waiting for you. You had no reasons to come," you finally whispered.

Doyoung twisted his wrist and the door in front of himself vanished from his eyes. Apparently, you didn't anticipate he'd be able to use the transparency spell since you didn't even preoccupy yourself to block it and he could tell you didn't even sense it, so concentrated on your thoughts. From your perspective the door was still there and, previously leaning against it with your back, you rolled on it now and unknowingly imitated Doyoung's position, foreheads almost touching if not for the layer of old wood.

"What do I have to say?" he asked, looking at your face. He saw how you bit your lower lip at the sound of his voice and the genuine sadness in your face made him even angrier at the whole situation. "You don't have to say anything," you finally replied.

Doyoung's jaw muscles tensed.

"Please, please, open this goddamn door."

The intensity of his voice made you raise your head and your senses got sharp again, feeling the energy he put into using his spell.

With the twist of your wrist, the door flew open and you finally saw Doyoung's face.

"You used transparency," you suddenly looked furious. “You know you can’t do that inside the university.” "Fuck, I was," he stepped in. "What if I was naked?" "Nothing I haven't seen before."

You rolled your eyes. "You make me so frustrated."

"I am making you frustrated? Then what about me, huh?"

"What would you even be frustrated about if you don't even care about me? You tease me and you insult me and then you make love to me like a desperate man and then you go back to being your selfish, deprecable self. What is this? Why do you keep playing with me? Is it fun? You find it amusing to see me like this?"

Your words completely floored him.

"I can ask you the same thing. I can feel it inside my chest when someone else touches you and it drives me fucking insane. I made a mistake and I gave in thinking you had some feelings for me and that I wasn't just a fuck toy you could use one night and throw away."

Your mouth fell open.

He could feel it? He could feel you? So you did belong to him?

"This is crazy. You hid something like this from me! Now you have access to what's going on with my body without my consent!"

"I had no idea I was in love with you, okay? It has never happened to me before. I don't want to know either when someone else eats you out! I just- you’re here hiding in your room and crying as if you have feelings for me or something when you let someone else-" he stopped.

You looked at his reddening neck and closed eyes.

His breath was shaky and you realized how you've never actually seen him angry or upset before.

"No one has done anything to me, Doyoung. Unlike you, who fucked that Slytherin girl after showing me the fucking heaven. Did you do that to her as well? Sweet talk? For what? Is this your hobby? Making girls fall in love with you?"

The boy shook his head in confusion."What are you talking about? There's no Slytherin girl."

"The one that had the urgency to see your room?"

He pinched the base of his nose with a grunt of realization. "She helped me to figure out why my room was pitch-black and why it's currently grey with wet fucking walls."

"Oh yeah? Because to me, it looked very much red."

"You've been spying on me?"

You huffed and sat down on the bed like a child when they're found guilty but they're too proud to admit it. "You used transparency just 5 minutes ago too,” you justified yourself as if you were equal now.

"And did you see me fuck that girl?"

"I didn't want to actually look inside like a creep! But you were pretty much horny. The corridor got all red."

"I was thinking about you! And now I’m also thinking about you and I’ve been thinking about you all of these days and months and probably all of these fucking years since I first met you.”

Your brain felt like mush.

"Then you knew? You treated me like that because you liked me? Only children tease the person they like."

"I didn’t know. I had no fucking idea before. And apparently, I am a fool for not having realized before and fuck, perhaps I’m a child as well then. I’m insecure. Because I wanted you to think about me too. And perhaps you don’t even remember but I’ve tried to be nice to you before and it didn’t work. But you started to give me attention when I made you mad. It was easy and playful and I saw how you often smiled when I turned my back to you and- fuck, I got hopeful. That you’d start to feel the same.”

“I do feel the same, for fuck’s sake! I am in love with you.”

Doyoung swallowed dryly. “Then why-”

“It was me.”

The boy furrowed his eyebrows.

“That morning after I left your room I took a shower, and-,” you looked around as if trying to find the courage to say what you had to say, “- I was thinking about you, so-”

Doyoung understood before you could finish the phrase and you saw his face fall.

“Wait, is it possible? Even if you do it?”

You scoffed incredulously. “You’re the Slytherin here. Until a few days ago I didn’t even know you had magical spit making you feel whatever I did to my own pussy!”

Doyoung closed his eyes and took in a deep breath as if he needed a moment.

“But I researched it when you told me about the pencil. It has to do with some weird-ass Slytherin shit where couples own each other’s bodies. Most people find it hot to know when the partner is-” you cleared your voice as it got suddenly tiny from talking about that shameful topic.

“So no, I did not let anyone touch me. If you were smart enough you would have noticed that it didn’t happen anymore after you treated me like shit.”

The boy looked as if his soul left his body.

The silence engulfed the whole room and you avoided each other’s eyes.

But then it got disrupted by his movements. With slow steps, he walked the space from the middle of the room to the feet of the bed where you were sat down.

With weak limbs, he let himself down on his knees in front of you and slowly he let his face fall into your lap.

Your breath fell short. With trembling hands, you caressed his nape, lightly as if afraid to touch him, then his hair, patting it gently.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been a fool this whole time. Like, I am so stupid.” His voice was muffled by your clothes and his arms wrapped your waist even more while saying it.

“You’re the smartest person I know. But you could’ve just asked instead of assuming.”

He shook his head. “Yeah. Hey Y/N, so I can feel inside my gut that you orgasmed hard just now. Who did it? I thought you liked me.”

He raised his head again, his hair messy on the forehead, eyes lit up by the sun coming from your big windows and violent red cheeks. He looked young and vulnerable and suddenly the whole situation seemed so ridiculous that you laughed.

“I am sorry,” you chuckled and cupped his face. “You’re right. It was a weird situation. We should work on communication. And you should work on not being so insecure.” “You also assumed I fucked a girl just because I was talking to her.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay. We both have to work on that, alright?”

He sighed relieved seeing you smile.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you about that whole thing before. But I swear, I had no idea my feelings for you were that deep.” “Does it not work with mere crushes?” He shook his head.

"Well, do you know what I want now? For you to obtain my forgiveness?" you asked. "Me to kiss you." You flicked his head. "You will never drop that attitude of yours, will you?" He smiled even more. "I love to see you like this."

“I want something else,” you explained. Doyoung turned his head to the side. “Me eating you out?”

“Oh my God! No!” you tried to get away from his hold but he pushed you back on the bed and crawled beside you. “But that pussy is mine-” “Shut up!! Don’t say that ever again! You still need to apologize some more for that. Now I can’t even masturbate.” “You don’t need to masturbate if you have me.” “I fucking hate you so much.” “I love you too. So what was the thing that you wanted?”

“It’s just-- it’s unfair. So I-- also want to know.” “You want to own my cock?” he chuckled in the crook of your neck. “Why do you really have to use such words?!”

“You can do it. You just need to go down on me too.” “Even if I’m not a slytherin?” “If you’re in love with your slytherin partner, you don’t need to be one to be tied to them like that.” “Pants off then. Now.” _____

Haechan walked through Doyoung’s room with a chuckle, trying hard to avoid all the flowers that suddenly started to grow tall until reaching the ceiling.

With the corner of his eyes he also noticed the way all of them started to turn red and with a disgusted face, he moved faster, exiting it and closing the door behind him.

#doyoung #doyoung smut #doyoung fanfiction #doyoung scenarios #doyoung imagines #doyoung fluff #doyoung angs #doyoung au #nct #nct smut #nct fanfiction #nct scenarios #nct imagines #nct angst #doyoung angst #nct fluff #nct fantasy au

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evilminji · 5 months ago

Text

The part I love about this the most? Is that it's giving me *Danny, sizing up the slightly crazy Incredibly Powerful Silver Fox in front of him* hmmmmm... yeah, you're my kinda crazy. Good bone structure. The way you kicked my ass with that fan thingy was Hot™.

You're gonna be one SEXY Ghost.

Puttin' a ring on thaaaaat~

HELLO, new step-grandchild! DANI! Come greet your new step-father! We're taking him to Frostbite to get the tree removed!

(Undergrowth, probably: SO... DOES THAT MEAN THE TREE IS SINGLE? What's going on there? I got a shot or nah?)

And like? Zetsu? Sweating bullets. But SURELY these healers can't free Madara and the boy from his machina-. *FURIOUS BATTLE FAN SWING OF WRATHFUL UCHIHA RAGE!!!* OR MAYBE THEY CAN! Fuck!

Madara? Suddenly free of that "weird" and PERSISTENT headache! Feeling REMARKABLY clear headed. For the first time in DECADES. Calmer too! It's ALMOST like someone was FUCKING WITH HIS MIND AND EMOTIONS!

HIM. Madara "I AM The Wrathful Fist Of God Lesser Men Fear" Uchiha! FUCKING CLAN HEAD!

H I M ! ! !

Meanwhile? Danny over there, floating with his daughter, waiting on his grand one to get healed, goin': "Hooooooot~"

But ALSO? Just because it would fall in line with both Uchiha Being LIKE THAT™? And MADARA specifically, being the MOST Uchiha to ever Uchiha, Being Like That™? I kinda want him getting healed up? To "fix" the damage.

Like? They had to HARD reset his body to unfuck it up.

He is in his "founded a ninja village with my It's Complicated Best Friend" PRIME. And not only NOT dead. But back, stronger then before, with decades MORE experience and power, married to Spirit ROYALTY, and now? The commander of (by marriage) a FUCKIN SKELETON ARMY.

Literal, endless, ARMY OF THE DEAD.

Madara "I both DO begin Fights AND End Them... horrifically and with terrible violence" Uchiha.

Hear that? That is the sound of hundreds of hysterical nervous ninja breakdowns happening at the same time. His clan has that effect on people. HE has that effect on people.

.....he's still mad about the "you can't be Hokage" though.

Fuck you guys.

He's not coming back! In FACT? He's not even clan head anymore, is he? Or PART of the clan! You assholes kicked him out, didn't you? Scrubbed his name from the records? Fuck you! He's taking his hot young husband on a "honey'd moon" or whatever the custom is called.

He's going to be loud, obnoxious, and terrorize the local ninja population ps for his own amusement. Have the undead carry all their bags. Skeleton horses for the carts. INFLICT himself on the living royals. You know, one royal to another! *horrifying toothy murder grin*

Because Madara is a PRINCE now.

By marriage, yes. But in a century? He's going to be a KING. See, his husband doesn't like ruling. And HE? Oh HE has Clan leadership experience. He's DONE this before~ *murder grin gets bigger*

That's RIGHT. Tremble. The monster of the Uchiha some how avoided death, politically maneuvered his way into marring into spirit royalty, and is going to TAKE OVER THE THRONE OF THE DEAD. Not even the Pure Lands are safe or sacred.

The UCHIHA, everybody!

Fffffffuck those guys for birthing him!

I came across it in a fic and now it is DRIVING ME INSANE...

Marriage Hunts.

Mmmm, yes, Sexy™. Prove to me you are a Worthy Spouse! Fuckin FIGHT ME! Let's GO! You wanna put a ring on it? You better EARN that right! *weapons n explosion noises*

BUT!!!

Okay. We have successfully DONE it. We caught the sexy, sexy Spouse Of Our Dreams. Much Hotness. Tasteful, of screen, and fully consenting sexy times were had. #NICE.

......whaaaaaat happens NEXT?

What, in a word, is Step Two? ESPECIALLY if? This is "suprise! You've found yourself in a Sexy Hunt For Marriage For PLOT REASONS!" which means that ONE of these two cultures? Sure as SHIT does not practice this custom?

You are Alien Married.

They are fully expecting to either take YOU home with THEM or YOU to take THEM home with YOU, presumably. You have marital responsibilities as defined by TWO different cultures, only one of which you know. This person? Is ALSO a stranger to you!

Basically just met.

High intensity one night stand that's now Forever.

No one ever follows UP. They have fics trying to get OUT of it. Or the boning itself. But not the "....so, like, do I need to help you pack, oooor?" And the culture shock. The dumped in a new society that may not even RECOGNIZE the validity of your marriage. May consider both IT and YOU, barbaric.

And??? For ADDED spice?? Just to make the two cultures REALLY different?

I'ma say Ghosts do it. Not all of um. It's regional. An opt in sort thing. Since fighting is so ingrained into socializing. What BETTER way? To speed run the dating process? Then to Hunt Each Other For SPORT! VIOLENTLY!!! So romantic~♡

And Danny? Keeps failing in the romance department. Too many secrets, ya know?

Figures... Fuck It. Not like anyone can BEAT him. Maybe he'll find someone he wants to date? Or maybe he WILL find that special someone! Who knows? He's lonely, man.

And who should arrive?

FUCKIN NINJAS.

Pick a bachelor with a Summoning Contract. They tried to call their buddies while trapped in an old, long forgotten, HALF ROTTED Uzumaki Seal. It tore reality and yeet them sideways. Their Summons are frantic. THEY land just in time to hear the rules, the name of The Hunt, and see they are surrounded.

*opening horn blasts*

Begin!

Oh FUCK no! They are NOT staying trapped here! They fight! They WIN!

They...accidentally pin a really, REALLY strong and hot Spirit Warrior to the ground. Oh shit. They have a husband.

......but I mean... worse things have happened to them.

But? BRINGING SAID HUSBAND BACK? That. THAT I want to see. They left for a god damned MILK RUN of a boring ass punishment mission. Come back with a possibly half alive, spirit prince husband? The husband glows.

*jazz hands* s-suuuuprise?

@hdgnj @legitimatesatanspawn @hypewinter @babbling-babull @the-witchhunter @lolottes

#fanfic ideas #naruto #dp x naruto #danny phantom #minji's writing #god he would be SO PETTY #no one does spite like the Uchiha #does PETTY and VINDICTIVE like them #they hold GRUDGES #kick HIM out will you?#fine!#he does WANT your stupid village anyway!#its ugly and smells like Losers #hes gonna go be terrifying and hedonistic with the husband #to show you how much he DOESNT CARE #better watch!#cause hes NOT CARING at you!#>:/

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chaseatinydream · 4 years ago

Text

pirate king (15) || atz

Everyone is there.

Literally every member of the crew is gathered at the main deck, from Seonghwa, who’s not cooking the crew’s breakfast for some reason, to San, your master, who you know from experience is notoriously difficult to wake up in the mornings.

You try to catch your master’s eye, but San simply gives a wide yawn and clutches a stuffed toy dog closer to him while blearily rubbing at his eyes. Jongho simply looks like he’s already dozing off, his head repeatedly knocking into Seonghwa’s shoulder as he nods off before the whole cycle continues again.

Yeosang pushes you forward gently, and suddenly, before you, is the captain himself.

He looks the same as the last day you saw him, his presence as commanding as the winds that command the ship, vivid green eye burning with fire and the storms of the sea. His red jacket is just as striking in the sea of white and browns, and once again for some reason you can’t explain, you feel inexplicably drawn to him.

Mingi, his ever faithful quartermaster and bosun, stepped forward, calling for silence. That really wasn’t very difficult, considering it was the crack of dawn and nobody really had the brain capacity be talking much. In under half a minute, everyone has fallen still, the deck seemingly plunged into silence, quietly waiting for the captain to begin.

Captain Hongjoong’s eye doesn’t waver from yours when he starts to speak.

“Members of ATEEZ, crew of the Treasure.” His voice is steady, confident, assertive. There’s something that seems almost ceremonial about the way he’s speaking, as if he’s about to give a grand, well orated speech. You glance back at Yeosang for help, but the navigator’s attention is completely fixed on his captain. “We are all gathered here today for an important reason-”

Then he pauses for a moment and his eye glances through the crowd, doing a mental headcount more rapidly than you can see. “Wait, where’s Wooyoung?”

“Here, captain!” There’s a whoop from above you and you manage to duck just before Wooyoung’s booted feet slam into your skull and turn you into human pancake, he untangles himself expertly from the rigging he’s just swung over from and turns to grin at the disgruntled crowd. “Sorry I’m late!”

Then he ducks into the gathering before Mingi can scold him.

Hongjoong sighs, shaking his head before he continues, tone completely commanding. “As I was saying, we are gathered here today for an important reason. This day, we will have a new crew mate join our ranks.”

There’s silence for a moment. Then someone from the back cries out in surprise.

“Captain, you knocked up a town girl?”

Silence.

A conspiratorial whisper. “A baby’s on the way?”

Immediately the silence of the early morning is broken as the entire gathering of pirates erupt into uncontrollable laughter. To your surprise, you see the captain’s cheeks turn a bright, cherry red, almost as vivid as his jacket, before he’s spluttering incoherently in distress and fury.

There are wolf whistles and cries of ‘I knew you had it in you, captain!’

“I did no such thing!” Hongjoong hollers in red faced rage and embarrassment, but the crew only falls over laughing and guffawing at their captain’s indignant protests. Even Yunho, who was standing behind you, keels over wheezing, clutching at his belly and making sounds that remind you of a dying horse.

“Enough!” Mingi shouts over the din, but he doesn’t get far before he’s pressed a hand over his mouth, shaking with barely restrained chortles. “I’m sorry, captain.”

Hongjoong throws up his hands in resignation and merely decides to wait for his crew to stop laughing at him.

Eventually, the laughter dies down, save for the occasional giggle and snicker here and there. The captain’s face is still flushed pink, but he clears his head and attempts to continue.

“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” Hongjoong glares at all his crew members, some of who are still chuckling behind their hands, “We are here today to welcome a new member, who is not my unborn and nonexistent child. But before we do that, we are going to name him first.”

Something wells up inside of your chest.

You.

He’s talking about you.

Just as you realise that, the captain turns to you beckoning you forward. Your eyes fly open and you glance behind you, as if there were anyone else on this ship with no name.

“Go on.” Yeosang nudges you with kind smile and you step forward as if in a daze. Hongjoong strides over to you, taking you by the shoulders as his eyes meet yours.

You can’t look away.

“Stowaway.” His voice is soft, wholehearted and genuine, but he has no need to raise his volume. The ship is completely silent except for the creaking of rope in the rigging, the gentle lap of waves against the side of the ship. You could hear a needle drop. “Exactly one moon ago, you literally stowed away on my ship. Mingi and Seonghwa found you in the cargo hold. You broke my quartermaster’s nose, fell unconscious in the middle of a rainstorm from a raging fever and had the audacity to be carried bridal style all the way from the main deck to the sickbay.”

You force down a gulp at his stern tone and Mingi’s shake of the head. The quartermaster’s nose has long come out of its splint, but there’s a little crookedness to it now that you’ve caused.

“I believed you to be a Royal Navy officer due to the coat you were wearing and your terrible story making skills, but you’ve proven to be a trustworthy crew member and apprentice to San.” His voice suddenly takes on a kinder tone. “You’ve saved my crew from the Kraken and survived your first battle on board.”

Tears prick at your eyes but you refuse to let them fall.

“It is an honour to have you as part of my crew.” Hongjoong declares, eye fixed firmly on you. “And now, I’m going to bestow a name upon you, if you don’t mind.”

He looks at you so seriously that you realise he’s actually waiting for permission, not simply asking out of formality.

“Yes.” You manage to choke out, a thickness in your throat that you’ve never felt before. You’re going to have a name. “Yes, of course I don’t mind.”

“Four years ago, we did the same thing for another member of the ship. Today, we’re going to do the same for our stowaway.”

He lays a hand on your shoulder and gestures towards the crowd. To your surprise, your master steps out from the rest of the pirates.

“The last time, we gave the person a new family name of his own.” Hongjoong says, as San rests his hand on your other shoulder. “But this time, San has offered to give you his.”

Your eyes widen to the size of dinner plates and you turn to stare at your master, whose face is unreadable and blank as usual. He merely shrugs at you.

“From this moment on, you have a name.” Hongjoong declares, and suddenly the heavens shake as if on cue, thunder rolling through the sky. “I wish you all the best in recovering your memories, that you may find the truth of your past even though it may seem as unconquerable as the ocean.”

Your eyes fall closed at his sincere, kind hearted words. Tears slip past your tightly shut eyes at your captain’s words, but honestly at this point you don’t care anymore.

“I name you Choi Chin Hae, family of the ATEEZ crew.”

There’s silence all about you for a moment as everyone takes time to process their captain’s words.

The cheer starts off soft at first, a single person whispering it from the crowd. Then it grows in volume until it becomes a resounding echo throughout the harbor.

“Chin Hae! Chin Hae! Chin Hae!”

The words drown out the sounds of your sniffling, and you feel San pull you into a tight embrace, whispering words of congratulations into your ear. Something feels right, an empty hole in your chest has been satiated after million of years.

A sob leaves you, your shoulders trembling as you try to keep it in. From the side, you see Hongjoong with a small smile on his face watching the cheers.

“Thank you so much, captain.” You whisper over the rowdy screams of the crew, who have now somehow managed to turn your name into some bawdy bar song. Somehow, Hongjoong hears you over the din.

“You’re welcome, Chin Hae.” Is all he replies kindly.

“Woohoo!” Wooyoung slings an arm around your shoulder out of nowhere, sending you staggering forward, a massive grin on his face. “Let’s party!”

And seas, do these pirates know how to party.

Because the first place they drag you to celebrate is a rowdy tavern in town.

“Get the alcohol flowing!” Yunho crows as the nine of you sit around a table; the same people who have been the most instrumental in your journey. Your master, San, your kind supporter, Seonghwa. The kind maknae, Jongho, the person’s whose nose you first broke the very day you stepped on board, Mingi. The sweet navigator, Yeosang, the cheerful lookout, Yunho. And of course, the captain himself, Hongjoong.

And the head gunner Wooyoung who’s kind of just tagging along for the free alcohol.

“And get the pretty ladies here, please!” The man laughs, waving cheerfully at one of the waitress. She blows him a kiss in reply.

Yunho turns to Hongjoong with a expectant smile on his lips. “Hongjoongie-hyung…”

The captain immediately shakes his head, a scowl twisting on his face. “No. No no no. You only call me Hongjoong when you want something from me and I always regret it. No way am I acquiescing to any of your stupid requests-”

Wooyoung slides into the seat next to yours, starting to open his mouth, but Hongjoong cuts him off before he can say a word.

“That includes you too, Wooyoung!”

Seonghwa chuckles as he watches the little scene go on. “It is a celebratory drink though.” Yeosang nods agreement as he glances at his captain.

“We are having a celebration, so maybe you could treat us to at least a drink each, Hongjoongie-hyung?”

Yunho and Wooyoung immediately slide behind him, trying to back him up with the full power of their two puppy dog eyes.

You watch with interest as Hongjoong’s stern expression cracks just a little down the middle. Yeosang adds a ‘please’ and you see every ounce of Hongjoong’s good, logical thinking just crash down a drain.

“Whatever.” He sighs, shaking his head and the two mischief makers exchange an exuberant high five.

“Waitress, one cask of the finest alcohol you have!” Wooyoung shouts across the din of the tavern and Hongjoong’s face immediately goes ashen.

“Wooyoung! I said one drink!” He yelps, rising to his feet to cancel the order, but Yunho tackles him back down as Wooyoung goes to fetch the alcohol. The two roll on the ground like a pair of children roughhousing in the mud, except that one is actually the Pirate King of the Caribbean and the other is a deadly ex-gladiator.

“That is technically one drink.” San shrugs as he shakes his head at the commotion.

You turn to him curiously. “Are you going to drink, master?”

The healer sniffs at the wooden cask Wooyoung is lugging back in distaste. “As I said before, I abhor the taste of alcohol, most of all rum. It is a vile drink that can turn even the most respectable of men into complete scoundrels. There’s a reason we use it to kill the disease causing creatures on our skin, you know.”

“San’s just a lightweight.” Wooyoung calls loudly over the noise of Yunho and Hongjoong both fighting to get the upper hand on the floor as he sets the cask down. The healer turns to give him a deadly glare.

Seonghwa winces in sympathy. “Shots fired.”

“What did you say, you little shit?”

Yeosang chuckles a little under his breath, looking at San. “Well, you can’t really take alcohol-”

“Let’s have a drinking game, right now!” You’ve never seen your master so pumped for anything, and you’d never have thought the day you’d see it would be because of alcohol. “We’ll play truth, dare or drink. Let’s see if I’m the one left drunk after this!”

“I’m on!” Wooyoung cracks open the lid, handing out the wooden mugs. “Come on, everyone! Let’s see who’s the last one left standing! Upright, at the least!”

Hongjoong finally clambers back into his seat, blonde hair mussed from the little fight and his eye patch askew. “What did I miss?”

“They’re having a drinking game. Or rather, we’re having a drinking game.” Mingi sighs under his breath, shaking his head at his crew mates as he takes his mug. “I suppose doing this once in a while is fine…”

Wooyoung snatches a glass bottle and places it in the middle of the table. “Let’s get the bottle rolling.”

You frown, a little confused. “What’s going on?”

The other eight glance at each other before Jongho explains. “Every time before they start drinking, they’ll have a game of spin the bottle. If the bottle lands on you, you need to tell a truth, carry out a dare, or just drink an entire tankard.”

Entire tankard? You eye the size of your cup doubtfully, unsure whether you can even finish it before the night ends.

“Since this celebration is in honour of you, Chin Hae, why don’t you spin the bottle?” Yunho calls as he fixes his hair, grabbing his mug. You carefully reach out and spin the bottle.

The glass bottle spins around in circles, a little wobbly, but in the end it finally settles on the captain.

“I hate this game already.” Hongjoong groans, turning to you. “Truth.”

You pause. Is there anything you really want to ask the captain?

Then something occurs to you, all the way back from when you’d first come aboard this ship.

“Captain… when I was sick and fell ill… were you the one who carried me to the sickbay?”

Hongjoong freezes for a moment. Then he fills his mug to the brim and knocks back the whole drink in a single gulp, choking out ‘next’.

It can’t have been more obvious if he’d slapped you in the face with a dead fish.

“But hyung-” San begins to say with a grin on his face, but his captain cuts him off.

“Shut up, San! You can’t say a word about it.”

Wooyoung and Yunho are in fits of laughter, Mingi and Seonghwa shaking heads at their captain’s terrible lying skills. There’s a warmth rising in your chest, a certain happiness. That captain may really have not hated you from the beginning at all.

San shrugs, but there’s a twinkle in his eye. “I mean, captain, when you were naming Chin Hae, you said something about being carried bridal style to the sickbay… I mean, nobody but the person carrying him could have known that, am I right?”

Hongjoong pauses a moment to think over his words. You can literally see the cogs in his head turning as realization dawns on him.

He slams his head into the table in mortification. “And I already drank the stupid drink. Damn, I hate this game.”

Wooyoung pats his captain on his back reassuringly, but there’s not a bit of sympathy on his face. “It’s alright, cap’n. I mean, all of us already knew except for Chin Hae here.”

Hongjoong pins San to his seat with a murderous glare.

“Moving on!” San chirps, suddenly too cheerful in spite of his imminent death looming over him. “Wooyoungie, it’s your turn!”

“Yeah!” The head gunner gets up and spins the bottle, the neck finally coming to rest on Seonghwa. The cook’s eyes widen momentarily. “Seonghwa!”

“Truth.”

Wooyoung frowns as he strains to think of a suitable question. Mingi sighs, sipping from his tankard. “This is stupid. They’re going to end up drunk anyway, honestly.”

“Remember what happened the last time Wooyoung got drunk?” San muses, and Yeosang snorts as he takes a drink.

“Well, I remember you being flat out wasted right next to him and that you woke up on the main deck butt naked because you ran all the way back to the ship from the tavern while throwing off your clothes and singing ‘nothing’s gonna hold me down’, all while Mingi and Seonghwa were trying to chase you down.”

You turn to stare at your master questioning. His face is carefully blank.

“I did no such thing.” He hiccoughs and swallows a mouthful of alcohol. “But I do remember what Wooyoung did. He flirted so hard with someone, fell in love and ran back to tell us he was leaving the crew for good, before he woke up next to a potted plant in his bed.”

You choke on your rum.

“Argh! I can’t think of one right now.” Wooyoung runs his fingers through his hair, shaking his head. “Hyung, tell us your most recent secret!”

Seonghwa’s eyes widen and he glances over at you. You immediately know what he’s thinking about.

To your gratefulness, Seonghwa merely sighs and begins to fill his tankard. Yunho pouts.

“Aww, that’s no fun, hyung!”

The cook merely shakes his head with a serene smile on his face as he returns to his seat. “Our definitions of fun are very different. Yunho, it’s your turn.” The lookout eagerly spins the bottle.

And the bottle lands on you. Their eyes all come to stare at you expectantly.

“Uhh…” You keep your voice shaking from the nerves. “Truth.”

“If you were a woman…” Both you and Seonghwa almost choke, Seonghwa on his drink and you on dry air. “Which of us would you be with?”

You cough at the too accurate statement, but luckily for you, no one realises, all too busy extolling their own qualities.

“It’s going to be me.” Wooyoung insists, patting his biceps fondly. “I mean, look at these guns, baby!”

Mingi snorts as he takes a sip. “Sorry, Wooyoung, but the only guns you have are back on the ship.”

The entire table dissolves in laughter.

“Burn!” Yunho crows, waving his tankard around. You dodge to avoid the alcoholic spray. “But Chin Hae, you still haven’t answered my question!”

You pause to think about this for a moment.

“Well, if I’m honest… It’s probably Master.”

San grins at Wooyoung, who looks like he’s just been struck dumb. Then Wooyoung speaks, his voice thoughtful.

“But technically the two of you have the same surname, so isn’t that like incest?”

There’s silence as everyone glances at each other. You stare at your master in horror.

“And wouldn’t Jongho be like San’s brother or something since he’s a Choi too, so would Jongho be Chin Hae’s brother in law-”

“Okay, let’s drink!” Yunho shouts before the conversation can get any weirder, and everyone happily acquiesces.

Over the course of a few hours, you watch as the tavern turns into complete madness.

Seonghwa, Mingi and Yeosang are drinking quietly and speaking in soft tones, while your captain and master are both singing ‘baby don’t stop’ at the top of their lungs, attempting some terrible dance along the side.

Jongho’s at your side, shaking his head at their shenanigans as he downs tankard after tankard, trying to drown his life problems and Yunho and Wooyoung are long gone, attempting to flirt with anything that even remotely moves or breathes.

And they’ve somehow already started a fire in the kitchen, which the staff have had to desperately put out.

“Hey, Chin Hae.”

You glance up to see the gunner, Wooyoung, standing there. You’ve never really talked to him much, after he abandoned you and Jongho on his little excursion with his lady friends, so you’re a little confused to why he’s speaking to you now.

He looks abnormally serious.

“If this is about why I didn’t choose you for the Truth thing earlier, I’m sorry-”

But he doesn’t even acknowledge your words, pulling you out of the tavern by the hand. You’re confused, but you follow him to one of the back alleys. He stops to rummage in his pockets, before producing something long and slender wrapped in a velvet bag.

“This is for you.” He says, so earnestly that you’re puzzled for a moment, but you take the small gift from him and open it.

A beautiful, silver hairpin slides out from the soft velvet.

A gasp falls from your lips. It must be extraordinarily expensive, the hairpin is made of the finest silver with exquisite, elaborate detailing on the pure metal. At the end is the main piece, a sea flower, its petals wrought with fine silver, a single, well polished aquamarine stone set in the very centre.

“Do you like it?” Wooyoung asks softly, as if afraid you might reject it. You’re stunned beyond comprehension, turning the beautiful piece of jewelry in your hand carefully, afraid that it might break.

“Yes.” You manage to choke out, suddenly a little emotional. No one else has gifted you with such a precious thing before. Then you start to panic. Has he found out that you’re a woman? “Yes… but why?”

“Remember the time you went to town with Jongho and I?” Wooyoung smiles genuinely, his eyes crinkling to little crescent curves. “You were looking at the hairpins like you really wanted one. It’s a pity you can’t wear it now though, your hair is too short.”

“But it must be expensive.” You breathe in disbelief, tracing your finger down the side of the cool metal. Wooyoung shrugs, a cheeky grin on his face.

“The money I bought it with was clean.” You give him a flat stare.

“I’m joking, I’m joking!” He laughs, as you gently slide the pin back into the velvet bag. The you look at him as earnestly as possible and flat out bow to him as deeply as you can.

“Thank you, Wooyoung-hyung.”

“You’ve just gained a name and joined the crew today.” The purple haired gunner’s face is soft in the moonlight, accentuating his handsome features like magic bringing a carved statue to life. “So happy birthday, Chin Hae-ah.”

Happy birthday.

There’s a comfortable silence between the two of you, before the back door to the tavern bursts open and Seonghwa, San and Jongho burst out in a panic.

“Don’t flirt with Chin Hae!” Jongho splutters, but Seonghwa trips on the stair and falls onto the maknae. The two go tumbling to the ground in front of the two of you, much to your shock. San steps proudly on the two of them like some sort of disapproving parent.

“Don’t you dare defile my precious apprentice!” The healer declares, clearly drunk because he’s talking to the potted plant at the side rather than you and Wooyoung. Then he shakes the plant vigorously, dirt and leaves flying everywhere. “You hear me, Wooyoung?”

“Come on, I don’t look that ugly…” The gunner says as he helps Seonghwa and Jongho to their feet. Seonghwa dusts himself off, giving you a concerned look. Your heart brims at their thoughtfulness.

“Are you alright, Chin Hae? This strange man wasn’t bothering you at all?”

Wooyoung shrieks in fury at not being recognised. “I am your crewmate! And I’m not such a lowly person to prey on my own crewmates! I love my pretty ladies, excuse you!”

“Yeah, he was just giving me something.” You reply softly, slipping the pin inside your pocket as Jongho tackles him back into the tavern, lecturing him about irresponsible men and sexual predators. Seonghwa nods, pulling San away from his potted plant even as he struggles to continue threatening Wooyoung.

“If I catch you trying to screw my apprentice over again, the next time you get injured I’m patching you up with fishing hooks and barnacle juice-” He squawks as Seonghwa picks him up gently from the back. “Let me go, you fiend!”

“Why is Wooyoung-hyung being so nice to me, though?” You wonder aloud, as the three of you turn back to the tavern, San slung over Seonghwa’s shoulder like a little kid throwing a tantrum.

Seonghwa turns to where you and Wooyoung had been standing with a sad, wistful smile.

“It’s probably because Wooyoung knows what you’re feeling. He understands, after all.” The cook says quietly, his expression fond and you can feel the brotherly love Seonghwa has for his younger crewmate.

You frown at his words. “Understands what?”

Seonghwa’s smile is heartbreaking.

“What it is like not to have a name.”

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bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher · 4 years ago

Text

and down they fell

(another lovely prompt fill for the magnificent @ciaimpala)

“Keep your filthy hands off of him!” Jaskier screamed, flailing wildly in the arms of a Cintran soldier. “Let him go, damn it! I’m the one that started the damn fight! Take me instead!”

“We can’t just let him go you loudmouthed brat,” another soldier spat. “He’s a wanted criminal. We’d arrest you, too, but your father seems to be on good terms with the Duke.”

“Then do me and my father a favor and release Geralt immediately!” Jaskier argued. The man shook his head, the feather atop his helmet bobbing slightly with the motion.

“Listen kid, you and the rest of the Kaer Morhen’s crew are allowed to leave whenever you like, so I’d probably fuck off out of port and start voting on who takes over as captain. The White Wolf is going to hang for his crimes against the Cintran and Skelligan Navies. End of discussion.”

The tall man holding Jaskier tossed him towards the otherwise silent crew. Eskel caught and steadied the pirate/bard. He could feel the young man’s shoulders trembling; probably a combination of terror and rage. The first mate opened his mouth before Jaskier could yell at the guardsmen again and get them all into trouble, “We’ll be leaving, then.”

“Wha-”

“He’s the first mate, Jas,” Geralt agreed calmly. “Listen to him.”

Jaskier’s head whipped back towards the Captain, whose hands were being manacled together behind his back. The white-haired pirate kept his shoulders back and his spine straight even as he was fettered. He didn’t want to let his little siren know just how scared he really was. If they didn’t come up with a plan in time, or if they decided not to make a rescue attempt at all, he would hang in the morning. He knew that much.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, tone firm. It was a promise. A declaration. Two much-adored syllables that encompassed the entirety of Jaskier’s world within them.

“Jaskier.”

The soldiers turned away, his darling White Wolf secured between them, and made their way towards the prison.

---

The Captain’s three closest friends could hear Jaskier’s wailing from their place in the galley, where they were planning his rescue. “Do you think we could get the lad to stop crying long enough to charm someone with that Voice of his?” Lambert asked.

“Maybe?” Eskel shrugged. “But I’d rather not test it out with the Captain in such immediate danger.”

“He’s going to upset the crew if he keeps caterwauling like this.”

“The crew is already upset!” Starkey huffed. “We should ask him to help us, though. Jaskier has gotten us out of more scrapes than I can count. Literally. I can’t count that high, my education was very limited.”

“You’re right,” Lambert sighed. Somehow he had become the little minx’s best friend aboard the Kaer Morhen. Maybe it was their equally sharp wit. Maybe it was their mutual love of teasing Geralt. Who knew? Not them.

“Jask?” Lambert called, knocking on the cabin door. “We’re going to save him but we’d really like your help. You’re the one who’s good with people.”

Jaskier opened the door and Lambert was surprised to see that his face was dry and his eyes were clear. The sounds coming from the cabin couldn’t have been crying, then, so what had he been doing? The blue of Jaskier’s irises shone dangerously beneath the light of a dim lantern and a sense of icy, foreboding fear crawled down Lambert’s spine. Why do I feel so afraid of being alone with him all of a sudden? It’s just Jaskier. What’s making me act like a child frightened of shadows beneath the bed?

As if sensing his discomfort, Jaskier flicked his hair out of his face and smiled confidently, “Firstly, I’m going to need a distraction.”

“Oh, you already have a plan. Why am I not surprised?”

“Because you know me.” The ex-noble strode past Lambert and towards the stairs to the galley, waving him along behind like a forgetful puppy. “Those sounds I was making weren’t cries of sadness, my dear. They were battle cries. Come along, Lamby, we don’t have all fucking week.”

The second mate followed him down, eyes wide with a mixture of shock and acceptance. Cintra had better be prepared. No army in the world could be as dangerous as Jaskier when the Captain is in trouble.

---

Jaskier yanked the hangman’s black hood from his head and screamed. How the young man had managed to break in, incapacitate the real hangman, and sneak onto the gallows platform was a mystery to everyone except the ex-noble himself (and he never did tell them the whole story).

Regardless of how he’d managed to get there, he was rescuing Geralt as promised.

The White Wolf’s mouth hung open in shock, his recently freed hands held firmly over his ears, as Jaskier released his pent up rage onto the crowd below. The sound was loud and full of fury. The siren’s shriek seemed never-ending, ringing out over the heads of the people that had gathered to watch his darling Geralt hang. Every passing second provided a fresh supply of wrath to fuel Jaskier’s Voice. These fools, these absolute bastards had come all this way to watch his darling Captain be murdered for injuring some noble pride (and perhaps maybe also stealing).

There was a wagon full of hay waiting beneath the door where Geralt stood. Eskel’s hands were tight on the reins of two strong horses, who would shortly be pulling them all towards the docks in a mad-dash for freedom. Jaskier knew the plan would go off without a hitch. As soon as he stopped his singing he would release the trapdoor and send them down into the wagon. Eskel would steer them to the lifeboat hidden in the cove. He and Lambert would row the smaller vessel back to the Kaer Morhen, which would take them out to sea just as low tide hit the main shore and stranded the quicker navy vessels.

He’d planned this excellently.

His Voice was growing tired from subduing so many people at once.

As soon as he ran out of air, Jaskier wrapped one arm around Geralt’s waist and reached for the trapdoor’s release lever with the other. He looked the pirate straight in the eyes and said with great certainty: “I’m yours, you know, and I’ll love you still in hell.”

And down they fell.

#of course they make it out alive #it's me!#protective jaskier #geralt of rivia #geraskier #swashbuckling au #geraskier swashbuckling au #geraskier pirate #geraskier pirate au #pirates #netflix the witcher #witcher fic #geraskier fic #geralt x jaskier #prompt fill

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logicaemetus · 5 years ago

Text

dark and stormy.

Summary: Virgil panics during a thunderstorm. Logan helps. Characters: Virgil and Logan (platonic, but read it how you want) Words: 1,765 Content warnings: panic attack, intrusive thoughts, brief mentions / descriptions of impractical death

Notes: guess who hates thunderstorms? me! guess who wrote this to cope while a big ol thunderstorm raged outside and flooded our basement with 3 inches of water? me!!!

---

Irony of ironies, Virgil thought bitterly, burying his face into his knees and flinching as another crash of thunder shuddered through the house. He pulled the drawstrings of his hoodie tighter, trying to be as inside himself as possible. Of course the guy who literally calls himself a stormy night is scared of actual stormy nights. It’s your logo, for goodness’ sake.

He could practically hear Logan’s voice in his head pointing out his inconsistencies. He. is. odd. Virgil was beginning to feel tired of being a walking contradiction.

Rain slapped against the side of the house in waves. He tried not to think about the windows shuddering and shattering under the force of it, rain pouring into the house, flooding the room from floor to ceiling with glass and water and blood, drowning them all. If he’d had his headphones with him, he could try to block everything out with music. But those were in his room, and he couldn’t get himself to move from his huddled-up spot on the living room floor.

Ignoring the incessant beating against the windows -- They can’t break, they’re built for this. Right? When was the last time we checked them? How do we know this house passes safety regulations? -- Virgil tried to breathe and focus on the feeling of his hoodie under his fingers. He pinched at the pattern, scowling at the lightning bolts dimly illuminated by the flickers outside.

He supposed, when he’d first chosen his logo, that maybe he could pull a Batman. Get over his fear by becoming it, in a way.

Clearly, his plan had worked about as well as his attempts to force Remus out of the mindspace. Fat lot of good that did him! his mind offered cheerfully, echoing the possum man himself.

Oh, god. The last thing he needed was to accidentally summon another nightmare in the middle of this one. His stomach roiled.

Another flash and a near-instantaneous boom jammed his thoughts to a halt. Virgil distantly registered a pain in his arm and realized a few moments later that he’d shoved his mouth full of sweater-sleeve to stifle his own yell. That lightning strike couldn’t have been more than half a mile away. Why were there so many things in the world that could kill Thomas!?

“Virgil?”

He almost didn’t hear the voice through the pounding of blood in his ears. He cringed; the thought of any of the others finding him in this state made him want to sink through the floor. He could sink through the floor, if he wasn’t jumpier than a horse at a firecracker convention.

Footsteps approached. Virgil began to pick up his head to see who it was before another bright flash of light made him recoil instinctively and hiss. Great. Now he was frightened, embarrassed, and rude. A package deal.

“Virge?” the voice came again, more gently. “It’s just me, Logan. I came down to ensure any non-vital electronics are unplugged in case there is a power surge.” There was a slight pause, and then Virgil felt the other crouch beside him. “Are you... alright?”

Virgil wanted to bite out a what does it look like, Lo? but his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. He settled for gritting out a sound of distress and shaking his head.

Logan’s presence hovered, carefully, just within reach but without making contact. A feeling of gratitude bubbled through Virgil’s frazzled brain; he didn’t think he could handle being touched without warning.

“How may I assist you?”

As if on cue, another crack of thunder set his nerves jumping. He swung a hand out, reaching for Logan and finding purchase on what felt like an arm. To his deep relief, Logan didn’t flinch. He was solid, steady. A much-needed contrast to the thrumming, prickling energy under Virgil’s skin.

“Room,” Virgil choked out. “Need to get to a... a room.”

“Certainly. Your room? Or perhaps Patton’s?”

Virgil hesitated. If he couldn’t calm down here, he wouldn’t fare much better in his own room. Plus Logan wouldn’t be able to stay there, and (he realized, with another jolt of embarrassment) he didn’t want to be alone. And as much as he adored Patton, he would fuss over him, and the last thing he needed was for anyone to make a bigger deal of this than it needed to be.

“Yours.”

“Oh.” A faint note of surprise coloured Logan’s voice. “Alright. Can you stand?”

Another sound of protest left Virgil’s throat.

“Very well. We can sink out together.”

“Can’t. I tried.” Virgil winced at himself. Leave it to me to ask for help and then reject every possible solution.

“I am here to help you try again,” Logan said calmly, his voice nudging aside his negative thoughts. “If you hold onto me, I can provide the grounding you need to sink and rise up. Is that alright with you?”

Virgil took a steadying breath. Ignore the rain. Ignore the wind. Ignore the possibility of being tossed around like a rag doll by the elements, being fried to death, being picked up and flung and crumpled against the wall with a sickening crunch. Ignore ignore ignore. “Sure.”

“Alright. Don’t be alarmed, I am merely repositioning myself.”

Virgil felt Logan move, and he fought back a pathetic whimper attempting to crawl up his throat. Blessedly, the other side didn’t make any attempt to remove his hand from his arm. In a moment, the two were facing one another. Well-- Logan was facing him, cross-legged. Virgil still had his face jammed into his knees.

“Give me your other hand, please.”

Reluctantly, Virgil relinquished his white-knuckled grip on his leg and reached out. A cool hand took his.

“Very good. Now hold onto my arms, like this--” Logan’s hands slid forward and wrapped around Virgil’s elbows, and he mirrored the motion. Self-consciously, he noted the contrast between the warm of the other’s skin and his own clammy hands. He tried not to grip too hard. There was no way Logan couldn’t feel him trembling and flinching, but if he noticed he gave no indication. That bubbling gratitude returned in Virgil’s chest, countering some of the fizz in his lungs.

“Now, you don’t have to look at me. I will speak to you, and you only need to focus on my voice and maintain your hold on me. Can you do that?”

“Mhm.”

“Excellent. Take a deep breath... now out... there we go. Keep that up. Now...”

And Logan began to speak, in a low and steady cadence, about ionization. The intricacies of electrons and how atoms gain or lose them. How it happens during storms, yes, but it is also utilized in fluorescent lamps, scientific equipment, and radiation therapy. As he spoke, his voice seemed to wrap around Virgil’s mind until it came from within, muffling the sounds of the storm. A feeling of calm flowed from Logan’s hands into Virgil’s arms, up into his chest, his stomach, his legs, smoothing out his frayed nerve endings and anchoring him to his own body.

Subatomic particle collision. Heterolytic fission. The formula for quasi-static tunnel ionization. Virgil couldn’t follow a word, but he felt himself carried by the calm of it. His grip on Logan tightened as the ground dissolved from underneath them. They drifted through nothing, and the only thought in his head was that singular voice, weaving a tale of atomic stabilization.

“...where W is the time-dependent energy difference between the two dressed states, and if you open your eyes now, you will see that we have reached our destination.”

Virgil hadn’t even felt them rise. He dared one eye open, and then the other, taking in the blue hues of Logan’s room. “Woah. Just like that, huh?” He took a breath of crisp, dehumidified air, dispelling the last bit of cloying fear that had taken up residence in his lungs. The room seemed to be soundproof; he couldn’t hear a trace of the storm at all.

“Indeed. How are you feeling now, Virgil?”

His eyes met Logan’s for the first time that night, and he realized he was still clinging to him like a vise. He quickly let go and looked away, reaching up to pull his hood off and fix his hair.

“I’m... better. Thanks. I’m, uhm...” He cleared his throat. “Not great with. Loud. Destructive... things. But, I can breathe now, so... thanks for getting me out of there.” A prickle of shame began to creep up his neck at the thought that Logan practically had to play firefighter to get him out of a non-life-threatening situation. Oh, jeez. And he’d hissed at him. He winced. “Sorry for freaking out on you.”

“There is no need to apologize, Virgil. You were experiencing a great deal of alarm. And I am happy to help. Truly.”

Virgil nodded, and the prickle receded a little bit.

“Now that you are in a relative state of calm,” Logan continued, “would you like to return to your room?”

Virgil silently thanked every painted star in Logan’s room that it was him, not Roman or Patton, who’d found him. He was so chill.

“Actually, if you don’t mind,” he began, letting out a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. “Can I stay here for a bit? I could use the company. And... my room isn’t soundproof.”

Logan smiled softly. “I don’t mind in the slightest. Would it help to talk about what just transpired, or is a distraction preferable?”

“A distraction sounds amazing right now. Actually-- I left my headphones in my room. Do you...?”

“I have an extra pair of noise-cancelling headphones you may use. Or, if you prefer, we could--”

“--share a pair of earbuds and listen to that podcast you were telling me about?”

Logan’s eyes lit up, and Virgil smirked at the way he instantly grew more animated. “I-- yes, if that is-- if you are amenable.”

“I’m down.”

---

Irony of ironies, Virgil thought with amusement, an hour later. The one who’d been most excited to get him into Wolf 359 had been the first to fall asleep, head lolling against his shoulder. Not that he minded.

He leaned his head back against the wall, counting the stars on Logan’s ceiling while the episode finished. He knew he’d probably wake up soon and scold him about the dangers of not sleeping in a real bed, but for now... this was fine.

#virgil sanders #logan sanders #ts virgil #ts logan #analogical #as with most things I write this turned out way longer than I intended and I had no idea how to finish it #but uh. yknow. *yeets my fears onto virgil* have this #no editing we die like men #me write #fics #local emo says debate club blows; attends anyway

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1-800iamhispanic · 3 years ago

Text

READERS WARNING⚠️: This chapter contains explicit fighting and gore sequences, as well as adult language and sexual references. It may be offensive to some readers.

CHAPTER FOUR: TREVOR

He had left immediately after his conversation with Alucard. That was early this morning, and he had been traveling for about five hours now with still no sign of any attacks or vampires. He sighed as his horse continued to trot through the forest.

His back ached and his legs were beginning to cramp. "Whoaa," he tugged onto the reins and the horse neighed but stopped. "Maybe we can rest for a bit," he said as he got off the horse, his bones popping as he finally stretched, the patted the horse's neck. "Immortality looks good right about now, huh? No need to worry about old age or sore muscles," he smirked at the horse who only snorted as a response.

Trevor's grin slowly disappeared, "Yeah, I wouldn't want to live longer than needed either," he said as he tied the reins of the horse to a tree branch, and began to walk away from the horse.

In his walk he kept thinking of his conversation with Alucard. How he should be with Sypha at this moment, enjoying and helping build the new town. Sypha. How happy she had become since their victory. Her growing womb swelling certain areas that were his favorite, and as if it were any more possible, making her glow with absolute beauty. The sex was even different now, Trevor thought. That made him smirk remembering what they had done last night. Twice.

He sighed and shook his head not wanting to distract himself from his current task. Hunting.

Damn you, Alucard. How dare he! Trevor thought as he stopped walking. "This is for them!" He raised his arms up showcasing the empty forest around him. The birds were chirping, the sun was still out, everything was peaceful.

He put his arms down and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Maybe I should go back."

Just as he was about to turn around and head back, he noticed the silence around him. The birds had gone quiet. He continued to pinch the bridge of his nose as if pretending to be thinking tiredly. His eyes slightly opened as he scanned his surroundings. Then he felt it. The hairs on his arm rising and his skin tingle with coldness, just as it did right before a fight.

He turned normally, keeping his head straight ahead to avoid being obvious, and began to walk back to his horse. Trevor held tight onto the handle of the Morning Star whip.

There was a rustle of leaves coming from behind him. Feet running. A branch snapping. The sound of a hissing mouth opening and-

SWOOSH!

CRACK!

THUNK!

Trevor turned quickly, swaying his whip off the dead corpse. He had struck him clean down the center of the vampire's face, which now split open on the forest floor.

Trevor listened for a moment in silence. The wind blew towards him and that's when he caught the scent. "I'd get this over with rather than wait it out," he shouted. Silence.

Trevor moved passed the split body closer to the smell in the air of blood. Not from the vampire he just killed, but of blood that had been days old by now. An iron-like and rotting smell the kind that lingers after a hunt or murder. Movement.

"Don't tell me you're afraid?" He scoffed and couldn't help but grin at that. "What's the point of being an immortal with permanent weapons attached to the gums of your mouth if you can't even- OOF!"

He groaned as immense weight was applied to his chest, right below the rib cage. The vampire had sprung out and slammed Trevor to the floor. He bared his fangs and pressed his foot against Trevor's wrist which held the whip. All the while keeping the rest of his body weight on Trevor's chest.

Trevor gasped for air as he blinked trying to quickly regain consciousness after what just happened. He looked up at the devil who was literally standing on top of him. Oh, I'm going to enjoy killing you he thought.

"That'll be tough, seeing as you won't have hands to kill me with," sneered the vampire. Oh, so Trevor had said it out loud. The vampire raised his left foot but before Trevor could make sense of what was happening, the vampire slammed his foot down hard against Trevor's wrist.

CRACK!

The sound of bones cracking and his own hissing scream bought Trevor back to focus. He groaned and gasped through gritted teeth as he noticed that he had dropped hold of the whip when his wrist popped.

The vampire smirked and tsked at Trevor's deformed hand. "Don't tell me you're afraid?" Teased the vampire.

Trevor clenched his teeth and with his left hand tightened in a fist he punched the vampire's knee on the side as hard as he could. It didn't do much because of the armor he was wearing but it was enough to make him sway. To which Trevor rolled to his upper back, wrapped his legs around the vampire's left leg, one by his hip and another below the crouch and stretched. The vampire staggered unbalanced, which gave Trevor enough time to wrap the Vampire's foot under his armpit and twist it until the ankle snapped and dangled. He grabbed the handle of the Morning Star and staggered up to his feet.

The vampire shrieked, fallen on the floor. He took his silver helmet off and threw it towards Trevor's neck at incredible speed. The razor sharp sides of the metal rotating through the air like knives. Just as Trevor was about to whip the helmet at a different direction, a sword interfered causing the helmet to bounce off and land on the floor.

Alucard moved out of the forest and looked over at Trevor who was cradling his wrist. "That looks different."

Trevor sighed and rolled his eyes, "You should have gotten here five minutes before, and it wouldn't look like this."

"I shouldn't even be here! I should be home, remember?" Alucard raised his brow as he turned his attention back to the vampire who began crawling away.

Trevor cracked his whip and slashed a clean cut through the vampires left wrist. Blood trickling down the open wound. "Speaking of home, why aren't you there?" He broke his gaze only momentarily to glance at Alucard who was already glaring at him.

"You aren't seriously asking me that? I just saved your fucking life!"

The vampire cradled his injured arm much like Trevor was doing. He threw his whip back, "A bit dramatic aren't you? I had it-"

he stroked his whip at the vampire's right hand, slicing it clean off. "-under control," he finished.

The vampire shouted as Alucard stayed within the shadows of the trees but continued to creep in closer, his sword by his side. "Oh! So that's what control looks like," he glanced at Trevor's wrist.

Trevor scoffed as he brought his whip back. "Don't you ever stop talking?"

Alucard rolled his eyes as he grabbed hold of the vampire's hair and yanked his head back to see his face. Trevor looked down at the vampire. His face dirty from sweat, blood and days of travel. He glanced at the uniform, the metal and the colors. "I've seen this armor before," he stated.

"What are soldiers from Styria doing here? We know you're not the first ones to be lurking in the forest," asked Alucard.

The vampire only grunted. "How many of you are there in this area?" Asked Trevor impatiently.

"You can kill me now or wait until later, but you'll not hear a thing from me," spat the soldier.

"Then let's see how long you'll last," echoed Alucard as his sword flew through the vampires knee.

"No, I don't think that even hurt him, let me try," teased Trevor as he grabbed hold of the hilt of the sword. He placed the tip of the sword just below the crouch of the vampire and added pressure.

"You know I've actually never sliced anyone in half starting from the bottom. So, I might have to take a few breaks before continuing," he threatened through clenched teeth.

"And seeing as how he's unable to use the strength of both hands, this will take a while," clarified Alucard.

The vampire only turned his head avoiding eye contact. "The witch will die. Along with the bastard of your spawn and everyone else. She 'll make sure you live long enough to see it all burn and die," grinned the vampire. He sounded nervous and desperate, but he managed to laugh and keep a smirk on his face.

Trevor's hand trembled with fury, his face twitched with rage and he felt his blood boil throughout his body. In one quick swipe he managed to split the vampire open from bottom to top. Blood pouring and gushing in all directions until finally the body lay torn apart on the floor, the blood pooling around what was left of him. Alucard moved the sword out of Trevor's hand with his mind and looked at the dead bodies.

The two of them stood motionless for only a moment until finally Trevor composed himself. He inhaled deeply and turned to Alucard. "You need to go back immediately. Find Sypha and protect her. Protect everyone, I'll be there as quickly as I can, if I don't return...then I'm dead. In which case you need to be prepared for whatever this is-" he pointed at the dead vampires.

"He wanted a quick death Trevor, he knew how to trigger you," Alucard tried to calm him down. Trevor was already walking back to his horse. "These are Carmilla's soldiers! Why are they here, Alucard? They found the castle, they found us! Now they want war," he untied the reins from the branch and braced himself as he climbed onto the horse.

Alucard quickly ran a hand under the horse's reins, keeping it from moving. "Let me at least, set that back for you," he insisted. Trevor bit his lip and sighed.

Alucard snapped the wrist back in place and Trevor winced in pain. "FUCKING HELL!"

Alucard nodded. "There's some things that might be broken but it isn't bad-"

"That's because their not your bones," grunted Trevor.

Alucard smiled and let go of the reins, stepping aside. "Ride as fast as you can, I'll be back at the Castle. If anything happens look out for smoke, we'll signal you if there's danger."

Trevor took hold of his reins and nodded, "She's going to bloody kill me."

Alucard chuckled and raised a golden brow, "Probably. I don't know how she stands you." Then in a blink of an eye Alucard was gone, on his way back home.

Trevor clicked his tongue and kicked his heel to the sides of the horse, prompting him to trot and then run. "Neither do I," he muttered to himself before he continued his journey back home.

——————————

(Writer’s note 📝: It’s not easy to have my stories reached out to more readers, so if you could be so kind as to reblog this for more people to read it, I’d greatly appreciate it. I hardly know if anyone does ready my stories, but if you are reading this now, and enjoying it then I’m very much happy. Please feel free to leave a comment, message me or create a fanart based on my writings. 🖤)

#free write #love #excerpt from a book i'll never write #reblog #castlevania sypha #castlevania fanfiction #castlevania trevor #richard castle #Castlevania #trevor belmont #trevor x sypha #sypha fanart #sypha/trevor/alucard #sypha belnades #fanart #comission #comment what you want to read next #comicart

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crystalirises · 4 years ago

Text

The Final Answer (36 Questions AU 6/13)

Sixth Part.

WE BOTH

It was just his luck. Fundy grumbled as he helped Dream place torches around the dining room, a strike of lightning having taken out the power before they could begin the questions. Fundy rubbed at his elbow, feeling the chill that seeped into the room. Dream walked past him, humming under his breath as if he was enjoying every second of the situation.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was all a part of your plan.” Fundy grumbled beneath his breath, scowling as he glanced down at the empty table. This sucked. This sucked. This sucked. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUU━

Dream glanced towards the fox hybrid’s direction, placing a torch on the wall as he did. He felt a smile tug on the edge of his lips, “Fundy, I wouldn’t manipulate the weather for something life this.”

“How can I trust your word on that?” Fundy thought about it, realizing how suspicious it was that everytime he and Dream went on a date, the sky would be clear and the weather would be the best it’s been in days.

“…I suppose you just have to.” Fundy rolled his eyes at the answer, settling back into his chair as Dream finished lighting up the room. He looked down at the bottle of wine on the table. He shouldn’t…

“Like I trusted you these past few years? I wonder what doing that got me, hm? Oh, wait.” Fundy narrowed his eyes at the blonde in front of him, holding back the urge to kick Dream’s leg underneath the table.

“Fundy, I― You know I― I didn’t lie about everything―”

“Well with you, I can’t really tell. You’ve lied to me. A lot.” Fundy huffed, clawing at the edge of the table as he heard the other chair scrape against the wooden floor. He could feel Dream’s eyes on him, but he kept his attention to the wine bottle at the side of the table. He needed a cig. He shook his head. No. No. No. What would Niki and Ranboo think?

“You… You literally said to the entire world: ‘I don’t care about anything in this world, except for a child’s discs’!” Fundy raised his arms in the air, frustration seeping into his voice. Seriously, imagine hearing your “loving” husband proclaim to everyone that he cared more about some random item - that wasn’t even his to begin with - than you.

“If I recall, this happened at the same time where you called me ‘your bitch’.” Dream felt a scowl form on his lips. It shouldn’t have upset him, but it did. He expected the others, of course he did. But his own husband actively insulting him while Tommy threatened to burn the remains of his dead horse? Fundy knew how much he loved Spirit, and yet he― “I know we promised that no matter what political agenda we chose, it wouldn’t ruin our relationship, but he threatened to burn Spirit’s remains. Fundy―”

“You broke that promise the moment you gave Wilbur the fucking TNT.” Fundy slammed his hands against the table, the wine bottle clattering to the side, though it didn’t break. He felt his heart burning with rage, a low growl ripping through his throat as he tried to contain his anger. That promise. That fucking promise. A promise made by a newlywed and naïve couple who thought they held eternity and immortality in their hands.

“You… Y-you took my dad away, Dream. You took him away… and I never got to say I was sorry.” Fundy could feel the tears in his eyes, the burning ache in his chest as the memory of his father’s death flashed through his mind.

Dream kept his mouth shut, the soft sobs of his husband tearing a hole into his heart. There was nothing he could say. There was nothing he should say. He had wanted Manburg gone, wanted Schlatt gone. Wilbur was his vassal, a worthy man to his cause. How was he to know that the man would choose to die?

“I need a moment.” Fundy stood up from the table, his feet dragging against the floor as he walked out into the hallway. He swallowed down the bitter guilt that gnawed at the back of his throat as he shuffled towards one of the cabinets that occupied the small hall. He gripped the wooden knob, pulling the drawer open as he fumbled for a familiar box in the cramped space.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Fundy opened the box, eyes glazing over as he saw those white sticks inside. He needed it. He really did. He needed something to help him cope. He can’t deal with Dream alone.

Dream stayed silent as he watched Fundy disappear into the hall, gripping the glass of whiskey in his hands so tightly that he feared it might break into shards. He poured himself another glass, begging for his mind to succumb to a haze of euphoria and giddiness. They’d been making progress… but now… He sighed.

He coughed, choking as a familiar scent of smoke reached his nose. He placed the glass down, gaze snapping towards the hall as he caught a glimpse of Fundy’s tail disappearing to the right. It wasn’t the smoke of a fire. It wasn’t the stench of flint and steel. It was the scent of nicotine that stained the air. His head spun as he cautiously walked towards the hall, peeking around the corner. He felt his heart clench in his chest, a burning ache as he watched a small flicker of light and gray smoke dance within the darkness.

He trembled as he held onto the edge of the doorway for support, his fingers clenched against the frame as he watched his husband indulge himself in a vice he’d never thought Fundy would have. Not after… He held back the bile that threatened to rise in his throat. What the fuck happened in New L’Manburg these few weeks? He tried to shake himself from the mist that clouded his mind. He couldn’t let this happen. He couldn’t watch this happen. Not to Fundy. He knew Fundy wanted space… but he had to stop this.

Fundy took a long inhale of smoke, the gray circles floating in the air in front of him as euphoria filled his veins. He moved his hand to take another, but a hand clamped down his wrist. He looked to the side. Dream’s bright green eyes stared back at him through the dark. He shivered at the worry in those eyes, a worry he hadn’t seen in weeks. He didn’t think he would ever actually see them again. He let Dream drag his raised hand away from his mouth, let him pry his stiff fingers off the stick of white.

He barely registered the creak of the front door, the harsh rush of wind that scratched against his cheek. He barely heard the distinct sound of boots crunching against until it was gone, along with the chill of the storm outside. Fundy blinked, eyes focusing on the chest in front of him. He coughed, backing away from Dream as he headed back into the kitchen.

“Sorry. You didn’t come here for that. We should go back―”

“I came here for you, Fundy. You matter.” Dream trailed after his husband, nearly bumping into the fox hybrid as Fundy turned around to face him. He reached out a hand, hesitating as his fingers hovered to cup Fundy’s cheek. He settled on placing his hand on Fundy’s shoulder instead.

“You matter to me.” They both heard the crack in Dream’s voice, the sincerity within his tone. Fundy nearly leaned into his touch, but he didn’t. He shook his head, as if telling himself he couldn’t.

Fundy didn’t say anything, his voice lost as he headed back into the kitchen. He needed to make dinner. He heard Dream settle in his previous seat, the tell-tale screech of a chair scratching against the floor.

“So… that second question…?”

“Hm. Right.” Fundy didn’t glance up, gathering raw meat from his storage. He hoped his food supply didn’t go bad…

“Question 2. ‘Would you like to be famous? In what way?’” Fundy laughed at the question, like he did during the first time he asked it. It was a stupid question to ask Dream of all people.

“I’m already famous.” Dream fiddled with the glass of whiskey in his hands, setting it down as nausea settled into the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t bring himself to indulge… in that. He took to watching Fundy scour through the kitchen, “I wouldn’t want to be famous again. At least not in this way… you?”

“If I could be famous… I’d want to be famous for something. Something worthwhile. Something… cool.” Fundy snapped his fingers together, slightly ashamed that he couldn’t think of anything specific.

Dream watched as Fundy scampered around the kitchen, holding… very questionable meat. He winced, hoping that Fundy wouldn’t be too pissed off if he chose not to eat anything for the night. His husband’s answer… hasn’t changed, despite everything he’s done for his country, “Fundy, you’re already cool.”

“Oh… uh, thanks.” Fundy stuffed the meat into the furnace, busying himself with his thoughts as he tried not to swoon at the compliment.

“Next question?” Fundy refused to glance up, knowing that Dream would catch the hint of red in his cheeks. It wasn’t his fault that he easily clung to every compliment he got, even if it was from his ex-husband.

“Question 3. ‘Before calling someone on the communicator, do you ever rehearse what you are going to say? Why?”

“I only rehearse if Wil’s on the other side of the communicator… not that I have to worry about that anymore.” Fundy heard the ding of the furnace, the low thrum of heat dying down.

“…you?” Fundy spared the man a glance, hoping that Dream didn’t catch the sorrow in his voice at the mention of his late father. He used to be so scared of what he might accidentally say to Wilbur… now… he doesn’t need to be.

“I don’t rehearse, it usually takes one word from me before the other person on the other side hangs up.” Dream let out a groan at that, hearing the clatter of plates as Fundy placed their dinner on the table.

“I don’t rehearse… even if it is a serious conversation. You know me, I say what I want without thinking.” Dream tapped at the table’s edge, listening to the hollow thump of his finger against the wood.

“I know that’s what your answer was on our first date.” Fundy crossed his arms in front of his chest, sitting down on the nearly ready to collapse chair. How lucky that Dream chose the sturdy chair. He peered down at the meat on his plate, feeling sick as he thought of even taking a bite of that… thing. He really should’ve checked his food supply.

“I’d love to hear what your real answer is. Is that difficult for you to do?” Fundy leaned a bit closer, his eyes narrowed into slits. Was it weird that he remembered Dream’s answer? Maybe. But that wasn’t the point!

“Fundy, I didn’t lie or hide details about everything.” Dream held back his scoff, knowing how Fundy would take that as.

“I was genuine. I don’t think my one slip of the tongue should ruin everything I told you.” Dream placed a hand on his chest, biting back the bubble of frustration that threatened to take over his mind.

“Even if said slip of the tongue just so happened to be, ‘I don’t care about anyone or anything’?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Dream sighed. He wished he could show the regret he felt the moment he saw Fundy flinch as he spoke those words. He meant to apologize after, but… He couldn’t find the time.

“What did you mean? Because I don’t know who you are right now, Dream. Who are you?”

“It’s still me, Fundy. I’m still me.” Dream held back the desperation in his voice, the tinge of panic that threatened to seep into his tone. He wanted this to work. He needed this to work.

“You have to trust that. You have to trust me. I’m still the Dream you married. I swear!” I love you. Dream wanted to scream those three precious words, scream until his voice died and his throat was hoarse and raw. He doubted Fundy would care, no… the fox hybrid would watch him drown in his own anguish.

“I want to trust you, Dream. I lo― I want to trust you so badly but I can’t help what I feel.” Fundy felt the strain in his voice, the aching and longing in his voice. He wished he wasn’t so sensitive. He wished he had his real husband back.

“How can I trust what you say? How can I trust that you didn’t lie to me before? How do I know that your still my Dream?” The Dream I married. The Dream I loved. Fundy left those unsaid.

“Because…” Dream froze, his walls crumbling to the floor.

“When I was with you, I was real. When I was with you, I could be myself.” Dream tried to keep the tremor out of his voice. It was true. It was all true, “When I was with you, I didn't feel lost, confused or frightened…”

He felt human. He felt free, “…or scared to be who I am.”

“When I was with you, I was real... We both think you look great in my green sweater.” Dream never lied about that. It was true.

“We both enjoy an empty space. We both are actual human beings to miners.”

Dream laughed at that, a humorless sound that didn’t sound right to either of them.

“We both are not totally straight. None of that changes.” He looked up, an empty and glazed look in Fundy’s gaze as they stared at each other from across the messy table. He wished he could reach out. He missed his husband. Dream cocked his head to the side, a reassuring smile on his face, “None of that has changed, okay?”

“Okay…” Fundy sucked in a breath, his brain muddled with confusion and apprehension. He remembered those times. He remembered them. He remembers the day he accidentally showed up in Manburg, the green sweater on his person. He remembers the incredulous look on Schlatt’s face, the way he reeled back as if he had been stung. Quackity had let out a loud laugh, recognizing the sweater. Fundy had to race back to the cabin he shared with Dream, flustered beyond comprehension.

“We both like drinking hot tea in warm weather. We both like playing guitar.” Dream smiled at the memories. The first time they’d cuddled in their shared cabin on a lazy summer day. The day Fundy had forced him to learn the guitar (“Dreaaam! Come on, babe! You’ll do great!”). He laughed to drown out the nostalgia, picking at the cold steak in front of him. Fundy always brought out the best in him.

“We both like when you tell me the plots of bad stories. We both forget our stuff at the house almost always.”

He was himself. He was Dream. He wasn’t Dream the War-Hungry Tyrant. He wasn’t Dream, Ruler of the Essempy. He was just Dream.

“When I was with you, I was real. When I was with you, I could be myself.” There was no war with Fundy. There were no responsibilities to uphold… no discs to chase after… no power to hunger for. He was with Fundy. That was all that mattered in those times. He bit back the smile that threatened to appear on his lips, “When I was with you, I was real, like as real as my green sweater…”

“…that I left at your house one time. When I am with you I am real.” Dream let himself chuckle at that memory, “Now, do you remember what I said the first time we did the questions? About my perfect day?”

“Yes. You said that tomorrow could be the perfect day if we let it be. That's not the kind of answer you forget, especially when the person answering it is leaning close to your face.”

“You thinking about that time?” Dream nudged himself closer to the table, his elbows leaning against the wooden surface as he leaned just a tad bit closer to Fundy. Not nearly as close as the first time though.

“I'm remembering it.” Fundy rolled his eyes, staying where he was despite the… loss of space as Dream moved closer. He wasn’t going to back down. Pfft, as if that was supposed to scare him. He giggled a bit as he recalled their first date, wondering if…

“Do you remember my answer?” Fundy raised a brow, a nonchalant look on his face. No. No. No. He definitely wasn’t hoping that Dream remembered. Shut up.

“Hmm… with broad strokes. Picnic in the park with your family. Mini-muffin basket for lunch.” Bad would have loved to meet Fundy, not that Dream ever introduced Fundy to his friends. A mistake on his part. He kept his gaze on Fundy’s, watching as those eyes he loved brightened with every right answer.

“Everyone getting together under a big blanket and watching the clouds or the stars move by through the sky.” It sounded like the perfect date to Dream, if only they ever came around to it.

“Still true.”

“And I'd still wanna be there with you.” Dream choked at his words. Did he really just say that? Shit. He averted his eyes as Fundy’s full and undivided attention turned to him. He quickly withdrew back into his chair, looking at the steak as if it was the most appetizing thing in the world. Why would you say that?

He wracked through his brain for the next question, “Question 5. ‘When was the last time you sang to yourself? To someone else?’” Yes. Move on to the next question, Dream. Pretend that didn’t just happen.

“This afternoon. To Batry.”

“What about to yourself?” Dream raised a brow, intrigued at what Fundy might answer. Fundy sung or hummed if he was busy, he could’ve sung to himself quite recently. At least, that’s what Dream thought.

“They only stayed for half.” They both let out a laugh at that, Fundy shaking his head as Batry flew and squeaked indignantly above them. Fundy recalled that incident. Batry had been sleeping and though Fundy tried to keep his voice down and the noise to a minimum, the bat didn’t seem to appreciate his interruption and quickly flew into the next room. Which was rude because, hey, Fundy was a great singer.

“The last time I sang was on my way over here, through the storm.”

“You sang?!” Fundy nearly stood up at that. Dream singing?! Oh, two words that are never in the same sentence enough. The only time he’s ever heard his hus― ex-husband sing was when he’d accidentally catch him playing the guitar on his own.

“What did you sing?” Fundy couldn’t help the smile that formed on his face before the implications of Dream singing entered his mind. Dream… sung?!!! Ooooh, that was new.

“Oh, I'm gonna die out here…” Dream chuckled as Fundy’s face morphed into that cute little expression he did when he was surprised, the way his ears would rise above his head and the way his tail would floof and wag behind him. It was adorable, and Dream nearly melted when Fundy had done it on their first date. Dream would have swooned right then and there if they hadn’t had a lot of questions left to answer… and if he didn’t want to keep Fundy in a good mood.

“Oh, that song. I forgot about that one.” Fundy knew that song, recognizing it as the song Dream had been humming in… the final control room― ANYWAY. He nodded along, eager to at least hear Dream’s singing voice again. Dream stared at him for a moment, recognition dawning in those green eyes of his before he began to continue the song. Fundy’s ears twitched, thumping his fingers along with the beat as Dream sung the lyrics. It was funny how only a few knew that Dream could actually sing.

“And I think that counts as me singing to someone else. Ask me the next one.” Dream sighed in relief as he finished off the last line, Fundy settling back into his seat as the show ended. He felt his face heating up, not used to actually singing in front of anyone before. Maybe Sapnap and George but they usually joined in with him, and those would devolve into random shenanigans. Had he ever sung in front of Fundy before? He had meant to at the wedding, an alternative to his vows, but he didn’t get to sing―

“Question 6. ‘If you were able to live to the age of 90 and retain either the mind or body of a 30-year-old for the last 60 years of your life, which would you want?’” Fundy moved on to the next question.

“Do you remember my answer?”

“Body.” Fundy wasn’t quite sure if Dream said that because that’s what he actually was or if that was a genuine answer. Dream was cryptic that way. He always was, somehow.

“Do you remember mine?” Fundy asked, doubtful that Dream remembered all of his answers. Dream hadn’t looked all that present during that portion of their date. There was no way━

“Mind. See? Nothing has changed. We're still a good half-sexy team.” They both giggled (Dream wheezed) that, though Fundy tried to muffle his own laughter.

“Question 7. "Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?" You said that you thought you were gonna die in a fire, but you weren't sure how.” Not that Dream would let Fundy die in such a way.

“Right?” Fundy forced a smile on his face, knowing that he kept some information from his answer. When he… burnt the flag… he almost hoped that… He shook his head, a strange gesture on Dream’s end as he watched his husband suddenly shake his head as if a small spider had landed on his nose. No bad thoughts, Fundy. No bad thoughts. Just say Dream’s answer, “And you said that you weren't afraid of death.”

“And I'm still not. I'm only afraid of dying alone.” Dream shuddered at the words, knowing that… everyone hated him now. If he died… would anyone even― He didn’t want to think about it.

“Read the next one.” Dream averted his gaze. His answer hadn’t changed, they both knew that… and they both knew why. But with recent changes, that fear was beginning to seep into reality.

“Question 8. ‘Name 3 things you and your partner appear to have in common.’”

“Easy. We both are super good at coding things to life.” Dream smiled. He gave Fundy admin powers once…

“We both become monsters when we lose. We both think we have the best worst name for a game.” Dream was competitive and Fundy was desperate, not a good combo when it comes to games.

Dream chuckled at the last one, “We both ask Tubbo for our news.”

They used to ask Tommy, but Tommy hasn’t been in New L’Manburg for quite some time. Dream looked down at hands, knowing that Fundy was thinking the same thing.

“There's 4.”

“We both say that I’m so much better at cooking.”

Fundy didn’t want to think about Tommy, “We both hate that kitchen island we built.” He continued with his answer.

“We both need a glass of water on the bedside table. We both sleep early purely out of guilt.” Fundy sighed at that last one, knowing how he had spent his last nights in their old home. He didn’t sleep the entire time, wondering where Dream was. He would wait by the door, falling asleep to the chirp of crickets and awakening to warm sunlight on his face.

“We both have dreams much bigger than ourselves.” They both reached for the sun.

“We both think that's how to live.” Casting their wings…

“We both put up a fight for all the right reasons.” …despite it all.

“And we both eventually give.” Only to fall into the deep abyss below.

“I tried so hard to separate who you are from who you were.” He had been living in denial, until… Fundy closed his eyes, nothing’s changed. Why has nothing changed? The words. The answers. His laugh. It felt familiar. It felt like home. Each time he looked up, all he’d see were the same green eyes that he’d seen for the past few years. He gripped the edge of the table, his breath shaky as he tried to console himself… why has nothing changed?

“But now I'm reevaluating how similar you are to him.”

He knows this man, he loved him once, didn’t he?

“You have the same voice and the same cadence when you speak.” It was the same voice that whispered sweet-nothings into his ear as he cooked or before they went to sleep. It was the same voice who screamed him a warning each time a spider would get too close to him. It was the voice of a man he’d thought he’d share forever with. It was still his Dream.

“If I close my eyes, you still sound to me like the old Dream.”

“When I was with you, I was real.” Dream didn’t lie about everything, didn’t twist his words to fit into a narrative he was desperate to be in. He moved his chair closer, his meal forgotten as he placed his seat right beside Fundy’s. Fundy watched him from the corner of his eyes, not a word of protest escaping the fox hybrid’s lips. Dream wished he could reach for his husband’s hand. He settled for holding his own hand to his chest, a promise of sorts, “When I was with you, I could be myself.”

“Am I in love with the old Dream?”

Fundy ran a hand through his hair, sparing a glance towards the man beside him. He felt conflicted. It should be difficult, not… Fundy didn’t know. This was the Dream he knew, the Dream he loved… but was it? To admit this Dream was the same Dream who blew up his home… could he do that? Could he learn to love… that. Fundy shut his eyes, leaning back into his seat. It would be easy to think if he couldn’t feel the heat emanating from the man beside him. He didn’t pull away though.

“Or who's right in front of me?”

“When I am with you I can feel…” It would be so easy not to feel anything.

“…shivers running down my spine.” But they both couldn’t help it.

“Your skin close to mine.” The other felt warm to the touch.

“It's like my 5 senses make my heart defenseless.” It shouldn’t feel this right.

“With you.” But it was. As much as they both wished it wasn’t.

“When I am with you, I am real.” Dream didn’t lie about everything. He wished Fundy could see that.

“When I am with you I am actually too real.” Dream leaned closer, resting his head at the back of Fundy’s chair. This close, it was enough for him. This was enough. His eyes closed as a smile appeared on his lips, “When I am with you everything feels…”

“With you… With you…” Fundy looked down, seeing the content look on Dream’s face. He wished it wasn’t so endearing. He wished it didn’t bring a smile to his face.

“With you…”

This felt… “So real.”

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