#the fact i barely draw him is a crime within itself

[bananafroggo]

yume

[ironwhumper359]

How about a continuation to this? Because I'd be delighted to see one :3

Waking up to this ask like >:3 You read my mind friend, don't mind if I do:

Part 1

Content Warnings: drowning, captivity, restraints, hero x villain, supervillain whumper, whumper turned caretaker

---

The sight of Hero chained in the tank was enough to make Villain sick.

The fact that they had been the one to fasten the cuffs around Hero's ankles and seal the door only made it worse.

Supervillain, thankfully, didn't notice their discomfort, too busy preening over the victory that was within his grasp. Everything about this moment had been meticulously planned out, from the dimensions of the tank to the pressure of the pumps installed at its base to the angle of the lights and cameras. When Supervillain was finally done gloating, Hero's death would be broadcast on every television station in the city, and Villain had helped make it happen.

"So, my dearest Hero," Supervillain crooned. "It's come down to this."

Villain stood at their place by the control panel, their hands clasped behind their back to keep them from shaking.

"Your beloved city, that you've sacrificed so much to protect, has abandoned you," Supervillain continued, circling the tank slowly. You've given them everything, and they won't even lift a finger for you in return."

Anger burned in Villain's stomach, and their hands clenched into fists. It wasn't fair. Hero had never done anything wrong, had never been anything but good, but it was them who would suffer for the city's crimes.

"You see now, how little they truly care for you," Supervillain leered, and Villain saw the corners of Hero's mouth tighten. "They would rather leave you to my mercy than swallow their pride and submit to me. They have sealed your fate...unless you relinquish your will to me now."

Villain held their breath. This was Hero’s last chance; if they surrendered to Supervillain now then their life would be spared.

But they’d become everything they always strove not to be, whispered a voice in the back of Villain’s mind. Is that not the same thing as losing them?

“Well, Hero?” Supervillain demanded. “Will you finally join me? Or will you throw your life away for the sake of those maggots?”

“Go to hell,” Hero spat with a glare, and Supervillain threw back his head and laughed.

“Oh, I will miss having you around,” he said. “Part of me is almost tempted to keep you...but the show must go on.”

He nodded to Villain, and Villain wordlessly flipped a switch on the control panel. The cameras around the room buzzed to life, and Supervillain turned to face the master shot. 

“Citizens!” he bellowed, sweeping his arms out. “Your leaders, despite many attempts to persuade them, have refused to submit to my demands. Thus, it is time to face the consequences!”

He stepped aside to reveal Hero, and Villain could imagine the gasp of horror anyone watching would let out at the sight of Hero’s small, thin frame, chained and littered with cuts and bruises.

“This tank will be completely filled with water in thirty minutes!” Supervillain declared. “If I have not heard a response from the mayor at the end of that time, you can watch your precious Hero die slowly, and know that your leaders had the power to prevent it!”

Supervillain pulled a remote from beneath his cape and pressed a button, water began pouring into the tank, pooling around Hero’s ankles. They shivered as the icy liquid lapped at their legs, but kept their head held up high.

“They won’t give in to you!“ Hero said defiantly. “No matter what you do, the city will never be yours!” 

“Brave words, little hero,” Supervillain said. “But words won’t save you now.”  

Villain glanced at the bright red phone on the control panel as the water rose up past heroes knees. 

Come on, they thought. Just give him what he wants. For God’s sake, he’s going to kill them, just give him what he wants! 

But the phone remained silent, and as the water rose up to Hero’s waist, Villain knew that what Supervillain said was true: the city had abandoned them. 

“Fifteen minutes left!” Supervillain taunted. “My, how the time flies! That water’s looking awfully high there, Hero; let’s check in and see if we’ve heard anything from the mayor’s office!” 

He looked over to Villain, and Villain shook their head, their stomach twisting when Supervillain grinned. 

“My, what a shame,” he said with a dramatic sigh. “It seems we haven’t heard a peep. Maybe they’ll dedicate a statue to you when you’re gone.” 

Villain almost laughed at that. The bastards probably would; they’d erect it in front of City Hall or the fire department or somewhere equally noble, and speeches would be made every year on this day, commemorating them for their sacrifice while ignoring the fact that they could have stopped it. 

You could have stopped this too, that voice hissed again. You are just as guilty of inaction as the mayor. 

Villain squeezed their eyes shut. The voice was wrong, of course. They weren’t just guilty of inaction, they’d helped Supervillain. The mayor may have had the power to stay Supervillain’s hand, but Villain had been the one to flip the switch. Any court of law would find them guilty for this, and while Villain usually thought the law was bullshit, they couldn’t help agree on that point. 

A gasp pulled their attention away from their own self-pity, and they opened their eyes just in time to see the water rise above Hero’s head, submerging them completely. Their eyes were blown wide with panic and they strained against their chains; whatever composure they’d been holding onto for the sake of the cameras was gone. 

“Such a tragedy,” Supervillain lamented, his face twisted in a cruel smile. “And one so preventable, too.” 

For one fleeting moment, Hero locked eyes with Villain, their expression open and pleading. 

Then a rush of bubbles burst out of their mouth, obscuring their face. Their body jerked as water filled their lungs instead of air, and panic suddenly gripped Villain’s chest.

No...no, please, they can’t just die!

Somehow, some distant part of Villain assumed that Hero would escape in some way, that the mayor would make a last minute call or that another hero would come bursting in to save the day, but there was no one, no one was coming and Hero was thrashing weakly as their brain was deprived of oxygen and Supervillain was laughing, like this was funny, like it was to be celebrated-

“NO!” 

The word tore itself from Villain’s throat, and the resulting sonic soundwave instantly shattered every pane of glass in the room. Camera lenses burst, monitors sparked and died, and most importantly, the tank in the center of the room exploded, water pouring out into the room. Supervillain barely had time to cry out in surprise before the resulting wave knocked him to the ground, but Villain barely gave him a second glance. 

They rushed forward, their boots crunching on broken glass until they dropped to their knees beside Hero’s body. 

“Hero,” they gasped, drawing Hero’s limp form into their arms. “Hero, wake up!” 

“Villain! You traitor, what do you think you’re-” 

“STAY BACK!” Villain shouted, and the force of their sonic wave sent Supervillain sprawling backward. His head connected with the wall with a sickening *crunch* before his body slumped over, unmoving. 

“Please,” they whispered, cupping Hero’s cheek. Their skin was cold beneath their fingertips, and Villain felt tears well up unbidden in their eyes. “Please don’t leave me.”

For a single, heart-stopping moment, Hero didn’t move, and Villain feared they were too late. Then they coughed, spluttering as water was expelled from their lungs, and Villain slumped in relief. 

“Okay, okay, you’re okay,” they muttered, the words just as much a reassurance for themself as they were for Hero. “I’m gonna get you out of here.” 

They quickly moved to unlock the shackles on Hero’s ankles, wincing at the raw, swollen skin left in their wake.

“Villain?” Hero asked, blinking up at them, and Villain nodded.

“It’s alright,” they soothed, wiping away the hair that was plastered to Hero’s face. “It’s alright now, you’re safe.”  

“You...saved me.”

“I...yeah,” Villain said, smiling weakly. “Yeah, I guess I did.” 

“Knew it,” Hero mumbled, and Villain let out a choked laugh. 

“Okay,” they said, gathering Hero close and getting to their feet. “Time to go.”

“Where’re we going?” Hero slurred as Villain carefully stepped over the pool of broken glass around them. 

“I...I don’t know,” Villain admitted. They pulled Hero closer, and dropped a kiss onto the top of their head. “Somewhere far away from here.”

-

Hero x Villain Masterlist

[tumbling-darkling]

Midnight Hang-Outs

This is a small crossover between Danny Phantom and DC! (Specifically Danny and Harley Quinn!) Following the prompts from Day 11 and 12 - Midnight and Scars (more of mentioned than revolving around it) Harley might be slightly ooc because I don’t read a lot of DC comics but maybe consider it more of like AU Harley Quinn. Mother hen. She feeds the vigilantes of Gotham on slow nights.

Harley glanced over to the boy sitting next to her on the rooftop of the Gotham Bank, she had been planning to break into it to draw out some fun with any nearby vigilantes but instead she had spotted the scrawniest looking glowing teen she’d ever seen. Well he was the only glowing teen she’d ever seen, but the poor kid was struggling against some freak in a white suit.

He had already devoured about 10 of the breakfast sandwiches she bought from a nearby 24 hour fast food joint, she couldn’t remember the name but her pal, Jeremy, always worked late shifts and gave her most of the grease filled wraps for free. Which she got a total of 20 and was beginning to worry that it wasn’t enough for this endless void. She thought she could calculate this kind of thing better based on Batsy’s kids, then again none of them had powers. That must be the factor throwing her off.

She glanced over him again, taking in his features for probably the hundredth time since she spotted him. White hair that gently wisped around his face like he was constantly underwater, pale blue-green skin with neon green freckles that sparkled like stars in the night, toxic green eyes that matched the freckles, flecks of blue hidden within the irises that shone in the right light. He hand pointed ears and little baby fangs, and his suit itself reminded her of the superheroes she’s faced before, but the material seemed all wrong when she got a closer look. It wasn’t spandex, or that thick armour like fibre that Batsy likes to use. She didn’t know what it was made out of. That flaming looking D was enough to hint at a superhero gig, like Superman and that ‘S’ on his chest. She didn’t care that it was supposed to be a symbol for hope, his name was Superman and that thing was an S, end of conversation.

The kid had taken off those gloves in order to eat, she didn’t blame him though, eating with gloves on was weird, and those white gloves would stain like a motherfucker. What caught her attention about it was the scars. Little one littered this kid's hands, and then there was a ligament scar coating his left hand. It was the brightest of all the scars, glowing slightly a wicked green as if he was still being electrocuted.

She turned her gaze back to the streets below, “So, what are you doing out this late?” She asked, avoiding sensitive topics like the scar. “It has to be way past midnight at this point.”

The kid glanced over to her, then shrugged, “had to chase Boxy all the way out here, the dude flies fast for a ghost obsessed in boxes.”

Harley glanced back over, noticing the kid now had finished the last of the sandwiches as he looked in the bag for more, shoving the garbage into it once he confirmed there was nothing left, “Boxy? Was that the freak in white?”

The kid shook his head, “nah, that was a government agent. G.I.W, or the Guys in White. Must’ve followed me, cornered me after I was already exhausted from chasing Boxy all over town. Boxy is the Box Ghost, blue ghost dude in overalls, fairly harmless but he can be a pain in the ass when he wants to be.”

“Want me to blow the rest of those agents up for you?” Harley asked, leaning closer while flashing a sinister grin.

The kid jerked back, “no! No it’s fine, just caught me off guard! I can handle them just fine, you don’t need to blow anyone up!” He squeaked out quickly, wildly waving his hands around. Harley couldn’t help but grin at the display, he reminded her a lot of Batsy’s kids. Energetic, good hearts (most of the time), think they can handle the world.

“So are you one of Batsy’s kids? Harley voiced her thoughts.

The kid blinked owlishly at her, “Batsy’s… you mean Batman? The Batman?”

Harley shrugged, “yeah, Batsy. He has quite a lot of them so I like to try and stay updated when he gets a new kid. You almost fit the bill, young teen, dark past, though the powers would be new.”

“How do you know I have a dark past?”

“Well, you said you were a ghost, right? Meaning you died and judging by your age, died before you even finished high school. I’d call that a dark past,” she kept out the lingering question of how he died, that wasn’t something you exactly ask someone when you first meet them. “So you aren’t one of Batsy’s kids?”

The kid shook his head, “nope,” he popped the p, “never even met the dark knight before. I barely visit Gotham, well anywhere if I can help it, I try to keep my problems in my home turf.”

“I see, you know what, I should’ve known better. Batsy would never let his kids run around this late anyway,” she hummed. “I did once see him chew a Robin out for fighting crime past his curfew, it got me arrested for sticking around to watch but boy was it worth it!” She laughed. She was surprised that Batman hadn’t gotten to this kid yet, anyhow. He didn’t always stick around Gotham ever since he joined that hero club, but that just meant that this dude had even more of a chance to find this kid. Must be dumb luck or something.

“Batman puts curfews on his sidekicks?” The kid asked, mouth agape.

“Well duh, the guy is all about the well-being of his kids. He has a no killing rule but he gets close to breaking it when one of his kids gets almost killed. He keeps them well fed, makes sure they sleep, I know because I can hear him from across rooftops at times and I fight enough of his kids to notice they aren’t skin and bones like you.”

The kid looked down at his ungloved hands, and she noticed him tracing the pattern of the ligament scar lightly with his other hand. His expression changed as he seemed to run through a series of thoughts before he spoke again, “why did you help me?” He asked, not looking up to meet her eyes, “you are a villain, right? You fight Batman and Robin, and other superheroes too if they face you. You know I’m not a villain, you said so yourself. So why help me? Wouldn’t it be better to just let a vigilante kid get knocked off so you don’t have to deal with him in future crimes?”

Harley felt her heart shatter, who the fuck hurt this kid like this? “I’m not some heartless bitch,” she said in a matter of fact tone, “you and all the teen sidekicks or vigilantes out there are still fucking kids. I have morals, and some villains don’t have the same morals as me, but seeing you getting kicked around by some freak in an alley where no one could see you? That kind of shit rubs me the wrong way. I fight teen heroes from time to time because I know they can handle it, they can fight back and I myself won’t stoop so low as to kill them if I manage to get in a few lucky hits.” She lightly nudged his shoulder, “and it’s not like you’ve personally wronged me or anything. I felt like being nice, helping out. You seem like a good kid, so why not help you out? Maybe one day I can call a favour and you can distract Bats while I kidnap the president?” She joked.

The kid looked up suddenly, sending his hair in rippling waves as he was giving her a wide eyed and the most worried look imaginable. She couldn’t help but let out another laugh, “I’m joking!” She clarified. “But I think we could have some pretty interesting game nights with Ivy. Not illegal game night, more like Uno or something. Maybe just a little gambling.”

The kid relaxed again, “well… uh… thanks. For helping me. And the food. And talking,” he rubbed the back of his neck, looking up at the sky.

“No problem, be sure to come visit again. Hey, maybe I can even introduce you to Bats at some point! Make a big show and pretend you are a villain and then BAM! Just kidding he’s just a glowing vigilante I helped out once!” She stood up, stretching her arms a little, “be sure to take it easy on your way to your home by the way, maybe take a nap or something on the way there.”

The kid nodded with a smile and stood up with her, then paused as shock filled his eyes and he spun quickly towards Harley, “Wait- how do you know I sleep-?”

Harley laughed, “well, I don’t think ghosts normally eat, so I’m assuming you sleep too,” she offered a soft smile, “just take it easy, and hey, if you ever find yourself in trouble.” Harley then pulled out a business card she usually kept for shits and giggles, handing over the poorly designed card to the kid, “know that you have a friend in Gotham who’s ready to help. And who knows how to get Batsy’s attention the fastest.” She winked.

The kid took the card, a confused grin tugging at his lips, “thanks. Hey, uh. I go by Phantom. Since I never really introduced myself.”

“Well Phantom, nice to meet you,” Harley grinned back.

[sanktnikolais]

Invisible String

The three major events of Zoya's life that Nikolai has had glimpses of, and he feels her emotions all the way to his side of the invisible string connecting them.

or that zoyalai psychic/emotional connection au

@grishaverseonline​ mission 12: favourite character - nikolai lantsov

A/N: guess who’s posting a new content after months of hiding? HAHAHA. This was supposed to be posted yesterday for my birthday but I wasn’t able to finish early. So have this late birthday treat from me. ;-;

Warning tho, contains some RoW spoilers, and contains the alternate version (Am’s version LMAO) of the garden scene.

Word count: 5174

They said that it would take a lot for one to get accustomed to the pain that came with losses. 

          Nikolai never realized he had lost so much until he had everything within his reach.

          He didn’t know it was already a loss when his mother had decided to be unfaithful to the King of Ravka and bore an illegitimate child with a Fjerdan merchant. He didn’t know it was already a loss when he had met a certain brown-haired boy in one of his private classes, not knowing that he would be the reason why that same boy would be drafted early for the war that would take his life later on. He didn’t know it was already a loss when he still tried to seek the approval of the older brother that never wanted him, and that would end up in him developing a cunning personality to gain acceptance from everyone around him. He didn’t know it was already a loss when he dropped the guillotine that would imply that his father was guilty of such a heinous crime, exiling both him and his queen to a faraway place, never to set foot on the country they had sworn to protect yet failed in every possible way. 

          It only came to him, when he was finally sitting on the throne and overseeing a broken country, that he hadn’t really gained anything along the way. Only nightmares that weighed on his shoulders and kept him awake at night, and the black scars that were just as dark as the blood of every life lost in the war coating his hands. 

          And pain.

          Both the ones he had known and acknowledged, and the sudden, unexplainable bursts of physical or emotional pain that came to him in the most random times throughout his life.

          Nikolai didn’t know when it started. Being a young royalty that grew up doing everything in his own cunning way had taught him to mask the pain into something less hurting. Whether it was telling horrible jokes or making something more complicated by talking too much—it was his way to beat around the bush and away from the impending truth, thinking that if he ignored it long enough, he would forget it. 

          It worked, somehow, but it only pent up the emotions in his heart that were bound to explode later on. 

          Even though that fact was clear to him, it still wasn't enough to justify his first, sudden outburst when he was twelve. 

          It was quite a normal day—he had another hour with the extra reading on chemistry and Kaelish history he had requested from his tutors, and he was stuck in the library until the late hours of the afternoon. But the truth behind it, however, was to have time to sneak in and out of the palace to visit Dominik and his family in the countryside. 

          The whole day of learning to braid Dominik's sisters' hair had ended happily, with Nikolai able to finish tying all of them, albeit resulting in tangles that would need more attention to fix later. 

          You'll get used to it, Dominik had mused with a light laugh. I didn't learn this in just one day. 

          Nikolai thought of them on his way home, seeing how their smiles seemed to reach their eyes when they laughed around each other, something he never saw or felt in the Grand Palace. An unwanted pricking stung his eyes, and he immediately reached up to wipe the tears away. It was foolish to be longing for something insignificant when he already had everything he needed. He could just ask anything from his servants and tutors, and they would appease his request without question. So why was he suddenly—

          His throat clogged up with muffled sobs, the sickening feeling of both anger and sadness constricting his heart as if there was a fist was trying to crush it. The next thing he knew, he was collapsing on the palace gardens, and the tears were endless. 

          The wind picked up around him, followed by the sound of thunder. But they fell deaf in his ears as the wails tore from his throat. 

          Then it happened. The dreadful images of a ruined church and a horrified expression from the face of an old man flashed before his eyes, along with the searing feeling of anger directed to him. 

          But then the images faded as fast as they had come, and there was the sudden hollow feeling in his chest. 

          Palace guards found him in the same spot a few hours later, curled into a fetal position as if to shield his body from harm. The King had demanded he explain what had happened, and knowing their judgment to anything Nikolai had ever done and said made him lie. He told them he had hurt himself when he tripped and fell in the gardens, and they easily believed it as it was his own foolishness. There was no way they would believe him even if he tried to tell the truth. 

          He had been sent to a Healer right after that to check for other injuries, even when he knew to himself there wasn't any. 

          Except for the sudden hollowness in his heart that could never be filled. 

***

The next one didn't happen until three years later, when Nikolai was fifteen. 

          He would never know what had given him away, but years of sneaking back and forth in the palace made him careless, and it was only a matter of time before Vasily, his ever cruel brother, knew about it.

          "You're just turning sixteen," Vasily said with a sneer. "But you're already tumbling peasant girls. You're no better than father." 

          Fear gripped at his mind almost instantly when he realized that this mistake would befall on Dominik. Nikolai knew too well how commoners who had done something wrong would be punished by being barred from the palace in disgrace, sending them back to their families with nothing else but their clothes and themselves. 

          Nikolai had begged Vasily to hold his tongue, to keep a secret for him. But if there was one thing he knew about his older brother, it was that Vasily never cared about him. 

          So why would Vasily care about some boy with no name? 

          "Do you understand what you have done?" Nikolai asked furiously the next morning when he had cornered Vasily in the lapis drawing room. 

          Vasily merely shrugged. “Your friend won’t get to study with his betters, and you won’t get to keep rambling in the fields like a commoner. I’ve done you both a favor.”

          “His family will lose their stipend. They may not be able to feed themselves without it.” His rage was boiling into something much worse, and he could feel it coursing through his veins. But he still held back. It was his weakness, he realized, that he didn’t have the heart to lash out his anger on someone close to him, no matter how cruel they had treated him. “Dominik won’t be exempt from the draft next year.”

          “Good. The crown needs soldiers,” said Vasily. Then he scoffed, giving Nikolai a once-over. “Maybe he’ll learn his place.” 

          Nikolai had expected his anger to explode, all the pent-up emotions to finally be let go. But he felt disappointed instead, as if he had lost something important. It took him a second to realize that he had lost his respect and admiration for his older brother. 

          For years, he thought that Vasily was better than their father. Whereas their father sat slouched on the throne and shoulders hunched when he stood, Vasily was the exact opposite of him. He always stood tall, chin held up high. He was the spitting image of what Nikolai had imagined a royal should be. 

          But Nikolai had never been ashamed to admit that he was so wrong. 

          "You should be ashamed," said Nikolai quietly. 

          But Vasily only jabbed a finger to Nikolai’s chest. “You do not tell me what I should or shouldn’t do, Sobachka," he snarled, his voice laced with poison, the same one that Nikolai almost drank when Vasily had mixed a droplet of it into Nikolai's cup. "I will be a king, and you will always be Nikolai Nothing.”

          Then it happened again, the strange images appearing before his eyes. Where Nikolai expected it to be the same ones he saw four years ago, they were different this time. 

          The drawing room morphed into a rough terrain full of snow, and an enormous white tiger had replaced the spot where his brother was in front of him, its teeth bared and hind legs laid back to pounce. 

          It was then he felt the sudden feeling to protect himself, his survival instincts kicking in, and he did just that. The images faded, his surroundings fading back to the drawing room. 

          With a strength that came from nights spent roughhousing with peasants and workers alike in some shady fight club in Os Alta's outskirts, Nikolai snatched his brother's finger that was on his chest and twisted hard. 

          Vasily fell to the ground with a yelp. He looked impossibly small. A satisfying feeling settled itself in Nikolai's chest. It was most likely the worst he had seen his brother, and if Nikolai had only known that his older brother was nothing more than a facade to hide such a vile and weak face underneath, he wouldn't have wasted his whole life trying to be like Vasily. 

          "A king never kneels, brother," Nikolai hissed before he left his brother's prone form on the ground. 

          He was sure that Vasily wouldn't let him forget what he had done to him. 

          But the next time his brother would try to come for him, Nikolai would be ready. 

***

The worst one happened almost five years later. 

          He was finally fulfilling his dream as a privateer in the seas, and the name Sturmhond was born right in the middle of the True Sea, never to be forgotten by all sailors and pirates as the years would go on. 

          It was supposed to be a diplomatic meeting with the Fjerdan traders that came from Djerholm. They were set to talk about the territories, with Fjerda claiming that they didn’t allow enemy ships to sail freely at the northern True Sea without permits unless they wanted their ships obliterated by Fjerda. Nikolai had wanted to laugh when he saw the ship; it was too enormous and too sturdy-looking to be of trading purposes only.  He assumed that it had to be a warship since its captain and crew were too confident to stop the Volkvolny. No one ever dared to go against the Volkvolny —the black sails that had guided them for years were already a familiar sight to all the sailors and pirates. Though it was smaller than any warships in the seas, it could still go on par with ships twice as big as it, and it had sunk numerous vessels and gotten away unscathed. 

          These Fjerdan ‘traders’ should have known better than to get in the Volkvolny’s way. 

          True enough, when Nikolai had stepped into the enemy ship to negotiate the terms, he immediately noticed the heavy artillery carelessly covered by a rag on the main deck. They had even attempted to blend it in among the cargo crates scattered on the floor, but the canons were obvious underneath the thin material covering them. He let out a breath. He suddenly wasn’t sure if going here with only his two Shu mercenary turned personal guards was ideal. At least twenty rough-looking men were surrounding them, and their captain, Captain Hjar, was only a bit shorter than Tolya, and yet he still looked impossibly tall than all of them. His hair had been cropped close to his skin, exposing the lined scar that ran from his temple to the spot behind his ear. 

          Tamar had voiced out her concerns then, telling him that something was not right, and Nikolai acknowledged it greatly. The Shu mercenary’s gut instincts already saved their lives countless times before, and he wasn’t going to ignore that. But he knew the Fjerdan crew’s taste for dominance. He wasn’t just going to let these men do as they please to the travelers that would pass their private routes.

          He could only hope that this risky meeting they were doing would turn in their favor.

          And yet as soon as they stood in front of Captain Hjar and his men, the wooden bridge that connected the two ships was cut off, causing shouts of protest from his crew back in his ship.

          “Oh, wow," said Nikolai with mocking surprise. Tolya and Tamar tensed behind him, their hands already poised on the weapons strapped to their belts. He turned back to Hjar. "We haven't even started the meeting yet." 

          Captain Hjar only smirked. "Better not waste your time, little wolf," he said, his voice scratchy as if he had been shouting his whole life. "Why try to prolong this when it would still end in the same result?" 

          "Lay down your sword, Hjar." 

          "These men would be making bread from the bone and skin of skinny Ravkan boys tonight, little wolf. And I can assume your ship has plenty of valuables, aye? I cannot promise not to hurt your men," he said, and his men laughed together with him. When he stopped, his cold eyes held a dangerous glint as he stared at the twins behind Nikolai. "And it'd be fun to have some nice, warm campfire with those two Grisha of yours." 

          Something in Nikolai's mind had quieted, shutting out anything logical from coming into his head. The thoughts halted. His rage slowly took over like a monster finally overwhelming its prey. He felt numb and empty, and he realized that the rage was focused on the Fjerdan captain. 

          Then for the third time in his life,  it  happened again. Everything else faded around him and threw him under the landscape of complete darkness. It was like he had been thrown into the Fold. After a moment, it blurred and shifted to another—a small, empty shop in some town he couldn't recognize where. Then it shifted again, and this time, it showed him a man who was on his knees, clawing at his throat as if he were struggling to breathe. 

          Nikolai held onto those images in vain, so he could make sense of them earlier on. But the rage inside him had him forgetting them in a snap, and all he could feel was anger. Anger towards everything. 

          With that, his body relaxed, and he regarded Hjar with a calm tone. These men needed to know their places. "Maybe you're right about that, Hjar," he asked, and he saw the Fjerdan captain acknowledge him with mocking curiosity. "But it wouldn't be my men who would be butchered today." 

          He saw the shift of expression from the Fjerdan captain's face, and Nikolai pounced with his own sword. 

          The fight hadn't even lasted for a minute. Hjar's men had completely underestimated the mercenary twins by just being Grisha, but they were just as deadly as any well-trained assassins. Soon enough, Nikolai’s crew had the Fjerdans tied up and shoved them down their knees, with Hjar at Nikolai’s mercy. But he felt nothing at all. 

          "You want to know something, captain?" asked Nikolai mildly as he went behind the burly man and held up his tied hands on his back. Hjar gave a pained grunt. Then Nikolai leaned down near the man's ear. "Foolish old captains aren't fit meat for Ravkan men."

          Then he took out his knife and cut the Fjerdan captain's fingers. 

          Nikolai barely heard the man's screams or even felt the blood gushing out from the wounds. He just felt numb all over. If his crew noticed the sudden change in his behavior, they didn't voice it out. Only the twins were the ones who showed a bewildered reaction as Nikolai held the decapitated fingers in his bloodied hands. 

          He threw them over his crew's guard hound dog at the side. "Eat up, Razjen," he said. "I'm pretty sure the dogs would appreciate that kind of meat given to them." 

          That same night, he and his Volkvolny crew had drunk and eaten to their guts' limits from the spoils they had divvied up from the Fjerdan trader ship. From the night until the earliest hours of dawn, they had laughed, celebrated, and sung until their throats were raw and their bellies full. 

          But when the night ended and Nikolai had retreated into the confines of the captain's quarters, he had thrown up everything he had eaten until tears stung his eyes. He had expected them to stop when he was done, but it only worsened as sobs and wails tore from his lips again, just like it had almost a decade ago, when he had collapsed in the palace gardens and cried himself out for a reason he had never known. 

          And as the hours passed and night broke into dawn, the tears had finally stopped. Nikolai fell asleep, but the hole that had made its way to his heart from the first time he felt the sudden shift in his emotions now only felt deeper than before. 

***

Nikolai blinked as he felt the heavy tug in his heart again. It was much more painful than before as if whatever at the other end of the string wanted him to hurt on purpose, and he was left to choose whether to still follow her in or not.

          The funeral had ended hours ago but he could still feel the heaviness and gloom lingering in the air. He wanted to visit Genya in her quarters for the night, just to extend whatever he could offer her for the meantime. But he decided against it when he rounded the corner leading to the Tailor’s chambers, and that’s when he saw Zoya coming out from the door. She had lingered outside for a moment, her hand clutching at the handle as if to hold herself upright. If he looked harder, he was sure it really was the reason as he saw her shoulders shaking and her head was bowed down, something his general never did. 

          A searing pain in his chest made him wince, the hurting so painful it felt like he had just been burned by a branding iron. The want—the need—to reach out for her was the only thing he had wanted to do at that moment. But he willed the thought away, remembering how the things were between them.

          They did not look to each other for comfort, and he knew the last thing Zoya would want was for him to give her his sympathies. It had been their unspoken agreement ever since Ravka was put on their shoulders. There was no time for sentiments, they would only spiral them down much worse. 

          After another minute of silence, Zoya had quietly left, her form completely blending in with the gloominess that surrounded the palace walls. Nikolai decided to follow her out then, and it led him to now, following her through the dark, narrow walkway that led into someplace he wasn’t sure of. Tangles of vines pricked at his skin as he walked further. Eventually, he reached the other end of the path, and the sight of the place astonished him.

          Flowers and shrubs of every variety were lined up in the soil beds, overwhelming the ground in different colors. The open ceiling of the area had allowed frost and snow to fall over the plants, and it coated the leaves and petals alike. It looked almost like a small world of only peace and serenity, and yet it felt like a garden of sadness, with grief dripping on every plant and bleeding through the four walls that surrounded it.

          Nikolai spotted Zoya in the middle of the dim garden, her back turned to him as she looked around. Snow was starting to fall, and it caught in the dark waves of her hair. Under the moonlight, she was glowing, a saint watching over the people. But behind the light that masked her real face, something was wrong. What once was her perfect stance and chin held high, she was now hunched, bent down, as if she were hiding from the world. 

          Then he felt it again, the sharp and painful tug in his chest. But this time, it felt different. This time, it was leading in a direction. 

          And it was leading towards her.

          Nikolai blinked, his eyes widening a fraction. Could it be—

          "I'm running out of room," she said, her voice barely a quivering whisper. 

          Had she known he was following her all along? 

          "Do you—" Nikolai shook his head, unsure of what to say. He tried again. "You tend to this place?" 

          Zoya was silent for a moment. Her shoulders had gone stiff the same way she was poised for battle. But Nikolai had merely asked a question, and he wondered if it was prying enough to cause that reaction from her. 

          "I needed somewhere to go to distract myself, and this has always been the place my feet would lead me to," she said quietly. "It was an old vegetable garden. I found it years ago, back when—" Her voice broke into a muffled cry, and yet there were no tears, like she refused to let them fall. She shook her head, her hands lifting as if to brag about the wonderful bunch of plants around her. But the gesture looked so helpless, so lost, and she let her arms fall back limply to her sides. Then in a broken whisper, she repeated, "I'm running out of room." 

          Nikolai's eyebrows drew tight in concern. He took a step towards her, and stopped almost immediately. It felt like he was treading across a dangerous line that neither of them ever had the guts to cross. Things were already too complicated, whether it’s about Ravka or about them, and he didn’t want to make things worse. But he refused to leave her on her own. Not like this. 

          Slowly, he made his way towards her, feeling the tug become stronger and stronger until he stopped at her side. He felt the cold seep through his clothes, harsh and biting like Zoya’s daily demeanor. But tonight, there was only grief and sadness, and it made everything even colder. 

          There was a long silence between them as he waited for Zoya to speak. Or if she wanted to speak. He wasn’t going to force anything from her. It was already a painful day for them to get through, and he wouldn’t add to the burden they were all carrying on their shoulders. He was grateful for the silence either way. 

          But when Zoya spoke later, her voice was quiet, lacking the usual sharpness it always had. “I plant something new for every Grisha lost,” she started. And there it was again, the heavy feeling in Nikolai’s chest that weighed down on him and made him struggle to breathe. It took all of Nikolai not to reach out for her. Then she lifted her hand and started pointing to the plants. “Heartleaf for Marie. Yew for Sergei. Red Sentinel for Fedyor. Even Ivan has a place. He was once a soldier like us too, before the Darkling corrupted him.” She touched her fingers to a frozen stalk near the edge of the soil bed. “This was for Harshaw, and they will blossom bright orange in the summer, just as bright as his ridiculous hair.”

          Nikolai felt a small smile twitch on his lips. There was an obvious jest in her tone, but her words were sad, still haunted by the past war they could never be free of. He reached for the plant, letting his fingers touch its leaves delicately. He dusted off the frost from the leaves’ surface, and it almost looked as new as ever. The Inferni had once fought beside him in the mountains and with Alina and the others in the Fold, proving his loyalty up until the very end. It was unfortunate that he didn’t get to see past the war as it had already taken his life. 

          “These Dahlias were for Nina when I thought she’d been captured and killed by the Fjerdans,” Zoya continued, her hands reaching out to the flowers next to Harshaw’s. “They bloom with the most ridiculous red flowers in the summer. They’re the size of dinner plates.” Then as steady as her hands were when she first reached out to touch them, they began to tremble badly. “This was the last one I vowed that I would plant. I kept promising myself over and over and over. But they only kept increasing. There was no end. And now David—” She stopped abruptly, her throat clogging up with a quiet sob. “I’m running out of room, Nikolai.”

          A tear escaped Nikolai’s eye, and he quickly wiped it away. He didn’t know why he did that. Earlier in the funeral, he didn't shed a single tear when he gave the eulogy, only the prickling pain that gave the first signs of tears. But they didn’t fall. Guilt had been clawing at him ever since, thinking that he hadn’t cared enough to show that he was mourning the loss of an old friend. It was only reasonable to cry; they were all grieving, after all. So why still hide, when there was no one else to see him?

          Then he realized it was what he had been used to. This was what they were taught. You don’t let yourself wallow in sadness—you get back up and continue on. No matter how heavy the weight on your shoulders was. 

          Soldiers did not cry. Princes did not weep. And kings should never get fazed by such sentiments and emotions. 

          But what if it was the only thing left to do?

          Nikolai glanced at Zoya, seeing tears staining her cheeks as well. She wiped at them hastily and tried her best to blink them away. He heard her draw in a shuddering breath. 

          “They will continue to thrive and bloom as long as they get taken care of,” said Zoya, her fingers curling around a stalk from the dahlias. “But what if they don’t? What if they stopped even as I tend to them everyday?”

          He immediately understood the deeper meaning behind her words. Every life lost under her watch; every Grisha blood staining her hands. It was the weight on her shoulders she had always carried, a weight that existed ever since she had been a soldier, up until now that she was their general. 

          If he could only take all the burden from her chest and carry it along with his own, he would have done it. But that wasn’t how it worked. They were all bound to have their own burdens—it would only be a matter of difference with the people around them that would help them get back up on their feet whenever they get too tired from carrying it all. 

          Nikolai let out a long breath, his gaze landing on the twisting gray branches that ran along the perimeter of the garden. He recognized it right away. “Thorn wood,” he murmured. He felt Zoya’s confusion even before she could voice it out, so he continued speaking. “It grows around, protecting everything within these walls, stronger than anything else in the garden, weathering every season. No matter the winter it endures, it still persists, all prickles and thorns and spines anger just to keep protecting everything here.” Then he turned to her, looking down at the bright and never-ending flames behind her eyes. He gave her a lopsided smile. “Those thorns, they remind me of you. Prickly and sharp, just like you are. But its purpose was to protect all these flowers and plants, like the way you protect our people.”

          Zoya almost looked like she was on the brink of breaking, but her questions persisted. “And what if the winter is just too long and hard? What if it can’t continue protecting them all?”

          He was afraid to reach for her, but he did it anyway. He took her gloved hand in his, and when he expected her to pull away, she didn’t. Instead she folded into him like a flower closing its petals at nightfall. “Then it would still be there, watching over all the flowers and plants, giving them the sense of protection, keeping them strong until the summer comes, even as its life withers away.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, a laugh escaping his lips. “I do hope I made sense with all that blabbering.”

          This earned a huff from his general. “Who says you ever did?” she said, but he felt her hand squeeze his back, gratitude evident even from that smallest of gestures. That was when tears fell from her eyes again, and Nikolai felt some of his own as well. 

          Trusting what his gut told him to do, he wrapped his arm around her. 

          And in the same exact moment, Nikolai didn’t feel the painful tug in his chest anymore. It was as if he had undone all the tangles and knots between, and he could finally pass through the thread without difficulties. 

          Zoya seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then with a soft breath, she let herself lean against him. Zoya the deadly. Zoya the ferocious. The weight of her against him felt like benediction, the long lost piece from the puzzle that he had been trying to figure out for years. For the first time in his short life, he felt at peace. He had been strong for his country, his soldiers, his friends. It meant something entirely different to be strong for her.

          When he thought that they did not look at each other for comfort, he had just been understanding it quite differently. No, they gave each other comfort in their own way—whether it was through sharp wits and harsh words that kept their will stronger, or even just through knowing looks and long silences. It was their way to tell each other that they were always there to keep each other marching on their feet, and pull each other from the darkness they were both continuously fighting their way out of. 

          There would still be a lot of problems to face, obstacles to get past with, lives to be lost. But they would be alright. They still had each other to get through everything, and it was enough. 

          Together.

          And that’s how it would be from then on until the very end.

***

He used to believe that the other end of the string was just like any other end, blunt and empty. Not once did he ever think that he could be wrong.

          Now, Nikolai knew one thing. It would always lead towards her.

[misc-headcanons]

Shuhei/Meiri (OC): Meet Again

Commissioned by @partyineldarya !

Word Count: 3800+

Warning: Blood/violence

The first time Meiri and Shuhei met, she had invited him into her father's house for tea and hoped to see him and his stoic-yet-easily-flustered face again. And now, she was glaring daggers at many of his fellow Shinigami as she demanded that he and the rest of the Shinigami outside her home leave. He'd only been assigned to oversee this operation because he had met with Meiri before, and the Central 46 believed that their "prior amicable relationship" would make this mission easier. He stood by the front entrance, trying to mediate between the young aristocrat and the group of Shinigami standing at attention outside her home.

"My father is not here," she insisted. "As the current owner of the estate, I do not give you permission to enter without proper paperwork as per the Sereitei laws of search and seizure."

The leader of the search team crossed her arms. "And I told you, we don't need any paperwork to enter the home of an exile," she replied hotly. "Especially one who is in possession of contraband."

Meiri clenched her jaw and straightened her posture. "My father is an exile, but he is NOT a smuggler or a thief," she snapped. "How dare you slander him like this?"

The leader took a small scroll of paper out of their shihakusho, holding it out to Meiri. "If you had given me a moment to explain to you before flying off the handle, you would have been able to read the edict for yourself." They smiled smugly and gently dangled the official document, goading Meiri to take it. 

Meiri's eyes narrowed and she reluctantly took the scroll of paper. After unfurling it and carefully reading it, her lips parted slightly. "My...my father's zanpakuto?" Her voice trembled, and she shook her head slightly. "No. This can't be possible, that sword belongs to him and him alone."

"The laws of the Sereitei clearly state that an exile is not permitted to wield a zanpakuto," the officer replied. "Your father lost his right to own that sword when he was exiled. And even if he isn't here personally to answer for his crime and why he kept it knowing this was illegal, we still need to retrieve the zanpakuto."

The officer returned Meiri's icy glare. "You are in possession of property that doesn't belong to you," she said firmly. "Now you can either make this easier on yourself and let us inside to search for it, or--"

"It contains a piece of my father's own soul," Meiri snapped. "How can it not belong to him, just because of a single decision made by that cesspit of old nepotistic bureaucrats!?"

Hisagi saw the officer step forward, with her hand on her zanpakuto. "The same way that zanpakuto shouldn't be in your possession either," she replied hotly. "I was going to try to offer a deal to let you off with a warning if you returned it to us willingly, but if you continue to defy our orders and deny us entry, I'll have to take you in and place you under arrest." 

The officer glowered at Meiri, whose eyes widened in shock when she realized that the Shinigami was planning on escalating this argument into something physical. She held up her hand and placed one hand on her father's zanpakuto, just out of sight past the open door. "You'll take his zanpakuto over my dead body," she said, her voice dangerously low. 

Shuhei stepped in between them. "Both of you need to stand down," he said firmly. "Nobody needs to shed blood over this." He looked at Meiri, glancing pointedly at her arm that he knew was reaching for her father's blade. "Meiri, please just cooperate for now."

Meiri's lower lip trembled, but she kept her grip on her zanpakuto. "I can't," she murmured. "Hisagi, this sword is my father's soul. I can't just hand it over to the people who ruined everything else in his life."

"I promise that I'll do everything I can to clear this up," Shuehei said, trying to assure her that he was on her side. "Even if I'm not a royal, I'm still an assistant captain in the Gotei 13. I'll find a way to convince them to let you keep it." He and the other officer took a step forward. "But I can't help you if you don't cooperate with us."

Meiri hesitated, not sure of what to do. She trusted Hisagi, but he was the only Soul Reaper she trusted. Even as a high-ranking officer, she doubted he could persuade those old ghouls within the Central 46 to relinquish anything of her father's. This was all just a sham, a symbolic punishment to make up for the fact that they couldn't arrest him personally. Meiri's knuckles whitened when she saw the officer step over the threshold into the manor. She would NOT let then take her father's dignity any more.

"No!"

She swiftly unsheathed her zanpakuto and brandished it in front of the officer, blocking anyone from taking another step inside. "You can't take it from him," she declared. "Not without having to kill me to get your hands on it first."

The handful of officers immediately drew their weapons and rushed at her, while Shuhei tried to reach her first with his own weapon still at his side. He managed to close the gap between them with his Shunpo, and only barely managed to draw his weapon when he saw her swing her blade down towards the sudden black blur of movement in front of her. Their weapons clashed with a few sparks flying from either side. "I'll bring her and the zanpakuto in," Hisagi barked. "The rest of you, fall back and return to your posts. Now!"

"Sir, she can't--"

A large BOOM came from the Sereitei's closest barrier, followed by the sounds of citizens screaming and intruder alarms blaring in the distance. The officers immediately regrouped themselves and went to investigate, leaving Shuhei and Meiri alone. 

"Meiri, put your weapon down," Shuhei said firmly. "I don't want to hurt you, but I will if you keep fighting like this."

"I can't let them take his sword," she replied desperately. "I know you're simply obeying the Sereitei's orders, but I can't let you do this. Please, just leave, Hisagi!"

The two of them struggled against each other, and Shuhei used his Shunpo once again to teleport behind her; Meiri managed to spin around just in time and struck his stomach with the long blunt pole of her naginata. Despite her smaller size, she managed to use a bit of Kido to add power to her full-body swing, turn him back around and send him stumbling back out of the house. "Don't you dare enter this house," she snapped. "I won't let any Sereitei lapdog trample over my father's home, MY home!"

Shuhei threw the chain of his zanpakuto as he fell, making it wrap around the pole of Meiri's--if he was going to fall, he wanted to at least disarm her on the way down towards the ground. Meiri held on tightly to her zanpakuto, and her added weight led to her and her polearm to sail a few feet over Shuhei's head as he tried to reel her in towards him. The two of them quickly rose to their feet and Meiri flung the chain off of her zanpakuto before rushing at Shuhei; even though there was determination in her eyes, Shuhei couldn't help but notice how she was refusing to aim for any vital areas on his body, and instead focused on his legs. 

Even with his experience as a vice-captain, he was constantly on his toes and struggling to gain the upper hand against Meiri. More and more sparks flew off of their blades with every clash, and his attempts to use Shunpo to surprise her were matched by her predicting just where he was moving around her. Not only that, but she was clearly used to using this part of her home as a training ground; he'd met her for the first time while sparring out here, and the countless splintered and cracked stone-and-wooden dummies had countless marks from her polearm. 

Meiri used the familiar environment to her advantage as she fought, leading Shuhei to softer ground with some strong blows that left him on the defense. His feet sank into the muddier ground by a few inches, changing his balance ever-so-slightly; even if his zanpakuto's long-ranged blades were lighter than her spear, she could tell he was struggling to stay balanced on his feet without sinking further or falling back at all with the force of her blows. 

Shuhei flung Kazeshini's chain out at her, trying to make some distance between the two of them as he moved to better ground. Meiri gracefully dodged the chain by leaping up onto one of the pillars by her father's koi pond. The stone wall surrounding the estate was only one step away, and she climbed up to get close to Shuhei again as she ran towards him from above; at the last moment, she jumped off of the fence and swung her polearm down in a devastating slash. Shuhei blocked some of the force of her blow by crossing his blades, but it still managed to knock him off his feet. Meiri slashed down at him a second too late, striking down at the ground as he quickly rolled to the side and flung his chain along the ground towards her.

The chain caught her feet and before she had time to react, she fell to the ground while keeping a grip on her weapon. Shuhei quickly swung the chain again, wrapping it around her zanpakuto. "Meiri, don't make me do this," he pleaded, straining through gritted teeth as he tried to wrest the weapon from her tight grip.

Meiri glared at him and clung to her zanpakuto as tightly as possible. "I'm not...making you...do anything," she retorted, struggling to keep hold of her weapon. "I believe in a Soul Reaper's freedom, unlike...those corrupt monsters you work for. If you don't want...to do this, then...don't!"

Their standoff was interrupted by a loud bestial roar, and the sudden sound of buildings and trees being crushed and toppled over. The sounds came closer and closer until a gigantic Hollow was visible in the debris, digging its claws into the dirt to slow itself down as it passed by the two Soul Reapers and slid down the stone backroad. It was bleeding in multiple places, with more than one sword sticking out of its body. When it realized it hadn't escaped and that there were still more Soul Reapers near it, the Hollow let out another deafening roar and rushed straight towards Shuhei and Meirin.  

Immediately realizing the sudden change in opponents, Shuhei pulled Meiri up by yanking his zanpakuto's chain, her weapon, and her body along with it; he grabbed her waist with one hand and pulled her back by the back of her robe just in time as the Hollow charged straight into her father's home. Pieces of brick, mortar, wood, and glass flew in every direction, and Meiri let out a small choked-back sob as she looked at the devastating crater the creature had left to her home with just one strike.

As Shuhei was about to try to say something to comfort or at least support her, she turned her head to face him. The sorrow that he'd expected to see was surprisingly gone, and instead her eyes shone with a cold rage. She held her hands out to him expectantly. "My zanpakuto."

Shuhei nodded and freed her long polearm from his chain, and the two of them moved to ready their weapons against the Hollow as it clambered its way back onto its feet after crashing into the house. "I can take out its legs while you get into a good position," he replied, scanning the Hollow to make a solid plan of attack. He remembered how powerful Meiri's blow had been when she'd struck him from above, and he glanced at the mostly-intact roof of her house. "Do you think you can cut deep enough into the body to kill it?"

"I'll test out its hide with a few strikes," Meiri said. She and Shuhei gripped their zanpakuto as the Hollow rose to full standing height again on two legs as thick as tree stumps; at its tallest, its head reached just below the roof of the three-story mansion. "If I can't slice it in two, try to make it lower its neck or crouch if you can." She scowled and narrowed her eyes at the creature, biting the inside of her cheek at the small bits of broken furniture and splintered wood that fell from its shoulders onto the ruined courtyard by its feet. "No matter how strong it is, I want its head."

She used her shunpo to teleport to the mansion's rooftop while Shuhei threw one of his blades out towards the Hollow's midsection. Even though there was some resistance against the curved blade, it did manage to cut through its thick skin by a few inches. It grunted in pain and turned its attention to Shuhei, who continued to cut the beast with his scythes and began to chip away at its legs to keep it from moving too quickly. The Hollow let out a howl of pain and slammed both of its hands down to try and squash the Soul Reaper hurting it; as soon as its hands landed on the ground, spikes immediately sprouted from its skin. Shuhei managed to dodge its slam against the ground, with only a second to spare when he quickly dodged and blocked the spikes that protruded near his head and body.

Meiri took a deep breath and raised her polearm, taking a few steps back on the roof so that she could have a running start. Now that the Hollow was bent down, she only had a quick window of opportunity to kill it from above by slicing its head off or stabbing it through as far as she could. Thanks to her view behind the creature, she hadn't hadn't able to see its hands as it crouched and grew spikes to defend itself from Shuhei's attacks. She ran forward at top speed, leaped off of the building and held her blade over her head as she let the force of gravity guide her down and aid her in delivering a strong kill. 

The Hollow sensed a presence above it and noticed a shadow on the ground by its own, growling and hunching over to brace itself against whatever was above it. Shuhei's eyes widened as he saw more spikes shoot up from the Hollow's skin; Meiri's blade was mere nanoseconds away from slicing into its neck, and the spikes were just about to impale her body at the same time. "Meiri!"

The ivory white tips of the Hollow's spikes were soon coated with a sickening shade of red. Meiri had fallen onto them, but she didn't want to let that precious moment of opportunity go to waste; instead of moving her arms to shield herself, she followed through and sliced at the Hollow's neck with a defiant scream just as she was impaled. The Hollow let out a low gurgling moan as it collapsed onto the ground, and after a few seconds it had dissipated into fragments of reishi. Meiri, no longer held up by the creature's spikes, fell onto the ground with a sharp cry.

Shuhei used his shunpo to immediately get close to her and tried to heal her wounds as well as he could. His first aid knowledge was useful, but the damage to her body was far beyond what he could fix himself. There were several holes in her abdomen and arms, and blood was spilling out of her mouth as she tried to breathe with haggard gasps. If there was any hope of healing her, she'd need to be saved by--

"F-fourth Squad is here!" A handful of Soul Reapers scrambled to the scene, with a few that were trailing behind the path of the Hollow's destruction and healing the injured neighbors. The smallest of them, a young man with black hair and a tremble in his voice, was the first to reach Shuhei. "Lieutenant Hisagi! Are you--" He saw the heavily injured Meiri on the ground and immediately knelt down to try to assess her condition; the Soul Reaper unsheathed his zanpakuto, a surprisingly small blade with a strange meter on the side, and Meiri's eyes widened in fear and alarm. She tried to crawl away, her blood loss impairing her judgement as she thought that this unknown Soul Reaper was here to kill her.

Shuhei noticed her reaction and knelt down to try and comfort her without making her injuries worse. "It's okay," he assured. "Hanataro's zanpakuto heals injuries as it cuts." 

Hanataro made a quick series of multiple cuts along one of her arms and torso, and the shallower cuts and stab wounds began to slowly heal. "The deeper ones can't be fixed with that alone," he said shakily. He produced a small suitcase with the Fourth Squad's logo and quickly mixed together a few herbs contained inside before adding a bit of his own reiatsui to create a glowing paste. 

He smeared the substance against the deeper wounds and Hisagi peered intently at Meiri's face as it contorted in pain. "What can I do to help?" He didn't want to simply sit there and do nothing, not if it meant that Meiri would die.

"Use some of your own reiatsu to make more of this," Hanataro said, his voice still gentle but with a firmness behind it as he treated his patient. He quickly handed the two herb jars and the bowl he'd set them I over to Hisagi with one bloody hand. "Try your best to keep her conscious and help me put pressure on this puncture wound by her stomach here."

Shuhei firmly put one hand on the wound Hanataro had pointed out and quickly mixed together the herbs with his other hand to make the reiatsu paste that was slowly healing the deep wounds. "Meiri, look up at me," he urged. Meiri's green eyes were slightly glazed over, but she complied and looked at him with half-lowered lids. "Can you talk? If not, just try to breathe."

Meiri swallowed some of the blood trickling from her lower lip. Her breath was still ragged, but she was no longer gasping and coughing as much as she did before Hanataro had shown up. "If...If I die," she murmured feebly, "Please get...please g-get his zanpakuto back."

Hisagi saw her try to reach for the hand putting pressure on her wound, and he tried to accommodate her by moving a bit so her fingertips brushed his forearm as he kept treating her. "I will," he said firmly. "We will. You're going to live, alright?"

Meiri blinked up at him and gritted her teeth as she felt her open raw flesh begin to knit itself closed. The pain was horrific, but she did find that it hurt less to breathe and she could feel more of her body now--even if it was mostly a burning sensation that coiled and settled in her gut, as if her body was a volcano filled with bubbling lava. "I will?" She was quiet for a few moments as she stared up at Shuhei, and there was a small hint of a smile on her face. "Ah...you may be right." She tapped his forearm with her index finger. "I'm glad. It'd be so hard to track you down and meet you again in the next life. I don't want to lose my friend so soon after meeting him."

Shuhei nodded, glad that she was now well enough to talk more. "I don't want to lose you either," he replied. "I was actually wanting to visit you the other day after I'd bought some souvenirs from the Human World. You like those rare tea blends, but down there they have these giant bottles of already-steeped tea in a bunch of crazy flavors...Though I don't think we'll be able to have tea again any time soon," he said, trying to lighten the mood even more and distract her from the pain. He noticed the fragments of a tea set from her kitchen lying in the grass nearby. "Once you're at the hospital, I'll bring it to you."

Meiri tried to laugh but wound up simply spitting up a bit of saliva and blood. "I'd like that," she said softly. There was a small glint in her eyes and the corners of her lips were turned up into a smirk. "It's a date, then?"

Hisagi felt his cheeks warm up as she smiled up at him. "I...um…" Hanataro shyly avoided looking at either of them and tried his best to focus on treating the rest of Meiri's major injuries.

"I'm teasing you, Hisagi," she replied. "No need to feel pressured to say yes. I doubt your refusal will be the thing that kills me, compared to some of these leftover wounds."

"I…" Hisagi bit the inside of his cheek and looked away to pretend he was simply focusing on still applying pressure to her wound.  "I'm not refusing." His mouth felt dry and strangely he wondered where this strange feeling of anxiety had come from. He almost felt more nervous now than when he'd been fighting Meiri and that gigantic Hollow. "To visiting you under...those, um...circumstances." He found the courage to look at her face again; even when she was covered with blood, tears, and sweat, she was somehow still so elegant-looking. 

Hanataro and Shuhei managed to get her into a stable condition, and the rest of Squad Four placed her onto a stretcher. While Shuhei followed behind to watch over her while she was admitted to the clinic, Hanataro stayed behind to tend to other wounded Soul Reapers and civilians. He desperately hoped that this little bit of romance he'd overheard wouldn't be found out by anyone else in the Sereitei. He was terrible at keeping secrets, and a high-ranking officer like Shuhei Hisagi dating someone would definitely be a top piece of gossip. Nope, he wasn't going to say anything about it; just keep his mouth shut and go about his business like usual. A few of his coworkers noticed the smile on his face for a moment as he thought about the look on Lieutenant Hisagi's face when she'd flirted with him--Hanataro had always thought he was so stoic and scary looking, but that illusion had been broken by just a little bit of shy flirting from his...new friend.

[trashogram]

Ryuk/Reader 4

This is far more introspective than I intended it to be. I’m sorry you’re reading this and this one is the least fun. Or the most OOC. 

Edit: Forgot to tag @doughdaddy84 as per request! I’m sorry!!

_____

You were a nice enough person.

Ryuk didn’t really care that much about you being nice or not, however. His last charge hadn’t been the most polite or considerate human, even though he’d been in the presence of a literal god.

Ryuk had taken offense to some of the things that Light had said to him in the past, but nothing the egotistical boy had done had ever angered the god. Light had been fascinating, but he wasn’t worth getting upset over. Ryuk’s pruney skin was thicker than that, and the shinigami kept on haunting the kid for about 7 years, give or take.

If anything, after watching you for a couple days, Ryuk had gotten close to reconsidering letting you keep the notebook. Which was a first for him - shinigami weren’t really supposed to directly influence users of the death note. You were just so mousy from a glance, and he’d acknowledged that breaking any more rules wasn’t going to matter when he had to return home. Ryuk was going to be punished either way.

Of that, he was very certain.

But there was just one little hitch that kept him contemplative, if one could call it that. When he’d ripped the death note from Calikarcha and tossed it to the human world, Ryuk had dove after it with unexpected urgency. He’d watched it land on the Earth and be claimed by it, before anyone had seen its appearance.

It had taken a while for the book to be found, but oddly it was a passing waif that hesitated before picking it up.

Ryuk had taken one look at you and your lifespan, and reached the conclusion that you were suicidal. You looked fragile and exhausted, your eyes distant and clouded even though you were visibly young. The sun had already set and any light left had been waning as you walked alone toward downtown, despite not having any way to defend yourself. You were also due to die in a few days.

That was before you’d laid hands on the death note. Before Ryuk saw something that he’d never seen in his lifetime, something that made him do a double-take before writing you off completely.  

Your lifespan had increased as soon as you decided to take his notebook.

—

A year alone was nothing for a nigh-immortal being. In the shinigami realm, nothing ever changed, therefore the measure of time was considered obsolete insofar as their own lives.

Ryuk felt uneasy, thinking over the fact that he hadn’t even been following you for a year, and yet he’d been remembering times and dates like they were significant. If they meant something to you, then suddenly they were worth recollection.

You were still fragile and cute, like the day he’d found you. Yet, there were little improvements here and there that he could see. Your skin was healthier, the circles beneath your eyes were fading, and you were sound asleep at that very moment. Ryuk had made the observation within the first two months of possessing you that you were a troubled sleeper. You’d often thrashed in your bed, to the point where it was annoying for a long time.

The problem was only a memory, now.

As was the issue of your sickness, and your fear. You’d gained back the weight you lost in the beginning, and the color in your cheeks. You were objectively older than before, after several federal holidays and a birthday -- but you looked younger.

The blank walls of your bedroom were cluttered with colorful posters and a collage of drawings were tacked onto the dartboard, the same one that you had told him was useless once. He was no artist, but he’d contributed his part with a few optical illusions that you gushed over until he felt lighter than air.

Little pots of easy-upkeep plants sat on your window sill, both still alive even after three weeks in your midst. Below that, the built-in heater that you’d begged your landlord to fix was making itself useful, as was appropriate. The shelves were dusted on a weekly basis, and you’d reorganized your bookshelf the day before yesterday. Ryuk had helped of course, scanning the covers and making you point out how childish it was that he based his interest on the pictures and not what was inside with a laugh.

Then you’d shouted at him for tossing them over his shoulder recklessly, just to piss you off. None of your swats did a thing to him, but he loved that you even tried.

Your meekness extended mainly to other humans. People disregarded you easily, and Ryuk considered it a crime. He could repeat some of your most memorable phrases in his head, and laughed until he was hoarse. You said some stupid shit, yet you were thoughtful, worrying for others when they didn’t earn it. Soft as your skin, but you were sharp in your way. Brilliant in a way he had never thought of before.

He allowed himself to feel proud of you for those things.  

You were a tease. Infuriating while you played innocent, but gave him a knowing look that only made the flurry of sensations in his lower stomach worse. He’d hidden the worst of it from you, but your hands started skimming below the neck. You made something like blood pump through his ancient veins, from his head to his toes. It was enough of a problem that he had moments on the roof out of sheer desperation, imagining you inviting him into your bed.  

Recently, he’d gotten it into his head that maybe you felt the same way. It would’ve been funny were it not frustrating.  

There were also things you didn’t tell him, and it irked Ryuk more than he’d like to admit. He couldn’t pinpoint when that particular part of you became less interesting and more concerning. You were closed-lipped about certain skin abrasions, certain moments in your life that he’d not been there for, and any mention of your family would oft put you into a trance. He hated those moments, wishing he could simply open up your skull and pick the information right out of your brain

At least your lifespan wasn’t changing.

Ryuk had floated down to the floor, hunched over your bedside. He could count the days since he’d started doing this, and was only a little self-conscious at this point. The scant trees bearing leaves outside your apartment had changed colors, and the nights were getting longer than the days. Little reminders that it was too late.

Too late for a lot of things.

---

Ryuk gazed at your face, smooth and untroubled. The god of death brushed the hair out of your face, curling it over the side of your head and behind your ear.

He dragged his talons away from your temple when you sighed, opening your eyes slowly and blinking at him. The recognition was second-nature now, and you no longer regarded him fearfully. He was an anchor for you, for though he could disappear from your sight, Ryuk never dared.  

The look in your eyes made his stomach drop. You were so… happy. Happy to see him. You lit up with adoration, and a tug-o-war between feeling heated and feeling appreciation forced him fidget.

“Voyeurism is frowned upon in most societies.” You needled. “Probably against the law in most.”  

He leaned forward intently. “Hyuk hyuk, what’re you gonna do about it?”

“The penalty is death.” You yawned, bringing his hand over to your chest and letting him touch the bare skin below your collarbone.

Your pulse slowed against his knuckles, and your natural warmth began seeping into his fingers.

Soon, you were drifting off again.

“I’ll kill you in the morning.” You promised.

[tarithenurse]

Nightingale - 38

Fandom: Naruto Pairing: Hatake Kakashi &/x Fem!OC Contents: Some concerns about Team 7, sensei stuff, a hint of angst. A/N: As usual, ASK or REBLOG for tag! HUUUGE thanks to all who are reblogging already <3

Ch. 38

The last stubborn snow is dripping from the branches and joining the sludge on the dirt road. The feet of Kakashi’s students let go of the mud with squelches any jōnin would hear but at least they’re so close to their goal that stealth isn’t an option anyways – already, he’s seen the movement in the shadows and undoubtedly Sasuke is aware of it too.

Sasuke. He’s trained harder than ever over the winter, but despite the obvious improvements, the boy remains sullen and is even beginning to seek out confrontations with Naruto. Not always. Most of the time it’s still the straw-haired kid that doesn’t know when to back down, but the fact that both boys have taken competitiveness to a whole other level does put a strain on the team, though.

“Almost there,” Sakura sighs, “maybe she’s got something else than milk or catnip tea?”

“Or anchovies,” Naruto adds, earning a glare from the black-haired boy.

...

He sends the team out ahead for the pickup after having sorted the trade with Nekobā.

“Hmmm,” she isn’t oblivious to how her cats keep a certain distance to Kakashi even as he sits quietly, “you’re not an Uchiha but there’s something...” she dismisses it with a wave of a hand. “So what do you want?”

I have no right to involve her, the white-haired jonin hesitates before deciding to continue. In few words, he lays out how the broodiness of the second to last of the clan is devolving despite any and all efforts of guiding him towards a brighter future.

“Why ask me?” Nekobā squints over the brim of her tea cup, “I saw him often as a kid, but you’re closer to him now, aren’t you?”

“He doesn’t tell me much...as you said, I’m not an Uchiha -”

There’s a scoff before the jingle of porcelain being put down. “And still I had to hear about you from two of them whenever they came here.”

Obito. He doubts anything the former teammate had said was positive as the two of them only got to an understanding shortly before the boy with the goggles had his fate sealed. As for the other person, Kakashi can only think of one other Uchiha with enough of a connection.

“Yes, Kakashi of the Sharingan,” Nekobā purrs, “your reputation precedes you and I understand why you recognize Sasuke’s troubles considering how a family member’s actions weighs on you too.”

Yes and no. It’s true, the pain and anger Kakashi used to feel is exactly what he sees in his student now.

“Revenge was never an option for me...or a desire. The supposed crime was far from the atrocity Uchiha Itachi has committed. There was even a semblance of sense to my fa- to the actions while the massacre holds no meaning when looking at all we knew of Sasuke’s brother.”

“And that is why no one can reach his heart with ease...I suspect.”

Maybe, Kakashi nods silently, and maybe it’s because Itachi somehow seems to be within reach.

...

Days become weeks. Weeks become months. One day spring has truly returned, softening the evening air as it cools his skin during the sparring session against Uguïsu, and strands of blue hair dancing on the breeze. But for once, Kakashi’s mind is far from her and the present situation and before he knows it, she’s felled him and tangled her limbs around him from behind in a vice grip.

“Where are you, ‘Kashi?” she whispers gently into his ear and then loosens the restraints.

Sitting up, he draws her arms around him. The heat from her chest is soothing, grounding him as the white-haired jōnin attempts to organize his thoughts to be shared with someone else. Are other genins this much trouble? They probably all come with their own list of problems, but he can’t help but suspect this particular team was given to him to spare his comrades.

A soft kiss finds its home on his neck. “Talk to me.”

“I worry about the boys...” Kakashi sighs.

“Knucklehead and Broody?”

Nodding, the sensei tries to explain his concerns and how he’s beginning to realize that he can’t reach one without slacking the attention on the other...and in all of this, he somehow must not forget about the kindhearted, worried Sakura.

“I don’t know how to get Naruto to understand what I’m trying to teach him! That boy is...is...well, his attention span is minimal and while he’s smart in some aspect, he’s also very...y’know?”

He adores the soft chuckle even if it technically doesn’t help him. “I know. And...I don’t think it’s bad to admit, you’re having a hard time levelling with him. You two are very different. Maybe there’s someone else who can help?”

“Someone more like him?”

Kakashi would be lying if he claimed never to have considered this, but he had dismissed the crazy idea as soon as it had manifested itself. Perhaps...but he has improved a lot anyways, though. There’s some to be said in favour of stubbornness.

“There...is someone I could ask for advice, I guess,” the jōnin concedes. And I ought to do it soon.

Like any other captain of a team of genins, Kakashi is all too aware of the nearing deadline for signing his students up for the chunin exams. Even now, he believes they stand a fair chance of making it past the second stage and he’s keen to help them push their limits with the intention of excelling through the entire event.

“Go,” Uguïsu’s voice urges him, “do what you can to make sure they’ll be amazing.”

The jōnin can’t tamper down the burning sting of guilt in the chest. “Meet you later? I actually have some days without missions planned.”

They’ve barely had any time together the last few weeks and he had planned to treat her to her favourite food this evening. Maybe go for a stroll to the outskirts of town where there’s a house that’s looking less derelict than before – not that it (or Kakashi) is ready to be presented to his blue nightingale yet...he simply wants to figure out if she even likes the area.

“I’d like that,” she beams, “I’ll wait for you on the water tower.”

...

It took little time to write a letter, explaining about Naruto to the sannin and proposing (with well-rounded arguments) why the tutelage of the older shinobi is imperative for the kid’s progress. No, the problem was not composing the message but to find out where to send it to. As a precaution, Kakashi had decided to copy it in four, sending each in a different direction.

Now, the white-haired youth sits on the metal roof that still holds a bit of the heat from the day. He’s come to equate this place with the sort of calm he experiences when he’s done his part and all he can do is wait.

And wait.

And wait as the sky’s darkening, Kakashi is still alone on the roof of the water tower, and he can’t ignore the sixth sense screaming at him that something is wrong.

[theexistentiallyqueer]

It’s been a while, what with me being being more active on Twitter these days, but I had some thoughts churning around in my brain and this felt like a better place to post them rather than threading them over there.

This is a post about Persona 5 and restorative justice. Before I go any further, though, a note: this is meta about restorative justice and prison abolition as ethical philosophies only, how it can be expressed/structured in works of fiction, i.e., Persona 5 and Persona 5 Royal, and what the importance of doing so is.

I should also note that I am not a philosopher, a legal scholar, or an activist, I just like to read, and I strongly encourage you to look into the topics I’m discussing in this essay. If you want specific recommendations you can DM me; again, this being meta about a video game, I think linking those titles here would diminish their importance regarding what they’re actually about.

Ready? Okay. Let’s get started.

what is restorative justice?

‘Restorative justice’ is a concept in ethical and legal philosophy that holds itself in contrast to two other kinds of justice: punitive and carceral. Punitive justice is justice as punishment, i.e., an eye for an eye, while carceral justice involves justice as the confinement of criminal offenders. While both have heavy overlaps with one another, they’re distinct in the generality vs the specificity of their outcome: punitive justice can involve the death penalty, property seizure, permanent loss of rights, etc., carceral justice refers strictly just to the incarceration of criminal offenders in institutional facilities (jails, prisons, etc.).

Restorative justice, in contrast, roots itself in the understanding of closing a circle: the best and most holistic way to heal harm one person inflicts on another is to have the person who inflicted the harm make reparations to the person they hurt in a tangible and meaningful way. This can take many forms, and if you’re passingly familiar with restorative justice already, you may have heard about it involving the offender and the victim meeting face-to-face. This does happen sometimes. Personal acknowledgement of the harm you’ve inflicted on someone is important, and direct apologies are important, but these need to also be coupled with actions. The person behind a drunk hit-and-run of a parent could help put their orphaned child through school, or a domestic abuser could be made to take counseling and go on to help deter domestic violence in other households, and so on. 

The vast majority of states across the world use punitive/carceral models, though small-scale community trials of restorative justice have been attempted, to varying degrees of success. No one is going to argue that it would be easy to implement, but it is important. Restorative justice is about recognizing that crime, specifically crimes against other people, are fundamentally still about two people: the perpetrator and the victim. And we have to look beyond the words perpetrator and victim to recognize that they are both human beings and challenge ourselves to build a society where our concept of justice means healing hurts instead of retaliation.

It’s not easy, but it is possible. It requires changing your own perceptions of justice and humanity and society and the big wide entire world to have the kind of mindset that allows it to be possible. But it is possible, and I know that from personal experience, because it’s my own mindset and I’ve been through trauma too.

prison abolition and the god of control

Persona 5 has an authority problem. By which I mean, Persona 5 has a problem challenging authority in any way that functionally matters.

The game is drenched in heavy-handed prison imagery, from jail cells to wardens to striped jumpsuits to cuffs and chains to an electric chair. Throughout the long build-up of the main storyline we’re treated to a confectionery delight of punitive justice, stick-it-to-the-man justice: the Thieves find a bad guy who coincidentally has personally hurt or is actively hurting one of their members, and they take it upon themselves to make the bad guy miserable and then send him off to jail. By the end of the arc you’re meant to feel like you accomplished something heroic, that by locking someone up you’re balancing the scales of justice. In the Kamoshida arc Ann even frames this in restorative justice terms, telling him he doesn’t deserve the easy way out of ending his own life and needs to live with his mistakes and repent, but he’s still sent off to jail regardless and Ann and Shiho are left to struggle through the trauma he put them through without anyone to really support them. This repeats itself, over and over: Madarame, Kaneshiro, Okumura, Shido--expose the bad guy, bring him low, publicly shame him, and then send him away (or, in Okumura’s case, watch him die on live TV to riotous cheers from the public).

And what does this all accomplish, in the end? You get to the Depths of Mementos on Christmas Eve to find the souls of humanity locked away in apathy, surrendered willingly to the control of the state, and your targets right there with them, thanking you for helping them return to a place where they don’t have to think of other people as people any more than they did before. In prison, they can forget that they are human beings and that all of the rest of the people in the world are too. The Phantom Thieves march upstairs and defeat the Gnostic manifestation of social control, that being that masquerades itself with lies as the true Biblical god. And then you go back home and the adults tell you that everything is okay now, the system itself isn’t rotten, and you just have to sit back, stop actively participating in the world, and let them take the reins.

It’s one of Persona 5′s most ironic conceits. “Prison abolition....good?” the player asks, and Atlus swats you on the hand and says, “Silly kids, prison abolition completely unnecessary because you can trust the state to not fuck up anyone’s lives anymore ever.” All while using prison imagery to present prisons as institutions inherently divorced from what might constitute actual justice.

Prisons exist because hierarchies exist, and so long as hierarchies exist, inequality will exist and people will commit harm who otherwise likely would not. But you can’t have your cake and eat it too, Atlus. You can’t frame prisons as an inherently unjust institution used to control people because you didn’t do anything to get rid of the hierarchy. You just gave the hydra a few new heads.

restorative justice and rehabilitation

Rehabilitation is Persona 5′s favorite buzz word, and for all that it’s used the game never really clearly defines what it’s supposed to mean. Yaldabaoth uses it as a euphemism to describe the process by which he creates his ideal puppet, but Yaldabaoth bad, and by the end of the game, Yaldabaoth dead. We get barely any time with Igor after that for Igor to define rehabilitation properly on his terms, which is notable in that Igor is the one who’s supposed to be the spiritual mentor of the wild card within the Persona universe. 

We can only infer from that that it’s the player who’s meant to define what rehabilitation is by the end of the game, but because the game fails to take any concrete stance on its themes that could in any way undermine the idea that society isn’t functionally broken, it’s hard to figure out what conclusion we’re supposed to draw. As I stated above, the game immediately walks back any insinuations that it’s the institutions themselves that are rotten by having Sae and Sojiro step in and assume responsibility for making the world just by continuing to operate within the rules society itself has created. If you can’t beat them....join them?

If anything the closest we can get to coming up with a definitive understanding of what the game wants us to understand rehabilitation as is when the protagonist is in juvie. During those months we’re treated to an extended cutscene of all of your maxed out confidants taking action to get you out of jail, but because you can trigger this scene even if you haven’t maxed out all of your confidants, and because the outcome (getting out of juvie) is the same even if you haven’t maxed out any besides Sae, then we’re right back where we started.

But that cutscene still has a sliver of meaning to it despite it being largely window-dressing, because the game does push, over and over, the argument that it’s through your bonds with others, through building a community, that you’ll rehabilitate yourself and find true justice.

And that’s what restorative justice is about: community.

the truth: uncovering it vs deciding it

I can’t find enough words to convey how infuriating it is that Atlus comes so close to telling a restorative justice narrative and then completely drops the ball on displaying it at all in Goro’s character arc.

Goro’s concept of justice is fundamentally punitive, the textbook “you hurt me so I’m going to hurt you back.” In doing so he goes on to hurt a whole bunch of other people: orphaning Futaba, orphaning Haru, triggering a mental shutdown in Ohya’s partner Kayo, and also killing countless millions other instances of mental shutdowns, psychotic breakdowns, bribery, and scandal that caused people material harm and, in a handful of cases, killed them.

Yes, Shido gave him the gun, but Goro pulled the trigger. And in a restorative justice framework, you don’t bypass that fact: you actively interrogate it.

There’s been a lot of really great meta about what the circumstances of Goro’s life were like, including the Japanese foster care system, the social stigma of bastardy in Japan and the impact it has on an illegitimate child’s outcomes, and the ways in which Shido groomed and manipulated Goro into being the tool of violence he made him into. These things aren’t excuses for what Goro does, however: they’re explanations for it. They are the complex social issues that create a situation where a child feels his best choice, indeed maybe his only choice, is to take the gun being offered to him and use it on other people. If you want to prevent more kids from slipping through cracks into those kinds of situations, you need to understand the social ills that made those cracks appear in the first place and you need to fix them. Otherwise there will always be another kid, and another recruiter, and another bad choice, and another gun. Systemic problems require systemic solutions.

Even so, none of that bypasses the fact that it was Goro’s hand on that gun, that it was Goro who performed the physical action of killing Wakaba’s and Okumura’s shadows, and that, as a result of Goro’s direct actions, Wakaba and Okumura died. You can say Okumura deserved it all you like, but Haru doesn’t deserve to be an orphan. Haru deserved to repair her relationship with her father. Okumura deserved the chance to learn and make direct, material amends to the employees he hurt and the families of those who died on his watch, and they deserved to have him give them a better way to heal.

But this isn’t about the loss of Okumura making amends to his family or his victims: this is about Goro Akechi, and the fact that even in Royal his fraught relationship with Haru and Futaba is never explored, barely even addressed. There’s not even any personal, direct acknowledgement from him of the pain he put them through.

You can say he doesn’t care, and that’s fine that he doesn’t care. And it is. He’s a fictional character, this is a video game, they are anime characters.

But Persona 5 flirts with the idea of restorative justice and never fully explores it, and it’s a weaker game for that.

the thin place, the veil between worlds, the line in the sand

This is the last part, I promise, and I’ll be short and brief here, because the truth is that none of this matters, at least not in the way that you think. Persona 5 is a story. It’s a lie that we buy. It’s all zeroes and ones and electrical signals and optical images on a blank black screen.

But art can be powerful. Art is like magic, the deepest magic, the oldest kind. We human beings are creatures of art and poetry, of images and patterns, of music and words. Good art, really good art, can allow us to explore new ideas and critique our internal assumptions about how the world works.

No, fiction doesn’t affect reality, not the way that you think it does.

But if you’ve gotten this far, I just got you to read an essay on restorative justice and prison abolition in regards to a Japanese role-playing game, and that is something to think about.

How do you define rehabilitation? What kind of justice do you believe in? Is the way you conceive those things really the best way?

And how much more interesting could a story that challenges those concepts be?

[otherworldlybooksgoddess]

Five Exceptional Fantasy Books Based in Non-European Myth

Photo by Josh Hild

Don’t misunderstand me: I love reading well-written fantasy with roots in the familiar Celtic and English folklore of my childhood, but with the vast majority of High Fantasy being set in worlds closely akin to Medieval Europe, and a large amount of of Mythic Fiction drawing on legends of similar origin, sometimes the ground begins to feel too well trodden.  There is, after all, an entire world of lore out there to draw from.  That’s why I’m always thrilled to find excellent works of what I call “the Realistic Sub-Genres of Fantasy” based in or inspired by myths from other cultures.  Such books not only support inclusiveness, but also expand readers’ experiences with lore and provide a wide range of new, exciting realities to explore. So, if you are looking for something different in the realm of Fantasy, the following novels will provide a breath of fresh air.

The Golem and the Jinni by Helene Wrecker

In this beautifully written novel, Wrecker draws on both Middle-Eastern and Jewish mythology to tell the stories of two unwilling immigrants in Edwardian New York and the unlikely friendship that springs up between them.  Chava, an unusually lifelike golem created for peculiar purposes, has only days worth of memories and is practically childlike in her innocence.  Ahmad the Jinni has lived for centuries, but is trying to reclaim his forgotten past. The former is as steady and calm as the earth she’s made from while the latter is as volatile and free-spirited as the fire within him.  Both must learn to live in an unfamiliar new culture and find their places in a city too modern for myths even as they hide their true natures.  It’s a wonderful metaphor for the experiences of immigrants everywhere, who often find themselves feeling like outsiders—isolated and even overwhelmed— as they struggle to adapt to life in an alien society.  

Full of memorable characters, vivid descriptions, and interesting twists, The Golem and the Jinni takes readers on a journey that is driven as much by internal conflict as external action.  The setting of 1900’s Manhattan is well-researched and spectacular in its detail.  Wrecker blends two old-world mythologies into the relatively modern Edwardian world with a deft hand.  The result is not only fascinating, but also serves to illustrate the common early-twentieth-century experience of an immigrant past colliding with an American future.

The Tail of the Blue Bird by Nii Ayikwei Parkes

One part Detective Mystery and one part Magical Realism, this novel invites readers to experience modern-day Ghana in a way that is both authentic and profound.  When Kayo, a forensic pathologist just beginning his career, is pushed into investigating a suspected murder in the rural village of Sonokrom, the last thing he expects is to have a life-changing experience.  Soon, however, he gets the acute sense that the villagers may know more than they’re letting on. When all of the latest scientific and investigative techniques fail him, even as odd occurrences keep dogging his steps, Kayo is finally forced to accept that there is something stranger than he thought about this case.  Solving the crime will require more than intelligence and deduction; it will require setting his disbelief aside and taking the traditional tales and folklore of an old hunter seriously.  Because whatever is happening in Sonokrom, it isn’t entirely natural.  

This novel is brilliant not only because of its deep understanding of Ghanaian society and realistic setting, but also because of Parkes writing style.  The narrative is gorgeously lyrical and everything within it is described with a keen, insightful eye.  The dialogue is full of local color, and while some may find the pidgin English and native colloquialisms difficult to follow, I found that the context was usually enough to explain any unfamiliar terms. Sometimes the narrative feels a little dreamlike, but that is exactly the way great Magical Realism should be.  The Tail of the Blue Bird insistently tugs readers to a place where reality intertwines with myth and magic, all while providing an authentic taste of Ghanaian culture.

The Deer and the Cauldron by Jin Yong

During the reign of Manchu Emperor Kang Xi, China is in a state of barely-controlled sociopolitical unrest.  Many of the older generation remember the previous dynasty, and there still remain vestiges of a resistance movement hidden among the populace.  As his forces continue to hunt down the malefactors, called the Triad Societies, the boy-emperor turns to his unlikely friend and ally: a young rascal known only as Trinket.  This protagonist is a study in contrasts: lazy yet ambitious, cunning yet humorous, roguish yet likable, foul-mouthed yet persuasive. Born in a brothel, Trinket has made his way by his wits alone.  At age twelve, he accidentally sneaked into the Forbidden City—a bizarre occurrence in itself—afterward befriending Kang Xi.  Now, rising quickly through the ranks, he is on a mission to (ostensibly) find and weed out the Triad Societies, and he uses the opportunity to infiltrate various organizations, playing their leaders against one another for his own gain. With a dangerous conspiracy brewing in the Forbidden City itself, however, he is forced to choose sides and decide what is most important to him: friendship, fortune, or freedom.   Supernatural occurrences, daring escapades, and moments of deep introspection abound as Trinket struggles to navigate the perilous maze his life has become.

This novel is like a gemstone: bright, alluring, and many faceted.  At times it may seem somewhat simple on the surface, but looking closer reveals new depths and multiple layers.  Full of intrigue, action, horror, and even laughs, The Deer and the Cauldron mirrors not only the complexities of its setting, but those of the China the author himself knew during the Communist revolution. By blending together history, fantasy, realism, humor, and subtle political commentary, Yong not only beautifully captures these social intricacies but also creates a narrative that is as thoroughly engaging as it is unapologetically unique.

Like Water for Chocolate by Laura Esquivel

Magical realism related to food has almost become a movement in itself, with novels like Aimee Bender’s The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, Joanne Harris’ Chocolat, and Sarah Addison Allen’s Garden Spells all finding their places in readers’ hearts.  Originally published in 1992, Like Water for Chocolate helped create this fascinating trend, and it has become something of a modern classic in the fantasy genre.  

The narrative centers around Tita de la Garza, a mid-twentieth century Mexican woman possessing deep sensitivity, a strong will, and a special talent for cooking.  Born prematurely, Tita arrived in her family’s kitchen, tears already in her eyes.  It is in that room where she spends most of her childhood, being nurtured and taught by the elderly cook, Nacha.  The relationship that flourishes between Tita and her caregiver is a special gift, as it provides the girl not only with the compassion and support her own mother denies, but also with a passion and skill for creating incredible, mouth-watering dishes.  At Nacha’s side, Tita learns the secrets of life and cookery, but she also learns one terrible fact: thanks to a family tradition, she is destined never to have love, marriage, or a child of her own.  Her fate, rather, is to care for her tyrannical widowed mother, Mama Elena, until the day the older woman dies.  With a vibrant, independent spirit, sixteen-year-old Tita flouts this rule, falling deeply in love with a man named Pedro who asks for, and is denied, her hand in marriage.  Undaunted, the young man agrees to wed one of Tita’s older sisters, Rosaura, instead, as he believes this to be the only way he can be close to the woman he loves.  Thus begins a life-long struggle between freedom and tradition, love and duty, which is peppered throughout with supernatural events and delicious cuisine.  So great is her skill in cooking that the meals Tita prepares take on magical qualities all their own, reflecting and amplifying her emotions upon everyone who enjoys them.  Controlled and confined for much of her existence, food becomes her outlet for all the things she cannot say or do.  The narrative itself echoes this, by turns as spicy, sweet, and bitter as the flavors Tita combines.  At its heart, this is as much a tale about how important the simple things, like a good meal, can be as it is a story about a woman determined to be her own person and choose her own fate.

Cuisine is fundamental to this novel, with recipes woven throughout the narrative, but that is only a part of its charm.  In the English translation, the language is beautiful in its simplicity.  The characters often reveal hidden depths, especially as Tita grows up and is able to better understand the people around her.  Heartfelt in its joys and sorrows, Like Water for Chocolate glows with cultural flavor and a sense of wonder.  It’s a feast for the spirit, and like an exquisite meal, it never fails to surprise those who enjoy it.

The City of Brass by S. A. Chakraborty

When I first read this novel, I found the early chapters enjoyable and engaging, but felt the story was no more than a typical, if especially well-written, work of mythic fiction.  The deeper I got into the narrative, however, the more wrong I was proven.  The City of Brass is anything but ordinary. While basing her work in Middle-Eastern lore and history, Chakraborty nonetheless manages to create a setting and story that are both wonderfully unique. Lush, detailed, and bursting with magic and intrigue, this book spans the lines between several sub-genres of fantasy without ever losing its balance.  

Beginning in eighteenth-century Egypt, the narrative follows a quick-witted antiheroine. Nahri doesn’t live by the rules of her society.  She doesn’t believe in magic or fate or even religion.  Orphaned for most of her life, survival has required her to become a con artist and a thief.  As a result, she is practical and pragmatic, a realist who has never even considered donning rose-colored glasses, and the last person who would ever expect anything supernatural to occur. Which, of course, means that it does, but the way in which it is handled is intricate and interesting enough not to feel trite. When Nahri’s latest con—a ceremony she is pretending to perform and doesn’t believe in even slightly—goes awry, and the cynical young woman finds herself face to face with a Daeva.  Magical beings, it transpires, are real after all, and this one is furious.  To both of their dismay, he’s also bound to Nahri, who soon realizes that he has an agenda of his own.  In return for rescuing her (and refraining from killing her himself) Dara, the Daeva warrior Nahri accidentally summoned, wants her to pull of the biggest con of her life: pretending to be the half-human heir to the throne of his people.  Worse still, she soon realizes that Dara, whose mentality sometimes seems a little less-than-stable, actually believes she may be exactly who he claims.  He has something planned, and his intentions may not be in her best interest.  Dragged unwillingly into a strange world of court intrigue, danger, social upheaval, and magic, Nahri quickly discovers that some things remain familiar.  People are ruled by prejudices, the strong prey on the weak, and she can’t fully trust anyone.  The stakes, however, are higher than ever, and Nahri will need all of her wits, cunning, and audacity if she wants to survive.

This novel was thoroughly enjoyable, and in fact prompted me to buy the following books in the trilogy as they became available. Chakraborty’s style is lyrical, her world building is superb, her plot is intricate, and her characters are well-developed.  She not only frames unfamiliar words and ideas is easily-comprehensible contexts, but weaves those explanations smoothly into the narrative. The culture, mythology, and history surrounding her tale are all carefully researched, but the tale itself is nonetheless unique. What begins feeling like a fairly ordinary mythic fiction novel will pleasantly exceed readers’ expectations.

So, while we, as fantasy readers, love the works of authors like J. R. R. Tolkien, Marion Zimmer Bradley, and Charles de Lint, there is also a plethora of other enchanting books to enjoy.  Exploring magical realism and mythic fiction based in cultures and folklore from all around the globe ensures that our to-read lists will always hold something unexpected and exciting to surprise us.  So, if you’re starting to feel like you’re in a bit of a reading rut, or if you’re simply looking to expand your horizons, open up new realms of imagination by opening up one of the novels above.  Who knows see where it will lead you?  You may just discover a new favorite to add to your bookshelf.  Happy reading!

[heystephwrites]

The Peace Referendum

Originally published on October 13th, 2016 I wrote this blog post to answer questions I received about the peace referendum in Colombia.

The week before last, in the midst of the SENA strike aka the impromptu and undesired holiday, I began to write a blog post titled COLOMBIA SIGNS PEACE DEAL. Well, two weeks after the referendum I can say that someone certainly signed a peace deal but it wasn’t Colombia.

President Juan Manuel Santos, a man of polarised opinion, was seemingly making good on his pre-electoral promise of peace since, three weeks ago, he signed a historic peace deal with the FARC rebels. The FARC, whilst not the only rebel group involved in the 52-year conflict, are by far the largest and most influential. It was assumed that if this deal had been accepted by the Colombian population other groups such as the ELN would follow suit in the coming months and years. Alas, they did not and thus it’s back to the drawing board for the peace talks.

The decision against the peace treaty has left many, Colombian and extranjero alike, scratching their heads in confusion. Why would the people vote no? Are Colombians not interested in resolving the longest-running armed conflict in the Americas? The answer, as always, is it’s complicated. Nothing here is straightforward; not the conflict; not public opinion; not even the referendum itself.

In theory, referendums seem like a wonderful avenue of direct democracy in an otherwise imperfect system, in reality, this couldn’t be further from the truth. Referendums are extremely rarely used, although 2016 does seem to be the year of the referendum (here’s looking at you Brexit, Thailand, and Italy among others) because alongside other flaws they have the tendency to be incredibly unpredictable. In this case, up until the day of the vote the polls had forecasted solid support for the ‘yes’ camp but it was not to be. To determine why this was, one must look at what drives voters in a referendum. Is it a carefully deliberated conviction based on clearly explained facts? Probably not.

In this and other referendums, the voting public was not sufficiently informed to make decisions on such a complicated and technical issue. This wasn’t merely a vote for peace (to which all would agree) but on a specific peace treaty, one that the details of which were not made abundantly clear. There was a sense of secrecy about it and secrecy always breeds mistrust. What we do know about the peace treaty is that it was particularly lenient towards the FARC. It was extremely lenient in fact, no-jail-time-and-10-seats-in-parliament-to-a-diminishing-and-discredited-rebel-army lenient.

This should really have been foreseen, however. Santos is still in power because of his promise to do what his predecessors could not and secure lasting peace. His second term of presidency was secured by the skin of his teeth, just 50.95% of the vote as opposed to 68.9% in 2010. Many of his supporters that tipped the scales were those among the left that hoped for peaceful negotiation with the FARC. One can assume this is what drove his tactic of peace “at any costs" - a tactic criticized by his old buddy and former Colombian president Alvaro Uribe.

That said, buddy mightn’t be the best word to describe their current relationship as although Uribe helped win the presidency for Santos in 2010, the two later split. Uribe’s campaign against the peace deal is thought to be one of the principal reasons that the no vote prevailed.

The basis of Uribe's campaign was that the FARC should be punished harshly for their crimes.

“Peace is exciting, but the text of the Havana deal is disappointing,” said Uribe

Uribe’s campaign took advantage of the widespread hatred of the FARC. Honestly, the phrase widespread hatred might be an understatement. For many Colombians, there is a special place in hell for members of the FARC as the most recent period of violence was started by the FARC’s insurgency and the violence has been pretty horrific. The numbers reported vary but most agree that it has left; more than 260,000 dead with the large majority being civilian; 6.9 million people internally displaced (which, for reference, is even more than Sudan and Iraq combined), and over 75,000 people have disappeared or been kidnapped. Somewhere in the region of half of all Colombians have lost a family member to violence over the years and many understandably lay the blame at FARC's door. Yet, when looking at the evidence that doesn't come directly from the Colombian government, one can't help but feel the hatred is, in some cases, misplaced. If you read nothing else in this post please read this:

“The United Nations has estimated that 12% of all killings of civilians in Colombian conflict have been committed by the FARC and ELN guerrillas, and the rest, 80%, by government forces and paramilitaries.”

So yes, the FARC have undoubtedly done some atrocious things but the Colombian government also have A LOT to answer for.  

This has obviously never been mentioned. In the same way that many voters in the UK were swayed by xenophobic propaganda, strong personalities such as Nigel Farage, and expensive advertising campaigns during the Brexit movement, the hatred of the FARC was a much more beneficial political tool for Uribe’s campaign. In the UK, voters were lured with falsified promises, all of which have fallen to the wayside, leaving many regretting their decision. Whether this happens in Colombia remains to be seen.

In addition to hatred, many citizens mistrust the FARC. This, as has been mentioned, is not the first attempt at peace or a peace deal. In previous endeavours, the FARC have gone back on their word and this also played a major factor in the outcome.

Interestingly though, the areas in which one would expect people to have the most hatred towards the FARC voted for the peace deal. It seems the area’s most affected by the violence just wanted it to stop. They were not interested in vengeance, just peace.

For this reason, the phrase "tyranny of the majority” is often associated with referendums. This situation is an example of the worst kind because the whims of the majority have superseded the needs of the minority. Although in this case, "the tyranny of whoever bothered to leave their house on that rainy Sunday" would be more apt.

Referendums are only direct democracy if people bother to take part in them. Turnout for this one was a disappointing 37%. Reasons for this low turnout vary from the weather to general indifference. Another thing to remember is that unlike Europe most Latin American countries are new to direct democracy (the exception being Uruguay) and Colombians especially, weary from years of violence and disappointment, are particularly politically apathetic.

Another difficulty that plagued this referendum was a problem with separability. This is the inability to separate the facts before them from other issues. There were a few somewhat direct issues; others were completely unrelated. One less related issue was Santos and his government.

Everywhere except Colombia Santos’ popularity is soaring but here in the country itself, it’s at an all-time low. Colombia’s economy has been struggling of late and unemployment is at 9 percent. He has made some highly questionable moves during his presidency but this isn’t all Santos’ fault; the low prices for oil and trade relations with China have a lot to do with it. Regardless there are many Colombians that believe he has been far too preoccupied with peace negotiations to really deal with the economy. Peace should bring eventual prosperity to the country but for now, the Colombian peso has fallen sharply against the dollar since the talks began in 2012. Although before the referendum a yes appeared certain to anyone paying attention, nationally or internationally, it seemed to many nationals that his interest lay more in international public opinion. This only fortified the perception within Colombia that, now nearing the end of his time in political office he was pursuing other honours and that his haste for a deal was not for the good of the nation, but to secure the Nobel Peace Prize.

Whilst campaigning overseas Santos made the Secretary of Education, Gina Parody, the face of the yes vote in Colombia. No one is sure why, Parody is even less popular than Santos, but we can be sure that this backfired on him. One of the ideas that Parody tried to push was gender-specific care for victims of sexual violence, however, because Parody is openly gay, right wing activists twisted this when it was reported to the general public. Somehow it ended up being explained to already concerned Christians as a “gender ideology” that sought to promote sexual diversity. Many voted no because they believed the treaty to be a threat to the nuclear family. Sadly after months of having her sexual orientation used to sabotage her work, Parody has since resigned.

Already you can see that the situation is very, very complicated and if I’m honest I’ve barely scratched the surface. The more important question is “so what now Colombia? Where do we go from here?” Back to the drawing board, it looks like. Let’s just hope there are no casualties while we wait.

[vake-hunter]

Heart’s Desire Lore Post

[All of my Ambition lore can be found in this google doc]

The Marvelous

This is protocol: when a player wins, they depart. A new candidate is found, or occasionally, like your delecterious self, presents themselves." Pages lets out a long faux-melancholy sigh. "The rest of us must keep playing, of course. Victory is the only escape."

“When a winner expresses their heart's desire, we – that is the Masters – gather, and turn all our ingenuities and resourcements to its fulfilment. If it is possible, we shall grant it. We have never failed yet. After all, we have moved cities in pursuit of desire. I fear to be immodest, but our capabilities are significant."

The Deck is, at first, very normal. Until, as Pages says, “the unfortunate business of expense, deadly journeys, etcetera, can begin."

"They must be consecrated, naturalously, in the Kingdom of the Is-Not.”

Discuss the venue. Where is the best place to hold the Honour? “"The venue must be somewhere that all the players can agree on.” The answer to everyone's needs is Arbor.

The standard set of Cats, Rats, Bats and Hats. Then there are the trumps: the trinity of face cards which tops each suit: the Jacks, smiling and stern, the Queens, sober and wild, the Kings, magisterial and melancholy. Each face is unique to its suit, a Tiger for a Jack of Cats, a Master for a King of Bats.

First played in the Third City

The cards are a recent convention. It changes with the fashion of the cities.

Seven players, always. Every five or ten years – the date depends on certain astrological conjunctions, written in the roof. 

Rules

Each hand you pay an initial ante (7 coins) and are dealt a hand of cards. You then chose to call (pay the current bet), raise (double the current bet) or fold (lose your current stake, and the hand, but bet no more coins).

Each game is played in a series of hands, during which you stake some of your First City Coins. Hands are compared, with different combinations of cards have different values. At the end of each hand, the winner takes the loser's stake. When one player's coins are gone, they lose the game. In its essence, it is not dissimilar to poker – a fact which the Custodian claims is no coincidence.

Gradually, you learn about the legal combinations of cards. How First Fall beats Second, but both are trumped by the Perfidy of Sisters. About the complex interactions between the Parliament of Rats, the Tragedy Procedure, and the Four Crowns.

On the faintest and most coyly-worded of tablets, you study the forbidden hand: the Thing in the Well, which is mentioned nowhere else, and which loses to all other hands but one.

Then you move on to the esoteric rules that govern as yet undiscovered combinations. The Conspiracies: the matching of key cards to increase their value – or decrease the value of an opponent's hand. You learn to avoid the Treachery of Seven, which renders aces lower than sevens. You struggle to understand the Footsteps of Salt, a rule which has never been interpreted the same way twice.

The Thing in the Well wins only against All Manner of Things.

 If you run out of coins, you can stake something else. If your opponent accepts, you may play one more hand. All or nothing. They call it the Chance.

rules forbid excessive drunkenness unless the Debauchery of Fourth is in play

Mr Pages

Pages fucking HATES the monkey. 

Literally moves into your house, drinks all your wine and calls you a bitch.

Really likes Roquefort Cheese. This is important Lore.

Inquire after Mr Pages' own heart's desire: Normally, it would be unwilling to divulge information of a personal nature. But under the influence of uncanny musics, the Masters sometimes let something slip. 

Mr Pages, in your drawing room, waltzes clumsily to the aerological sympthony. You watch, carefully, as it performs some soaring dance of heavens long since abandoned. Beneath its robes, shapes stir and bulge, as if trying to break through the cloth. Are those wings?

"Home," it says, it's voice slurred, "I want to see the stars again."

Mr Pages' approach is brutally successful, and First City coins teeter in stacks at its elbow. It raises aggressively, pushing rivals into situations where they stake more than they should. Then it folds, leaving others locked in bidding wars they daren't lose. Then, when it has a strong hand, Pages pursues it relentlessly, driving up the pot and turning routs into slaughters. Its victories are infrequent, but Pages only cares about comparative success. All it cares about is staying one coin ahead.

Beats the Monkey but offers him a Chance if he has something to bet. The Monkey bets you. Pages instantly accepts. And loses to the monkey. 

Now hang on a minute— you protest, but Pages raises a talon. "Quiet please! It is inapproprisiderate for the stake to speak. The Chance has been offered and accepted. One more round; all or nothing."

Cards are drawn, discarded, drawn again. The Monkey does not stand on ceremony now; there is no showmanship. It calmly puts down a straightforward Ascension of Cats: the three, four, five, six, seven, eight and nine. Pages stares. It contorts beneath its robes. "I offer a Chance of my own!" it screeches, in panic. The Monkey shakes its head, but Pages persists. "Name a price! A flask of Hesperidean Cider! A vial of my own blood! The very robe from my back!"

The Monkey hesitates. It is obviously tempted. To disrobe a Master, to expose its true nature here, before Londoners... But no. The Monkey keeps its eyes on the prize. It picks its nose, dismissively. Thwarted, Pages emits a strangled noise, and jerks spasmodically to its feet. "Impuderagous!" it squeaks, and hurls its cards across the room before sweeping from the Helmsman.

Publishes a bunch of poems about how much monkeys suck.

Confirmed crime is Truth-Strangling.

The Manager

Ask about the Manager's heart's desire: The Manager offers a hungry phantom of a smile. "Cities are odd beasts, don't you find? One can never tell where one begins."

"My needs are simplicity itself. I want a bright diamond. I will make it my heart and grow from there into something strange and wild. Like my beloved. I will carry the seed of a new city. Perhaps I could be of sandstone and gold. That would look very splendid, don't you think?"

The Manager's style is infuriatingly languid. He considers his hand minutely before every bid. When he raises, he counts his coins with plodding deliberation before committing them. And then, half the time, he reveals he has nothing better than a Remorse of Sisters or a Roser's Retreat! Except, apparently, when someone thinks they have him figured out and calls his bluff, only to walk right into a Peace of Hell or an Black Glass Mirror. The Manager likes to keep his opponents guessing.

Uses Nightmares against his opponents.

You can choose to win one of his Brass Buttons or the Topsy King’s Mind when you beat him. 

A Bright Brass Button: You won it from the Manager of Royal Beth during a game of the Marvellous. It is a key to a secret back door allowing you to leave his hotel. And it is very, very shiny. [Weapon; Watchful +3, Bizarre +2, Glasswork +1]

Your Monkey

The Monkey appears to be asleep, but you are certain it is a ruse. You think it's trying to put the other players off their game. It snores loudly when Virginia is deciding whether to raise. It chatters its teeth as the Bishop rearranges his cards, upsetting his train of thought. And whenever Mr Pages lays down a card, the Monkey noisily breaks wind.

 The Monkey is guilty against Hell and the Chain (only ascension is permitted)

The Monkey used to be Gregory Beechwood, and previously won the Marvelous. His desire had been to become an ape because he believed aps were better than humans. He now regrets it. A lot.

His current Heart’s Desire is to end the Marvelous forever.

Beechwood's argument was that man once existed in a state of grace: its present form a devolution. That pristine state was to be found in the form of the ape. One of the players of the Marvellous just so happens to be a monkey – your Monkey, to be precise.

The Monkey gives you a wink, then darts a glance at Pages' now useless mountain of remaining coins. Was that the play? To tempt Pages into giving up his stake advantage? To even the odds by risking everything on a single hand? With you as the prize? Well, it could have bl__dy asked!

Wins against Pages, but not before hesitating when Pages offers its own robes for a Chance of its own. 

Your final opponent is your own monkey.

Virginia

She is very, very mad at you.

Ask about Virginia's own heart's desire: An old desire, renewed. Virginia gives you the thinnest smile you have ever seen. "Sanctuary," she says, in a voice as soft as bare feet on snow. She looks away, indicating the end of the discussion.

Virginia sets a strategy early and holds to it come hell or high water. She trusts to the deck, discarding reliable cards in the hope of a high-scoring combination. But the cards aren't her friend tonight. The best she can manage is a Brace of Hats, then a String of Rats. But every now and again, it pays off. When it looks like she's within inches of constructing a Great Chain, Mr Pages folds hurriedly. A few rounds later a six-card Mirrorcatch wins back her losses. If her fortunes change, her approach might bear fruit.

Loses to your Monkey. 

Kills you so you can meet the Boatman. Is like really excited to do it. "I've been waiting for this...." Virginia arrives at your lodgings promptly. She passes a cursory glance over the instruments of death you've neatly laid out for her (to furnish your own demise.) "Thank you, my dear," she says, "But I shan't be needing those." She advances on you, wearing her sharpest smile. Mercifully, you do not remember the rest.

The Bishop

Ask about the Bishop's own heart's desire: The Bishop smiles, though he is no longer looking at you, instead off into some middle distance. "South," he says at last, his voice low as though thickened with honeyed wine. "To be forgiven. To be welcomed. To end all these darkened days of wandering. To taste sweet fruit upon my tongue and walk in pastures gold. I would lie down upon that splendid glade like cloth of emerald and feel my cares mist away, like dew on a cold morning. And I would not walk there alone. I would open the gates, and lay a path so that others could follow, those who knew the signs." Thin tears streak his face.

The Bishop's style is cautious. He prefers reliable hands, and rarely raises. He watches his pile of coins hawkishly, as though they might abandon the table of their own volition. Still, after a few rounds you think you have discerned a pattern: every three or four rounds he finds his courage, and plays to the end regardless of his hand.

Loses to you or the Manager depending on how you faired in the Honor.

Topsy King

Doesn’t seem to remember why he plays. Staked his mind against the Manager to stay in the game and lost. The Manager now keeps his mind.

He favours esoteric combinations and rare exceptions. He invokes the Treachery of Sevens, the Heart-Catcher's Promise, and the Embarrassment of Swans. He constructs elaborate Conspiracies from low-numbered cards, and disposes of kings and queens like a guillotine. He is having a good night, winning a steady trickle of coins from the other players. But his weak point is the Manager, who always seems to know what the Topsy King is holding.

Loses to you or the Manager depending on how you faired in the Honor.

You have won back the Topsy King's mind. You should return it to him. Even if it is sometimes a lizard.

You restored it to him. He will never be as he was, but nor is he entirely what he became. Some of the time he is the Topsy King; sometimes he is Tristram

The Thief-Oath of Tristram Bagley: You restored some of his lost mind, and the Topsy King will forever be in your debt. He will always owe you a favour, and you will always have a friend in a high place. [Affiliation; Shadowy +1, Dreaded +1, Bizarre +1, Mithridacy +1, Visiting Tristram Bagley +1]

October

Previous Winner.

The Calendar Council is composed of twelve members: each opposes the purview of one of the Masters.

"October achieved her goal and vacated the Council. But she remains one of twelve – a successor has not been chosen. She must mean to, however, so we must assume she is somewhere that the Masters cannot reach but the Council can. Which suggests – ah. Yesterday's Clerestory."

"I asked for my dreams to come true, and the Masters arranged certain accommodations with the powers of the Is-Not."

"The Masters didn't know who I really was, of course. I spent years constructing a false identity in order to join the Marvellous. Virginia saw through it, but did not expose me. Not that I'd have let her." October smiles bright as a falling star. "Afterwards, I used my reward to cast one of the Masters in a prison of its own failures." October sighs wistfully, "I understand that most of them have had second thoughts about the game since then."

Won and killed Mirrors. 

The Boatman

A previous Winner

At last, he answers in his creaking voice. "A replacement. I grow weary." His voice echoes in the hollowness of his skull. "My desire was granted, but difficult to arrange. An appropriate substitute did not exist; therefore one had to be born." The Boatman punts the craft further into the centre of the river.

"They should be of age now. And yet." The Boatman's gaze is briefly reflected in the water, dark empty sockets lost in the darkness. "Perhaps there has been a complication." His voice cracks, a splinter of melancholic menace.

His Amused Lordship

A previous Winner.

His Lordship tells you of his heart's desire. "Damn fool game. I only played to rescue a damn fool friend. Well, friend undersells it rather a lot. She wouldn't be pleased to hear me describe her so. They have such terrible foul language on Mutton Island." His Lordship smiles wistfully. "She was on a dark path, a seeker of that which shouldn't be sought. I played the game to win her back."

Won and freed Mrs Plenty from Seeking.

Mr Hearts

Created the Marvelous in the Third City because the Masters were bored. Lord of Blood in the Third City

Is fat!!! Bulky!! Big!!

Flies you to the top of the tower!!

Has red eyes. 

Final Match

Takes place deep in the Bazaar. Literally in the Bazaar’s heart. 

The Masters all gather and hang from the ceiling to watch. 

Visions of different outcomes assault both of you with the beat of the heart.

Visions of Power: You feel the slow stretching in your bones. Your organs, persistently rearranging themselves into superior configurations. You cast off your robes to stretch your new arched wings, wide enough to break the sky.

The Bazaar opens all of its seven doors to you: the other Masters welcome you to a spire of your own. In the innermost chambers, you let fall your robe and allow your magnificent wings to spread—

Visions of Love: Adoring eyes locked with yours. The heat of a fierce embrace, beating heart to beating heart. Two lives, completed by each other. A love that inspires and consumes.

You play with a poet's ardour and mastery of form. The cards want you to win; they adore you. A rare Adoration of Days; a timely Anchorite of Norwich. Your opponent, meanwhile, is struck by these visions more powerfully than those of yesterday. Tears glisten on his hairy cheeks. His paws shake. He still plays a string of lucky, desperate hands, but you're able to win back some of your coins before the day is through.

Visions of Time: You see yourself defying time (the greatest of thieves), and living hale and healthy into a new age of the world. An endless future, to make of which what you want. And not just time for you, but for others, too. The theft of the sixth city deferred. London's lifespan is prolonged, gleaming like the Neath's darkest jewel.

The heart shows you a New Empire, its dawn-ships conquering territories across the zee. It shows you the Sixth City – a colony of the Fifth – suspended in chains from the Neath's ceiling. You see yourself, centuries hence, on a throne of roses in the Eighth City after the Treachery of Arbor; and then you leading the leagues of Hell against the Ninth— In each vision, you dedicate a handful of years to planning your next move in the Marvellous.

Visions of Escape:  Escape from London, escape from the Neath. You see the glow of a rising sun across the length of a horizon; feel the playful touch of wind in your hair; smell the scent of fresh-fallen snow, sharp and crisp; hear the relentless chatter of birds, clear in a blue sky.

You lose, but invoke your Chance, staking something. Either your profession, your destiny or a single penny. (if you don't have a penny you can borrow one from Hearts.) 

You win, then. But Beechwood, your monkey, wishes to stake his own Chance.

Accept his Chance: He stakes all that is left of himself. The remainder of his humanity. And then places a losing hand on purpose. He turns feral and runs off, unable to deal with being trapped in the game as a monkey any longer. 

Decline his Chance: Beechwood has drawn away. You can see him wringing his paws together, compulsively. His eyes are haunted. He knows that – in a few years' time, when the false-stars align – he must play the Marvellous again.

Your Desire

Mr Hearts speech: "Colleagues, we are gathered (save for Mr Pages, who is excluded for reasons of a conflict of interest) to fulfil our sacred duty. This creature–" here, it gestures at you, "–has proven victorious in the Marvellous and earned their heart's desire!"

There is polite, scattered applause.

You take the time to look around. The walls are adorned with calendars – some of them follow earthly dating systems, others do not – and maps. The workbenches are covered with indecipherable apparatus. A set of heavy red books stands on a shelf. You can make out the black-lettered title of the nearest: 'The Tragedy Procedures Vol. VII.'

"Here," Mr Hearts tells you, "is where we perform our greatest works. This is where we ascertained how to purchase London, and how to accomplish the small request Her Majesty required in exchange. Thus far, no request has been beyond us. Now, if you would do us the honour, tell us your heart's desire. We shall do all in our power to grant it."

Power: You want to be one of them, a Master of the Bazaar – terrible, glorious, magnificent.

Another argument follows, this one not about whether but about how. There is some debate as to your bailiwick and whether this can be a purely titular bestowal. It cannot. Spices and Hearts begin to mix steaming concoctions at one of the workbenches. Mr Veils measures you for a robe.

In the end, Hearts approaches you. "It is decided. You will be Mr Cards." 

Love: There is a long silence. "The problem, oh perspicacious, indeed brilliant, victor of our game," Spices says in its sibilant whisper, "is that despite our very best efforts – and I do not wish to disparage our dear Mr Fires in saying this – we cannot manufacture love." Fires only grunts.

"Does it have to be true love?" Wines interjects, thoughtfully. "There are approximations that, as far as we can tell, are indistinguishable in all meaningful ways—"

"We are not all convinced," Hearts cuts in, "That true love even exists. Certainly, we have yet to isolate it. But! Happily, we can offer something better: adoration. Celebration! The whole city, united in recognition of your evident magnificence. Fame, and of course, glory."

Choose something else. Choose something that is not love.

The Masters have no idea what love really is.

Adoration: To be known by all. To be admired. To be worshipped! In every mind of the city will live a shining image of you, perfect, pristine, and permanent. A collective sigh of relief from the Masters. Adulation, adoration, envy – all these can be readily manufactured.

Time: Long life – not just for you, but London, too. Eventually, the Masters will require a Sixth City. But London is your home, and you would want to defer that day as long as possible. 

"This means London, in its entirety, is technically yours. We shall not," it says, raising a claw to the other Masters, "seek the Sixth until all reasonable hope for the Fifth is lost. These are our terms: this your prize."

How long have you bought for the city? Years? Decades? Centuries? More than it had, certainly. You look around at its familiar, grimy streets; the poignant, flickering glow of its gaslamps; the people hurrying by to jobs and appointments, oblivious to the fact that you have saved them from a fate that has befallen four other cities. Perhaps London itself is your heart's desire. And a reckoning has been postponed.

Escape: You want to walk on the Surface again. You want nothing less than the sun, the sea, and the stars – the real stars!

Eventually, between them, they reach a proposal. Mr Hearts presents it to you. "There are certain laws that are, unfortunately, beyond us. The capriciousness of sunlight is one. Were you to return to the Surface there is every chance the sunlight might kill you, and there is nothing we could do to prevent it. However, there are places where the sun is only an occasional visitor."

Mr Fires unrolls a map of the Surface, and stabs a claw into the top of it. "We will build you a home. Here. The sun is absent there nearly half a year at a time. The location looks to be somewhere in the arctic circle. Habitable, but hardly clement. 

Your Defeat

Yes, you can let the monkey win.

The Marvellous is over. In fact, if Beechwood is true to his word, it is over forever.

The Monkey asks you to come with him to get his reward.

 A pair of Masters carries you and the Monkey – Hearts for him and Iron for you. Membranous wings rip through their robes, and with a beat you are lifted aloft, borne to the highest chamber in the Bazaar.

You tell them the Monkey’s desire is to end the Marvelous for good. Hearts is very upset but Stones argues that after the ‘Mirrors Incident’ it should have been ended. 

"It would be a shame," purrs Spices. "The Marvellous has been terribly diverting, and the days are so very long." Sympathetic murmurs from the other Masters.

"Enough, Our truest currency, colleagues, is our word." Mr Wines is speaking, now. "This is entirely in the rules as you established them, Mr Hearts. It's hardly the monkey's fault."

"I must strongly object!" splutters Hearts.

'NOTED.' reads another note from Mr Iron. 'AND IGNORED.'

Item Rewards

Marvellous Monkey: A monkey, once called Gregory Beechwood, who achieved his heart's desire, regretted it, and (with your aid) brought about an end to the Masters' preferred entertainment, though it cost him everything. [Companion; Watchful +5, Persuasive +5, A Player of Chess +1, Dangerous -1]

The Robe of Mr Cards: The robe is huge and concealing, and glistens like wormskin. It contains an ingenious framework, which grants its wearer the profile and stature of a Master of the Bazaar. 'Mr Cards,' of course, is you. Every month you call at the Ormolu Door of the Bazaar, and are taken inside to undergo various painful but improving procedures. Already you have grown a few inches, though your posture suffers. Your ears are lengthening. And one day – one bold, magnificent day – those nubs on your shoulder blades will be wings. [Clothes; Persuasive +11, Dreaded +2, Artisan of the Red Science +1]

Newly-Cast Crown of the City of London: Fresh-forged from authentic starlight (carried from the High Wilderness in the Bazaar's vaults) this magnificent crown denotes your position as Regent of London. It heavily implies that you are in the line of succession, and gleams like the promise of power. It has been made to your exact size, for it will only ever adorn your head. The Masters have promised you that. [Hat; Persuasive +13, Respectable +2, Mithridacy +1]

A Leasehold on All of London: This is the very contract by which Her Majesty agreed to sell London to the Masters. It is a labyrinth of legal complexity and metaphysical demarcation – partly written in English, partly in Latin, and partly in the Correspondence. As a result, it is best stored in a fireproof steel tube. The text has been meticulously amended in order to extend the 'guaranteed period' in which 'it is prohibited for the previously-specified parties to arrange the replacement, abdication, or discontinuation of London' in favour of 'any other metropolis of comparable significance and succulence.' The exact duration of the extension is not specified: as with all the best legal precedent, it makes much hay of the word 'reasonable' – 'for a reasonable period,' 'to a reasonable observer,' and so on. No doubt some lucky court will be expected to work out the details at a future point. A final, recent clause specifies that the owner of this leasehold (that's you) is entitled to a monthly stipend of revivifying peach brandy to 'further and ensure that party's longevity and rude health.' [Home Comfort; Shadowy +10, Respectable +2, A Player of Chess +1]

A Palatial Holiday Home in the Arctic Circle: A Surface mansion of your own, dappled in genuine moonlight. It enjoys commanding views of dense pine forests, and basks in the infinite hues of the Aurora Borealis. The mansion is only accessible via a secret funicular connecting to the Travertine Spiral. When the sun is absent, for several months of the year, you can travel there and breathe fresh air, and hear birds, and walk in real, new-fallen snow. [Home Comfort; Watchful +10, Bizarre +2, Mithridacy +1]

The Marvellous: This deck – consecrated at the Root of Need – was used in the ancient and treacherous game known as the Marvellous. Player after player was broken upon it. But since you forsook your heart's desire, proving you were not subject to your own wants, the cards have been obedient. Now, they anticipate your needs, and seem eager to please. When you play with them it's as if they're speaking to you. Via their oblique language of numbers, faces and combinations, they hint of broader, grander games played behind the skin of the world. [Weapon; Persuasive +13, Bizarre +2, A Player of Chess +1]

[otonymous]

Proof Of Life (MLQC Gavin - NSFW)

Description:  What will it take for you to finally notice Gavin? Warnings:  NSFW/18+:  Explicit/graphic language — reader discretion is advised.  Trigger warnings: breakups, near death experiences, physical aggression, violence   Word Count:  2846 words (~14 mins of smut, hurt-comfort) AO3: read here Author’s Notes:  Hi everyone!  I got a few requests for a NSFW MLQC Gavin story, so here it is!  Hope you all enjoy it, and happy reading! 😊

Tagging: @kitsune-mana @shogetsus @illysanna

All characters & Mr Love: Queen’s Choice owned by Elex.

Tap.  Tap.  Tap.

Several sharp knocks on your windowpane tell you all you need to know about who you would find once you opened your eyes.  But you were glad you remembered to draw the blinds the night before, because the last thing you wanted was for Gavin to see you as you are now: hair a messy nest, eyes swollen and red-rimmed, and yesterday’s outfit a wrinkled mess on your body.

“Why can’t he use the goddamn door like a normal person?!”  You think in irritation as you drag yourself out of bed, running a hand over your hair and pulling on a house robe before you snap back the curtains.

Sure enough, there he was, the officer smartly dressed in his uniform and giving off an air of authority despite the nonchalant way he leaned against the ledge of your balcony, a plastic bag in hand.  Mouth feeling like it was stuffed with cotton, you swallow hard before sliding open the glass door.

“Good morning, Gavin.  It’s kind of early—“

“You didn’t answer your phone.”

He says, immediately brushing past your shoulder to enter the room.  A gentle breeze follows him, ruffling the curtains as he had so often ruffled your hair.  And as he casts his gaze on the mess that is your apartment, you shudder to speculate on his thoughts about your current living conditions: lopsided piles of notebooks sprouting across the floor, clothing strewn haphazardly across your unmade bed and couch, and empty cup noodle containers littering the kitchen.

Bringing your hands to your face and wishing you could hide forever behind them, you massage your temples, hoping to ease the building tension that would surely worsen once Gavin opened his mouth to speak the same lines he had been repeating for the past few weeks since —

“Lucien has left.  The man is gone, he’s not coming back.  And nothing you do is going to change that.  So why do you keep torturing yourself like this?”

He turns to look you square in the face, the usual warmth of his eyes replaced by burning indignation on your behalf, flashing with anger that you yourself still could not bear to direct on the man who disappeared without a trace, leaving nothing but an empty apartment and an equally empty promise to never leave your side.

Gavin was right.  Of that fact, there was no doubt.  But still, you could not help but feel compelled to continue seeking out the dark-haired genius who captured your imagination and stole your heart from the very moment he told you to trust your instincts.

The heart wants what it wants.

And so you threw everything into trying to locate Lucien, foolishly allowing the rest of your life to devolve into little more than subsisting on the barest of necessities.

The officer’s face softens at your silence, broad shoulders dropping as he finally relents and thrusts out the plastic bag he had been holding, the most delicious aroma wafting from within to remind you of your hunger.

“Your favourite breakfast combo from the place up the street: congee and shrimp rice rolls.  All those cup noodles can’t be good for you.”

You fight back the sting of tears when you take the bag from him, hoping his sharp eyes will miss the shake of your hands as you open the styrofoam containers, saying,

“Thank you…Gavin.”

Lips tugging up into a small smile, he reaches out to tuck an errant lock of hair behind your ear before saying, “Hurry up and eat.  I’ll give you a lift to work.”

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So it was that weeks became months and verdant summer bled crimson into fall, and every time the wind whipped past you on the back of Gavin’s motorbike, your grip on the professor loosened until you learned what it was to let go of another important person in your life.

You had no more leads to follow when it came to Lucien’s whereabouts, and even his peers at the research institute were at a loss to explain the professor’s sudden sabbatical leave.

But through it all, Gavin stayed by your side.  

He was there when the last of your hopes had been dashed, fingers intertwining with yours to tentatively squeeze in solidarity as you left Loveland University with more questions than answers.  It had been his arms that held you in their firm embrace when you threw that jar against the wall, the glass shattering to litter your apartment floor with tiny folded cranes and even tinier shards of glass.  The officer had watched, silent and solemn, as you cried for Lucien one last time, reaching out hardened hands to brush away your tears with the softest of gestures.

The school terror had become your constant companion, and the windblown smell of his denim jacket a source of comfort: warm and familiar whenever Gavin unceremoniously draped it over your shoulders as soon as you showed signs of feeling chilled in dropping temperatures.

But the seasons weren’t the only thing to change.  

Little by little, you began to notice things about him that escaped you before: smiles that lit up his face just as he’d turn from your direction, the faintest hint of pink on his cheeks whenever you thanked him for escorting you home.  The way you felt to see him linger on the street below your apartment,  waiting for you to wave through the window before finally riding off into the night…all despite having seen you to the door.

And each and every time your heart skipped a beat, the flutter scared you.  For although you had given up on Lucien, the wound of losing him was still painfully fresh, and it was not lost on you that Gavin had been the one to patiently draw you out from that place of darkness where you had been wallowing.

But what if lightning struck twice?

Would you lose Gavin too, the way you lost Lucien?

The thought was too much to bear — to lose a lover but also a friend — so you chose not to think, ignoring it like you ignored the longing in his hazel eyes every time you shut the door without inviting him in, your fingers tracing the golden ginkgo leaf on your wrist that still held the heat of his touch.

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It all happened in breathtaking clarity, as if time had slowed enough for you to see Gavin whip between yourself and the man in black — the scent of blood permeating the air as a bullet burned through flesh and nylon before embedding itself into a brick wall.

By the time Minor’s face appeared before you — eyes wide and lips moving a mile a minute — you heard not a word he said, so fixated were you on the crimson marring the pristine white of Gavin’s windbreaker, the radius of this ugly spot growing larger each time his bicep flexed to handcuff the suspect pinned beneath his knees.

Yet, in the resultant commotion, the officer’s eyes sought yours to confirm your well-being even though he had been the one to sustain an injury.  And it isn’t until his brows furrow in concern that you realize you had been shaking from head to toe, your body acutely processing your fear before your mind could even catch up to what it was that scared you:

Gavin hadn’t even been wearing his bulletproof vest when he moved to cover you without a second thought.

Minor drapes his jacket over your shoulders, drawing you from your reverie.

“It’s okay bro, I’ve got the boss!  You go ahead and take care of that scum…and your arm too!  Get to the hospital!”

“Where the hell were you, idiot?!  Didn’t I tell you not to leave her side?!”

Minor slinks behind you, trying to hide from Gavin’s scowl.

“I turned around for one second and she was gone, I swear!  How was I supposed to know the boss would go running after a little girl crossing the street and get attacked by this loser?”

“Screw up again and it’s your last time!”

“Okay, okay!  Whatever you say, bro!”

The exchange between Minor and Gavin was typical, and as a member of this triad of Loveland High alumni, you were usually amused by their antics.  Currently, however, you could barely find the strength to speak, let alone laugh.

So you let Minor escort you home in the officer’s stead, craning your neck to stare at Gavin’s retreating figure through the rear window as the car pulled away from the scene of the crime, feeling less shaken by your brush with danger than the one thought that torturously echoed through your mind:

Gavin could have died.

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Patient.

He really was so patient.  Much more than you deserved.

For Gavin remained still as a statue as your hand wound about the collar of his white tee, the other scrunched into a fist that beat repeatedly into the hard plane of his chest.  Even still, it was from your eyes that tears spilled, ceaseless and hot…eyes that saw only Gavin.

You knew it now, felt it deep in your bones from the moment your fear of losing him stole your reason to turn desolation into blinding fury, one that made you rage the second you saw him at your door.  And with one yank on his denim jacket, you had pulled Gavin into your apartment, pushing him until he lost balance and ended up on the couch with you straddling his lap, fists flying with wild abandon.

“What were you thinking, throwing yourself in front of me?!  Who the hell do you think you are?!  Superman?  Are you invincible?!”

Thud.  Smack.  Thud.

The officer sits without reacting, stoically taking every shot you have to deliver.

“Why would you go that far, Gavin?”

The heat of your anger finally dissipating through sore fists, the question leaves your mouth in a whisper — tears dripping down your face to glance off the apple of Gavin’s cheek before they, too, trace the lines of his jaw.

“You know why.”

His voice is low and raspy, and you wilt under the intensity of his gaze, turning your face away before you drown in the depths of his eyes, dark with emotion.

“Don’t look at me, I’m a mess.”

Calloused fingers gently tilt your chin back in his direction, Gavin saying,

“You’re always beautiful…but even more so when you’re crying for me.”

He sweeps a thumb across his cheek, gathering your tears to bring them to his mouth, and you are entranced by the pink tongue sweeping out to taste the salt of your frustration.

“Even your tears are sweet, just like you.”

“Gavi-“

The name barely leaves your lips before it is swallowed up by the soft plushness of his, the officer angling his face in a bid to move even closer, tongue exploring your mouth with an unfathomable hunger that leaves you breathless.

Losing yourself in his kiss, you feel the press of his solid chest against your breasts as he shifts to lay you on the couch beneath him.  And when he pulls back to rip the jacket from his shoulders, the white tee thrown off in one frenzied motion, your fingers seek the heat of his skin, desperate for proof of his existence.

Desperate to confirm that Gavin was alive.

He clasps your hands, pressing a reverent kiss to each palm before bringing them to his face, allowing them to slide past his Adam’s apple, down the broad smoothness of his chest, running along the muscular grid of his abdomen…until they stop at the leather belt looped around the tantalizing V that drew your eyes to the obvious bulge in his pants.

“Feel me.  I’m here with you — always have been and always will be.  Don’t be scared.  I’m not going anywhere.”

A flood of relief stings your eyes anew, and panic flashes across Gavin’s face for an instant before he bend over you once more, whispering as he kisses your tears away,

“Shhh…it’s okay…it’s gonna be okay…”

Never in your life did you imagine this would happen, that you’d have the boy feared for his pugilistic skills lying between your legs, hands roaming hot and hungry over the curves of your body but, frustratingly, keeping above the silk of your blouse.

Hence, you took it upon yourself to undo the buttons, fixated on the bob of Gavin’s throat as his eyes followed the minute motions of your fingers, the officer’s lips parting in awe to see your breasts heaving with anticipation beneath your bra until that, too, was discarded.  His voice reaches out like the touch of a tentative hand when he says,

“This is more than I’ve ever dreamed of, but...are you sure this is what you want?”

Through a rapturous haze, you watch as flecks of gold melt in the warmth of hazel eyes that examine you carefully, searching for any sign of hesitation.  And that’s when you knew you didn’t have to hold back.

Wrapping your arms around Gavin’s neck, you draw him closer to whisper in his ear,

“I love you.”

The sudden ruffle of your curtains startles you, as do the papers on your desk that swirl like leaves caught in a fall wind before settling to the ground in a messy pile.  And when Gavin gently cups your face to refocus your attention, the last thing you see before his lips seal upon yours is the exhilarated joy that lights his face from within, the officer softly laying his reply onto the corner of your lips:

“I’ve always loved you.”

Biting into your fist, you try to keep your moans from escaping when you look down to see Gavin kneeling on the carpet, strands of silken brown hair tickling your belly with the slightest movement of his head between your legs, his large hands stroking the length of your thighs to leave trails of goosebumps in their wake.

Each time his tongue flattened to run along the pink flesh of your folds, trembling and wet, you slid further down the couch until your legs found the support of Gavin’s shoulders and his hands gripped your buttocks to knead and spread — lips and tongue continuing to taste your arousal with gusto until it smeared shiny across his face.

And when the tension built to reach its apex with every flick of his tongue on your clit, Gavin kept you suspended on that high until he inserted one finger…then two, to curl within your depths and pull the trigger on your climax.  You came violently, convulsing around his hand and bucking into his face as waves of pleasure coursed through your body, ripping the moans from your mouth and adding another shade of crimson to his cheeks.

The officer stands, one hand whipping off his belt as the back of the other wipes across his shiny lips.  You barely have time to gasp as you take in the sight of his sizeable erection before Gavin is wrapping your trembling legs around his tapered waist.

“I’ve wanted this…”

The heat of his cock is searing as Gavin presses against your pussy, smooth head sliding up and down the length of your folds to gather the arousal that dripped in abundance even as you continued to twitch from your orgasm.

“…wanted you…”

Pressure, as he pushes insistently for entry.  The stretch of your skin when you start to take him within your body, accommodating the man who was willing to die for you.

“…for so, so long.”

Gasp.

Your eyes roll back when he finally sheathes himself within you, the officer’s breath coming in pants moist and hot by the side of your face.  He hisses through clenched teeth to feel the scrape of your nails down his back before he recovers to say,

“Could you cry for me again?”

With that, Gavin thrusts deeply into you to bury himself to the hilt, each stroke from his powerful hips reaching greater depths than the last until your eyes watered from sheer intensity of sensation, mouth falling open in a silent scream before it is sealed by his lips.

Every bead of sweat that rolled off his shoulders to evaporate from the heat of your skin.  Each muffled groan against the shell of your ear.  The slippery friction that moved within you to send you to ecstatic, new heights.  All these things told you, without a doubt, that Gavin lived.

And when he finally shudders, you spasm to feel the heat of his release, convulsing around him for the second time to draw him closer to you than ever before.

Pressing his forehead to yours as he slowly descended from his high, Gavin says, “It’s true.  I meant every word I said.”

You nod, kissing him in response.  For the thunderous beat of his heart already told you everything you needed to know:

Gavin is alive.  And he is yours.

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Thank you so much for reading!  Check out more of my work here! 📚

[cruelzy]

I’m actually nervous about sending in a request cause I love your writing so much and honestly don’t feel worthy to make a request of you. However, I would like to request a Legolas Drabble/fic/whatever you call it based on the prompt that’s like “five times he almost kissed her and the one time he did” I really love your writing and I wasn’t aware requests were open until just now.

notes: i did three and one love cuz ain’t no one got time for that

i. 

Legolas hesitantly concludes that his best decisions are made without much thought.

Not to say he is rash. On the contrary—though his every inhale could do with less contemplation beforehand—he considers himself rather circumspect. (As modestly as one could ever self evaluate anyway.) 

There tends to, nevertheless, be a lack of time to muse in the thick of battle. He can count on one hand any gargantuan choices he’d had to make outside of a particularly tense situation. 

Point: world changing verdicts were normally decided on direct instinct, rather than any gradual, logical philosophy. 

Reality: he has had all the time in Middle Earth and more to think about why he should not be with you.

Cannot, he corrects himself. Nay should not. Cannot. 

Greed. Coil. Collapse.

Will not.

Your own indecision is louder in the silence. 

It’s never truly silent for him, not really, but onset of moonless night has coaxed the land into a reluctant still. His awareness fractures, branches out among the slow shifting plains beneath his feet to the anxious fidget of your dry fingers, the deep seated craving of the forest, the heat of the sleeping company bolstering against his back, bare and familiar and grounding. He keeps watch, the storm in his ears approaching steadfast in the east—torrents to be upon them by noon the latest of morrow, so he plans; he listens to the far flung sea, ever present in her rhythmic whispers, he tracks the mechanical open shut of your mouth in hushed breath as you slowly but surely build your confidence—"Legolas?“

Thunder unfolds itself from the sky. 

Your head snaps to the heavens. Blinking against the night, clumsy in that distinct way of man in dark, “you had something you wished to tell me?”

“No.” Legolas says. “Nothing.”

ii. 

Time marches on.

They rise. They move. They fight. They sleep. They rise. 

The good and the bad scatters into the wind, lingers in their eyes and their jokes and their bones at the fire. They keep moving. Solidarity is a drive half-cool, offering much needed relief against the merciless sun every moment between. 

“Say, do your hands serve the same purpose as your feet?” A voice rises into morning dew. “If you drop on all fours, you may be able to advance faster than that!“ 

“Ha!” You scowl in response, posturing an air of exaggerated disdain and failing terribly. Your lips quiver up at the corners. “I could run to the sun and back and you would still be doing up your boots!“ 

The brown eyed dwarf you speak to turns swiftly on his heels, holding Legolas in his sights. He grins wide, the physical embodiment of mischief. "What say you, elf? Who is swifter?”

“Foul play! I have seen the food you offer him after hunt!”

“Give the truth as you see fit, great war-bow warrior, keen-eye of Mirkwood—”

“Bribery!”

The rest of the circle keeps quiet in amused exasperation, wholly familiar with  your antics. 

“Perchance he should race with us to properly judge. If he loses, the punishment shall be a pleasure of mine to ruffle at least two, no, three hairs loose from his perfect mane!” There’s a teasing incredulity in his purr. “Unimaginable!" 

Legolas smiles. "I do not think you could reach.”

You throw your head back and laugh heartily as the BlackLock squawks in outrage. Legolas watches your face glow. The joyful sound unfurls him from the inside out like wood flowers in springtime. 

Longing surges fast. Sudden.

It would be so easy. 

The thought loiters for only a second, but it is a second far too many. His reaction is all but physical: restraint forcefully barreling into him like a tidal wave. Ire immediately follows. Always, always this with you. Eats him alive. Haunts. Marvel at the vast expanse of his own incompetence, tossed about like a raft in the surf, lost to emotion’s every beck and call as though he were a boy. And if there is anything Legolas is not, it is a boy. 

Outwardly, his ears twitch once. 

The sea laughs and laughs.

iii.

(SII’ !)

Peace shattered by a cacophony of yells. 

He should have known—the forest had been teething in unrest all morning, but he was, of course, unusually distracted. 

And where there is one warg, there are bound to be more. Packs never stray far. Honestly, he would have been more concerned if there was a solo beast; lone, exiled wolves always tend to be more unpredictable, and consequently more dangerous. 

His own pack has tightened, too well polished to break formation. Legolas assesses the situation in a brisk glance before raising a fist level to his sternum, parallel to the ground. The company obediently scatters. Divide. Lure. Incapacitate. 

Earlier hypothesis confirmed, he thinks, absentminded. He did not hesitate for that course of action, now did he?

Legolas frowns. A harrowing blur of teeth and claws draws him back to reality, three answering growls sounding from behind. He presses his lips together. He is in no mood for this. 

In the end it is less a skirmish and more an execution. 

Today, the concept of mercy may as well be as far from him as the Halls of Mandos. He yanks his arrows back from the bodies, apathetically maneuvering around the excessive bloodshed. None of his companions have disappeared from the corners of his visión; in fact, most are beginning to take rest as the struggle winds down. Hard resistance to his movements makes him pause.

The last shaft is unrecognizable amongst the shredded cartilage and sinew. 

Legolas blinks owlishly. 

“Report." 

"All accounted for,” there’s your voice, effortlessly branded to his skull, “don’t worry about the blood.”

He tips his head. Legolas has both been around long enough, and been around you long enough, to recognize nuance when he hears it. The timbre of your tone is too innocent. “Is that s–”

You enter line of visión, and whatever amusement there was fizzles entirely out of existence. 

You’re a bath of carnage from head to toe.

He straightens, bewildered. 

“Don’t worry about the blood,” you repeat. Upon your smile is victory, but he can hardly register such a thing, already crossing the distance in three long strides.

Sturdy. Sturdy in front him. Strong as a bough; chest high, shoulders back, hands slick with sweat and grime. Still vulnerable. The stench of moldy earth fills his nose. “Report." 

You wipe your blade on the grass, eyeing the hand on your arm strangely. Quiet, then whoosh, air punching through your nose in an obvious joking redirection—"Puppy just got too close for comfort. I live.”

Once he has visibly confirmed what you say to be true, the relief is dizzyingly tangible. It feels as though his mind is shooting out sparks. 

Will not. 

Desire alone he could handle, but this is something else, something more tender. And what of it? A living disease.

“Plague,” he hisses.

Now that the threat of your demise has cut short, he cannot ignore the heightened adrenaline running rampant in his veins, yet to temper from the sudden battle. 

Fingers clamp tighter into flesh, as though you would vanish into thin air the moment he took hands off you.

For all your confidence, your palms are shaking. This, however, does nothing to the vicious triumph etched into your visage. 

Something slowly jostles awake within him. 

There’s a sense of pride, yes, but what raises heavy head under his bones is far more ancient, more volatile. He touches your cheek, watches the up down heave of your chest quicken. Liquid crimson marks exposed skin, slides wet between his knuckles. Your brow is slick with sweat. The trees grow louder and louder in their whispering, crisp leaves crunching underfoot where he inches closer. Every detail on your face has sharpened to a point, and Legolas knows his eyes have blown wide and luminescent.

When he says your name, he can barely recognize his own voice. 

“There is a stream up ahead!”

Reminder of an audience makes him all but growl. The fingers on your cheek drop, lightly brushing up and under the curve of your jaw on their way out. He does not imagine the violent shudder that runs through you.

Legolas endures. 

“Alive, indeed,” he quips, gaze smoldering. “Be more careful.”

———

You are going to murder an elf.

You’re going to rip out his entrails and wear them as a badge of honour. You’re going to wrap up the remains and send them to Thranduil himself. You’re going to tug him down to your level and you’re going to, you’re going to kiss the ever living daylights out of hi—

No!

You grind your teeth together, stalking down the hallway threateningly. Passersby steer nervously out of your way. 

When you finally find him, he is alone in the kitchens. “Ah!” Your exclamation is purposefully loud, as you vehemently wish he would jump and smash his perfect head into the pans from surprise. Of course, no such thing happens. He probably heard you coming. This only incenses you further. “There you are you intrepid, lousy, good for nothing—”

“I did not know,” Legolas drawls, “that it was a crime to prepare oneself a drink.”

“Hilarious. You’re hilarious. No really, if you ever tire of being a prince, a jester is right next in line.”

Hot and cold and hot and cold for months on end with the pointy-eared bastard. He’s put the icing on top by avoiding you, when he well knows that with the journey commenced, you are leaving Mirkwood soon.

“There are rumors you have been searching for someone. Were you successful?”

There have been absolutely no such thing—

“Oh? I haven’t heard.” The last dregs of patience spill out of you like a runny egg. “Whose mouths spout such gossip? Ghosts? Are there spirits in these halls?" 

"Perhaps.”

“Alright.” You are very very done with this conversation. “Here it is. I am going to talk, and you are going to listen.”

His eyebrows raise, bemused. Legolas spreads his upturned palms placidly as if to say go ahead, then turns back around, the frame of his body blocking whatever his hands are occupied with from eyesight.

You squint.

“What are you doing?”

“Making tea,” he says. He catches your gaze, and without any semblance of warning, you are struck, once again, by his beauty. 

You swallow. 

One would think the novelty would eventually fade and disappear, but not so. It is a fact of his existence: just as the colour of his hair, or the sound of his voice. Noticing is simply seeing. Unavoidable. Legolas is impossibly beautiful, and you are trapped reliving it again and again. 

He calmly slips a spoon into his mouth.

“Care to taste?”

Before your own cowardice can psyche you out of it, you dart forward, tugging the utensil from his lips to thoughtfully place between yours.

A beat.

Legolas tilts his head like some lazy jungle cat, eyes impassive. 

As if on cue, explosions of colour practically bang behind your teeth: pungent woodsmoke and spice and evergreen, acrid, fine sugared juniper flooding thick down your throat. If the very heart of the earth had a taste, it was this.

You choke.

“That,” says Legolas, “was alcohol.”

“Pardon?" 

You gag around the weapon in your mouth, pulling it out faster than the speed of light in genuine panic. If Legolas was capable of downing an entire bar of alcohol without feeling a thing, what would one drop of elvhen alcohol do to you?!

The face you were making must have been hysterical, because Legolas laughs breezily, sweeping up the mug in one smooth motion and taking a long, deliberate sip. 

"I was joking,” he finally says. “It is tea." 

"Truly?” You clarify. “No repercussion?”

“Well, you may feel unnaturally clear-headed.”

Forget sending remains to Thranduil. You are going to hang them above your front door. 

A sarcastic response nearly flies off of your tongue but dies of clipped wings half way out. You frown. With a start, you realize he’s steered you away from your original topic with frighteningly choreographed ease. 

Unease makes you fall quiet, apprehensive.

“You’re dangerous,” you say. 

“Yes.” He smiles, deliciously slow. “Does that scare you?”

You think even a whisper would drain whatever breath you have left, so you don’t answer. All the air has fled your lungs.

“A score and two moons ago,” Legolas continues evenly, as if you had not become a living statue, “you and I stood outside my father’s throne room. Do you remember? You peered out at the turning of the leaves, those great trunks in their shadow, and wondered how glad I was at heart. You said you would be old and grey by the time my father decided we were worth his presence.” His eyes crinkle at the corners again, sadly. “I know why you are here, valarhîw. It cannot happen." 

You imagine how you must appear to him. The march of time on your features, mortality burning out quick and bright in every tuck and crease of skin, leaking out of each pore, impermeable in your predestined fate. Brevity of such a high-tensioned existence: chase of second to second, the constant companion that is anticipation, desperation, anticipation, you imagine, is inconceivable to a being thousands of years old. Your entire life is simply one of his weeks. 

And yet, something traitorous whispers in your ear. He is still here. 

"You know what I think?” You croak.

Legolas does not respond.

“I think you are trying to scare me off. I think you are more terrified of the alternative.”

“Trust me, child,” he sounds seemingly the same, but his gaze is molten. “Heartbreak is no simple matter.”

The inevitable tragedy of your story. You logically hear what he is saying, but your heart has stopped listening ages ago. The concealed pain on his face squeezes a hand round your ribs and pulls. 

Desire alone you could handle, but this is something else. Something more tender. 

And what of it?

“We will cross that bridge when we get there.”

“Please,” he breathes, struggling against the typhoon that is your humanity, the whirlwind of here and now buried in your species’ gravity, your rage against the dying of the light—tiny little blips in a grand world ruthlessly determined on stamping their footprint on eternity. It completely contrasts his very identity. His mask cracks, soft and unguarded. “You do not know what you ask for. Please." 

"Or maybe,” you sneer. “You are not able to give.”

The words hang in the air. Staggering.

Legolas slams you into the counter. You see a flash of teeth, quick as lightning, before his mouth is on yours. 

The first thing you think is that you were way in over your head. 

Then you’re not thinking anything really because all else instantly ceases to matter.

His kiss is white-hot and overwhelming, drawing a hopeless whimper up your throat like water from a well. You throw your arms up and around his neck until utterly no space exists between your bodies. Or, trying, failing, hands dropping to frantically press and wander about his chest because why is he so tall, your mind going void again as he crowds closer, thighs pressing to thighs and large hands searing above your waist, behind your head. The mug shatters at your feet. Punishing bites are soothed by slow, firm strokes of his tongue, leaving you to gasp and shake against the hard planes of him. He is relentless, steady and insistent against your urgent quickness. Legolas kisses you and kisses you until you think that maybe that talk of mortality was for nothing, no, you are going to die of pleasure right here and right now, at the mercy of your tormentor.

“If—” you tear away just enough to cup his face in your sweaty palms, fighting for air, “if we do this, it is all the way. You do not, you do not take the parts of me you want, you—wait—you accept all of me—”

“Ed’ i’ ear ar’ elenea, Melamin!” He laughs, clear and bright. “For once, shh!”

Your reply is lost to the wind. 

Or his mouth.

(It was definitely his mouth.)

[paper-whales-writes]

Left Behind - Part 3

A/N: IT’S FINALLY HERE!! 

Pairing: Mal x Reader

Word Count: 2,475

Requested By: A hell of a lot of people

You, alongside the rest of Uma’s crew, are sat inside Ursula’s eatery. All eyes transfixed on the TV screen that is displaying the Royal Cotillion live. After giving Uma the inkling to use a love potion on Prince Ben, you are keen to see whether she will potentially use your plan over one of her own.

“Uma better get one up on Mal.” you grumble under your breath; hands gripped around the chipped mug filled with dark dregs of coffee.

“She will Y/N. Uma is nothing but a crafty lass - if anyone can tear down Mal, it’ll be ‘er.” Harry replies, drumming his hook along the wooden surface of the bar.

“I sure hope so, Harry.” You sigh.

The screen is bright: awash with colours, fabrics and fashions that you and all those trapped on the Isle could only dream of. All of them, dancing and smiling; looking well fed and healthy. Unlike everyone in the room of the eatery: gaunt children fed on scraps; with hollow cheeks and intense gazes. Children who have to fight for everything they have. So, seeing the decadence and opulence played on a screen in front of you… it’s enough to make your blood boil.

Yet, it’s not just yourself who’s watching the screen with gritted teeth – most people in the eatery are. Even Gil. Who usually smiles through any pain… or at least tries to? But instead of trying to lift everyone through it, Gil is just slumped over the bar like Harry and yourself. It’s enough for you to pat his hand in lightly – the most affection the Isle will ever permit you to give.

“Are you okay, Gil?” you ask lightly.

He turns away from the TV to look back at you; complete with a small, dejected smile. “I guess I am, Y/N. It’s just… seeing it all on the TV.”

“I know Gil, I know. It never gets any easier. Being punished for a crime we did not commit.”

He nods along with you; placing his hand over yours. “But at least we are a team now. Right?”

“Right!” You reply, squeezing your joined hands.

Harry nudges you both; drawing your attention away from Gil and back to the TV. The announcer is proudly announcing the arrival of Mal – to which everyone in the eatery groans. Soon the disgusted huffs and groans are broken by a laughing splutter. Turning in slight shock, you are confronted by the sight of Harry nearly falling off his stool laughing.

“What even is that dress?! She looks like a failure of a bloody rainbow!”

Harry starts to cackle, hand slipping on his hook ever so slightly. “Why would you ever pair orange, blue and purple? I thought Evie had more fashion sense then that!”

As you smirk over at Harry, you notice many of the eateries’ other patrons are smiling and chuckling at Harry’s outbursts. But you can’t deny that Mal looks like a fashion disaster.

“I was expecting her to look prettier. She never particularly cared about looking pretty – but she would never willingly let herself look stupid.” You murmur, sobering up from your laughter.

“That’s what love does to you.” Harry intones.

With in seconds, the comments have stung – rubbing salt into your still open wounds. Was it obvious to everyone then? That you were head over heels for her; yet she barely felt a thing? Almost as if your relationship was a strategic move on her part, to get your brains and knowledge? To use against all her and her mother’s enemies? Maybe so, maybe not. But even so, it’s pretty clear that the years you spent as her companion – even just as friends – meant next to nothing as her.

As your facial expression hardens, Harry notices and seems to wince slightly. “Sorry, Y/N.”

“An apology from Harry Hook? Am I dreaming?” You laugh, having to brush off your stinging wounds with the ever-present blanket of apathy.

“Guys, it’s Ben and he’s with… Uma?”

From the sound of Gil’s confused voice, you and Harry turn away from each other and turn your gazes to the TV screen. There she is, Uma, arm in arm with Prince Ben and waltzing among the princes and princesses of Auradon. Doing you all proud.

The next hour or so is spent watching the events of the Cotillion. All with ‘oos’ and ‘ahhs’ as you watch Uma battle it out with Mal in their super-sized forms.

“Did you know that either of them could do that?” Harry asks you.

“Not. At. All.” You breathe, slightly awed at the majesty of both your ex-girlfriend and best friend’s powers.

But soon, the battle is over. Mal returns to the deck of the ship alongside cheers and shouts of being Auradon’s hero; while Uma delves down into the ocean’s depths. The former registers to you first; causing anger to surge through your veins. As if Mal gets to be the hero… even though she had the same plan that Uma did when she first came to Auradon. Yet, with Harry’s tight grasp on your arm, Uma’s disappearance dawns on you like a fresh wave of despair.

“Do you think she can get back?” You breathe.

“I don’t know…” Gil trails off, before Harry starts to pace.

“We have to find her, what if she can’t get back…” He mutters, over and over.

Standing up, you steer him to look at you, hands grasped firmly on his shoulders. “Harry, calm down. Let’s work out a plan, we can think of something. At the very least, you two start to look for her and I will deal with the crew and all these politics. Okay?”

He looks at you, desperate for anything rope to cling onto. “Okay.”

“Now go bring our girl home, no one in this crew gets left behind.”

--

The barrier is coming down. That's all you have been informed of, before being crushed in hugs from Uma, Gil and Harry. "We did it, Y/N! We did it!" Their celebrations cause a smile to light up on your face. When you were told of the boys' plan to find Uma, you happily stayed behind to look after the crew and maintain the territory. It was a task that didn't need all three of you, even though you were miserable away from all your friends. But not only have your boys found Uma, they've also managed to dismantle the political barrier of Auradon's distrust. "I'm so proud of you all!" You squeal, burying your yourself deeper into the group hug. "Come on, we need to get ready for it. We're saying goodbye to this barrier in style!" Almost like clockwork, Uma's command is enough to spur the crew to action. While members of the crew flock to spruce the ship up, Uma's hand grasps your shoulder as she tugs you towards her. "Not you. You've done enough work while I was away. We're getting new clothes." "New clothes?" You question, raising your brows. "Yes, no hesitating. Evie has given us fabric and supplies to work with... So no complaining! If Mal's going to be there when the barrier comes down, we're going to show her what she's missing out on." "Uma... I don't know." "Come on, Y/N! We both know how to sew!" Uma exclaims excitedly, squeezing your shoulder in encouragement. "Sails and tattered clothes, Uma. Not dresses." "Oh come on Y/N, you sew up wounds all the time! How can a dress be much different?" "They're wildly different, Uma! Can't we just go to Dizzy with this?" Uma sighs, stalking over to a chest that was brought upon deck when they returned. "How can you trust Dizzy with these?" She beckons you towards her. Inside the box is a cacophony of fabrics - edgy and bold just like the Isle. Uma's fingers are already itching towards a teal fabric that just screams 'open ocean'. Like a moth drawn to the flame, you start to root through the fabric until you find a lavender fabric, streaked through with silver strands and lace. Instantly, your attention is hooked. "You like it? Take it, it's yours. No strings attached." Meeting her eyes, you struggle to comprehend it. No one has given you something out of the goodness of their heart - even your place on this crew was procured through hard working and even being a snitch. Yet now, Uma is willing giving you something. "Thank you, so much." You breathe, throat clogged with emotions. The fabric is soft to the touch and with that, you're sold on Uma's idea. "Well, we better get sewing." You say meeting her eyes with a smile - You stand behind Uma, practically beaming as she sings to Mal. Somehow, some kind of magic maybe, has allowed all voices to carry across the space between the Isle and the shores of Auradon. You're still quite prickly over the fact she and Mal have seemingly buried the hatchet sometime their shared adventure. But maybe it's time to forgive Mal? She has ended up doing the right thing, even if it has taken longer than it should've. Well, that question can be answered when you'll inevitably see her... Singing along to the chorus of excited voices, you follow the others - through the cobbled streets of the Isle; across the barrier and all the way to Auradon. Even you know the barrier will no longer be in place - it's what you're all celebrating, of  course - there was still a prickle of fear within you when it came to crossing from the Isle and onto the adjoining bridge. Nothing happened. Actually no, something did happen. You surged onto the bridge and into a celebratory dance with even more vigour than before. Yet, as all things do, the dance ends. With citizens from both ends of spectrum mixing together: talking, laughing and introducing themselves. A new life being made. As you gaze around at those in the crowd, your eyes land on Harry trying to give his beloved captain a kiss, causing you to grin from ear to ear. As soon as you joined the crew, you knew there was chemistry between those two - heck, even before then! But being in their close circle really allowed you to see it. Given time, those two can create their own love story that will rival even Ben and Mal's. Just as you start to walk over to them all, a hand shoots out to grasp your arm. While you flinch in reaction, the voice that sounds right behind you makes that flinch encapsulate itself into a grimace. "Can I talk to you?" You can see Uma's gaze shooting to you, concern dancing across her dark eyes. With a small smile, you nod at her, signalling that you are okay. Then, and only then, do you turn to face Mal. "I feel like this conversation has been overdue, don't you? Especially in light of recent events." "I agree." There is silence between you as you both walk away from the celebrations. Almost as if Mal is struggling to start her spiel of apologies and what else she's planning to spit out of her mouth. It's fun to see her struggle. Usually so suave, confident and powerful; yet now silent and cowering. "Look, Y/N. I don't really know what to say." Her works are stunted, awkward. So far away from your last conversation. "An apology for leaving me behind? For forgetting me? For moving on without me so, so quickly?" You smile dangerously at her. "I-" "Thing is Mal, I honestly thought we were still dating when you left. You never told me that we weren't. The only way I knew we were not was I saw you and Ben, kissing and making undying promises to each other." She bites her lip and from over her shoulder you can see Ben watching the both of you intently. There's no way the pair of you could ever repair anything you ever had, that's crystal clear now, even a cobbling a friendship back together would be near impossible. "I, I -" "Save it, Mal. An apology isn't genuine." Turning away, you start to stalk your way over to Uma and your crew. Your friends.on your way, you pass the rest of the Core Four who stare at you in sadness. "Don't give me your pity." You snarl as you pass, "Go back to your party." With your anger, you end up finding yourself standing on the shore of Auardon. Glaring venemously past the silhouette of the Isle and to the horizon beyond. The only way to get away from all of it is to go somewhere else: where you don't have to see any of their faces or be held accountable for anyone else. "Y/N!" Your name is called by a cacophony of voices: Mal, Uma, Harry and all of the rest of the Core Four including Ben. You merely stare at them all, a brow raised. "Y/N, I am sorry! I really am! You were just a victim of my selfishness - I was stuck in my own head, my own life... I forgot that other people depended on me. I'm so sorry, I never wrote and I never got back in contact... most of all, I caused you so much pain. I'm so, so sorry!"" Mal's voice starts to break, and she forces herself to take a breath to maintain her composure. "I know that I will be probably apologising for the rest of my life. But please, can we be friends? Come to Auradon and blossom into what you always wanted to be. Please, stay and let me make it up to you." Biting your lip, you struggle to formulate a reply. In this time, Evie also breaks her way into the conversation. "All of us are sorry Y/N, we left you. With the knowledge of what the Isle is - was - like and we still did it anyway." Jay and Carlos nod along, eyes intent on you. "Can you forgive us?" There. The million-pound question. Breathily, you run your hand through your hair before stealing yourself up to reply. "It will take me a long time to forgive you. But I will try." They all visibly relax. "But, I can't heal on the Isle or in Auradon." "Y/N?" Uma questions, walking towards you slightly. "I need to get away from here, find out who I am. Please understand." They all nod and, as if there is a switch within you, you feel yourself lighten. Smiling, you turn back towards the waves lapping gently on the shore. Gazing, in anticipation, out at the new horizon beyond. Your horizon. Your future. In which you won't just be the sum of your parents or the one that they left behind.

[hellzyeahwebwielingessays]

The Not-So-Amazing Mary Jane Part 12: MJ/Beck being kindred spirits isn’t an excuse (and they barely are anyway!)

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Master Post

Over the last two instalments I looked at why MJ would neither sympathise with Beck nor believe him worthy of redemption. This time out we dive into how MJ and Beck could be called kindred spirits…and why that wouldn’t matter all that much.

First of all let’s clearly define the ways in which, from MJ’s POV, she and Beck might be said to be kindred spirits.

In context of AMJ Mysterio is chasing what he claims to be his last chance to follow his dreams. Similarly Mary Jane has chased her dreams of stardom (and more specifically of being an actress) numerous times. Her shot in AMJ could be said to possibly be her own last chance at that.

They are both actors and clearly enjoy the craft

They both enjoy making a show and being in the spotlight

They have both had to hide their true selves in public and keep secrets

They could both be said to have a passion for the art of acting/film making/performative storytelling

Here is the thing though, none  of those things would be such strong points of emotional connection with Mysterio that MJ would let him carry on as he was.

MJ has risked or even sacrificed her dreams/career ambitions before. We will talk more extensively about that in a future instalment

MJ’s desire to be an actress isn’t that strongly engrained into her. She gave up her acting ambitions to become a model. When her modelling career was going well she didn’t try to leverage it into acting nor was she particularly upset that she’d changed her career direction. In fact she was more  upset when her modelling career fell apart early into her marriage to Peter. She actually readopted acting as a result of being blacklisted from modelling and when that fell through went back to modelling during her pregnancy and went back to it again after going back to college. I’m not necessarily suggesting MJ wanted to be a model more than an actress. I am just saying that it was a career direction that she loved and seemed to love interchangeably with acting.

Whilst MJ knows the stress and isolation that can come from wearing a ‘mask’ she has not emotionally connected to just anyone  who knows what that’s like. She emotionally connected to Peter through that, but he had numerous other qualities she valued too; including just being a good person. She did not for instance emotionally connect as deeply to Flash Thompson, even though she felt he was a sort of male version of her self. She even suspected he was keeping sides of himself bottled up (which he was). She details all this in Spec #96.

She most certainly didn’t connect to Norman Osborn, neither after nor before he knew he was the Green Goblin. In Spec #250 she comments that even when she was younger and dating Harry she could sense a shadow around him. That he was a man who lived with demons. Which is at least very similar to living with a metaphorical mask as she was.

It’s important to note that for the majority of MJ’s early interactions with Norman Osborn (before she knew he was a villain) he was amnesic and unaware himself of his evil alter ego.

In essence MJ was sensing that Norman was a man who lived with a ‘mask’ when neither of them were aware he was in fact a horrible criminal. And yet MJ didn’t hold any sympathy towards him, not even before she learned the truth.

With this in mind, when she comes face to face with another dangerous and horrible (albeit one not as  bad) person who lives with a ‘mask’, who is open about being a criminal (and is committing a crime right in front of her) she…has sympathy for him? Because they are kindred spirits…?????

Can we see how this is incredibly flimsy and ridiculous?

MJ might enjoy being in the spotlight but between the dangers of fame and how she has aged a lot since she first announced her ambitions in the silver age it is arguable that her passion for the craft diminished. This is somewhat supported by ASM v5 #25. An in disguise MJ delivers a stirring monologue about acting that entails her expressing a love for the craft but also a displeasure at the downsides of it.

Finally we come to the idea regarding this being MJ’s last chance for stardom. Let’s consider for a moment, MJ is a young and attractive woman who’s done Hollywood movies, TV work and stage work, even having been praised for it. She’s dropped in and out of the acting business for years. She also has contacts within the industry or in rich and powerful circles anyway. It’s really not inconceivable that (by chance or her own design) she might get another shot in the business. So having her connect to Beck on that front is flimsy at best. But even if this really was MJ’s last chance at stardom, it is implied in AMJ itself that she doesn’t value that chance above anything else. When she suspects something fishy she decides she’s going to walk.

In fairness the above occurred when she suspected her job was an empty promise. Additionally she didn’t realise Beck was seeking his last chance at fulfilling his own dreams. And besides she might’ve been bluffing.

Even dismissing AMJ #1 itself though, is Mary Jane seriously going to be overwhelmed by kinship she shares with this murderer  through pursuing their last shots at wish fulfilment? 

Is she really going to be so overwhelmed that she would forget or ignore his horrendous crimes and dangerous history?

So overwhelmed by their similarities that she’d allow the guy who has tried to kill her lover  to remain free?

That rather implies that MJ in fact prioritises her career or personal feelings over both her relationship with Peter and the greater good in general. This is quite simply nonsense contradicted by her history, but I’ll dive more into that in a future instalment.

Finally let’s return to the comparison between Mysterio and MJ’s father.

In the course of the last two instalments I compared the situation with Beck to when MJ forgave her abusive father. A key factor in the latter was her viewing herself and her father as two of a kind.

Should this then not justify her attitude to Beck once she views him as a kindred spirit too?

No, not at all.

For starters I refer you back to everything I wrote in part 10 about Phillip Watson’s criminal career vs. Beck’s and how the familial connection was a huge  variable between the two cases.

More poignantly though there was a huge difference between the similarities MJ was drawing between herself and her father compared to herself and Beck.

MJ was connecting with her father through understanding his pain and guilt, an understanding born to a turbulent family life they both shared  in. In fact the connection over guilt stemmed from hurting individuals from the exact same family. From their own  family.

These are extremely powerful emotions at the best of times. Far more powerful than the emotions through which MJ might’ve hypothetically been connecting with Beck. And when combined with this emotional baggage developing when MJ was at younger (and very formative) ages there would just be a much more potent emotional connection going on.

That’d be the case were Phillip Watson not MJ’s parental figure or relative.

But because he is her father (and her biological father at that) the similarities MJ was drawing would resonate much more powerfully.

It’s not just that she is a kindred spirit with anyone, but the person who in a sense was (half) responsible for her very existence. Someone whose blood literally ran in her veins. Someone who (for a time) raised her from birth. Someone from who she was (partially) forged.

They aren’t just spiritually similar, they are biologically  similar. Thus the similarities drawn would be greatly accentuated within MJ’s mind.

The closest thing to that she has with Beck is that they’ve both ‘gotten inside’ Peter’s head, but in very different ways making the connection nebulous at best.

In summary, it’s questionable if Mary Jane would view Mysterio as a kindred spirit at all.

But even if she did there wouldn’t be any justification for her complicity in his scheme.

And as a matter of fact the subject of MJ’s complicity will be our focus for next time.

Previous Part

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Master Post

[neoneversleeps]

arrow | k.dy

pairing: kim doyoung x reader 

genre: angst, fluff  (outlaw!au, robinhood!au, medieval!au)

warnings: mentions of past abuse, mentions of blood/gore/violence, major character death

description:

Doyoung makes you promise him something you’re not so sure you can keep.

words: 8.1k

notes: phew ok so i finally got this baby up after it had been slowly collecting dust in google docs. if im being completely honest im not that confident in this piece (when am i ever lol) but regardles i hope you enjoy! also feedback is always greatly appreciated! :) 

- lilac

The sound of thundering hooves pierces through the night. You move with their rhythm. Faster. Faster. Faster. You need to get away. Need to escape. 

You can barely make out the path in front of you, the only source of light you have is the periodic flashes of lightning from the storm that rages above you. The wind howls past you as you get faster, the sound of it mingling with the rushing of blood in your ears. Always faster. The rain that soaks through your cloak is unforgiving, and combined with the ice cold wind it chills to the bone. You press yourself closer to your horse, seeking both to accelerate and to receive at least some form of warmth. 

Hooves continue to pound against the ground beneath you, but you know the sound isn't coming from solely your own horse. You can't make out the figures behind you but their shouts cut through the noise of the storm. 

“Over there!”

“Quicker, we need to catch up!”

“Don't let her get away!”

Adrenaline pulses through your veins. All you can think about is going faster. The world around you blurs together and you try to somehow make out your surroundings through the thick sheet of rain in front of your eyes. You need to get away from the plains, a space where you’re out in the open. Luckily, years of moving in the dark have trained your eyes to be extra sharp. In the pitch black of the night, you make out the forest. Your escape.

There wasn’t a place on earth you knew better than the forest. It was your home and you knew every twist and turn, every detail, every crevice. The royal guard could try as they might, but in the forest they would never be able to keep up. All you needed to do was reach it. 

You press your heels down against your horse's side, encouraging him to pick up the pace even more. You were well aware of the danger that came from galloping at such a speed on an uneven surface. Well aware of the fact that the wet ground beneath you could cause your horse to slip and send you tumbling down with him. But this was your life. Countless times you had been on the edge of death, the images of the fiery pits of hell that surely awaited you after your demise blurring into your vision. 

Your bow and arrow were strapped securely to your back. If your hands weren’t frozen in place at your reins, gripping so hard you swear you're drawing blood, you might’ve fired some off. Even through the rain and at such speed, you would have made some hits. You were the best shot there was, unrivaled except for Doyoung. Doyoung. His face flashes up in your mind. You wince internally at the fury in his eyes you would surely have to face once you make it back to the camp. Correction, if you make it back to the camp. 

The forest was approaching quickly now. The first rows of trees only a few hundred meters out of reach. You lean down slightly, hand moving to stroke at your horse’s neck. “Riot, you know what to do.” Your horse, Riot’s, ears turnnto face you, a sign that let you know he understood the command. Some called you crazy for thinking your horse could actually understand you, but you were firm in your belief that Riot was much more than just a horse. He was your partner in crime, a loyal companion who was as much part of your family as any person back at the camp. 

You whiz past the first row of trees, finally inside of the forest. You can still make out the flicker of the guard’s torches and hear fragments of their shouts behind you, but in the forest, you have the upper hand. Riot carries you through the trees, taking sharp turns to make sure the guards would be unable to follow. He knows the ways of the forest as well as you do, if not better still. Your bodies move as one, your shoulders relaxing to follow his flow. Despite your eyes being trained to adapt to the dark, Riot could still see better than you. Horses had the ability to see at extreme precision even in complete darkness, a skill you very much envied. 

You had barely enough to time to prepare for the jump as Riot soared over a tree trunk laying on the road in front of you. You thank your quick reflexes for the fact that you held onto his mane, that being the only reason you weren't now sitting on the forest dirt. 

The rain wasn’t as strong in the forest, the tall trees sheltering you from most of the water and serving as a filter for outward sounds such as the storm. Your ears finally stop ringing with all the noise and you could sharpen them to listen to the sounds around you.

You catch onto the sound of running water, thankful that you can finally reorient yourself. Knowing that a familiar creek lay in front of you, you slowRiot down to a canter, allowing your heartbeat to slow down its pace. It was very faint now, but you could still hear distant shouts of the guards. You weren't going to be safe unless you crossed the bed of water that lay ahead.

You slow Riot to a halt once you reach the side of the water. The once small water level of the creek had risen so much it resembled a river. The constant influx of water from the rain causing the waves to aggressively crash against the rocks that lined its path. You close your eyes for a second, breathing deeply to try and clear your head. There was no going back, going down stream would lead you back towards the direction of the guards and going upstream would lead you towards the mountains, a dead end. There was only one option: across. 

You take a steadying breath and you hear the voices of your persecutors filtering back into your ears, feeling their presence nearing you once again. You briefly consider if it would be a worse thing to be executed than to face the wrath of Doyoung if you made it back home. Then again, if you were to die, you would eventually come to face Doyoung’s anger in the afterlife. You were sure Doyoung’s fury would last beyond even death itself. 

Shaking your head rid of the thought, your grip on Riot’s mane tightens, its grounding, you think, it ankers you to reality. You stare forward in preparation. Riot’s soul is interwoven with your and you know, as long as you feel no fear, neither will he. So you push down the feeling of terror that bubbles deep within you stomach and urge him forward. 

You hiss as soon as the icy substance touches you, the water level rising to your thighs and seeping through to your skin. The force around you is strong and unforgiving, it nearly pushes you out of your saddle. Riot’s winnies carry above the roaring of the water as he pushes forward, and you cling to him for your life. 

There’s a sharp pain to your left thigh and you scream out in agony for the rock that slices you skin cuts deep into the flesh and the icy water mingles with your crimson blood. The pain dulls down shortly though, and you know it's the adrenaline that courses through your veins that linder the ache. 

You feel as though it takes hours, even though the time probably only borders on a minute, until you finally feel Riot leap up onto firm ground. Your shoulders slump forward in defeat and there’s an ache that spreads your body. You know it stems from more than just your newly obtained wound. Maybe, you think, just maybe, you should’ve listened to Doyoung’s word as he warned you not to go on this mission You had been stubborn, and in addition to disobeying his orders, you had also snuck out, all on your own, after he had refused to send other members of your group with you. You hated to admit he was right, but he had been true in his prediction that the mission would be futile. 

Gripping onto the fabric of your cloak, you tear off a strip near the end and use it to tie around your injury. Your pants are soaked from the water and you can’t distinguish any blood stains, but you assume from the depth of the wound that you had lost a fair amount. You needed to get back to the base. There was no point in finding a place to rest. Besides, the sun would be up in just a few hours. So, you nudge Riot with your heels and continue to race on through the night. 

Its morning by the time you near the camp, you welcome the golden rays that shine through the trees on your skin and their warmth combine with the early breeze help dry your soaked clothes. The sound of Riot’s hooves walking on the gravel beneath you gives you a sense of comfort. One, two, three, four. Repeat. You’ve been listening to their calming rhythm for hours now, the soft sounds a stark contrast to the desperate pounding of the night prior. You feel drained, body and mind weak, and you sway slightly in the saddle. You’d stopped your wound from bleeding any further, but the loss of blood had taken a toll on you. Skin pale where you grip the reigns and eyes shifting in and out of focus every once in a while. Just a little longer, you tell yourself. You’re almost there. 

Lifting your right hand up to shield your eyes from the sun, you squint into the distance. Between a row of trees just a short distance away, you can see the outlines of tents. You breathe a sigh of relief. Home. 

Johnny is the first person you see once you arrive at your forest hideout. He jumps up from the log he’s been sitting at, working on weapons no doubt, and comes to take a hold of Rot’s reigns, allowing you to swing down off the saddle. 

“Hey Johnny.” You greet with a smile, mind a little hazy from the return of the numbing pain in your upper leg. Johnny doesn’t notice your wound as he’s too busy staring at your face, a stern expression painting his own. 

“You’re lucky you're still alive, you know? Otherwise Doyoung would have killed you.” You snort lightly at his words. “I don’t think he could’ve killed me if I was already dead, Johnny.”

Johnny’s expression falters for a second and he firmly shakes his head, brown bangs swishing from side to side. “Whatever. Just never pull that shit again, got it? Doyoung was already preparing to head to the castle himself to go save your ass. Not that I think he should’ve.” He grumbles the last part as he helps you remove your bow from over your shoulder. You chuckle lightheartedly. Johnny may say those things, but you know he’d lay his life down for you in a heartbeat. 

“Y/n! You’re alive!” Jaemin’s voice rings out from beside you and you turn to see he’s running over to you. “I can’t believe you're alive.” He says as he reaches you, relieved smile across his face. Jaemin really looks the most beautiful like that, when a smile graces his face. Too many times you’ve seen the young orphan in pain since he joined you. Too many times you’ve had to tend to his wounds. The memories twist at your heart. Jaemin was one of the younger members of your group, together with Renjun and Jeno.

You’d rescued them from an abusive orphanage a few years back, and accepted them into your group for you hadn't known what else to do. All of you had taught them your ways and they had become part of your little family quickly. Sometimes you wish you could’ve spared them this life completely. There were times where you'd thought it would have been better to send them off to some noble family. 

Then again, a large part of your life was spent robbing those families, so you suppose it wouldn't have worked out anyway. 

Despite Jaemin and the others now being the same age you were when you started your life as an outlaw, you would always view them as those big eyed, chubby cheeked kids they were before. They would always be like your little brothers. 

You smile fondly at Jaemin and reach out a weak hand to ruffle through his hair affectionately. 

“It's not that easy to kill me.”  The both of you chuckle for a second. “Hey, Jaemin, can you go tack off Riot?” Johnny hands your horses reins over to the boy and he nods in return. Your brows furrow in confusion. “Wha-”Johnny cuts you off before you can even manage a sentence. “You,” he emphasizes the word with a pointed look, “need to go talk to Doyoung.”

You roll your eyes slightly, and your head pounds as you do so, but you still wave the both of them off as you head towards the biggest tent, situated in the middle of your campgrounds. You stalk over, your boots crunching the autumn leaves that lay scattered over the ground. You stagger slightly as you walk, your legs feeling wobbly beneath you. Maybe you should've told Johnny about your injury, you think as you squeeze your eyes shut. The world starts spinning around you once you reopen them and before you know it, your vision turns black. 

One last shout of your name rings out through your mind before a wave of unconsciousness drags you under. 

You awake to the faint sounds of metal clashing against stone. Your eyes blink away the darkness slowly, and you’re greeted by the familiar brown interior of your leader’s tent. There’s an intense pounding in your head as you lean up slightly, causing you to fall back down onto the mattress. 

“Best not to get up yet.” You look to the side, where Doyoung is now walking toward you. His freshly polished arrows lay on a spare bed behind him. The bed sinks down with a creak as he sits down, his body facing yours. His brown hair is slightly matted against his forehead and his usually sharp eyes are softened at the edge, concern and worry and something you’d like to label as love swimming in them.  He parts his lips as if to say something, but before he does, he extends a hand towards you. His delicate fingers thread through your hair fondly, combing out a few knots as he does so. Your eyes close as you keen into his touch. Ever since you’ve known him, you’ve always wondered how his hands could be so soft. They’re littered with scars and callouses from the many years of holding a bow and arrow firm in their grasp, and yet somehow they still feel like satin against your skin. 

His hand leaves your hair suddenly and you involuntarily whine as you snap your eyes open. “There’s some leftover soup from dinner. You should eat.” Doyoung stands up and disappears through the entrance of the tent. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you slowly push your body to sit up, wincing every now and then at the pain in both your head and your leg. 

A few minutes later, Doyoung reappears with a bowl of soup in hand. The bed creaks once again as he sits himself down beside you and hands you the bowl of steaming liquid. You eat in silence, Doyoung never leaving his spot on the bed. Something in your gut tells you that Doyoung is close to snapping. There was no way in hell you weren’t in for a scolding. You know him far too well for that. 

After what feels like a small eternity, you place your empty bowl on the bedside table and pull your knees up to your chest. The chilly evening air from outside had made its way into the tent and was causing your skin to erupt in tiny bumps.  Doyoung still sits next to you, his eyes firmly trailed on his hands. The deafening silence that surrounds the both of you is broken only by his drawn out sigh as his slender fingers run through his amber locks. 

“What the hell were you thinking?” You swallow thickly at the low register of his voice. Doyoung wasn’t just pissed, he was furious. “Hm? What were you thinking? What could possibly justify you taking off alone, in the middle of the night and against my direct orders?” His gaze is directed at you know, anger evident in the curves of his face. You hang your head, suddenly desperate to get away from his accusing eyes. “Look, I know we’ve had our differences and our respective fuck-ups. But this? This is the biggest fuck-up yet.” The springs under the mattress protest sharply as Doyoung jumps up. He starts pacing the room. “Why would you- I mean- why?” His voice has steadily risen in volume as he now stands in the middle of the tent, arms raised in near-desperation. “What were you thinking, huh? Tell me!”

His sudden shout causes you to tear your eyes away from where they've been staring at the floor and towards him. “I was thinking that we needed to save those villagers… and seeing as you weren’t-” 

“Oh and you were going to save those villagers how? By breaking into the castle grounds at night by yourself? What, did you think no guards would be there?” “I-” Doyoung cuts you off again. “Or worse, did you think you could win in a fight against all those guards? I mean…” He stops to laugh bitterly. “...what the hell did you think you were going to do? What was your plan, hm?” His voice had lowered from his previous screams, but his lower volume did nothing to calm your pounding heart. 

He was right, you hadn’t thought anything through. You had been angry at Doyoung for turning down your idea of breaking out the prisoners that same night and you had stupidly, impulsively saddled up Riot in the dead of night to break them out yourself. You hadn't had any notion of a plan as you rode out towards the castle. You just thought you would figure something out as you got there. Which, very evidently, had not worked out. 

In truth, you were angry at yourself for not thinking anything through, for doing things on a whim, as you always did. You hated being scolded by Doyoung, suddenly feeling like a child cowering under his gaze. It reminded you of the night he had rescued you, so many years ago. You were still a child then, and while Doyoung had only been a few years older than you, he had always seemed so much more mature. Stronger, wiser. A true leader. 

As you would come to know later, Doyoung, orphaned at an age much younger than yours, was forced to fend for himself since the very beginning. A fact that, with certainty, had turned him into an adult much earlier than is usually intended. 

Tears prickle at your eyes and you look away from Doyoungs piercing stare. You feel ashamed and naive, just like the little girl you were back in that prison cell.  “I just- I only wanted to help them…” Your voice is so quiet that its barely to be heard over the howling of the wind outside. One lonely tear rolls over your cheek as you look back up at Doyoung. “I’m sorry…” All the anger seems to leave Doyoung in the sigh he releases. He comes to sit on your bed one again and lifts his hands to cradle your face in them. 

“What you did was reckless and extremely dangerous… but I know you only had good intentions.” His thumbs rub softly against the apples of your cheeks. “Which doesn’t justify your actions, but I forgive you. And we will help those people, Ok? I promise. But we need a plan, and that takes time. This isn’t just some plain robbery or any old prison raid. These cells are located under the best guarded Castle in the country. You understand that, right?”

You nod weekly, letting your head fall forward slightly so that your foreheads are touching. Your warm breaths mingle in the cold air of the night, faces illuminated only by the gas lamp that sits on the bedside table beside you. Doyoung leans forward first, capturing your pale lips with his. He kisses you sweetly, hands drawing you closer by your nape. When you part, he stays close to you, noses touching and lips brushing against each other as he speaks. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come back to me…” Doyoung’s whisper is swallowed by your lips as you kiss him anew, praying that you somehow swallow all his pain as well. “I’m here. I won’t leave again.” 

Doyoung smiles at you and presses another kiss to your temple. “Good.” he breathes against your skin. “Now, you should probably get some more sleep.” You nod and he helps you lie down somewhat comfortably. A quick brushing of Doyoung’s fingertips against your scalp before he stands up, probably meaning to head out to keep watch of the camp. 

Your hand wraps around his wrist before he does. “Stay… just for a moment longer.” The man smiles down at you, returning to his position on your bed. His fingers begin to comb through your hair once again. “Okay.” 

Doyoung watches as your eyes fall closed, your breaths slowly evening out as your chest rises and falls in a calm rhythm. His fingers trail over your features, a fond look on his face at the way your lips part lightly in your sleep. “I’ll stay…” He breathes the words out into the night. A silent promise, one he is’t entirely sure he can keep

Weeks pass in your preparation to break out the wrongfully incarcerated townspeople from the dungeons that lie beneath the castle. You spend your time devising strategies and drawing maps, with the occasional break to overthrow nobleman's carriages that pass through the woods every so often.

You and Doyoung work in almost perfect harmony, leaving the rest of your group somewhat in awe since usually, the two of you butted heads on pretty much everything. Both stubborn to a fault. This plan however, had to be executed perfectly. It was the biggest attempt at a prison break (more accurately named rescue mission) your group had ever faced. 

Normally, you would stay away from the castle. The guards there outnumbered you greatly and the whole thing was built like a fortress. For years, you had been forced to overlook the cruelties inflicted by the royal family for the sake of keeping yourselves safe. 

This time however, they had crossed the line. Dozens of villagers from the nearby town had been imprisoned due to them not being able to afford the steeply rising tax payments. They were mostly women and children, taken as a threat to the men of the families. If the men did not deliver the payment required, their families would be executed in front of them. 

The execution dates were steadily approaching and your whole camp knew that you had to act fast. You and Doyoung had spent countless nights drawing up what seemed like hundreds of different plans of action until you finally found the one you deemed most plausible. This plan would rely on stealth, which was the one advantage you held over the royal guards. Nonetheless, the plan was risky, and in the days leading up to job, there was a thick underlying sense of fear that clung to the air around the camp like a fog.

You pace around Doyoungs tent, nerves making the hairs on your arms and legs stand up straight. This is the last night you would get any sort of sleep before the mission. You would leave the next evening, just before sunset, on your way to the castle. The lives of dozens of people rest on the events of tomorrow night, and as much as you try to keep face towards the members of your group, fear gnaws away at your insides as well. 

Doyoung pushes the entrance to the tent aside, startling slightly as he spots you standing in front of him. He raises his eyebrows at you in question and takes a step closer. Concern seeps into the features of his face when you still don't say anything, and he reaches out a hand to tuck one of the strands of your hair behind your ear. The small action is all it takes for your facade to crumble, and you fall forward and into his arms. He pulls you closer into him and your smaller frame shrinks even further as you press yourself to him. 

You stay like that for awhile, one of doyoungs hands stroking gently through your tresses. Stepping back slightly after a few moments pass, you look up into the older man's eyes. “I’m scared, Doyoung.” There’s a hushed air that falls around you two as Doyoung’s dark orbs scan over the lines that make up your face. He commits ever little detail he sees to memory, everything down to the smallest of scars that dent your skin. He sighs. “I’m scared too.”

The thought of Doyoung being scared should be concerning to you, but for some reason, you find it brings you comfort. Perhaps it was the feeling of being able to share your fear that made it seem like less of a burden.

A cold chill runs down your spine however, as Doyoung’s demeanor drastically shifts. His hands grip onto your upper arms firmly, nails ever so slightly piercing through to your flesh. “I need you to promise me something.” You can only stare back at him, uncertain of the next words he would speak. 

“If something...goes wrong. If anything-” A sharp intake of breath. “If I am to be captured-” You want to protest against him, arms moving to get out of his grasp as you suddenly wish not to hear whatever comes next, but he silences you with a look. “If I am to be captured...promise me you’ll kill me.” 

Something inside you urges you to pull away from his grasp, to flee from the words and what they implicate. How could he ask this of you? Surely, if you love someone, you would never ask them end your life? You thrash in Doyoung’s arms, frustrated tears at your eyes, vigorously shaking your head in denial. Doyoung’s grip is firm however, and once you stop moving he places his hands on either side of your face, forcing you to look only at him. The way he holds you, it almost feels as if he's holding you in place, as if his hands are the one thing that stops you from falling apart and splitting into a million shards on the floor. 

His dark orbs convey his innermost feelings as they stare at you, love, fear and a hint of desperation that linger uncomfortably in the darkness. Doyoung has never liked being desperate. All of it makes you acutely aware of how important this request seems to be for the man. “If they capture me, they’ll torture me. For weeks, months, maybe even years. They won’t stop until I’ve given them information… or until my body and soul have grown so weak that I am no more use to them. So I ask you, please, if it comes down to it being you or them, please…” He doesn’t say the words again and you’re grateful for it. They have already made themselves a home in your mind, echoing around the walls inside your head. 

With a deep intake of breath, you nod. A small sigh leaves Doyoung as the air i his lungs no longer feels constricting. “Do you promise?” The question comes out just as delicately as the way his hands once again move to brush the hair out of your face. He knows how much the mere idea of it all hurts you, and Doyoung wishes he could do anything to take away your pain. But he has to ask, for his own sake. 

“I promise.” 

Doyoung presses his lips to yours after that. The kiss is soft and sweet, and it feels as if it's both a silent thank you as it is a silent apology. Your hands move to link behind his nape and you tilt your head to the side to deepen the kiss. Doyoung’s hands brush along your sides until they settle on your hip, grip tightening to the point of it almost hurting. A desperation has seeped into the kiss, and at this point you don’t know if its his, or yours, or both. All you know, as you pour every ounce of affection you can muster into the kiss, slowly walking backwards as Doyoung steers you towards the bed, is that there’s a shrill screaming resounding from the void of your mind. A voice that screams at you that this, this might be the last time you ever get to feel Doyoung’s skin against yours. 

The next day, the air around the camp is laced with the buzz of anticipation that comes every time before an important mission. There’s less talking than there usually is, no little echoes of laughter or joyful shouts. No telling of stories, and no sounds of crunching leaves as the younger members race through the grounds. Everything feels as if ts drowned in silence. There’s no clock anywhere at the camp, and yet it still feels like there’s a constant ticking sound carried around by the wind that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. 

The sun hides behind the treeline way too quickly and you find yourself feeling as if the day had lasted only a mere hour or two  at most. You saddle up Riot, tightening the girth firmly and adjusting the leather pouch that would carry your arrows.Your fingers brush along Riot’s shimmery black coat absentmindedly as you notice Johnny leading his horse over to you. He greets you with a tight lipped smile, one that you return before diverting your gaze back to your horse. Johnny saddles up silently and the only sounds that surround you two are the slight rustle of the wind and the quiet squeaking of leather against leather. 

You wonder if you should tell Johnny about Doyoungs request. The man was like a brother to you. All these years, you had entrusted Johnny with basically everything, told him things you would never tell another living soul. Hell, at times it seemed he knew you better than you did yourself. You want to tell him, truly, you do, but there’s something in your heart that won’t allow it. the promise was made between you and the man you loved, and that's how it would stay. 

Hooves pounding out against the ground bring you out of your thoughts. “You guys ready?” Both you and Johnny look up to see Taeyong, the only other member of your group who would be joining you, looking down at you from his seat upon the saddle. His gloved hands hold the reigns of the majestic white stallion he rides taught, keeping the somewhat hot-headed horse at bay. His dark hair falls into his face, and the stoic expression he shows make his sharp edges look even more intimidating than usual. You nod. 

One last ray of sun catches on the flower shaped scar underneath Taeyong’s right eye, before the light slips away completely and you are plunged into the beginning hours of the night. “Then let’s go.”

The ride through the forest is solemn. No words are exchanged between you and the other members of your group except for occasional questions about the plan. A mismatched rhythm of hooves sound out against the dirt of the path you're on.  You focus on the sound, that being the only thing able to keep you calm and distract you from the whirlwind of thoughts in your head. You hadn’t uttered a single word since the start of the journey, too afraid that your voice would quiver as soon as you opened your mouth to speak. 

The world around had long since fallen victim to the blanket of darkness that covered it, and the only source of light that aided you was the shine of the moon and the stars above. None of you carried torches or lamps, you couldn't risk being seen. Besides, you were all used to the dark by now. 

Slowly, the tips of the grey castle’s towers come into view, reminding you that the end of your journey was near. A sudden shout from nearby causes you all to startle. Your eyes move to Doyoung, who has his hand raised, a signal that you should all hold your breaths. A few more indistinguishable words are uttered up ahead, you can make out two or maybe three voices. 

“Guards.” Doyoung mutters barely above a whisper, but the wind carries the word to your ears regardless. You were definitely close now. Doyoung turns to look at all of you, the hood of his cloak obscuring half his face from your view. “We’ll head west, take the long way around. It’ll set the plan back by half an hour give or take, but we can’t risk getting seen.” Doyoung’s words are rushed, spoken in a whisper, but never losing their authoritative tone. He doesn't wait for any of you to respond, tugging the reigns of his horse to the side, down a nearby path that leads to the west entrance of the citadel. 

You glance at Johnny and Taeyong, waiting for any sort of reaction. Johnny spares you a glance in return, nodding firmly, a silent way of telling you that everything was going to be fine. Taeyong simply nudges his horse with his heels, following Doyoung’s lead. You go after him, Johnny trailing behind you. 

You near the entrance to the underground dungeon about thirty minutes later, as predicted. The forest bordered with the side of the castle, allowing you to stay hidden behind the first line of trees as you surveyed the entrance. Two guards stand watch in front of the imposing metal gates, taking turns as they walk about the surrounding area. Doyoung nods his head at you, and you, quickly understanding his order, swing the bow on your back over your shoulder and grab one of the arrows sticking out of your saddlebag. Drawing the bowstring taught, you look back over at Doyoung, who is in the same position as you. “You take care of the one on the right. On my count.” You lock onto your target, perfectly aligning your arrow with the exposed side of his neck. One, two, three. As soon as Doyoung finishes counting down, two arrows whistle through the air, and the bodies of the guards slump over, lifeless. 

All four of you get off your horses and leave them tied up near a small clearing, one where the others would later arrive with wagons to transport the rescued townspeople far away from the castle. You move towards the gated entrance to the dungeons. One forceful swing of Johnny’s sword and the heavy lock clatter to ground, unlocking the door that leads to a dimly lit staircase. Doyoung grabs one of the torches mounted to the wall and heads downwards, the rest of you close behind him. You spot the shadow of a guard up ahead and silently signal towards the rest of the group. Taeyong and Johnny nod at each other before sneaking around the corner. It takes less than a minute for you to hear two thumps up ahead. 

You and Doyoung move forward, bypassing the dead bodies strewn on the floor before catching up to your group members. 

You advance along the winding tunnels, easily taking out the guards in silence as you near the holding cells. You wrinkle your nose up in disgust after you breathe in the smell of urine that comes from the walls around you. You know you’re getting closer by the second, but still fear breaths down your neck. The darkness of the tunnels dont allow you to make ot what time it is, but something tells you the break of dawn is much closer than you want it to be. 

A low wail echoes off the stones around you. Doyoung signals a halt. You can practically see the gears turning in his head as you gaze up at him. “The cells must be just behind this bend. I’d estimate about four to six guards will be standing watch. Y/n and I will go in first, then you and Taeyong follow.” Doyoung’s directs himself at Johnny as he says so. “We should be able to take them out with our arrows, but just in case we don't, stay close behind.” Both men nod in unison. 

Doyoung turns to look at you now. Almost imperceivably, his eyes soften for just a second. he reaches out from under his cloak to take your gloved hand i his, squeezing it reassuringly. Although you're not quite sure if the squeeze was meant to reassure him or you.  “Ready?” You breathe in deep. “Ready.” Doyoungs gaze returns to its usual sharpness as he charges forward, bow and arrow drawn. 

Everything happens in a blur of motion, there are shouts of both despair and relief surrounding you as you fire at the guards. There are more guards than expected, but your team moves swiftly to take them out. One of them rushes towards you before you can draw another arrow but Taeyong grabs onto his head from behind, slitting his throat in one quick motion. You look around the room. the guard’s bodies litter the floor as Doyoung, Johnny and Taeyong struggle to open the locks of the cells. The commotion from moments prior must have been head by someone, there was no way all the shouting could have gone unperceived. Snapping out of your thoughts, you run towards one of the cell doors, picking up a nearby stone to smash open the heavy lock. One of the women inside holds onto the bars that separate her from you. “Thank, oh, thank you, thank you.” She wails out, her hollowed cheeks and red rimmed eyes bringing up distant memories you'd rather not recall at the moment. 

After several attempts, the lock finally breaks and clatters against the stone floor. You hear the sounds of the other locks breaking from behind you as an influx of people rush out of the metal doors. A collective surge of adrenaline pushes the townsfolk to start running into the tunnels. Doyoung’s shouts of Go! Go! Go! ring clear above all the nose as he usher th people along. Taeyong, Johnny and you run after them, Doyoung following behind you. 

Dozens of footsteps echo around the small space you're in, and if the guards above hadnt heard anything until then, they sure would now. dread slings onto your soul as you fear that the sun would have already climbed over the edge of the trees once you got pout of here. 

Your worst fears are confirmed as the door to the dungeon is flung open by one of the prisoners, letting light flood into the dimness of the tunnels. Once you arrive outside, you take notice of the fact that you can hear the castle grounds slowly coming to life from afar. You turn to Doyoung, eyes wide in desperation. His expression bares the same as yours as his eyes flit all over the place. You hear running and the sound of metal clashing against metal coming from somewhere to your right. Doyoung runs towards the strip of forest, the rest of you chasing after him. The frightened group of women and children follow your lead. 

As soon as you arrive at the small clearing, you see the two wagons already waiting for you. You allow yourself a breath of relief as you spot Jeno and Jaemin next to the transport vehicles, seemingly just as happy to see you as you were to see them. Doyoung makes quick of untying his horse before coming to stand in front of you, the roar of the incoming guards getting louder by the minute. Doyoung grabs onto your arm as he peers into your eyes, imploring you to listen to his words carefully. “Get them out of here now. Taeyong, Johnny and I will fend off the knights so that you can escape.” 

“But what about-” “We’ll join you later, but you have to leave. Now.” Taeyong and Johnny are already mounting their horses, awaiting their leaders command. Doyoung grips your face in his hands, eyes searching over your face with a sense of urgency. You almost think he's going to kiss you on the lips before he hesitates. This wasn't the time nor the place. Instead, he presses a chaste kiss on your forehead before turning around and swinging himself onto the saddle. “Let’s go! Hya!” 

Doyoungs shout causes his horse to rear up before galloping forward, the other two men quickly joining his side as they race off into danger. You spring into action, helping the two younger boys. As soon as everyone is successfully loaded up, you mount Riot, and turn to Jaemin and Jeno, who are both situated atop their respective seats on the wagons. 

“We take them around north, the mountain passage is safe since the guards will assume that we’ll be taking them through the forest”. Both boys nod in confirmation. You sink your heels into Riot’s sides, causing him to break out in a gallop, and consequently prompting the two horses pulling the carriages to follow suit.

You've just reached the beginning of the passageway when the thundering of hooves from behind you catches your attention. Swiftly pulling Riot to a halt and turning him around to face the noise, you see Johnny and Taeyong race up the side up the slanted road towards you. A weight is lifted off your shoulders as they near you, only to plummet back down with force when you realize Doyoung is missing. 

Your eyes move between them frantically once they come to a stop, but the two men avoid your gaze. Taeyong's knuckles are white from holding the reins tight, his face is turned downwards and you can make out a deep red slash across his right cheek. Johnny looks even worse for wear, cuts littering the sides of his arms and legs and splashes of blood strewn across his face as if it were some horrific painting. 

A lump lodges itself in your throat, closing off your airways and making it difficult to utter the question you want to ask. Johnny is the first to speak up as he lifts his eyes to meet yours. “We’re sorry, Y/n. We tried everything we cou-” “Just tell me.” You cut off Johnny’s words sharply, your tone much harsher than you had intended. “Is he dead?” You cast your eyes to the ground as you speak, unable to face Johnny all of a sudden as the sick taste of bile rises to your mouth. 

“We don’t know…” Taeyong is the one to answer, his voice weak and hoarse. Your head snaps towards him. “What do  you mean you don’t know?” Taeyong winces ever so slightly at the volume with which you speak. Somewhere inside you there's a tinge of regret for the way you barked at him. Taeyong had endured an inconceivable amount of abuse from an early age, verbal as well as physical. He doesn't answer. Johnny speaks up instead. “It was pure chaos, the guards were too many. We… we only made it out because Doyoung sacrificed himself for us. The last we saw of him was when they pulled him off his horse….” 

You clench your jaw to hold back tears that pool at your eyes. The mental image of Doyoungs mutilated face invades your mind like the violent crash of a wave against rocks. You make a decision then. You had to go back. 

“Johnny, Taeyong.” Both of them look to you as you call their names. “Get these people to safety.” You urge Riot forward, passing between the two older men, heading towards the direction they came from, until Johnny grips onto your arm. “Where are you going?” His voice is laced with confusion, crease between his brows as he stares you down.

“I’m going back.”

With that, you forcefully rip your arm from Johnny’s grasp and take off. 

“You can’t save him!”

“It’s too late!”

“Y/n!” 

Their desperate cries are lost in the howling of the wind that greets your ears as you push on. Hands gripping onto Riot’s mane as he practically flies past the bushes and the trees, you don't dare glance back even for a second. Your mind is focused on one thing and one thing alone. 

Kim Doyoung. 

You slow down Riot as you reach a hill that overlooks the inner courtyard of the castle, knights march around and servants run around fulfilling errands, most of them trying to avoid the stares of the royal guards. The place is on high alert. 

Trying to find Doyoungs familiar face, your eyes scan through the crowd below you, tracing over the different arrays of people that walk through the grounds. Your heart beats furiously in your chest as you try not to entertain the possibility that Doyoung had already been dragged down into the dungeons. 

Finally, you spot him. His face is beaten and there's blood dripping from a wound above his eyes, it trails down across his face, adorning the other bruises that stain his skin. Two guards hold him in place, their hands tight around Doyoungs arms. He may have been caught, caged between two men much stronger than him, but Doyoung’s expression remains cocky and his head is held high even in front of the general he now faces. You know what's at stake here, recalling Doyoung’s words from the night before last. If they take him into the cold pit of hell that are the castles underground dungeon, they’ll torture him. Submit his body and his mind to horrific procedures you dare not to imagine. 

The bow and arrow are already in your grasp and your eyes desperately flit around the grounds. Maybe if you can fend off all the guards, you can avoid what you dread the most. But the guards are too many. Even if you do manage to eliminate the men that hold Doyoung in place and the general that stands before him, with Doyoung’s weakened state he wouldn’t get far. 

Your eyes fall back to his and he meets your gaze. His face may remain blank but you see the fear in his eyes. He’s pleading with nothing but a look. Your breathing is erratic and there’s a cold sweat that runs down your spine. You squeeze your eyes shut for a second before you glance back at Doyoung. No one else has noticed your figure on the hill, but it’s only a matter of time. 

You lock eyes with Doyoung once again and shake your head, you couldn’t do this, you just couldn’t. Doyoung’s eyes soften as he mouths his next words to you. 

You promised.

He was right. You promised. 

With blurred vision and shaky hands you steady your weapon, pulling back on the string with a strength you didn't know you possessed at that moment. You blink away the tears as you aim. It takes everything in you to not look away. Time slows down around you and everything is silent. One breath in, One breath out.

Release. 

Everything crashes back in around you once the arrow soars through the air and hits its target. There’s shouts and screams and frantic running below you. 

Your eyes meet Doyoung’s once again and you notice the smile on his face, before your eyes trail lower…

....to your arrow, buried deep in his chest.