#tiredness level: murderous

[necrowyrm]

I need to kill everybody to feel better so if you could all just line up for me

[cressidagrey]

The Witching Hour - Chapter 2 - Cassian

Summary: 

5 Times members of the Inner Circle get absolutely terrified by Azriel's...whatever she is, and 1 (of many) times Azriel thinks that his witch was the best thing that ever happened to him.

Warnings: 

Nightmares, mention of murder, physical attack, slutshaming, threat of bodily harm, mention of imprisonment, light Cassian bashing, Azriel is a simp for his witch

(super pretty dividers by @cafekitsune)

Nesta's nightmares subsided.

Cassian wasn't sure why...wasn't sure what had been the cause, because it was like they disappeared utterly and completely in the blink of an eye.

Cassian, who had seen the toll that the nightmares had taken on Nesta, was both relieved and confused.

The nightmares, which had tormented her for so long, had vanished. And that puzzled him. He couldn't help but wonder what could have caused such a sudden and complete cessation.

He thought back to the days before the nightmares had stopped, trying to recall any changes or events that might have caused such an abrupt change…he came up empty. The days before had been fairly routine, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that could have…

And then suddenly...they were gone. He was glad about it of course. 

And as he drew the tips of his fingers down his mate's bare back...he was glad for her.

He traced the line of her spine, feeling the smoothness of her skin under his fingertips. Her back was bare, her hair spilling over her shoulders in a tangled mess from where he'd buried his hands into it earlier.

She was relaxed, her body loose and pliant, and the stress and tension that was usually present in her slowly bled away with each gentle caress.

"The nightmares...have lessened, haven't they?" He asked lightly.

She hummed in assent, her eyes closed as she relished the feeling of his hands on her body.

"Mmm," she murmured sleepily. "They have. I haven't had one in a few weeks now."

He continued to trace his fingers along her spine, feeling the subtle shift of her muscles as she breathed.

"That's good, sweetheart," he whispered pressing a kiss against her neck.

She let out a soft sigh of contentment as he kissed her neck, arching into his touch slightly."It is," she agreed quietly, her voice a sleepy murmur. "I feel...rested. More so than I have in months. I just hope the spell keeps working."

He froze his lips against the elegant column of her neck.

The spell? What spell?!

Cassian pulled back slightly, his hand still resting on her back, his mind churning.

Spell...did she say spell?

He couldn't remember Nesta mentioning a spell. Or anyone, for that matter. And yet...

"What spell?" he asked, his voice rough as he tried to control the hint of alarm that crept into it.

"The spell that's helping me with the nightmares," Nesta mumbled, her voice still sleepy and content. He stared at her, his heart clenching as the words sank in.

She had a spell? But…how? When? And why hadn't she told him?

"Nesta," he said, his voice tense as he tried to keep his concern in check. She hummed in response, her eyes still closed. He took a deep breath, steadying himself.

"When…did you cast a spell to help with the nightmares?" Cassian asked, forcing his voice to remain level.

"Oh," she mumbled, her eyelids fluttering open slightly as she processed his question.

"A few weeks ago," she said, her voice gaining a bit more clarity.

He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach as she spoke. A few weeks ago? Why hadn't she told him? Or any of the others for that matter?

"A few weeks..." he repeated slowly, his mind whirling.

"Yes," she said, her eyes now fully open, though her voice still held a hint of sleepy tiredness.

He swallowed, trying to keep his worry in check.

"And...who cast it?" he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

"Azriel found me after a nightmare," Nesta said quietly. Azriel couldn't have cast a spell like that, that made no sense. 

Cassian felt a new wave of confusion mixed with worry. If it hadn't been Azriel, then who had helped Nesta? And how did it have anything to do with the spells?

He took a deep breath, trying to keep his alarm in check as he continued to speak.

"Who," he began, his voice measured, "cast the spell then?"

Nesta's expression softened slightly, a hint of apology in her eyes as she looked at him.

"Azriel..Azriel brought me to see a friend of his. She's a witch"

There was only one witch Azriel was friendly with.

"Nesta, please tell me you didn't let Hecate cast a spell at you," he pleaded with his mate. He saw the way her shoulders tensed slightly at his words, her eyes shifting away from his gaze.

"Azriel said she could help," she said, a hint of defensiveness in her voice. "And it worked. I haven't had a nightmare since I went to see her. And Azriel calls her Cate," she added.

He felt a wave of disbelief crashing over him. Cate.

Azriel had taken his mate to see Cate.

The mere thought of it sent a chill down his spine.

"I am going to kill Az," he growled. He hadn't even known that Cate was still around. The last time he had heard about her had been a century ago.

But clearly, she had survived the war against Hybern with nary a scratch. Somehow it didn’t surprise him at all. Cate seemed to thrive where chaos was concerned. 

Nesta rolled her eyes at his comment. "You most certainly are not," she said with a huff.

Cassian stared at her, torn between fear and irritation.

"And why not?!" he exclaimed, his hands tightening on her hips. "He let you go see Cate. Cauldron knows what kind of spell she laid on you."

"It was just to help with the nightmares," Nesta protested, shifting in his grip.

He held her tighter, not ready to let her go just yet. "And you just believed that? Azriel told you it was just for the nightmares, and you took his word?" Cassian questioned,  the tension in his body ratcheting higher.

"I trust Azriel," she snapped. "It's a dreamcatcher spell. Something Care has cast on Azriel multiple times. You think Azriel would have let anything happen to me?!"

"It's Cate!" he retorted, his grip on her tightening even more.

How could she not see how dangerous this was? How could she trust Azriel's word so completely?

"Azriel's judgment when it comes to her is...compromised," he ground out, his voice tight with worry and irritation.

"Compromised?" she repeated, her eyebrows shooting up.

He scowled at her, his fear and frustration mounting.

"Yes, compromised," he snapped. "They have...history, and Azriel has...certain blind spots when it comes to her."

"They're friends," she said firmly, her eyes flashing with a familiar stubborn gleam.

He gritted his teeth in frustration. She was completely missing the point.

"That's putting it mildly," he retorted. "They're...they're... together, in a sense. Azriel would let her do damn near anything to him."

She rolled her eyes at his words. She didn't believe him. Didn't believe that Cate was a threat.

He let out a frustrated huff, pulling her closer to him, trying to get her to understand.

"Nesta," he said urgently, holding her gaze. "Cate is...she's dangerous. She has a reputation, and has for centuries. The spells she casts, the favours she asks for..."

"The only favour she asked for was from Azriel," Nesta snapped. "She did nothing but help me. And flirt outrageously with Az. Is this about her stabbing you? Are you holding a grudge?" She asked with a roll of her eyes.

He winced at her question. The memory of being stabbed by Cate was still a sore spot for him.

"Yes, it may have something to do with her stabbing me!" he exclaimed. "She is a dangerous witch, Nesta. She should not be trifled with. You went to her, let her cast a spell on you, and now you're….you're fine with it?"

"I am fine with it," she said firmly, her chin lifting in defiance.

His frustration grew even more at her stubborn stance. She didn't seem to be grasping the gravity of the situation.

"You're fine with it now," Cassian hissed through gritted teeth. "What about later? What if that spell has lingering effects, or if Cate decides she wants something from you in return? Did that ever cross your mind?"

"If it does, I'll deal with it," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand

He wanted to shake Nesta, to make her understand.

"You will deal with it?" he repeated, his voice rising in anger. "How exactly will you deal with it, Nesta? What if the spell backfires, or she wants something that you can't give? She is a powerful witch. You shouldn't have even gone near her in the first place!"

Nesta opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off, his voice low and intense.

"No, don't even try to defend it," he said, his eyes blazing with anger. "You let Azriel take you to see Cate. You let her cast a spell on you. And you didn't even tell any of us about it until now."

He paused, taking in a deep, frustrated breath.

"Do you have any idea how worried I've been? How worried we all have been about your nightmares?"

"I was fine!" she protested, her eyes flashing with annoyance.

He gritted his teeth, his hold on her hips tightening.

"No, you weren't fine," he snapped back. "You were having nightmares that were tormenting you. I heard you in your sleep. I saw how tired and drained you were during the day. You were not fine." 

Her expression softened slightly at his words, some of the defiance leaving her eyes. "I'm fine now," she said weakly, her voice losing some of its conviction.

He let out a scoff, his grip on her still firm.

"Now that you've let Cate cast a spell on you, you're fine," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "That doesn't mean it will always be that way. Spells can have consequences. Side effects. Did you even ask her about that?"

"Nesta," he said, his voice softer but still tinged with irritation. "You should have told us. You should have told me. We could have figured something out together. We could have found a solution that didn't involve going to that witch."

"She said the only consequence would be a headache."

Cassian clenched his jaw at her words. A headache. That's it.

"A headache," he repeated, his voice flat. "And you believed her?!"

"Why wouldn't I?" she snapped, her eyes glittering in annoyance. "She helped me. She cast a spell and now I'm not having nightmares anymore. Why would she lie about it?"

He let out a frustrated huff, shaking his head.

"Because that's what Cate does," he said, his voice taut. That’s what she had always done. Cate manipulated everybody around her to her liking. "She lies. She manipulates. She twists favours and spells to her liking. You can't trust her, Nesta."

"Well, I did, and it worked," she retorted.

His anger flared at her words. How could she be so blind to the danger she had put herself in?

"It worked, for now," he shot back. "What about later? What if she decides she wants something from you? What if the spell has consequences down the line?"

"I'll deal with it," Nesta repeated.

He felt his patience reach its breaking point.

"You keep saying that!" he exclaimed, his voice rising. "You'll deal with it. You'll figure it out. But you can't. Not with Cate. She's playing games, and you're playing right into her hands."

"So you think Azriel would risk me like that?" Nesta asked icily. "You think your brother would do that? Maybe you should trust his judgment!"

Her question struck a nerve, and he felt his irritation spike even higher.

"Trust his judgement?!" he exclaimed, his control slipping further. "When it comes to Cate, his judgement is more than a bit impaired."

"He's smart, Cassian," she shot back, her stubbornness showing. "He wouldn't let her do anything to hurt me."

He bit back a scoff, his anger continuing to grow.

"You're underestimating how blind he can be when it comes to her," he said through clenched teeth. "He was practically obsessed with her hundreds of years ago. I wouldn't be surprised if he still is."

He was going to fucking kill Azriel. Probably after he killed Cate.

He forced himself to take a deep breath, as he got out of bed.

He was seething, his anger and fear swirling together into a roiling mass inside him. Azriek...he'd deal with her too.

But first, he needed to find Cate and give her a piece of his mind.

"Cassian, where are you going?" Nesta asked, watching him as he moved off the bed.

"I'm going to find Cate," he said through clenched teeth, his voice hard as steel.

Nesta's eyes widened, surprise flashing in her expression.

"You're...what?" she asked, her voice tinged with alarm.

He stomped from that room. He was going witch hunting.

He was seething with anger as he stormed out of the room, a mixture of worry and fury driving him forward.

Cassian stalked through the house, his steps heavy and purposeful, his mind focused on one thing - finding Cate.

She still had the same apartment she had centuries ago. He stood in front of her apartment, his anger still seething within him.

The wards that surrounded the place felt all too familiar, and just as deadly as they had been centuries ago. But he wouldn't let them stop him, not when he was this riled up.

Cassian slammed his fist against the door, the force of his blow reverberating through the solid wood.

He waited, his patience already at its limit.

After a few moments, he heard footsteps approaching the other side of the door, followed by the sound of several locks being released one after the other.

Finally, with a creak, the door slowly opened to reveal Cate.

There she was, standing in the doorway, looking at him with a mix of surprise and annoyance. Her green eyes sparkled in the dim light of the hallway, and her full lips curled into a smirk.

"Well, well," she drawled, her voice as sharp as a blade. "If it isn't Cassian. I should have known you would show up eventually." His anger flared at her mocking tone, and he had to bite back a string of curses.

"You knew I would come," Cassian said through clenched teeth, his eyes locked on her. "You knew, and you still did it anyway."

She leaned against the doorframe, the smirk still on her face.

"I had a feeling you'd eventually figure it out," Cate said with a shrug. "And here you are. Ready to yell at me, I assume?"

"Yeah, I'm ready to yell at you," he replied curtly, his voice a low growl. "You put a spell on my mate. You let her believe it was just for nightmares, but I know better. You're up to something, and I want answers."

She raised an eyebrow at his words, her expression unimpressed.

"Always so quick to assumptions, Cassian," Cate said coolly. "You always were one to jump to conclusions. You don't know as much as you think you do."

His blood boiled at her careless attitude, and he took a step forward, his muscles tense.

"Is that so? Then why don't you enlighten me?" Cassian said, his voice laced with anger. "Why don't you tell me why I shouldn't strangle you right here, right now?"

Cate chuckled at his words, her smirk widening.

"You're welcome to try, General," she purred, her chin lifting in a challenging manner. "But you and I both know it won't end well for you."

He clenched his fists at his sides, the urge to strangle her almost overwhelming. But he knew she was right. She was a powerful witch, and he was well aware of the fact that he couldn't match her magic. By the time he had drawn his sword, she could have already turned him into a slug. 

"You're enjoying this," he gritted out, his jaw tight. "You're loving every moment of this."

"Of course I am," Cate admitted with a shrug. "Your temper has always been a source of great amusement to me. I do love seeing you all riled up, ready to go charging into danger. Such a predictable male."

Her words cut through him like a knife, and he had to take a deep breath to avoid letting his anger get the better of him.

"You're enjoying playing games with people's lives," Cassian shot back, unable to keep the anger out of his voice. "You knew what you were doing when you cast that spell on my mate. And you still did it anyway."

"I did her a favour," she said drily. "Every action has its consequences, General. You should know that better than most. What did you think were the consequences of imprisoning your mate in the House of Wind? Of making her Rhysand's little soldier?"

Her words hit him like a blow, and he felt the air get caught in his throat.

"Don't you dare bring that up," he warned, his voice almost a whisper. "Don't you dare act like you know what happened between me and my mate. You have no idea-"

She interrupted him with a scoff, her smirk growing even wider.

"Oh, I have plenty of ideas," she said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "I can see it in your eyes, General.

The guilt, the regret. The knowledge that you made more than a few mistakes.

"Your mate is the one paying the prize for your actions. All I did was help her. I took the weight of the nightmares from her. That's all I did."

"You took the weight of the nightmares from her, but what else did you take in the process?" he shot back, his voice rising in anger. "What other consequences did you leave unmentioned? What other costs is she going to have to pay down the line?"

Cate rolled her eyes at his questions, her smirk still in place.

"Oh, spare me the dramatics, General," Cate drawled. "You act like I made her a sacrifice to the Cauldron or something. It was a simple dreamcatcher spell, nothing more."

His anger flared again at her flippant attitude, and he had to clench his jaw to keep himself from exploding.

"A dreamcatcher spell?" Cassian repeated, his voice dripping with disdain. "Is that all it is? Just a simple little spell, huh?"

"Indeed it is," Cate confirmed with a shrug. "No lasting consequences, I assure you. The nightmares are gone, and your mate should get a peaceful rest for a good while."

His hands itched to strangle her, the casual way she spoke about his mate's mental well-being driving him insane.

"And that's it?" he asked, his voice tight. "There's no price to pay for this 'simple little spell'? No cost?"

"No price you pay at any rate," Cate said, a grin on her face.

His eyes narrowed with suspicion at her words.

"What does that mean?" Cassian growled, taking another step closer to her.

Her smile widened, the gleam in her eyes almost predatory.

"Oh, General, you're so easy to read," she taunted, her voice low. "You always were. You wear your emotions on your sleeve like a damn fool."He bristled at her words, his hands clenching into fists.

"Cut to the point," Cassian grit out. "What do you mean there's no price we have to pay?"

"Exactly that," she repeated.

He let out a frustrated huff, his patience wearing thin.

"Don't play coy with me," Cassian snarled. "What is the catch? There's always a catch with you."

Her smirk turned even more arrogant, her tone still dripping with mockery.

"Is it so hard to believe that I would do something selflessly? Out of the goodness of my heart? You always think I have some ulterior motive. It's quite insulting, really."

He sneered at Cate’s words, his anger making him fearless.

"You? Selfless?" he shot back, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "Yeah, right. You've never done anything that didn't benefit yourself in some way. Never."

She let out a scoff, her eyes narrowing in annoyance.

"You have such a low opinion of me, don't you?" Cate said, her voice cool. "It's almost endearing, how you don't trust me at all. Not that I'm surprised, of course. You've never believed in my good intentions -" 

He cut her off with an angry scoff. "Good intentions?" he repeated, his voice rising in volume. Her only intentions seemed to cause Chaos. He had lost count of how many different things she had her grubby little hands throughout the centuries…how often she had decided to twist fate around her little finger. 

"You expect me to believe that you had good intentions when you cast a spell on my mate without my permission? That you were being selfless and not scheming something?"

She rolled her eyes again, clearly becoming more irritated.

"You have no idea how much I helped your mate," she said with a huff. "That girl was tired and drained to the bone. She could barely function. I did you both a favour by taking away her nightmares. That's all there is to it, General. Besides, she doesn't need your permission." 

He clenched his jaw, his anger turning almost painful.

"You had no right," he bit out, his voice taut with fury. "No right to touch her, to cast a spell on her, without my knowing. She's my mate, not yours. I was supposed to protect her, and you interfered with that."

Cassian wasn't sure what possessed him. It was fundamentally stupid, to attack her in her own apartment, where the wards listened to her. And still, he reached to throttle her.

He lunged for her, propelled by his anger and frustration.

But just as his hands were about to close around her throat, a blast of magic hit him square in the chest, sending him flying back.

Cassian hit the wall with a thud, the air getting knocked out of his lungs. He cursed, pain coursing through him as he slumped down to the ground.

"Do. Not. Put. Your. Hands. On. Me." Cate hissed.

"What exactly is going on here?" Came the icy voice of his brother. Bare chested, barefoot...clearly coming from bed That godforsaken jaguar at his side.

Cate had stabbed him and that stupid jaguar had taken a bite out of him. He had forgotten neither. 

Cassian looked up to see Azriel standing in the doorway, the shadowsinger's eyes fixed on him with a hint of irritation.

The jaguar at his side growled low in its throat, its eyes gleaming in the darkness.

"Azriel," he grunted as he pulled himself up, his body still aching from the blast of magic. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question," he responded, his voice harsh.

"I'm here to deal with this scheming witch," he bit out, his anger still burning within him as he gestured towards Cate. Azriel glanced at the witch in question, his lips pressing into a thin line.

"That scheming witch has a name," Cate shot back. "You are supposed to sleep, Azriel," she said quietly, but Azriel just shrugged, still glaring at Cassian.

"What exactly is your problem?" Azriel asked him.

"My problem?" Cassian repeated, his voice still charged with anger. "My problem is that this meddling witch decided to mess with my mate without my knowledge."

"I was helping her," Cate cut in, her voice sharp. "More than you have in months."

He turned to glare at her, his anger once more reaching boiling point.

"I don't want your help," he spat. "You had no right to cast that spell on her. No right!"

"I had every right," Cate shot back, her own anger flaring. "That girl was a mess, and you were blind to it! You were ignoring her struggles, letting her suffer in silence. Someone had to step in."

"I was handling it!" he argued, his voice rising. "My mate is my responsibility, not yours. I was the one who was supposed to protect and care for her, not you!"

"And that worked so well, didn't it?" Cate said, her voice like a whip. "She was drowning under the weight of her nightmares, and you were doing nothing to help her. You call that protecting her?"

"Cate helped Nesta as a Favour to me," Azriel said evenly.

He spun to frown at his brother.

"A favour? What kind of favour?" he asked, suspicion in his voice.

Azriel walked closer to them, his footsteps almost silent. He looked exhausted, the muscles in his bare chest still tense. The jaguar followed him, its tail sweeping the ground. 

"A favour," Azriel repeated, his tone flat. "I asked her to help Nesta."

"You what?" he asked, shock and anger warring in his gut. "You asked her to help my mate? Without telling me?"

Azriel let out an exasperated huff, his eyes narrowed. "Yes, I asked her. And I didn't tell you because I knew you'd overreact. And lo and behold, here you are, overreacting."

He felt his fury rise at Azriel's nonchalant reply.

"Overreacting?" he spluttered, his voice rising in disbelief. "You're calling this overreacting? You asked this scheming witch to mess with my mate, and you think I'm overreacting?"

"I didn't ask her to 'mess' with your mate," Azriel said impatiently, his own irritation evident in his voice. "I asked her to help, plain and simple. It's not like I didn't have a reason, Cassian. Nesta needed help, and you were clearly not providing it."

Cassian clenched his fists, his anger flaring even higher. "And you thought Cate was the right person to help her? You know how she operates. You know how she is. You trusted her to help my mate?"

Azriel raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I do know how she is. Which is why I trust her."

He let out a bark of incredulous laughter at that response.

"You trust her?" he repeated, his voice dripping with disbelief. "You actually trust her? After everything she's done? After everything she's messed with over the centuries, you trust her?"

And Cate had done a lot. Not many people had her kind reputation...the kind born out of fear and respect... Hecate The Undying. She was a ghost story. And she had meddled in politics over centuries and had changed the history of Prythian more than once. 

His eyes flicked to Cate, who was watching the argument with an amused expression on her face. She gave him a sly smile, aware of his inner turmoil.

"You're out of your mind," he told Azriel, his voice tight. "How can you possibly trust her? She's a master of manipulation and deception. She thrives on chaos and disaster."

"Aww," Cate cooed. "It's so cute that you think you know me."

He turned to glare at her, his jaw clenching.

"I know enough," Cassian bit out, his voice harsh. "I know enough to be wary of you. You're dangerous, Cate. You're untrustworthy. You're a scheming, conniving whore -"

"Enough," Azriel bit out.

"And you -" Cassian rounded on Azriel. He spun to face his brother, his anger boiling over.

"You," he snapped. "How could you do this? How could you betray me like this? Asking Cate to help my mate without telling me. Behind my back. You KNEW how I felt about her, and you still went ahead and did it!"

"How much of an idiot can you be, Azriel? I hope to gods, her cunt is worth it," he sneered. "Don't come crying to me when cuts off your manhood for waking up on the wrong side of the bed." 

Azriel's expression darkened, his eyes narrowing.

"Watch your mouth, Cassian," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You don't know anything about my relationship with Cate, so don't presume to make assumptions. And as to my manhood, I'll have you know that she's far too fond of it to take it away from me."

He felt his own anger spike at Azriel's dismissive tone.

"Fond of it, huh?" he retorted, his voice sharp. "Fond enough to keep you in line, clearly. Gods, you're so blind, brother. You think she really cares about you? About anyone? She's using you, can't you see that?"

"She doesn't care about anyone but herself," he continued, his voice growing more impassioned. "And the second she gets bored with you, she'll toss you aside like a toy she no longer has any use for. You're just another gullible male, fooled by her charm and wits."

Bright green sparks of magic hit him, at that moment. Cassian could nearly taste her magic. Cate was cast in an eery glow.

He stumbled back a few steps, the magic from the woman hitting him like a blow. The room seemed to grow darker, all his senses tingling. It was a potent, overwhelming magic - ancient and primal, like thunder and storms.

"Enough, Cate," he heard Azriel say softly, but Cate's eyes were fixed on him, a strange intensity in her gaze.

"Out." One word, laden with power. "And do not come back."

The power in her voice sent a shiver down his spine. Cassian found himself backing away, the anger draining from him and being replaced with a sense of utter fear. It was an unfamiliar feeling, to be so utterly powerless in the face of a woman's anger.

"Cate..." he began, but the look in her eyes silenced him instantly. He turned to face his brother, but Azriel refused to meet his gaze.

Azriel was watching the witch, and the look on his face was...reverent. Awed.

"Go calm down, Cassian. it's only a dreamcatcher spell. Nothing else. I vow on that for my life."

[hollyhomburg]

Prey Animals (2)

—  Pairing: Yoongi x Jin, Yoongi x reader, Bts x reader

—  Genre: Omegaverse, Mafia au, Polyamory au, Found family, Suspense, Eventual Smut, Enemies to friends to lovers, Angst with a happy ending, Hurt and Comfort,

—  Summary: In a world where Beta's are rare, valuable, and often have more than one pack; Beta Min Yoongi does everything he can to keep his mafia heritage a secret from his primary pack. Little does he know he's not the only one who's living a double life.

—  Words: 8.6k

—  Warnings: funerals, referenced violence, threats of violence, organized crime, manipulation, angst, hurt/comfort,

—  Check in at the end for my notes on this chapter! —

(Last Chapter)

While Betas are valued for their level heads, they are also valued primarily as secret keepers.

Yoongi is probably the best secret keeper in the whole state, maybe the whole country even. Yoongi keeps his family’s secret so well that he doesn’t even let himself think it most days.

It only bothers him when he remembers. Yoongi does not like remembering where he came from, he does not like remembering his blood family. Not his found family, not the pack. I get that it’s confusing, but ‘blood family’ couldn’t be more accurate when it comes to talking about the people that Yoongi is genetically related too.

They’re the ones that painted Yoongi’s hands with blood when he was barely old enough to drive a car, who taught him how to kill and get away with it. But getting away with murder is child’s play to the largest organized crime family in the continental united states.  

Alphas, Betas and Omegas. In the family- everyone has their place. Everyone has their spot in the hierarchy. As a beta, Yoongi won’t be expected to pop out heirs like an omega- or cultivate the family business like an alpha. He won’t be expected to mate because betas don’t mate the same way that alphas and omega’s do.

Beta mating bites are too strong- people say. They make you go crazy, it’s not worth the risk. People have died from them.

There’s only one person that Yoongi would ever want to give his mating bit too anyway and he’d never risk it. Not when Namjoon is right there- ready and wailing to carry Seokjin’s soul the day they met. They’ll wait a few years for propriety’s sake. But Yoongi has always known that he’d never know what it feels like to be mated to someone else.

Never. 

Being a beta born into a mafia family is both a blessing and a curse. On one hand- Yoongi is `-expected to have little to no involvement in most of the violence. Tradition orders that the betas shouldn’t sully their hands with blood, drugs, and gunpowder. 

Their job is much much more important than that.

~-~

(6 years later, 120 days before, Yoongi)

Like with most good tragedies, this story starts with a death and a secret. I’ll leave it up to you to decide which is which.

For Yoongi, coming back to the family feels like walking into a nightmare.

Despite his derision and hate for where he came from, Yoongi’s always been able to wear the mask. He finds himself putting it on to a snug fit the day of the funeral. He got into the hotel late last night and the tiredness weighs on him as does the unanswered text messages from his pack. The tiredness drags him down down down, past his grief and past his hopes for a future that involves any sort of permanent happiness as he stares out the window of the car, spotted with dark beads of rain.

His phone dings.

Jinnie (12:34): Hey! Could you let me know that you got in safe? Joonie’s going a little crazy lol.

He can still smell Jin faintly on him from their last hug at the train station only 18 hours ago. All he has to do is close his eyes to feel like he’s standing right next to him. The memory is both painful and sweet. Yoongi doesn’t have the heart to wash away the pack’s scents quiet yet.

He doesn’t know the next time he’ll have Jin’s scent on him. He should savor it while he can.

Yoongi knows better than to hope that this will be just a brief diversion. He can’t lie to Jin or tell him the truth, so he opts to say nothing instead. To leave the texts un-answered, read receipts off. Maybe he’ll answer tonight- when he’s gauged the situation and how risky it might be.

Yoongi already misses the pack, feels their absence from his side like a physical wound. He doesn’t know how other beta’s do it; every time he turns, he expects to see one of them. Body already screaming in a touch starved language of humming skin and aching muscles. Had it been just yesterday morning that he’d woken up in Tae’s arms with Jungkook nuzzling into the small of his back? Is he only 24 hours removed from it? Why does it already feel a lifetime away?

Yoongi can’t believe that it’s over, can’t respond to the text, can’t resist making any message sound like goodbye. Can’t accept that for all intents and purposes, they’ve already said goodbye.  

There’s a very good chance that none of them, Jin nor Namjoon or any of the 4 other members of his pack will ever see him again.

For what it’s worth, Yoongi didn’t want to go.

He’d paused at a hotel to drop his bags off this morning, but the lady at the front already knew him by name and had a reservation ready for him before he’d spoken two sentences for her. The calling card on the bed paired with an Armani suit had let Yoongi know that one house was already hoping to earn his favor.

His Korean is rusty- but not rusty enough that he can’t read the neat lettering.

The Choi family cordially invites you to dine with them next Saturday. Please take this gift as a gesture of our good will and enduring friendship.

He’d tossed the card back onto the bed and sighed. They couldn’t have waited one day before trying to court him?

The suit is stuffy, but it compliments his mask well enough to be necessary as he makes his way up the steps of the cathedral. He can walk like one of them and talk like one of them and can wear their consumes. But it will never fit right. The sneer on his face or the emptiness in his eyes is just an act. The guards at the front do not stop and ask him who he is. Anyone who’s anyone knows Yoongi’s face.

Arguably- he’s the most important alive person alive at the funeral. 

He’s given a wide birth. Those who know who he is hide their whispers and shock behind velvet gloved hands and the curl of their teeth.

The closer he gets the more he feels his persona drape over him like a shroud. He knows how his eyes look when he tilts his face downwards and lifts his lip in a soundless snarl. He knows how to look like a threat and act like they expect. Yoongi is a god among men, Yoongi will offer them no salvation or chance at hope. Just like with God; if they want something from him, they’ll have to earn it through devotion.

And even then, he might not give in.

He lets his angry scent roll off of him in waves- a warning before he wades through the sea of people. A hundred or maybe two all in black. His scent is Oceanic and briny, the sea of people part around him giving him a wide berth. Yoongi has always smelled like sea salt when angry. The sweet chocolate of his scent going bitter and yucky. They expect it from him. Betas have more important things to do than attend funerals, more important things to grieve than family members. Betas belong to no one and everyone.

Not all of the hatred or derision is faked. Yoongi does not like these people.

He hasn’t thrown up because of a dead body in years, but the matching caskets almost do it to him. Their cold faces, the sallow almost grey black tint to their skin. Powdered and dotted with morticians puddy to turn their cheeks less hollow. The makeup powdery but very opaque. They turn his stomach as he pays his respects. No one bothers to approach him until he’s stopped kneeling. He lingers, unwilling to surrender himself up to the dogs quiet yet.

The Don of the family and his beta are smaller in death. His salt and pepper hair falls flat, his dark suit baggy. The beta’s long grey hair is braided over her shoulder the same way she wore it when she was living. They are two sides of the same coin. The leading and legal bodies of the family, now resting peacefully.

There is no one kneeling besides Yoongi to pay his respects. Not yet.

They wait for only a heartbeat before they descend.

He gets more than a few tearful hugs and reunions. Yoongi loses track of how many people drag him in for a hug or kiss his forehead, bending low to rub their noses against his knuckles as is tradition. Some of them look vaguely familiar, some of them look vaguely like him, round faces and small lips, hawklike eyes that glimmer with more familiarity and less fear. The aunties and the omega’s have their faces covered in dark veils. Red lipstick hidden behind gauzy silk.

“Cousin!” Someone calls above the others. Yoongi turns slow like it’s barely worth his effort to greet this person and yet he finds himself smiling when he sees who it is. The mask cracking.  

Jongho is less chubby than the last time that Yoongi saw him. Less of a little kid with the habit of following the older cousins around and more of a young man. A young alpha judging from the strong woodsy scent that clings to him. During their teenage years, he’d made a habit of trailing after Yoongi like a little duckling because Yoongi was the only one who didn’t tell him to get lost (or worse).

At least before he’d been sent away. It’s good to see him, to see a kind smile on his face, the warmth and curiosity in his brown eyes- lighter than the usual deep brown of the family.

“Your hair is so long!” is the first thing he says, but after some coughing behind him, and the appearance of his father, a stout well-groomed man with eyes that can never quite hold their viciousness, Jongho falls into a deep bow.

“The Choi family hopes that you’ve enjoyed your gifts, Beta-sshi.” Yoongi sets a hand on his shoulder, drawing him up. Jongho seems to remember himself, looking away, failing to meet Yoongi’s eyes.

“Don’t you want to see how well your gift fits?” It’s too hard for Yoongi to resist indulging his young cousin. He reminds him so terribly of Jungkook. At the prodding Jongho prattles on, hands skimming up and down the sleeves and appreciating the fine silk of Yoongi’s suit. Going on about FIT and how he’s been promised a semester or two there, after things have calmed down.

After things have been decided.

Yoongi isn’t surprised that these tid bits are met with a glower from Choi senior. A constant shadow to their conversation. Fashion isn’t a major becoming of any would be leader- better business or international relations. Choi seniors glare is so disapproving that Yoongi almost want to snap at him.

Let the pup have his fun.

Yoongi likes him- but just like with all his family members Yoongi cannot trust Jongho on principle. But it’s hard not to want to know him. This cousin who was once a chubby haired youth is now a strong alpha, teenaged, barely 20. Yoongi congratulates him on presenting as an alpha (as is expected, condolences would have been offered if he presented as an omega. Yoongi hates it.)

Eyeing him up and down, Yoongi admits that they might have been rivals in another life. They’re close enough in age, but Jongho still wears the bright eyes of a child eager to please.

Jongho is not the eldest alpha in his family, but he is one of several elder siblings and cousins in the Choi family (the moniker he greeted Yoongi by was just that- a name to call him. They’re not related by any blood that Yoongi is aware of). Yoongi’s not surprised that Choi senior seems to have selected him to meet Yoongi first. He’s the Choi families obvious choice for Don. He’s by far the most measured of his siblings, the most controlled and the most intelligent.

Last time Yoongi saw the eldest Choi son, Geumjae was trying to rip his throat out. Yoongi has no idea if he’s still alive.

It’s clear Choi senior hasn’t forgotten this show of impropriety. Clapping Yoongi on the back so hard his knees start to buckle. “He’s scored in the upper percentile for college entrance exams, and he has excellent extra-carriculars. He did student government and student counsel at his private school and-” Yoongi cringes, but nods along. He can’t expect every family not to treat this funeral like a job interview even if it is a little grating.

And Yoongi is the first to admit that leading the family is a job that requires more than brute force.

Yoongi passes along his thanks and holds out his arms for them to see the fit. “My mother picked out the color, she-” his eyes flicker up to Yoongi’s face, and Yoongi sees a bit of hesitancy there.

Jongho’s father claps him on the back again and derails the conversation, “He’s a good alpha, always knows when to listen to his elders.” Yoongi resists the temptation to roll his eyes at the obvious ass kissing.

The Choi’s let him go but not before getting an official acceptance of the dinner invitation extended to him. Yoongi wades through the crowd, searching aimlessly. There are hundreds if not thousands of people packed tight to pay their respects. Reporters and camera’s too- because not all of the families’ businesses are illegitimate.

All members of the family have pinned roses to their lapels as a sign of respect so it’s easy to pick them out of the crowd. White for the omegas and red for the alphas. The omega youth who hands them out at the front desk eyes Yoongi upset, unsure which to give him, hand shaking as he flutters between white and red. 

“It’s fine really- I’ll just take a white one-”

“I’ve got you.”

A woman steps up to him from the crowd gathered, the only one brave enough to disturb his peace. Yoongi isn’t immediately able to place her Family name or her face. She plucks a red lily from a nearby bouquet and tucks it into his breast pocket. Smoothing out the fabric after she’s done. Fussing with it. The delicate flower drops rusty red pollen onto Yoongi’s suitcoat.

Alphas don’t fuss, but she is one- judging by her scent and the red rose pinned to her own suitcoat. Female alphas don’t always dress like men, but this one does. Her tapered slacks, charcoal suitcoat, and dark blouse ripple like water when she moves. She smiles up at him delicately. Her smile is well trained and gives nothing away. It is neither genuine nor fake. “We didn’t think you’d be coming until later.” 

“Neither did I.” Yoongi admits carefully. But why should he hide it. He doesn’t want to be here, and they all know it.

There is nothing in her eyes- nothing at all that tells Yoongi what kind of mask she might be wearing. She’s got long hair, silver, dyed from the roots that poke out from the perfect middle part. it doesn’t take Yoongi any time to place her scent- it’s so strong.

Peppermint- it almost has a numbing effect on his nostrils. An artificial edge that cuts the sweetness and makes it more alpha. It takes him second of searching her face before he recognizes the tuck of her chin. 

“Moon Byulyi.”

She smiles tensely, dropping into Korean out of formality. “It’s been a while Beta-sshi.”

Moonbyul is someone he remembers well. From a shared childhood spent running around in too tight tiny stuffy suit jackets at formal occasions like easter and Christmas. Playing underneath tables for hide and seek and tag. Moonbyul was one of the few pups that was brave enough to talk to him. That wasn’t cautioned against being his friend or overly encouraged to gain his favor by the power-hungry parents. Yoongi would never have called them friends back then- because you aren’t friends with people outside of your house- not without it being risky. But a certain kind of knowing respect hovers on the edge of her smile.

Even as a pup, he’d been infamous. In the cathedral, people whisper, pointing him out in the crowd to their companions. Red lips hidden behind velvet gloved hands. He’s allowed to cause a commotion- there is no one left to tell them off for their blatant disrespect of the dead. No one left to remind them of tradition.

Yoongi lets them stare.

Just like with Jongho, Moonbyul was sent away before presentation. Many families choose to send their children away from the mafia life after elementary school. Before their scents start to lean either sweet or musky. Before anything starts to hint at if they’ll be an alpha or omega.

Those formative years can be a little bit dicey, with everyone’s scent and hormones changing every few days. New instincts provoking fights and spats with anyone who comes too close. Presentation provides Improper and dangerous volatility in a family like theirs. It’s better to whisk the next generation away for a private and more dedicated education.

Alphas are taught to fight and kill and bleed; omega’s are taught to simper and preen and scheme. They’re educated just like the rest of the population, sure, but the family requires a more thorough sort of learning.

Yoongi hardly remembers when his older left. He only remembers when Geumjae had come back smelling like smoke and fire and rage.

Scents are as individual as a fingerprint. Omega’s and Alpha’s don’t get theirs until they go into their first heat or rut but Beta’s scents present immediately upon birth. The other sub genders smell uniform in a soft milky pup scent. A smell ingrained into people’s brains and instincts that nudges the impulse protect and provide and nourish.

Yoongi had started to smell like chocolate on the third day after he was born.

There are boarding schools and private little compounds that the family keeps where unpresented pups can have a more dedicated education away from the prying eyes. Yoongi hasn’t seen Moonbyul since just after she turned 13.an early age for presentation by any standard. Although the year’s stretch between them she’s still the same. The mischievous lilt to her words is subdued here. She looks more serious; she looks as tired and as anxious as they all feel.

 That much he can tell is not faked.

She should be more careful to hide her emotions. She’s a head of house after all.

They are no longer children chasing after brightly colored eggs and wishing for sweets. To show any weakness is dangerous for her and her pack. One of them hovers on the edge of her elbow, smaller and shorter but no less bright eyed than Moonbyul herself. She’s an omega from her garb, her dress is long, flowy, and black. Her hair is cut to her chin, atypical for an omega. She knows better than to speak here. Moonbyul stands almost infront of her, tall, nearly posturing.

She doesn’t need to bother, there is only one person in this room that Yoongi’s even a little bit afraid of.

“Have you seen my brother?” She makes a noise, glancing behind him.

Yoongi tries to turn before Geumjae can get too close, but he’s too late. 

There are crow’s feet beginning to pull at the corners of his eyes. That’s the first thing that Yoongi notices, and the fact that he’s armed despite given the clear orders not to be. The lines of his harness visible just under his well-tailored suit. He registers only that before the broad-shouldered man pulls him in and Yoongi’s nostrils fill to the brim with the scent of burning things. Not the smell of cooking or firewood- but the smell that buildings get when they burn, acrid and metallic.

Geumjae must be nearly 33 now, but the stressors and finer points of ageing seem to have spared him for now as he pulls back and gives Yoongi a beaming smile, bright eyes calculating. Aware that the rest of the family is casting glances at the two of them many more times than is socially acceptable.

His brother looks exactly like he did the last time Yoongi saw him, taller than Yoongi and meatier. Wide shoulders and a tapered waist that says alpha. But their faces could be identical if it wasn’t for the scar crossing his eye and his mouth perpetually twisted into something like a snarl. They look similar enough that they’ve been mistaken for twins before.

He pulls Yoongi close with a hard hand at his neck digging into his scent gland and Yoongi resists the urge to flinch. Geumjae forces them to embrace, the picture of brotherly affection and comfort as he presses Yoongi’s face into his shoulder. Mouth pressed to ear hidden in Yoongi’s hairline so that no one can hear what he has to say or read his lips.

There are no hello’s, no farce, just straight to business. The lily remains between them- crushed by the sudden hug. All beauty here is short lived.

“I hope you’re not planning to change anything Yoonie.” Geumjae says the childish nickname with a sickly-sweet lilt to it. “It’s been so long since we’ve all seen you that you’re practically an outsider. There’s a lot you don’t understand. You should let your older brother teach you how things work again.” 

Yoongi can’t pull away or else risk making a scene. No matter how much his burning scent is sticking in his nose and making him want to gag. Geumjae’s expensive suit reeks of rich cologne, at odds with his scent. Geumjae smells and acts like wildfires and burning houses; destructive and unpredictable.

Geumjae knows of Yoongi’s only weak spot. 

His arms around Yoongi’s body remain ridged and vicelike, hand threading through the back of his hair in a clutch that is much more intimate than is necessary. Geumjae has always been stronger than Yoongi- has always been the alpha. Yoongi pushes against his chest, but Geumjae holds firm.

“All this talk has me thinking- if you died, I guess we’d have to invite your little pack, right? The pictures I’ve seen of them look so delicate and unprepared. Your pack omega seems like the type I’d love to sink my teeth into.”

Yoongi’s blood goes cold, and he starts to push- visibly at Geumjae’s chest. Recoiling from his touch and from what he insinuates. He doesn’t stop there

“I wonder why you didn’t bring them. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were afraid of us getting our hands on them.” He pulls back, smiling. It’s not friendly- more of a bearing of teeth. Geumjae must have had implants put in because his canines seem sharper than should be normal.

“But luckily, I know we’ll never have to find out.”

These threats are not hollow. Yoongi knows better. Yoongi does his best to school his face into a somber frown. Nodding like Geumjae has just said some words of wisdom. He’s not really agreeing- all of this, every inch between their bodies and the lack thereof- is done for the presentation of it all.

His choice is the furthest thing from his mind. Every moment all he can feel is wrong wrong wrong. Wrong to be here- wrong to be away from the pack- has Jungkook had a seizure yet? Is Jin worrying after his unanswered text? What song is Hoseok listening to over the radio? How did Namjoon’s surgery go- the one that he was worried about and felt underprepared for. What about Tae and his book? How did it end. How how how? How can he keep his brother away from them?

The phone in his pocket burns. And he knows the texts from the pack will go unanswered. Yoongi will be too afraid to reply.

Yoongi casts a look at the ceiling. The rosette windows in the vaulted ceiling shine in all their colors, but they offer no word of God.

(Yoongi knows better. God only listens when you speak through sin.)

~-~

(5 Years ago, Yoongi and Seokjin)

The thing about working with someone is that you spend a lot of time together.  It’s kind of hard not to grow attached, kind of hard not to be friends.

Over the next three weeks before his birthday, Seokjin spends a total of 126 hours with Min Yoongi. He comes to learn that he likes the cinnamon coffee cake over the plain ones, that he likes vanilla latte’s over matcha- that he thinks it tastes like dirt.

They become friends quicker than Jin expected, quicker than he necessarily wants- seeing as Jin’s kind of shit at keeping them- and hasn’t made a single friend in the last 3 years that he hasn’t lost. What’s the point of picking up something only to lose it later?

Seokjin doesn’t want to be Yoongi’s friend, but it happens that way anyways.

Seokjin resists the urge to watch Yoongi, waiting for him to take a sip of coffee (black, americano- but with a secret spoonful of matcha, the color of it disguised by the extra dark roast) Seokjin waits, watching his prank play out in his peripheral vision. Tensing every time Yoongi gets even a little close to where it’s cooling. Yes, almost, there-

“Uhm? Excuse me?”

Seokjin almost flinches at the customer, tapping his hands on the countertop impatiently- but not impatiently enough. A businessman, alpha, pale gray suit baggy at the waits. A faint blush on his cheeks. “What can I get for you?”

“Your number would be good to start,”

“Uhm” Seokjin barely resists the urge to cringe and hide behind his notepad. He’s not on the market- but he’s not off it either. Seokjin does not respond, just waits until the uncomfortable silence festers long enough, for the alpha to just reply to his order.

Seokjin is very very picky. Picker than he should be maybe- as an omega of his standing.

Yoongi notices, bypassing His (sabotaged) coffee, polishing the chrome of one of the espresso machines glassy. He waits until the alpha is gone, the door to the coffee shop tinkling closed before he asks.

Yoongi is always doing that. Waiting until they’re alone to speak. Seokjin wonders if it’s a habit or a beta trait.

 “What’s with you today? Usually, you’d have a line or something.”

Seokjin’s mouth quirks beyond his control. “What was it that I said last week?”

“Treating omegas that way you do won’t make your father love you?”

“Your knot is not big enough to act like that.”

They double over into laughter, and the skim of Yoongi’s hand up his back as he passes behind to put in another tray of muffins (mass market, made from mixing oil and water into bags of grey brown mix) in the oven is so tender, so thought out that Seokjin almost melts.

“You should put more chocolate in them” he says, and Yoongi pauses, hums thoughtfully and reaches past him to get the chocolate chips, adding another quarter cup to the batter. Yoongi is always making the chocolate muffins- mostly because Seokjin is always eating them.

The café is full of the smell of melting chocolate, and it’s not just from the muffins. But from Yoongi too. Yoongi’s scent is so pleasant, Seokjin catches himself raising his nose to catch it on the air when the other isn’t looking.

“But seriously. You always have a reply, what’s up?” Yoongi doesn’t look at him when he says it, instead directing his attention to mixing in the chocolate chips into the batter. He’s not very good at it, gets a bit of glossy brown on the countertop. Seokjin doesn’t have it in himself to complain. Seokjin knows he’s trying to make Seokjin feel more comfortable, more open by not looking at him.

Any other person doing that would make Seokjin feel manipulated or backed into a corner. But it’s different with Yoongi.

The two of them linger there, looking out the wide windows. The rain that falls that casts the streetlights all drippy. The cloudy sky up above offers no shooting stars or wishes, not even the moon put there like a single burning wick of a candle. Nothing in the sky, no burning, no joy, only wet.

“Today’s my birthday.” Seokjin finally admits, voice soft and quiet. It won’t be his birthday for much longer, the clock already reads 11:32. They’ve got less than a half hour left. And Seokjin did not cry today- his only goal. Not presents or blowing out candles and love. None of it.

He’s tried of crying. Tired of being alone too.

“Fuck” Yoongi stops stirring the metal bowl, setting it down softly before he leans against the counter. “Why didn’t you tell me, would have gotten you something or some shit-”

Seokjin hums, stirring his coffee hard, turning the wooden rod through the crust of extra sugar at the bottom. Seokjin always likes things extra sweet and extra warm; he wonders how long it will take Yoongi to realize there’s a reason for that. That he’s trying to fill a family sized hole in himself that the wind whistles through. Like a ripped sail on a ship.

When Seokjin looks over Yoongi looks if not genuinely upset then a little devastated. It shocks Seokjin enough that he stands up a little straighter, color to his cheeks that has nothing to do with the stoplight outside as it goes from yellow to red.

The muffins ding, and they’re ready, piping hot, the chocolate all melty at the top like Seokjin likes. “Hang on I know they’ve got- here.”

Yoongi leans over, he’s got a lighter, and Seokjin isn’t sure what for. It’s white, has initials on it. There is a crappy pink birthday candle sticking out of the muffin. It’s too early to take the muffins out of the tray and it’s melting onto the countertop. But when Yoongi says, “Make a wish,” Seokjin closes his eyes and blows.

He’s not really sure what he wishes for, but when he opens his eyes, Yoongi is smiling.

They share half of it each, and Seokjin feels so warm he has to take off his sweater. Yoongi licks the chocolate from his fingers. Seokjin watches and looks away. Nervous.

They play Seokjin’s favorite music while they mop the floors, and Yoongi does his best impression of that one alpha rapper than everyone likes.

“You like seriously like music, right?” Seokjin says, sitting on the countertop and swinging his feet because there’s no one here and it’s almost 2 am. They pretty regularly only have one or two customers that come in mid-week. Why their boss insists on keeping the shop open and two of them there at this hour- Seokjin has no idea.  

“Yeah, I’ve got like, 6,000 songs on my phone.” Seokjin scoffs, endeared. Yoongi is exactly the kind of person to brag about something like that. Seokjin’s feet hit swish back and forth.

“You better not have given iTunes all that money.”

Yoongi grins, tipping an imaginary hat. “Nah- it’s a pirates life for me.” Yoongi continues to sweep at the floor while Seokjin watches. “You’re like, really bossy for an omega. Thought they were all supposed to be like, docile?” Yoongi moves onto mopping the entry way and Seokjin switches to the booth seat so that they don’t have to shout to keep talking.

Seokjin snorts. Instead of parrying Yoongi’s words, Seokjin settles into the booth, pulling his knees to his chest until he can feel the pleather through the hole in his shoe. “You go to school for it? The music?”

“No, I ugh-” Seokjin watches Yoongi brace himself for disappointment or judgment. “I didn’t go to college.”

Seokjin’s fingers stop their drumming. “Good, it’s a waste of time.” Betas don’t really need to go to college to be successful, the same way that alpha’s don’t need to dress or preen or maintain themselves to gain respect. Seokjin skirts by, doing the bare minimum for an omega. It would be different if he were female. If his reproductive organs had presented him as anything other than male at birth. Men are alphas until proven otherwise and women are omegas until they decide different. It’s only his rotten luck that his presentation came with a heat and not a rut.

“What you’d go for then?” Yoongi asks, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.

“Psychology.”

“Why don’t you do that then?”

Seokjin shrugs, “can’t get a job that pays more than this without my masters, can’t pay for my master’s without this job but-” It’s Seokjin’s turn to brace himself. “It’s so so expensive, and my student loans are already a lot-”

“Nah I get it; your family wouldn’t like help you or something? You seem like a good kid; do they know that?”

“I am older than you.” Seokjin scoffs, reminding him. “And besides, what family?”

They haven’t gotten to the dead parent’s thing yet, but they will one day. Yoongi looks up and stops his mopping. The water drips onto the dirty linoleum. Instead of contesting with Yoongi’s bereft look Seokjin replies quick. It’s still his birthday for another 10 or so minutes. And he’d rather not talk about his parents.

“Did your family like not approve of you doing music or did they want you to be a doctor or something?”

Beta’s usually become doctors, or CEO’s or managers or anything. Seokjin can already tell that their boss likes Yoongi more than him. There’s a sour lilt to his voice, a pout there. Seokjin bets Yoongi gets paid more than him.

That’s okay, Seokjin’s instincts tell him. He needs it to eat more- his legs are so skinny.

But instead of saying what Seokjin expects, Yoongi just looks back at him, his dark eyes mirroring his misery. He scoffs parroting Seokjin’s words back to him.

“What family?”

Seokjin is a lone omega, a dangerous thing to be in the city these days- or at least that’s what the news has him and everyone else believing. Enough omega’s go missing that it makes the news. Picked up off of street corners or otherwise, they just vanish. The only thing that keeps Seokjin from being one of them is luck and the fact that he’s taller than most omega’s and broad enough to pass for a scrawny alpha.

Yoongi turns away from their mutual grief, stilling when he see’s what’s outside.  

“It’s snowing.”

 It’s early for November but neither of them says it, they move, abandoning their posts for a second to go out and watch the gentle flakes flickering down.

“First snow!” Seokjin says, and Yoongi grins. The snow is brief, melts the second it hits the concrete. But it’s a good thing, because it means that neither Seokjin nor Yoongi has to walk home in the rain.

When they return inside, Yoongi takes a sip of his coffee and makes a face. Seokjin laughs so hard that he has to clutch at his stomach.

It’s an even better birthday when they have to depart for their respective apartments for the day and Yoongi hands over his flannel and says that he won’t take no for an answer. At least he’s wearing a long sleeve unlike Seokjin. It settles Seokjin’s instincts so well that he sways. His fingers quickly making sweater paws on account of how long the sleeves are.

“Like this one a lot, whenever you wear it.” Yoongi’s hands linger on the flannel. Seokjin’s wrist. He does up the button. Seokjin lets him.

“You can keep it, as a birthday present.”

Seokjin huffs, shakes his head, “I said I like it when you wear it, giving it away defeats the purpose.”

Yoongi’s hands go tight in the fabric and then relax, and his voice takes on a husky quality. Breath billowing out in the cold. They’re standing close enough that all Seokjin can smell is chocolate.

“Then you can bring it back to me when you get tired of it.”

The first night shift ends and the second begins, Seokjin and Yoongi go their separate ways. Seokjin walks past the same alpha’s from the night before that and the night before that. And like usual Seokjin tenses, readying himself to be catcalled. His fingers tangling in the arms of Yoongi’s sweatshirt as he braces himself for it.

But it doesn’t come, it’s like the alphas take one whiff of Yoongi’s scent on the air and their eyes slide over Seokjin as he scurries past.

Seokjin pauses at the end of the block, at the edge where streetlight becomes shadow, and looks back.

~-~

It doesn’t take long for the two of them to put two and two together (no- not like that, although that takes predictably less time too).

The alphas Seokjin passes on his way home from the coffee shop never bother him as much when he’s wearing something of Yoongi’s. The beta’s scent clings to his clothing like an invisible shield- keeping Seokjin from harm. Seokjin mentions it offhand once and from then on Yoongi makes sure he’s got something, his gloves, his hat, his jacket, everything. Just so that Seokjin gets home safe.

It doesn’t mean anything at first, that Seokjin is under Yoongi’s protection- but after a few weeks that starts to mean a whole lot more.

Seokjin has never believed that betas are particularly special. He attributes most of societies reverence to just foolish mythos and childlike mystery. But even he has to admit that It’s almost spooky the way that the alpha’s unwanted attraction and attention slides over him like he’s slippery, like he’s a mirage, a specter- but only if he’s wearing Yoongi’s scent.

Seokjin always draws attention- for the way his shoulders swivel and the pretty omegan curve to his hips and face. He's pretty, he's always been pretty. He was glad of it as a teenager and in college. An apex predator for his beauty alone.

But all the prettiest flowers have poison hidden at the root.

That prettiness felt more like a threat the older he got, and now when he walks home from his closing shift at the café it’s always on the edge of his mind. Seokjin is lucky but plenty of omegas aren’t. He's been followed home before. He lives in the bad part of town. Yoongi does too- but living in a bad part of town means something different when you're an omega. 

They share things, like mittens and hats and button-down coats, not because they’re the same size but because Yoongi is…soft. Yoongi is fond of Seokjin, and he shows it in the way he talks, the way he’s always touching Seokjin on the elbow or the shoulders. They’re careful. And if Yoongi where an alpha- Seokjin would hate it. If Yoongi where anyone else- he’d hate it.  

Yoongi never mentions any friends or lovers, there are no other scents but his that cling to his clothing. After a while Seokjin doesn’t ask. It’s so not cool to ask after the affairs of a beta, you have to be nonchalant.

They go through most of November and the start of December like that, dancing around each other, each shift ends with one of Yoongi’s sweatshirts or coats or scarves folded there on the countertop, covered with coffee rings and crumbs from chocolate cupcakes- waiting for him.

Over time, Seokjin gets used to Yoongi's quirks. Like how he always makes Seokjin drink's with too much sugar and is always ducking back into the office at the coffee shop whenever the phone rings. So much so that Jin starts to associate the sound with his new co-worker. His new co-worker who makes him laugh and feel like he's 14 not 24. His new co-worker whose also his friend and asks Seokjin to come with him to see the tree lighting in the center of town. They pack in like sardines and go, see each other the next day and it’s not boring. Yoongi doesn’t get bored of Seokjin. He doesn’t.

He makes Jin feel like it's not too late for him just by looking at him and saying. "Smart kid like you, though you'd be out of this city by now." 

"I am older than you, you know." 

"Still a kid- you've got chubby cheeks." A pinch to them that has Jin’s face warming. A flush that could melt any spring.

With Yoongi’s scent on him, Jin isn't as much of a target for harassment. It irks him- that a beta is worth their respect but an omega isn’t. All it takes is just Yoongi's pheromones to settle the thugs and gang members he passes on street corners and make him invisible.

Seokjin wants to be invisible most of the time- mostly on social media which he keeps relatively blank. He's worried about what his old friends might think of his lack of social life, the lack of likes on his selfies that he always deletes after an hour anyways. He's scared of his aunts and uncles calling and asking how he's doing and has he found a job yet? Is he really applying himself as hard as he can? How could a cushy college in America not set him up for success? 

Yoongi makes Seokjin feel the opposite of invisible. Yoongi makes Seokjin feel... special in a way he’s always craved. Chosen. When he gives him his jacket, when he bumps their shoulders on the cold nights. Stands closer so that some of his warmth gets shared by Jin. "It's cold," he says, voice a low gravel. A true gentleman, his thick jean jacket held out.

"But you'll be cold on your walk home too." 

"Doesn't matter, I'd rather the warmth went to you." 

Yoongi gives him his flannel, his hat, his everything just so that Seokjin can feel a little bit safer on his walk home. How many layers of fabric and viscera separates Jin’s heart from Yoongi’s scent? How many?

And then Seokjin’s twice yearly heat hits, and he doesn’t see Yoongi for nearly 5 days.

He wakes up one morning in early December and it feels like someone’s holding him under warm water. An ache in his chest that’s so visceral he checks his ribs for wounds. But the wanting is there, ever present, a phantom limb.

Heats are just another vestigial trait left over from shapeshifting times. No one can shift anymore- but the more animal side like the scents and heats and secondary genders still remain. Seokjin usually doesn’t go into heat until the spring as is usual for most omegas. Something in his body must have confused Yoongi’s warmth for the change of the seasons.

Seokjin’s heats have always been brutal.  

A fever is pretty typical as far as heats go. He’s got some cramping along with the mess and honey sweetness between his legs that goes untended too and under enjoyed. Unlike the bone deep exhaustion that has him wanting to swath his body in soft blankets and nest the day away

And do little else but fuck and breed, but Seokjin’s so annoyed by that he hardly touches himself.

Breeding season is a fire that never ends. A particular sexual hunger that cannot be sated by Seokjin’s hands alone. Beyond the violent need for sexual attention, he finds himself reaching out for hands that aren’t there, nosing at his sheets for a scent he finds in mittens and an old flannel. His dreams are a tangle of slick, pleasure, chocolate muffins and big hands.

On the second day he thinks to check his phone and finds a text from an unknown number.

Unknown (12:28): Please make sure you eat something.

A pause then, where sweat beads on Seokjin’s forehead and he whimpers out through the next wave of wanting. Omega cock hard and straining against the nest, loose with Yoongi’s things dotted along the barrier. Smelling like chocolate.

Seokjin bites them just to taste, blunt omega teeth sinking into the fabric. Hungry and Helpless.

Unknown (12:28): Let me know if you need anything.

It’s too much to offer for strangers and too much to offer for just friends. Seokjin resists the urge to call and talk to him, but just barely. Probably sparing himself from some helpless begging and friendship ending embarrassment.

It feels like someone’s scraping out the inside of his uterus with rusty tongs. Going through a heat without a partner feels like being touch starved only worse- like he actually is wasting away because there isn’t anyone holding him. If people could starve from lack of love Seokjin would. His heat is mistimed, too early, most of the time Jin takes a suppressant to make sure it doesn’t come.

Jin tries to ignore what it means at first. Unable to meet Yoongi’s gaze when he sees him after. How do you explain to a beta that being around them, feeling safe with them, was enough to make your heat come early? It doesn’t help that he’s unable to return his clothes like usual- due to the slick-soaked state they'd been in. Much to his pink-cheeked shame.

Jin’s a little thinner, a little gaunter because eating during a heat is always a little hard- when the wanting strikes so completely that other needs are pushed out. Yoongi cooks him up a whole tray of chocolate muffins and makes him sit through the whole of his shift on his first day back. Sets his jacket over Jin’s shoulders when he nods off in one of the booths around midnight and lets him sleep until a half hour before their manager is supposed to show up.

Seokjin is already awake when he comes close. Jin has his eyes closed; head tipped against the vinyl back of one of the booth seats. Resting his eyes. “No one’s taken care of me in a long time you know.” When his eyelashes flutter open, Yoongi is looking at him. There’s no one in the coffee shop on account of how early it is, the clock in the corner is red, flashes that it’s close to three am.

“No one’s looked after me in a long time either.”

Seokjin’s eyelashes flutter against his cheek. “I could do it.”

Yoongi just huffs and hands him a cup of coffee. It’s made just the way that Seokjin likes it. Jin takes a sip of it and hums, licking his lips. Yoongi watches. Eyes flickering down and then to Seokjin’s eyes.  

“We’ll see about that.” 

And then Seokjin’s basement apartment floods and half his stuff gets ruined and Yoongi offers his couch and shit- the rest is basically history.

Christmas passes and they cut off a branch from a tree at the park and stick it in the only empty corner of the apartment, hanging pilfered and stolen ornaments from the shop on the branches. And they get each other necessities like socks and a new pair of shoes for Jin with their limited extra funds.

But things are easier now that there’s just one apartment. And they won’t have to stress for long because both of them get raises before valentine’s day. Yoongi will hardly let Seokjin sleep on the couch for weeks at a time and his bed was big enough for the two of them. 

It was winter they could save on heating if they just got a little closer. A little snuggling never hurts anyone right? Seokjin doesn't need to ask if Yoongi's lonely- if he's got someone. Yoongi defies what Seokjin knows of most betas; usually elusive and unwieldy, uncommitted and cold. If Omegas are like moon's and alphas are like sun's then beta's are like comets, coming into orbit every now and then. 

But Yoongi is not a cold icy rock that throws Seokjin the barest hint of affection. On the contrary, Yoongi's always so warm. 

“Last snow.” Yoongi says, standing outside of the coffee shop wearing Seokjin’s sweater- so big on him that it falls to his mid-thigh. Yoongi’s legs aren’t so skinny anymore. His kiss tastes like the cold, cold lips and warm big hands, and Seokjin wonders how he ever worried. How fate ever let him wonder when there was this waiting for him.

There are 6 other people waiting for Seokjin, he just has to be patient.

There is something about a pair of arms that you know are meant to hold you and keep you safe. Something unnamable that blocks out all reason and fear and leaves only hope. Seokjin feels it the second he sinks into Yoongi’s strong arms and feels that heat, the heat of belonging. Maybe it’s strange that he’s older. Maybe it’s strange that Seokjin wants him and not the countless other knot-head alphas society says an omega should end up with. Beta’s and omega’s are not supposed to be enough for each other.

By the time he’s saved enough for a deposit for a new apartment Seokjin never wants to leave and Yoongi would never make him. Now Seokjin grabs Yoongi’s flannels not out of pure safety but because he likes having the beta’s scent close. It's like sea salt and chocolate. It conjures up warm nights around a bonfire at the beach with s’mores.

They do that on the weekends, a low-cost date night because they can’t afford anything better but it’s better than any fancy dinner at Nobu or the steakhouse. Just because it’s them. And Seokjin makes Yoongi perfect little sandwiches of love and marshmallow, and Jin eats only the chocolate out of them cuz really- that’s his favorite part.

They’re a pack even if it’s just the two of them. Seokjin tells himself he can be happy with just this even though every day on his walk home he wonders if Yoongi will still be at their apartment, always worried that today is the day that Yoongi’s just- gone. It makes his face when he opens the door, the shy smile and the open arms- that much more delicious to behold.   

There are horror stories of that happening everywhere- My beta was fine until he wasn't. My beta left our pack on a random afternoon- said he had a job lined up across the country. I came home and my beta had another alpha in our bed, and I couldn't even be angry- that's just how betas are after all. Do you ever think it's fucked up? How they don't have to be faithful to one pack.

You can't be angry. Betas are biologically designed that way. Just be happy you're in his roster.

Beta's always stray. Seokjin knows that and accepts it as a fact before Yoongi's even officially his boyfriend. It's not like Seokjin's not allowed to date other people either, it's socially acceptable for an omega- with a beta or not- to look for an alpha. But Seokjin doesn't date. He doesn't date anyone once he and Yoongi become a pack. It would feel weird, to bring someone into their orbit. 

It doesn’t escape him that Yoongi puts their next apartment in Seokjin’s name the first time they decide to move- just in case he needs it. Yoongi wouldn’t be so unkind as to leave Seokjin without making sure he has a roof over his head. Seokjin looks for the hints of others. Other scents on Yoongi's clothes, and any suspicious absence. But there's nothing, nothing that hints that Yoongi's got someone else.  

Omega's are biologically inclined to seek out alpha's. Especially omega's in their prime like Seokjin. Seokjin never thought he’d be the one to change first, to want more first.

But then he meets Namjoon in a Laundromat of all places. (Really?Who meets their soulmate in a fucking laundromat?)

(Next Chapter)

~-~

(Read the first Version of this story Here)

Notes:

- Ahhh the little pre-section in this chapter. Definitely one of the ones that I thought about cutting out of the story especially because it has so many like- references to Namjoon and he isn’t a character we’ve been introduced too yet.

- I just realized that I use the word ‘court’ to try and describe what the Choi family was trying to do to Yoongi. And you know that’s not exactly what they were trying to do to him like- they where certainly not trying to entice him to be a part of their pack- but it’s close enough!

- It’s important to me that you know the specific smell I’m referring to, the scent Geumjae has is the smell that housefires have. I saw my grandparents’ house burn down to the ground once, fire smells different when it’s memories that’s burning.

- Originally when I was first writing bily- I just looked up the name of Yoongi’s brother and was like- ‘woo there we go’ and thought nothing of it but going forward with this version I want to be clear that I think of him as more of August d- this version of Geumjae is identical to Yoongi besides the scar! If it were ever made into a movie I think Yoongi and Geumjae should be played by the same actor and edited parent trap style.

- (SPOILER) you’ll notice at the very end of Yoongi’s section where he’s wondering what the pack is doing at that moment- he doesn’t mention or wonder about jimin. That is because Jimin is actually directly above him in the cathedral with a gun trained on Geumjae but! You’d never know that unless you had already finished the story! Just a little tidbit that only makes sense if you look at everything closely.

- Did you notice the hyyh reference? Yoongi’s lighter?

- I just realized that Yoongi parrots Seokjin’s words when he’s talking to the m/c from this chapter to chapter 12 the “I could do it” I could love you, I could be your person! Ah the beauty of unintentional parallels (my brain is like a record skipping. The same wishes and dreams on repeat where I write out the same tenderness again and again, hoping that something will stick, like flesh made flame, like sugar made sweet and friendship bracelet made bond).

[madwomansapologist]

YOU LOVE BLOOD TOO MUCH (BUT NOT LIKE I DO)

★彡 synopsis: awakened in a new era, sukuna found endless opportunities to hurt and maim others. he also found you, a sorcerer with an ever-expading soul bonded to oaths of pacifism and self-control. allured by the strength you decided to hide, sukuna realized this era could be far more fascinating.

chapter two: postpone or the one you threatened to obliterate satoru gojo.

warnings: conversations about death, megumi fushiguro is bad at feelings, teachers & students, yuji itadori is a ray of sunshine, sorcerers being clinicaly insane, ryomen sukuna, canon level of violence, blood and gore, cannibalist thoughts, protective satoru gojo.

word count: [1,5K]

kill count: [0]

From underneath the ash tree, admiring a caterpillar chew on a damp leaf, you realized how unfair it was for today to be beautiful. A boy just lost his life, you cursed the cloudless sky and warm breeze. It was supposed to rain.

Which burden is heavier? The guilty of murdering a child, or the responsibility of all lives reaped by a reincarnated Ryomen Sukuna? A hero wouldn’t hesitate. A hero would carry that burden for the rest with blood-stained hands and call it mercy.

Good thing Satoru Gojo is a calamity, and the elders never hesitated before calling you a monster.

Ignoring the blurs burned into your eyelids, you stared down at the mountains surrounding the college. Dozens of miles below, two dots no bigger than ants went up the concrete path. One pink, one white. A second later, the last one stopped moving.

“If you don’t want to see him”, you waved back at Satoru. “You better start walking now.”

Megumi sighed. “No. I will stay.”

“Go on, be a kid. Hide on your room until you have no other option.”

“I can’t.”

His wounds were fully healed, but the tiredness on Megumi’s voice is evident. You could almost hear all the gears moving inside his mind. Grudge and loathing battling to take control. In such a peaceful day, his silence is loud enough to hurt your ears.

Does he regret saving Itadori, or does he resent his teachers for allowing him to have hope? You don’t know which is worse. For it to be grief or responsibility. Megumi deserves more than being a hero.

“Was it pointless, sensei?”, he grumbled. Eyes set on the ground, words sharp and precise. “Did I only delay something that could’ve been quick and painless? Did I just make it all worse for him?”

“My. What a self-centered boy”, you hissed. For good measure, you also finger-flicked Megumi hard in the forehead. “Tell me, Fushiguro, do you think we kept him alive because you asked us to? Do you think we were forced to defend him?”

Megumi rested his head against the tree trunk. Ouch. Glaring at a caterpillar, Megumi realized he had no choice but admitting the truth. A simple finger-flick and his head throbs. “No, sensei. I couldn’t.”

“Exactly,” you smirked at him. Standing on the ash tree root, you reached for Megumi. His dark eyes could freeze you. Would Megumi like to know how much he reminds you of his father? “Let the adults handle this, alright?”

He accepted your help, and then Megumi followed your suggestion. Once the distant dots turned into discernible shapes, you decided to meet them halfway. Going down the trial’s steps, it took a minute for Yuji to spot you. Running towards you, he left Satoru behind.

“Morning, sensei!” Yuji bowed. You both silentlu agreed to pretend he didn’t just stumble on a step. “Wait, are you a teacher too? Are you my teacher too?”

“I… train your veterans, Itadori”, you answered slowly. For someone expecting Yuji to look devastated, or at least exhausted, his wide smile was an astonishing sight. “You’ll soon meet them all.”

With his arms crossed over his head, Satoru passed by you both. “He’s like an excited puppy, isn’t him?”

Suppressing your laugh, you gesture for Yuji to follow you both. Tilting your head back, you looked into his eyes. How warm. “Has he explained everything to you?”

“Oh, yeah, I think”, Yuji pouted. Rubbing his index finger against his chin, he spoke again. “Fight curses, eat rotten fingers, die.”

Postpone the execution of Ryomen Sukuna’s vessel, the elders announced it as an act of mercy. You wonder if they even know his name is Yuji Itadori. Not that it would matter. It was the best deal Satoru was able to negotiate, but not one you’re willing to accept.

A plan has already formed in your mind. All you have to do now is be patient.

“You shouldn’t worry too much about that last part”, you sighed. “We had a similar incident last year. Those cachectic elders can try as much as they want, but we won’t allow them to hurt our kids.”

Once again, Yuji surprised you. As he laughed, snoring a bit, you regretted cursing this beautiful day. The sky really knows best than you. This boy deserves a thousand sunny days.

“Respect your sensei”, Satoru remarked him. You rolled your eyes, knowing damn well he didn’t mean it. “She said something that funny, huh?”

“No, it’s just… I thought you were a monk.” Yuji pointed at your robe, looking at the sash with prayers sewn in golden. “Didn’t expect you to say something like that.”

“A monk?” Satoru cachinnates. “Her? Don’t make me laugh, Yuji.”

“Not a monk”, you sighed. “Tell me, Satoru, should I start his first lesson?”

He shrugged. “The boy is all yours.”

“You know what talismans are, Itadori?” You walked the familiar path with your back turned so you could look at him. Surrounded by trees, your voice echoed down the mountain. “You can make one to use as an intermediary for shikigami, create barriers, seal cursed objects…”

“Like Sukuna’s finger?”

Satoru hummed. “Many uses, not very efficient in any of them. Paper rots. They can be made in other materials, but it’s still pretty easy to destroy if you want to.”

“This is a talisman master Tengen crafted for me”, you pointed at the prayers on your sash. “The technique behind it is mathematically correct in every aspect. And still, I wear the same for a week at best.”

“You’re so strong, sensei. I mean, Sukuna tried to eat your heart and it didn’t affect you at all. You can’t do like Megumi and summon a shikigami from shadows?”

“Anyone would’ve assumed I use this one to summon shikigami. Good line of thought, you learn fast.” Yuji smiled at the praise, and you made a mental note about it. “But this one is a sealing talisman.”

“And what are you sealing, sensei?”

“Myself.”

“Cool”, Yuji said. A beat later, he spoke again. “What does that mean?”

“That she’s enough of a menace those cachectic elders put her on a leash”, Satoru explained. “Such a stupid binding vow you were tricked into.”

“Do you have a death wish?” Tilting your head towards the courtyard nearby, you grinned. “Because if you want me to beat your ass, all you have to do is ask for it. I’ll be nice and heal you once you admit defeat.”

Satoru lowered himself to face you, and smirked with his hands on his knees. “All that bark, but I see no fangs. And they call you a monster.”

“There is only one way for you to found out why”, you took a step forward. “C’mon, Strongest. I’ll have so much fun cutting you in half just to put you back together again.”

Yuji was about to shout for help when loud laughs imploded. He could swear the ground vibrated. In sync, you both continued to walk. Satoru with his arms relaxed, you moving swiftly in your scarlet robe. As if nothing happened.

Later he understood. They acted as if it meant nothing, Yuji gossiped. Because for them it didn’t.

“Let’s head to your interview with the director. If you’re not good enough, he’ll reject your registration.”

“Good luck”, you cheered. “Don’t embarrass us.”

“So, you two aren’t the leaders?”

In a matter of seconds, everything changed. It wasn’t a beautiful day anymore. You weren’t surrounded by nature, laughing with an old friend, teaching a willing boy about something you love. The sky was cloudless, the breeze was warm, and it was still the day after Ryomen Sukuna reincarnated.

“Hierarchies are worthless when they do not depend on strength.”

“Sorry, sensei!” Yuji slapped his cheek, trying to cover Sukuna’s mouth. “He does that sometimes.”

Crossing your arms, you glanced at the scars beneath his eyes. Satoru noticed them before you. “What a weird body you have now”, he said.

Another mouth opened in Yuji’s palm. “As soon as I dominate this vessel, I promise you will be the first one to die.”

“It would be an honor.”

At that, you felt poison on your tongue. “As if I would ever let that happen.”

“You will die after him.”

Ignoring the threat, you looked at Yuji. “A binding vow is a pact that can give sorcerer great powers as long as they follow agreed restrictions. Not even Ryomen Sukuna would break one. Tell me, do you want to make a pact with me?”

“Don’t…”

The fact Sukuna tried to intervene was that sold the deal. “What pact?” Yuji spoke over him.

“I’ll protect you from the elders”, you started. Reaching out to him, you thought carefully about your next words. “And in turn, you’re forbidden from making a binding vow without me to mediate.”

Yuji shook your hand. “Okay. We have a deal. A binding vow, that is.”

Feeling that familiar sting of Sukuna messing with his body, Yuji glanced at his hands. Only then he saw the tongue lapping up at your blood. He slapped it, whispering some curses.

“I’ll take that as a compliment”, you showed Yuji your fully healed hand. “The King of Curses wants a piece of me.”

“Another piece of you, that is”, Satoru corrected you. For once, he sounds serious. “How greedy.”

all rights reserved to © madwomansapologist | @mwalibrary @mwashelf

[bloodrvvvsh]

Code Red, Code Blue. Chapter 1: Acquainted.

Synopsis: When the BAU is led to a case in Seattle, with Seattle Grace Mercy West as the focal point. And after an unfortunate incident involving two cups of hot coffee and a ruined pair of scrubs, Spencer meets a girl that changes his whole life.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Lexie Grey

Warnings: Typical CM discussions of crimes, typical Grey's discussions of gore and medical talk (very minimal, though!), meet-cute, literally one (1) offhanded "killing yourself" joke

Word count: 3.0K

Notes: My baby.. she's finally finished... Please enjoy, I spent way too long on this!

Likes are appreciated, but reblogs and comments help writers more!

Wednesday, September 29. 9:42 AM in Quantico, Virgina.

Spencer had only ever been to Seattle once.

Working in the BAU took him all over the country. Cases popped up in every corner, in every state, in every place you could possibly imagine. He had seen nearly every part of the vast landscape that was the US of A.

The last case that had led them across the country to Seattle was The Seattle Strangler, back when Gideon was still on the team. Spencer had mixed emotions about that thought. But he was a professional and he was going to do his job.

Their current case was as close as you could get to clean cut and dry in their line of work. Women in their 20s being stabbed. Pretty simplistic, right? 

The one connection each murder had, though, was that every single woman was eventually directed to Seattle Grace Mercy West. And while the hospital was a fairly major one, it was a Level 1 Trauma Center, after all, which meant a lot of patients, it was definitely raising a few alarm bells in their heads. Each woman was also eventually declared dead at that exact hospital.

It could never hurt to check every possible lead, could it?

Spencer used two fingers to rub at the sleep clinging to his eye still. He tried, and failed, to stifle a yawn as he shifted in his seat. Although he was quite used to struggles with sleep (hence his dependence on caffeine), it never truly got any better. 

“Late night?” Morgan inquired. He propped his arms on the top of Spencer’s seat, peering over the other man’s shoulder.

Spencer shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep,” he replied. He frowned softly, continuing to try and rid himself of the tiredness that stuck to his lashes before he was interrupted by another yawn.

God, he could really use some coffee right now.

He glanced down at his watch and his frown deepened. They still had at least another two hours until they would land. 

Spencer would consider himself a fairly patient man. He didn’t mind waiting, hell, he most often played the waiting game in his job as a BAU agent. But right now, sitting on that jet running on only five hours of sleep with not a drop of caffeine in sight, he was feeling just one moment away from simply losing it.

Not like it would actually happen, though. Spencer wasn’t that kind of guy. He was calm and reserved, even in the face of adversity. 

Hotch’s voice cut through Spencer’s internal monologue for the moment, snapping him back into reality. “We’re going to head to the police station first,” he began, casting a glance over each BAU member in eyesight, “After we get all the necessary facts, we’re going to head to the hospital. Sound good?” He was met with a round of nods from everyone and he nodded back.

~

Wednesday, September 29. 11:23 AM in Seattle, Washington.

Lexie needed a goddamn break.

Being a surgical resident had to be a punishment designed in one of the seven pits of hell. How dare she desire to save people's lives, right?

At least it was better than being an intern.

She loved her job, don’t get her wrong, being a surgeon was her dream. It’s just that she couldn’t remember the last time she got more than four hours of sleep a night and she was just so tired all the time. From running around constantly to several hours long surgeries to forty-eight hour shifts. 

Not to mention the constant drama and tragedy that filled the Seattle Grace Mercy West halls. You couldn’t turn a corner without hearing about someone sleeping with someone else’s boyfriend or about another MerDer breakup or another surprise pregnancy. Really, sometimes it was just ridiculous.

Lexie herself had been the victim of that good ol’ SGMW drama. She was trying to pull herself free from the clutches of it all, but it always seemed to follow them all. Like some sort of curse was placed on that very hospital.

But that was besides the point. The point was that she needed just one moment of peace, away from all the chaos of the hospital and the drama. Was that so selfish of her?

The sound of sneakers shuffling and her racing heart filled Lexie’s ears as she rushed through the halls. The occasional ‘excuse me’ slipped from her lips, trying not to crash into everyone that was in her way. 

When your attending pages 911, you don’t walk - you run.

Her feet skidded to a stop as the familiar emergency room came into view, nearly making her trip with the sudden halt. Her movements seemed almost practiced with the near mindless way she moved - triage gown, tie in the back, gloves. This wasn’t her first trauma, and it would be far from the last.

“What do we have?” Bailey’s voice cut through the millions of other noises filling the room - the rustling of fabric, the snapping of latex gloves on skin, the chatter of voices. The ER was ever far from being quiet.

“28-year-old woman stabbed fifteen times in the torso, majority in the chest,” Owen shot back. He rushed forwards when the glint of red and blue lights followed by the sirens that would follow them for the rest of their lives came into view, and the rest of them marched behind.

“God, overkill much?” Cristina muttered low to Meredith. Bailey, who heard everything always, shot a glare over her shoulder. Cristina threw her hands up in defense, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. Her face fell the minute Bailey turned away and she shook her head with a quiet scoff.

The doors to the ambulance flew open and out rushed a woman on a stretcher. “BP is 158 over 92, HR is 92,” an EMT announced. Owen cursed under his breath as he took the railing of the stretcher into his hands.

“She’s hypertensive,” he announced. Quickly, other hands began to grab onto the stretcher as well, guiding the women into the hospital doors. He barked out a few names and different orders and Lexie slowly loosened her grip on the railing as her feet quit keeping pace before stopping entirely. She watched as the woman was rushed towards a trauma room, a frown falling on her lips. Trauma was never a pretty sight.

With a sigh she made her way to the receptionist desk near the ER entrance doors where a few of the other residents left behind had gathered.

“That’s the third stabbing in less than two months,” April remarked. A little frown began to form on her lips as she flipped the chart in her hand. “And they’ve all been women in their late 20s.”

She didn’t have to say it. They were all thinking it. The glances exchanged spoke a thousand words.

“You don’t think..” Meredith trailed off. She shot a look towards Cristina, then glanced back at April. The current hypothesis wasn’t looking so hot.

“It’s probably just a weird coincidence,” Lexie was quick to interject. Her words did little to quell the tense energy that filled the emergency room. “I mean, Seattle’s a big city. Plenty of crazy people doing crazy things. I’m sure they’re not related.” She waved a hand dismissively. Then she added, “It is getting close to the holidays. Don’t crime rates increase during the holiday seasons, or something?”

The pager attached to her hip beeped. She groaned, a pout appearing on her face at the sound. She unclicked it from the waistband of her scrub pants to take a glance at the numbers displayed on the screen and she sighed once more. It was Derek.

With a murmur of, “I’ve got to go,” that was met with a few dismissive waves of goodbyes from her fellow residents, she made her way towards the elevators, absolutely not ready for whatever Derek had in store for her now.

~

Wednesday, September 29. 2:17 PM in Seattle, Washington.

One thing you never want to hear in a hospital is silence. And that’s exactly Lexie had been greeted when she emerged from the imaging room, a stack of paperwork and scans ordered by Derek in hand. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something was absolutely happening and she’d be damned if she was left out of it.

It all started to make sense, though, as she made her descent down a floor of stairs and she noticed a group of her coworkers crowded behind a corner. Mentally she counted heads - Cristina, Meredith, Alex, Jackson, April.. All five of them in the same place at the same time, clearly hiding from someone (or something?), always spelled trouble.

Cautiously, she made her way towards the group. She tried to stand on her tip-toes, trying to look over their shoulders to see whatever the hell it was that was making them all stop in their tracks, but to no luck.

Finally with a huff, she decided to pipe up. “What are we looking at?” Her sudden appearance obviously spooked them, as they all nearly jumped at the sound of her voice, but they quickly relaxed when they realized it was just Lexie. She flashed a little smile that was short lived and didn’t quite reach her eyes with an utterance of ‘sorry’. 

“Them,” Meredith said. Lexie leaned to the side and she followed the finger that Meredith pointed with. Never would have Lexie guessed what would be standing before her right now.

There, talking to the Chief and Owen, was a group of people that certainly didn’t look like they belonged together. One man in particular, though, stood out among the rest - a tall man with curly brown locks and the most beautiful face Lexie had ever seen. “I heard they’re FBI agents,” Cristina cut in, knocking her out her little lovestruck daydream, and Lexie’s head snapped so quickly to look back at her, it’s a wonder it didn’t break.

“What?” Was all she could manage in response. “FBI, wh-” She shook her head, trying to clear her head from all the thoughts racing through it. “What would the FBI be doing here?” Her voice dropped low, almost to a rushed whisper.

Cristina shrugged. “Hell if I know.” Lexie frowned. And just as she opened her mouth, ready to say more, Owen gestured in the direction of their little gathering. And when the group of supposed FBI agents looked at them, they all took off, scattering away in their different directions, like roaches when you turned the lights on.

Except for Lexie. She was frozen in place, her blood running cold in her body when their hard eyes locked on her. She forced another smile, a nervous little giggle escaping her as heat washed over her cheeks in heavy waves. She raised her free hand to offer them a half-hearted greeting before pointing behind her with her thumb and then promptly spinning on her heel and hurriedly trying to escape the embarrassment that was that interaction.

~

Wednesday, September 29. 2:45 PM in Seattle, Washington.

Spencer had drank approximately four-and-a-half cups of coffee since landing in Seattle, and he was not quite satisfied yet.

Would he ever truly be satisfied with the amount of caffeine he consumed? Could anyone, really? The answer didn’t really matter. Not to him, anyways. Especially not now, when the tiredness ran bone deep and the day was nowhere near close to being finished. So, he was going to get another cup.

“I’m going to get some coffee,” he announced offhandedly as he pushed himself up from his seat. 

Morgan raised an eyebrow at the young genius as he started to make his way in the direction of the coffee machines. “Really?” Morgan said. “Another cup of coffee? Seriously, kid, you’re going to kill yourself with all that caffeine and sugar you consume.” Spencer waved a hand in response and Morgan could only shake head with a small smile falling over his lips.

“Oh, you’re getting coffee?�� JJ perked up, craning her neck slightly to catch Spencer’s eye before he disappeared. “Do you think you could get me a cup, too? Please?”

Spencer nodded. “Cream and sugar?” A grin split across JJ’s face at the idea that he remembered what she liked in her coffee. Although, with Spencer, he couldn’t have possibly forgotten in the first place. “You know it!” she called out to him. “You’re the best, Spence!”

“No problem,” he called back to her as he turned the corner. 

The trek to the elevator and up to the coffee carts was not a particularly long one, but it did give Spencer enough time to get lost in his thoughts. His movements almost ran on autopilot as he got on the elevator and pressed the button with the number four painted on it.

His feet moved for him, guiding him in the direction of exactly where he wanted to be. Ideas and different theories of their current case filled his head as he walked.

All of this to say - he was not paying attention. Not one bit. Not even as he mindlessly ordered two coffees - one mocha latte with room for sugar and one black with cream and sugar. Not as he began to round the corners that he was starting to become familiar with from turning around so many times due to his near caffeine addiction.

Not even as another body rounded the same corner as him.

It wasn’t until the harsh impact came, the colliding of two people knocking hard into each other and hot coffee being dumped all over each other, that he really came back to reality.

Lexie gasped as the coffee crashed right onto her, burning through her scrubs and stinging her skin. She glanced up, wanting to look whoever just ruined her scrubs in the eye, and it was like the whole world slowed for a moment.

It was cute supposed FBI agent guy. 

Her jaw went slack, practically hitting the floor, and all she could do was stare. She almost wanted to pinch herself, check if any of this was really real, but the hot coffee burning her skin told her it was true.

“I’m so sorry,” The words fell out of Spencer’s mouth in an instant. He glanced around in search of something, anything, that could clean up the mess he just made, but he was coming up empty. “Really, I am so sorry-”

Lexie shook her head. “It’s fine-”

Spencer’s eyebrows pinched together. “I just spilled hot coffee all over you, it is not fine.” Lexie could feel her heart skip a beat.

“No, really, it- it’s fine,” she chuckled. “I have another pair of scrubs in my locker, it’s okay.” Spencer didn’t seem satisfied with that answer.

Now it was his turn to shake his head. “Can I make it up to you? You know, for.. getting you doused in coffee and ruining your scrubs.”

Lexie hesitated for a moment. While he was very cute, and seemingly very sweet, she barely knew this guy.

But something inside her told her to take her chance.

“Uh,” she bit down on her bottom lip. She waited for a beat. “Yeah,” she found herself saying, “Yeah, why don’t you buy me a coffee?” Spencer’s whole face lit up at her answer.

Could you blame him, though? Even covered in coffee, the woman before him was absolutely stunning.

“My name’s Spencer,” he finally added. “Spencer Reid. Doctor Spencer Reid, actually.’” Lexie arched a brow at him, head tilting to the side. “Doctor, huh?” she echoed. “Are you, like, new around here, or something? Did you transfer from another hospital?”

“Oh, no. I- I’m not an MD, I’m, uh.. I’m a PhD.”

Lexie slowly nodded her head. “Right,” she muttered. The smile on her face couldn’t seem to budge. “Well, I’m Lexie,” she stuck a hand out to him, “Doctor Lexie Grey, MD.” They both grinned at her words before chuckling. Spencer found himself thinking her name was beautiful. He glanced down at her outstretched hand and then so did she, and for a moment they were both just staring at her hand.

Finally, he spoke up again, “I- I don’t do handshakes,” he spit out. “The number of pathogens passed during a handshake is staggering. It’s, uh- it’s actually safer to kiss.” 

Lexie nodded her head once more and let her hand fall back to her side. She ran her palm down the side of her thigh, subtly trying to wipe the gathering sweat. A part of her was tempted to ask if he wanted to kiss her, but she held off. For now.

“So, are you a germaphobe, or something? Or do you just know a lot of different facts?”

“Both, actually,” he said. “I, uh, I have an eidetic memory, so I remember everything I read. A lot about bacteria.”

“An eidetic memory?” Lexie echoed. “Really?”

Spencer nodded, a smirk worming its way onto his lips as he began to rock himself on his heels. “And an IQ of 187 and I can read 20,000 words per minute.”

“Oh, so you’re some sort of super genius, is that what this is?”

Spencer shrugged and his smile seemed to grow. “I don’t think intelligence can be defined by arbitrary measures. But for all intents and purposes, I am a genius.”

“You know, that’s really weird, because I actually have a photographic memory,” Lexie said. She tilted her head to the side again. “Does that make me a genius, too?”

Spencer chuckled. “Well, being a doctor isn’t an easy thing to achieve. Especially being a surgeon. I would imagine you have to be fairly smart to become one.”

Lexie’s own smile seemed to grow as well. “Well, Dr. PhD, why don’t you tell me a little bit more about yourself?” She nodded her head in the direction she came from before she started to walk. And Spencer found himself following behind her.

For some reason, Spencer felt like he wasn’t going to regret spilling coffee on her.

for @gghostwriter bc i don't have a taglist <3

(if you would like to be crcb taglist, let me know!!)

[moonlightazriel]

Mask Off /// Ghostface!Azriel X F!Reader

Summary: "can i please request one where azriel is ghostface and he terrorizes bad people, and he has a rival ghostface who interrupts his missions/steal his targets and it pisses him off so he plans to kill the rival, he has the ghostface pinned and takes the mask off, plotwist it’s his mate who is just as confused as him."

Warnings: Mentions of murder and blood.

Word Count: 2,2K

Notes: I'm completely obsessed with Scream for a really long time, so this request was so fun to do. Also, thank you @fieldofdaisiies for this amazing little Moodboard for this fic. Happy Halloween guys!

Main Masterlist

The lights flickered, and the sound of his boots against the wet floor contributed to the eerie atmosphere, the slight splash of water whenever he stepped on a puddle. Azriel felt his blood run hotter as anger spread throughout his being, pinned against a wall, throat slit open, was his target, a well-known rapist, the male he was supposed to kill tonight. 

On the wall behind him, written with the man’s blood:

“Too late, Mr.Ghostface! Maybe next time..” 

Consumed by rage, Azriel let his fist connect with the corpse’s face, the impact breaking the nose, but he wouldn’t mind, would he? 

He walked away, removing his mask and the cloak, revealing equally black pants and a t-shirt. He shoved everything inside his backpack and walked to where he had his motorcycle parked. He sat on top of it, mind still rushing with anger as yet another target was getting killed before he had the chance to do the job. 

Azriel knew that he was wrong on a certain level, but Velaris needed him, needed this. He was paid by someone named R to get rid of the bad people in the city, corrupt politicians, rapists, murderers, drug dealers, and all the scum that composed the underworld of Velaris. 

It was Cassian, his ex-military best friend who had suggested this to him, R paid well, and he was unemployed for a whole year, depending solely on the income from his wonderful mate, Y/N was the sweetest woman alive, she always helped him a and she was the light of his life. 

But her work in an office was barely enough for her to finish her college degree and for them to get going, with the Increasing of their rent, and everything else. He had to watch her work hard while his applications were denied, one after the other. So in a desperate measure, he accepted. And as much as he hated it and hated to lie to her even more, he was happy to be helping and keeping her safe from people who would harm her. 

At least like that, soon enough he would have enough for her to drop that awful job of hers, her boss would hit on her and make her life hell whenever she denied him, Azriel had to contain himself many times, how he wanted to get rid of him, for even thinking about laying a finger on his mate. 

He headed home, where Y/N was resting, trying to forget about his rival that was trying really hard to get him pissed. About two months ago he started to get where his targets were supposed to be, just to find them killed, dripping in blood and with their throats open. Pretty much like he did whenever he got to actually finish it. He was trying really hard to find who this was, cuz not finishing a job meant not getting paid. 

He slowly climbed into bed, his warm mate turning to his side, hugging him, kissing his arm in her sleep, her fresh scent as she had just walked out of the shower, relaxed him enough to fall asleep fast. The tiredness of the day weighed on him. 

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

“What about your trip?” Azriel asked, shoving a handful of cereals in his mouth as he watched Y/N sip on a cup of tea, her working clothes doing wonders to her body, he watched her up and down, stopping at her blushing cheeks, this woman would be the death of him. 

“He got a new secretary, I pity her, but at least he left me alone and I don’t have to travel with him anymore.” She said with a relaxed smile and he nodded. 

“Good, I hated when he took my mate away.” Which, to be fair, was quite often, not long trips, but often enough to annoy Azriel. 

“Not anymore, love.��� She said, finishing her tea, and rushing to kiss him, before getting her keys and leaving for work. 

His phone buzzed on the countertop, a message from R telling him that his next target was chosen and he should be found at a party in two days. 

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

Y/N tapped her nails against the desk, feeling the anger creep up in the form of a cold shiver in her spine. Her boss was particularly annoying today, she closed her eyes. The image of the lifeless body, his blood warm on her made her squeeze the mouse between her left hand. She killed criminals, not really annoying men who didn’t know their places. Her phone buzzed. 

“The black party. In two days. Y. Slater.” It was all that said, she sighed. The money was good, another rich person trying to get rid of their enemies, it didn’t hurt that each one of her targets were bad people, someone who had done terrible things to others for their own gain. 

She had never killed before this, but as she saw the innocent hiring proposal for a bodyguard, and the really good amount of money they promised, she applied. She had a very vast knowledge of martial arts, and she could easily get rid of someone, so when the handsome male said what he really wanted, she agreed. The chance of a better life for her and her mate was beyond her morals. 

Not having to struggle with rent, college debt, and everything else. The thought of not living in that crappy place anymore, not needing to count every penny at the end of the month, and wanting to take him out and shower him with gifts made all the wrong things about the job useless. 

So she took a deep breath, deleted the message, and went about with her day, mind focusing on the amount of money she would have if she kept saving it. The only difficult part was to explain this to Azriel. 

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

Everyone wore black, and the masks also were present, so no one minded the masked figure lurking in every corner. Azriel kept a close eye on his target, the man was surrounded by people and a half-naked woman squirming on his lap. 

From the corner of his eyes, another hooded figure caught his attention, same clothes and the same mask, but significantly smaller. Azriel narrowed his eyes, looking like his second target arrived just in time. 

The party went on, and the other Ghostface remained rooted in place just like him, it didn’t seem like they saw him, which was good for him. The woman still squirming in the male's lap whispered something in his ear, he nodded eagerly and they got up, heading for a more secluded place in the luxurious nightclub. 

Y/N had spotted her rival as soon as she arrived, but her target was the main focus, annoying them was just a bonus. Rhys would send her on missions in another city, which led her to pretend to travel a lot for work, but as her targets got killed and Velaris was on a growing spree of bad people, he moved her here. 

She was always a step ahead of the other one, and this made her proud. She would linger a little longer sometimes, just to see them burning with rage, then she would rush home and pretend to be asleep, always the nice, dutiful mate. 

The woman who escorted the target yelled something about getting more champagne and left the room. As she passed by Y/N, the latter tapped her shoulder and warned. 

“Don’t come back.” She placed her indicator finger in the mask's mouth and the woman swallowed dryly, a shiver down her spine. She nodded, rushing away from the scene.

The room was big, a bed was placed in the center and mirrors filled the ceiling. Rich people really liked to show off. The door to the bathroom swung open and the male stepped out again, heading for the bed. Azriel opened the door, and the male jumped in his seat. 

“I think you have the wrong room dude.” Azriel walked closer in silence, blade in hand, shining in the dim light, the male’s breath got stuck in his throat and a tickle of sweat ran down his forehead. “Is it money that you want?” Azriel shook his head in denial. “I can pay whatever your price is, just leave me alone.” The male tried to get up but Azriel rushed, his knife sunk in the pale skin as the man tried to dodge. “WHAT THE HELL?” 

Azriel turned around, and the other Ghostface dared to show up, closing the door, only one of them would get out of this room, and most certainly would be him. He removed his knife, stabbing the man three more times before he turned to the other one, the male fell to the floor in a puddle of blood and agony, whining like a pig as he tried to crawl away from them. 

He launched for them, his big body overpowering their smaller one, they were sent with their back to the door, the air getting knocked out of their lungs, Azriel threw a punch, hitting the wooden door as they spun, getting out of the way, the other one kicked his stomach, making him curl as they darted towards him, circulating him and jumping on their back. 

The small arms wrapped around his neck as they tried to knock him out, the man kept crawling and agonizing towards the bathroom, his cries annoying both of the killers. Azriel stumbled backward, knocking them on the wall two times before they let go of him, he turned to them, punching them in the nose, this made Y/N dizzy and she used her knife, making an ugly slash across his forearm. Azriel hissed in pain and anger and his hands grabbed the small and very soft waist, tackling the other one to the ground. 

He sat on their stomach, pinning their hands to the ground with his right hand while the other one reached for the mask. A million scenarios passed through his mind, but in neither of them, the face of his mate would be bleeding behind that damned mask. 

Azriel didn’t say a thing, just watching the blood drip from her nose. From the punch he had given her. Her eyebrows scrunched in confusion as he didn’t fulfil his plans, instead, he reached for his own mask, her eyes widened as his flushed face was revealed to her. 

“Well, this is new.” She said, and it felt like he was awake from a trance, blinking, he took a deep breath. 

“I must say, I wasn’t expecting this.” He retorted, feeling the urge to laugh at the whole situation, while he was sneaking out to do his job, she was doing the very same. “Out of all people, I’d never thought it was you. Maybe Cassian or someone else.” 

“Cassian is in this too?” She asked in disbelief. 

“He introduced me to this.” He winked. “But you? Never you.”

“I’m not as sweet and innocent as you think, handsome.” She giggled and Azriel leaned in, kissing her forehead. 

“I see that sweetheart.” She scrunched her face in pain. 

“Can you get up? My head is pounding.” He quickly got up, pulling her with him, more blood dripping from her nose. 

“I’m so sorry, love.” He apologized. 

“It’s okay, we should probably see your arm, it’s pretty bad.” Azriel brushed her off. The male kept crying, trying to close the bathroom door. 

“Do you want to team up instead?” She asked, knife in hand as she walked towards the bathroom, Azriel watched as she stepped on top of the man, grabbing a handful of hair, pulling his head backwards as she lowered and slashed his throat, blood splashing on the white floor. “I was planning on actually killing you but I’m glad it’s you Azzie.” She winked and Azriel laughed at the similarities. 

“That’s funny, I was planning on killing you too, I’m glad I didn't do it, baby.” He pulled her closer. “We’re teaming up for sure, but only if you tell me how you tricked me last week.” He said, pulling her with him as they weren’t leaving a crime scene but rather a nice restaurant. 

“Of course love, if you show me how you tackled me down to the ground.” She turned to him, winking. “It was kinda hot.” 

Azriel laughed, they both got their masks back and he led the way back to his motorcycle. As they removed their clothes and masks he looked at her. 

“How did you get here?” He inquired. 

“Nah, got an Uber, rather easy to leave a crime scene like this.” She said with a laugh, looking at the mask in her hands before shoving it inside his backpack. “Do you think R would mind us using the uniform in bed?”

“What?” He asked, climbing the bike, she got up behind him, leaning closer to his ear. 

“You look so good in that mask, it would be such a waste not to use it, Mr.Ghostface.” She purred in his ear and he shivered, smirking as she got his helmet on her head, starting to drive home. 

“You’re such a temptation.” He barked and she giggled.

“Only for you, handsome.”

[echoingkarma]

CW: Overdose, death, murder, SA references etc. It's Mouthwashing

Anya doesn't quite know what's happening. She remembers the way the pills felt in her fingers, and then in her throat. She remembers the hard swallow, trying not to gag, and the tears.

And then she remembers floating. Seeing herself, still on the floor, blood staining her face and dripping down to tint her uniform a deep crimson. She remembers seeing Curly, hearing the faintest of whimpers and turning to follow his gaze past her form and out the door.

She'd watched the axe swing alongside him.

Anya covers her mouth and gasps. There's a trail of blood leading out of the room, and she reluctantly follows it, staring down at Daisuke's body as he lays there. Swansea drapes something over his head and stands, and she watches his expression change and change again, countless emotions flying past.

Jimmy stalks out of the room and she instinctively steps out of his way, although he ignores her entirely, walking straight through her arm as she ducks to the side and holds her breath.

Anya doesn't want to follow him. She doesn't want to know his intentions, realising slowly what's happening as Swansea picks up the axe again and Curly groans and twists on his bed.

She looks, then. She sees Jimmy opening the case, setting the code scanner down to replace it with the gun she'd hidden. She watches as he checks it's loaded and slowly turns to Swansea, something wild in his expression as though he's not in the room at all.

There's a fight she shies away from, unable to help, unable to process anything as, ultimately, Swansea loses and is tied to a chair by the dinner table. Jimmy levels the gun at him, not content in slowly letting Swansea bleed out in the same way he'd been willing to let Daisuke.

She listens to Swansea's final speech, and the gunshot that ends it all. Her body is picked up and she shudders as the lot of them are moved to the table. Jimmy places Curly on it, removing part of his leg and forcing it down his throat, and she wants to be sick.

And then the entire ship seems to lurch, and she gasps for air as the lights flicker on and off around her.

When she sits up, she's in the medical room. Curly shakes her shoulder, and she blinks up at him, mouth dropping open as she fights to process how he's standing in front of her again, clean and handsome and not at all bloodied, with a polite look of concern on his face.

"You fell asleep at the desk, Anya? How hard are you studying?" he asks with a polite chuckle, voice low and quiet. It must be late.

Her brain and emotions fight a war she isn't ready for, and Anya feels herself tear up. She goes to wipe it away, and it feels like her entire body shudders and jolts two paces to the left as the tiredness and aches settle back in.

Her stomach feels weird.

She remembers this day. It was soon after Jimmy...

Anya bites her tongue.

She'd told Curly, then. It was the first time she'd admitted it, half asleep, exhausted, and scared out of her mind. He'd come into the medical room after she'd worked herself into a panic and fallen asleep sometime after, body too worn to keep going.

Now, she looks at him, and he looks as kind and welcoming as ever. And she wonders how much of that is real and how much of it he's crafted.

Curly was a good man, but he wasn't a great one. He had his own fears to contend with, and they got in the way of things, she'd realised somewhere along the line. She remembers going to get the gun, then. Taking matters into her own hands.

There's nothing to stop her doing that now.

"Curly... You know the medical cabinet by the bay windows? I need to check what supplies we have in there for one of these..." and she holds up a form about something or other, tucking it away before he can actually read it. "Can I borrow the code scanner and go check? I'll bring it straight back."

"Shouldn't you go sleep?" Curly asks, sitting on the corner of the desk. He looks like he's going to reach out to her, but when Anya flinches he stops and seems to truly look at her for a moment before his gaze passes over her and away to the wall.

He was good at pretending not to notice the obvious.

"I promise I will after I get this done. I just... Want to make sure we really have everything, just in case."

Curly nods to himself, not one to take much convincing. He considers it for a few moments and then passes the scanner to her, holding the index finger of his other hand to his mouth.

"Don't tell anyone," he mutters, tone lightheartedly secretive. "Especially Jimmy. I just know he'd kick up a fuss if he found out I let someone else borrow this when he hasn't gotten to yet."

Anya smiles and wraps her fingers securely around the scanner.

"I won't. Promise."

And she stands, eyes the lock on the medical room, and leaves. She's almost glad she hadn't locked the door that night.

It takes a few days to build the nerve for it all, but she watches Jimmy's decline, and this time she actually sees it. She tells Swansea, too, one day in the cockpit.

He's quiet, almost contemplative as he listens to her, and she watches him ball his hands into fists before he tucks them away out of her sight.

When she reaches the conclusion she's come to, the new ending she's going to build, trying not to wince at him when her eyes trace over the spaces she expects to find bullet holes, Swansea just nods.

"It's your choice," is what he settles on ultimately. "Ain't ever had much liking for the two of them. Just don't do it in front of the kid."

Anya nods, and all in a rush, she steps forward and throws her arms around his neck. Swansea gives little more protest than a small groan before he pats her twice on the back, keeping his hands high and his touch gentle.

"I'm on your side girl. If anything comes of this, I'll be with you," he mumbles, frowning through his words as though he himself isn't quite sure of it, although Anya knows the look in his eyes.

He's set his mind on something. Nothing can deter Swansea now.

It's the next day, and she wonders about trying to tell Curly again, but she sits on the sofa and stares up at that one dead pixel and puts her hand in her pocket.

This is it.

She sees Jimmy go into the cockpit, and she follows behind him a little after. He turns when she enters, frowning as if he's reminding her he doesn't think she belongs here.

Anya smiles.

She thinks maybe she hasn't in a while. Not properly, and god, never really at this monster of a man in front of her.

His worst moments made him.

She takes the gun and levels it at his forehead, and hears Curly call from down the corridor. There's a scuffle, and she knows Swansea is trying to keep him away.

Anya locks the door.

She doesn't really have any final words for Jimmy, watching his confidence rot away under the threat she points at him so resolutely. There's no changing the outcome. Only one of them will be leaving this room alive.

She aims close to his temple, where his own shot had landed last time.

Anya doesn't try to reason with Curly, but she does explain. Her voice is level as she talks through the door, and he tries once to explain it all away as being a nightmare she shouldn't have acted on, he would've taken responsibility, he would've dealt with it.

She scoffs, and she hears Curly go still on the other side of the door.

"But you never have," she says. And then, "I told you."

And so she tells him.

[shachaai]

[Hetalia Version] The Lindworm’s Lullaby Chapter 1

Chapters: 1/14 Rating: Explicit (For Gore) Main Relationships: Arthur Kirkland (England)/Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes (Portugal) Characters: Arthur Kirkland (England), Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes (Portugal), Original Child Character(s), Ludwig Beilschmidt (Germany), Julia Blumenschien (Fem Prussia), Kiku Honda (Japan), Lovino Vargas (South Italy), Assorted Others Other Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - Human AU, FBI Murder Mystery/Thriller, Case Fic, Adapted from a Hannibal Fic, Baby Fic, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Gabriel Fernandes, Omega Arthur Kirkland, Pre-Relationship, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Single Parent Arthur Kirkland, Violence and Gore Canon-Typical to Hannibal Levels, Cute Moments and Murder, Murder Scenes, Dead Bodies, Poisoning, Discussions about torture/infidelity/rape

The FBI is called in to investigate when a series of bodies shows up around Ohio: all of them alphas, and all of them skinned alive. With the killer’s motives a mystery, Ludwig Beilschmidt pulls Arthur Kirkland from the classroom and his vigil at the comatose Madeline Williams’ bedside once more to lend his insight to the case - with very little mind paid to the fact that the busy Arthur, omega and single mother to a six month-old daughter, might have some scheduling issues. Necessity - and pressure from Ludwig - drives Arthur into reluctantly asking Gabriel Fernandes for a favour at short notice. Gabriel is delighted to help Arthur with babysitting - once he has, of course, recovered from both the surprise of learning that Arthur Kirkland even has a baby to care for and, presented with the adorable armful that is a sleepy Lenore Kirkland, feeling a little skinned raw himself.

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Chapter 1: some late visitor entreating 1. A few important things to acknowledge before you read on: This is absolutely one of my Hannibal fanfics that I (lightly) filed the serial numbers off of just to reapply Hetalia details instead. It was a dare, okay. If you’re not into artistic horror and murder scenes of the kind Hannibal provides in abundance (or are simply not old or mature enough to watch that show in the first place), this is not the fic for you. Read at your own risk. 2. You don’t have to have watched Hannibal to understand this story, but it may deepen your understanding of the general universe if you have. (This story takes place between S01E2 Amuse-Bouche and S01E03 Potage.) 3. I won’t be posting this on AO3 (I changed a lot, but not enough for it to feel like its own thing to me), so feel free to copy and paste this fic elsewhere for ease of private reading; I don’t care. 4. No insult is meant to any country/nationality by the character assignments/roles; I just picked personalities that I thought might be the closest to my original portrayals.

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You are made of flesh and nerve and thought, of heart and love and wonder and grief, as I am. - Jeanann Verlee, For the Woman Who Loved the Predator More Than His Prey

But it is better to dissect than abstract nature… - Francis Bacon, Novum Organum

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Arthur Kirkland’s lecture hall is dark, its only true light the bare bald glare of the projector screen on his back. It reflects back on the eyes of his attentive students in the audience: on the white sclera, on the thin glowing rings of alpha red and omega gold. On the occasional flash of fangs when lips part and teeth chew down on lips, shadowy heads bending over the desks in front of them to type or scribble notes.

Arthur, front of room and frowning against a headache that is determined to rise even in a room hush with learning, leans back against his desk and resists the temptation to reach up and knuckle at his eyes. Monday afternoons drag on for everyone, and, if Arthur yields too visibly to his own tiredness, many of his students will take his cue and switch off to follow suit.

“Opisthokonta,” he declaims instead, pausing momentarily for the clicks of pens and keys to find themselves a new line. (Or the spelling.) A percussive response, mentally filed away as rote by the time Arthur has gotten to this, his third identical lecture of the day. “The large supergroup of eukaryotes - that would be organisms whose cells contain a nucleus - which includes both the animal and fungal kingdoms.”

Arthur taps a button on the projector remote in his hand, patient against the reactive flinch that goes through his audience as the screen behind him switches from plain white to the - primarily - black, intricate branches of a phylogenetic tree. “If we, humans - not-so-proud members of the biological kingdom Animalia, if anyone was in doubt -, trace back far enough on the genetic family tree, we discover our distant cousins in the Holomycota clade down the street: fungi, and those eukaryotes liker to fungi than animals.”

No pointing out of the relevant branches on the diagram is required; Arthur had highlighted Opisthokonta, Animalia and Holomycota in red on the tree before uploading his presentation.

Another tap of the remote, and the phylogenetic tree is replaced with a blare of technicolour: a photograph of a killer, and one familiar to Arthur’s class of FBI trainees at that. Another reactive flinch goes through Arthur’s students  - less pronounced than before as their eyes adapt -, the mingled scents drifting in the currents of the room sharpening with recognition.

One Berwald Oxenstierna, recently apprehended, stares out stoically from the projector screen, the look in his frozen eyes as strained as the smile failing to stretch his lips. The media had given the beta man many names when the details of his crimes had finally come to light - the Gardener, the Mushroom Man - and used just as many different candid shots as they could get of him, but Arthur, unwilling to slap garish and distracting headlines into his presentation, had snagged the photograph on Oxenstierna’s last work ID - now stored in Evidence - to use instead.

(It’s a terrible photo with the light reflecting blankly off of Oxenstierna’s glasses, and something small and cruel and petty in Arthur had picked it almost precisely for that reason.)

Arthur raises one hand, gesturing to the screen behind him and feeling each button on the sleeve beneath his blazer press firmly to his wrist. (The cuffs on omega sleeves are unforgiving bastards.) “Berwald Oxenstierna was interested in a family reunion. He used his position as a pharmacist to tamper with his victims’ medications, inducing diabetic comas in seven men and women of mixed dynamics before planting them in the ground. Still - however temporarily - alive, but highly unlikely to ever regain consciousness. Fertiliser.”

Tap. Pause. Tap. Pause. Tap. Arthur cycles through the crime scene photographs taken of Oxenstierna’s ‘garden’, waiting briefly between one image and the next to give his students time to absorb both the layout of the scene and what it might infer. The seven graves all in a row, and the gradual - and thoroughly documented - excavation of each. The decaying, fungi-ridden bodies of six of the victims in the arms of the on-scene emergency medical technicians: organisms raised from the earth more humanoid than recognisably human. The quickly-snapped shot of the - at that point - still-living victim being wheeled towards an ambulance.

In the blanketing darkness of the lecture hall, someone audibly gags.

Arthur ignores them. The trainees will need strong stomachs if they hope to work in the field one day, and a few crime scene photographs is the very least they should be able to handle. (Crime scene photographs do not, yet, communicate smell.) “Decomposition was enthusiastically encouraged. The victims were all buried in high-nutrient compost and fed intravenously with a regular supply of dextrose, advancing both the growth of the local fungi and the gradual decline of the victims’ endocrine systems.

“Despite what you may immediately assume from these photographs, for Berwald Oxenstierna’s seven victims, death, eventually, came by way of kidney failure. Something almost entirely incidental to their killer’s greater vision.”

A new gust of air disturbs the room: the door to the lecture hall opposite Arthur’s desk has opened, and a familiar bulky silhouette slipped inside. Content for now, it seems, to loiter in the doorway with shoulders broad and grim. Blocking the exit.

Arthur’s headache picks up another irritable notch as glowing alpha eyes meet his own across the room, a slow and steady thud in his skull sounding in pace with his heart.

Arthur raises his chin and turns his gaze deliberately to sweep across his students instead, a challenge to the class. Someone needs to make sure the next generation of FBI agents can actually rub two brain cells together. “To Oxenstierna, the point was not that his victims died. His goal was evolution: for the fungi to grow, for his victims to join the vast, intelligent mycelial networks that can stretch for miles under the surface of the earth. Crossing the boundaries that occur naturally between organisms in life. And death.

“If you walk into a field of mycelium, they know you are there. They respond to your presence. They communicate.” Arthur switches back to the presentation slide using Oxenstierna’s work ID, the sombre visage of the killer behind Arthur matching his own flat glare out at the room around them. “Berwald Oxenstierna viewed his own actions as helping others to communicate - with nature, with each other, and with themselves. Connecting individuals into a greater whole. He was caught only because others finally stumbled onto his garden and because, after the FBI rescued his eighth victim before she could be planted in a new location, he was desperate to communicate with others himself.”

Such a pity certain people (an invasive species whose greatest attribute, if gossip is to be believed, is either their ability to wriggle their way out of libel cases or their outlandish choice in plumage) had decided to help Oxenstierna with that mission.

“To that end, the attempted abduction of a comatose patient from John Hopkins Hospital was Oxenstierna’s last bid for understanding from others before being caught. Rather than attempting to escape, he chose to make what amounts to a personal plea for empathy.” To Arthur. “To feel as he feels. To see as he sees.”

In another world, at another time, by a different method, Arthur might have listened to Oxenstierna’s entreaty. In this world, however, Oxenstierna had chosen the still comatose and incredibly vulnerable form of Madeline Williams to try and deliver his message: not a step but a whole leap beyond the pale for those already pricked in tender places by the abuse of innocents.

Arthur is ever-vigilant now of sleeping defenceless daughters: holding one by blood and one by guilt-ridden proxy as equal weights now against his heart. He had saved Madeline once already when her obsessed, serial-killing father, unable to deal with the thought of his little girl growing up and leaving him, had slaughtered her mother in front of her before putting a kitchen knife to her throat. Arthur would be damned if he let the likes of a fungi-focused wallflower take her before she even woke up into her new life free of her father’s chains. 

Arthur’s fingers still itch now, twitch, at the memory of that day in the hospital basement. Of Madeline’s hair spread like a long golden fan on the starchy hospital pillows of the hospital gurney Oxenstierna had tried to whisk her away on, and Oxenstierna clutching at his own shoulder, bleeding on the floor. The beta man’s pallor curdling like spoilt milk.

(What would have happened in a world where Arthur was a better shot?)

Arthur’s tongue flicks out briefly over his dry lips, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat between his brows. “The desire for understanding is a dangerous thing. Luckily for us, however,” another slow pass of Arthur’s gaze across his class, the darkness that renders one student almost indistinguishable from the next, “it is often the way we catch the supposedly uncatchable.”

The lecture concludes not long after that, Berwald Oxenstierna’s crimes only the tail-end of a much longer lesson, and the yellowed lights of the lecture hall buzz back to life overhead. The students blink back into animation with them, and cobwebbed dreams of blood and shadows flee away.

Arthur talks briefly through his students’ next assignment before everyone starts gathering up their belongings - and pointedly reminds the two hopefully querying hands raised in the audience of his office hours. Class is dismissed a few minutes shy of the Academy bell, and the tide of students streaming out of the lecture hall is a cacophony after the almost reverent hush before.

The silhouette by the door is a silhouette no more. Ludwig Beilschmidt, head of the BAU, had stepped to the side to allow Arthur’s students to pass him by but now, as the last of the stragglers make their way out of the room, approaches Arthur’s desk, his hands lax in his pockets with a studied casualness: affability that doesn’t quite ring sincere when Ludwig’s shoulders are so stiff.

Arthur is rapidly becoming versant with what that stance means when it is adopted by Ludwig Beilschmidt, of the warmer and bread-and-chocolatey notes of Ludwig’s alpha scent when the man hopes to be cajoling. Cedar and yeast: similar but distant to the woods that surround the Wolf Trap refuge Arthur calls home, life and death and the cycle of decomposition as the leaves are falling. Let’s not vex the moody omega before he performs his party trick.

“Do you think they followed?” Ludwig asks in lieu of a greeting, making no pretence that they both don’t know that Arthur had long since observed him by the door. Ludwig’s honesty is of the perfectly reliable kind meant for blunt force trauma: a crowbar, plain but useful.

Arthur keeps his head low but neck covered as he continues packing away his belongings: prey behaviour, hoping to be left alone. “I’ll let you know once I’ve graded their essays.”

Ludwig waits patiently, solid and immovable with his weight on his heels. Ever hoping for word of a new FBI Wunderkind.

Alas, to only have disappointment to provide.

Arthur sighs through his nose, shoving the last folder into his satchel with a little more force than may be strictly necessary. “A few of them still mistake understanding for condonement.”

“That sounds like an issue with objectivity in the field.”

“That what you’ve come looking for?” Arthur asks dryly, lifting his eyes to Ludwig’s chin. They both know this isn’t a social visit, for all Ludwig had the courtesy to wait until the end of Arthur’s class. Ludwig’s suit is still too sharp, not a strand of his blond hair out of place. “Objectivity?”

Ludwig nods, shameless about it. “And your particular type of understanding. We have a new case in Ohio, Arthur. Three are dead on-scene. The flight leaves shortly and I would like you to ride along, tell us what you see.”

“What, now?” Arthur baulks, seeing the immediate confirmation in Ludwig’s expression. Though his lectures might be over for the day, Arthur has other obligations. “No can do.” He finishes buckling the straps of his satchel closed, already shaking his head to Ludwig’s next protest as he knots a brown scarf around his nigh-bare neck. “My babysitter doesn’t work Mondays.”

Ludwig huffs sharply through his nose, his scent turning to something exasperated, peppery and hot on the tip of Arthur’s tongue like chillies and burnt coffee. Arthur prefers tea but is growing unfortunately familiar with the taste of caffeine served this way - though Ludwig at least, still, has the decency to keep the heat of his disapproval on Arthur’s face rather than on the obviously unmarked slope of Arthur’s neck that Arthur’s scarf fails to conceal. If you won’t talk to your family, you should at least have a mate to take care of this.

It’s easy enough for a mated alpha with no children of his own to pass comment. Alphas with absolutely none of the manners their mothers ever taught them always pass judgement with their eyes long before the stereotypical bullshit comes tumbling out of their mouths, and there are plenty out there that have something to say about an omega being unmated at Arthur’s age, no claiming bite or collar on his throat, especially when that selfsame omega is newly a mother.

Ludwig would have an easier time of getting his way with things if Arthur had a mate or family he actually tolerated to drop his baby off with - but, oh, woe, tragedy indeed, Arthur’s private life and personal decisions fail to revolve around the self-proclaimed needs of one Ludwig Beilschmidt.

“Is there a problem with the services the Academy’s crèche provides for your daughter?”

“The crèche closes at 9, Ludwig,” Arthur points out as he slings his bag over his shoulder and rounds the desk, keeping his tone extraordinarily reasonable, he believes, for a man with a bad head half dreaming of getting home with his daughter sometime soon, half calculating when he can take his next dose of aspirin. “When all the sensible students and professors have head home. Can’t get to Ohio and back before then.” Even assuming all their flights will be on time.

The 9 o’ clock close of the crèche at Quantico is later than most places of business with crèches on-site choose to close, the increased hours only a result of the FBI Academy’s presence on a military base. Gender, dynamic and family rights have progressed in - comparative - leaps and bounds since the Stone Ages in which the Academy was first founded, and the safety and security of the nation cannot be endangered by single parents unable to find adequate childcare.

“If you’d like to bring her along -”

“No,” Arthur hisses, sudden and vehement enough that Ludwig startles back away from him as Arthur’s eyes begin to prickle - undoubtedly bleeding gold. “I am not bringing my baby to a crime scene, Ludwig.” The thought is unconscionable, a boundary blurred into something monstrous.

Ludwig’s instinctive retreat had only been half a step, and half a step alone, but that half a step had been much further than Ludwig had been expecting to go. He pushes back now, failing to see that the line Arthur has drawn lays in concrete rather than sand. “It would be no trouble to get an agent to look after her while you’re occupied-”

Sure, the nameless agent would love that.

Arthur bares his fangs, letting his irritation spill out into his own scent, the lightning-struck forest more dangerous than any burning tower. Ozone and pine: a flammable mix. “You think I’d trust her in the care of a stranger? She’s six months old!” He turns to stalk away.

“What about Dr. Bonnefoy?”

Arthur pauses, caught before he has managed to leave the hall. “What about Dr. Bonnefoy?”

“She’s the child’s godmother, isn’t she?” Oh, Ludwig is finagling now. “Unofficially.”

Unofficially. As most arrangements Arthur has with Marianne Bonnefoy are. Especially when she’s been carefully avoiding him and his questions about the new arrangements for Madeline Williams’ care after the events at John Hopkins, still wary of Arthur’s attachment to the omega girl he had orphaned.

Arthur purses his lips. “I wasn’t aware Marianne had a lecture scheduled this evening.”

“She pushed back her morning lecture today.”

Huh. “Looking to see what consultants you had on-site to grab before you left?” Arthur asks, his voice bordering on scathing - but bites his tongue at Ludwig’s immediate forbidding look in reply. Ludwig is only willing to accept so much of Arthur’s bad temper.

Lines, boundaries and connections. The give and take of favours and affection, work and home, death and delicate daughters who, outside the adult concept of time, are either sleeping or young enough to immediately forgive their mother for all the time he spends away from them.

Arthur considers, gathering up ideas like wet pebbles from the bed of the stream that runs through his mind. Feeling the weight of each before choosing which ones he wishes to discard. “...I’ll go. But only if Marianne is able to babysit.”

Ludwig is triumphant. Ludwig’s triumph dies in its nascency, because, when he and Arthur make their way over to the lecture hall assigned to Dr. Bonnefoy for her lessons, Marianne is unable to babysit. Marianne is not there.

Instead, a small handful of adoring students remains clustered around the podium at the front of the room, and the one fielding their questions is -

“Dr. Fernandes.” Arthur stops short.

“Arthur.”

Breaking off mid-whatever he had been discussing with the trainees, the unexpected figure of Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes looks, first, surprised and then pleased to see Arthur darkening his - borrowed? - door. His smile seems to be a real one; even a few metres away Arthur can see how it creases the corners of Fernandes' eyes - though some of the pleasure fades as Fernandes' gaze slides past Arthur to Ludwig coming up on Arthur’s heels.

“A moment please,” Fernandes says to both of them before he turns back to the trainees, clearly - and efficiently - wrapping up the last of the group’s questions despite how they appear to be desperately trying to prolong the conversation. Hanging on his every accented word, drawn in (or at least not dissuaded) by the - very - tight charcoal and cream plumage the alpha has chosen to peacock around in today. Little birds clustering in the shade of a broad, tall tree, chirp, chirp, cheep.

Ludwig advances even as the trainees - reluctantly - depart, towing Arthur forward with him by the sheer force of his presence. “Dr. Fernandes, good evening.” Apparently Ludwig uses the same forced joviality with Fernandes as he does with Arthur. “Please forgive the intrusion, we were searching for Dr. Bonnefoy.”

“Ah, I’m afraid you’re out of luck,” Fernandes informs them, gathering up his own paperwork on the podium. “Dr. Bonnefoy asked me to replace her in her classes today.” His expression is suitably sympathetic for the occasion, his scent of musk and petrichor by the sea as soft as the dusty shade of his charcoal suit. Beckoning others in with an offering of - not unattractive - alpha security, with a flirt of something rich and bitterly citrus when he moves and fabric brushes against the glands at his throat or wrists, the overworked buttons of his shirt straining over his chest. “She has flu, and is very cross about it.” Hence the rescheduled class.

“Generous of you,” says Arthur shortly, trying to figure out if he’s disappointed by this development or not. It would have been useful to talk to Marianne and coax the woman into a more agreeable mindset by depositing an adorable baby into her arms - Marianne favours both Arthur’s dogs and child -, but now, with no babysitter available, Arthur gets to go home.

“A small favour is nothing for a friend, yes?” is Fernandes' smooth, sincere-sounding reply - before his mouth curls upwards with a spark of intimate, invitational, mischief. One of his long brown curls dangles boyishly in front of his eyes. “In truth, I find it an interesting change to my usual affairs.”

As though Dr. Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes does not dictate the direction of the majority of his usual affairs.

Arthur snorts. “We’ll let you get back to those then. Ludwig -”

“Perhaps Dr. Fernandes could assist us instead,” says Ludwig.

The casual presumption sticks to the back of Arthur’s teeth and he is just. So tired. “Pretty sure Dr. Fernandes has had a busy enough day already,” says Arthur. His head is still throbbing.

Dr. Fernandes is still radiating a wearying amount of amusement for the end of the general Academy day, damn him and his tight suit and straining buttons. The teeth in his smile. “I still have some energy left to spare. What is it that I can help you with?”

“I don’t,” says Arthur.

“How are you with children?” asks Ludwig. Alpha to alpha.

Naturally, Fernandes only hears the most intriguing remark. “Children?”

“Child. Singular. Infant, actually.” Arthur finally yields to the temptation that has been plaguing him for some time now, reaching up with one hand to knuckle at his eye. Pushing back against the pressure pounding in his head.

“I dealt with many children - including young children - as a medical doctor,” says Fernandes, “though paediatrics was never my speciality.”

Though he keeps his own eyes fixed on a point between Fernandes' nostrils and the sharp wings of the doctor’s tanned clavicles, Arthur is not unaware of the weight of Fernandes' gaze as it travels back and forth between Ludwig and himself, the doctor deeply curious and waiting for elaboration. None is immediately forthcoming; after neatly backing Arthur into a corner of social politeness, Ludwig is waiting on Arthur to offer up his daughter as sacrifice for their travel plans, Iphigenia reborn, and Arthur is. Struggling. To imagine asking a favour of such magnitude. To work out if he even wants to.

Ludwig might be happy to deposit Arthur’s offspring into any set of arms that will hold her long enough for Ludwig to get Arthur out to Ohio to look at his crime scene, but Arthur has to put a little more thought into the matter. Conscious, especially recently, of the weight of trusting daughters (in mind, in heart, and tucked up against one’s shoulder), and the responsibilities of guardianship.

“Do you have a case involving an infant?” Fernandes inquires at last.

Arthur cannot help the way his mouth twists wryly at that. Inevitability - driven along by the determination of Ludwig Beilschmidt - bites in deep. Despite all their conversations about Madeline since they had saved the girl’s life together… Arthur had never told Dr. Fernandes he was a mother. “Ludwig has a case. I have an infant. This is apparently a scheduling conflict.”

“...I see.”

Oh, when the sound of recontextualisation is just two little words. Pebbles dropping, said so delicately. Arthur is accustomed to delicate little words that are said one way and meant another, and has had more than a few of them slung his way ever since his pregnancy first started showing. (Used goods. Whore.)

Arthur lifts his head again. Defiantly. If killing makes God feel powerful then the reverse must also be true: God giveth and God taketh away. Destruction is balanced by the act of creation, and Arthur had laboured nine long months and several longer bloody hours to bring forth his daughter into the universe. He looks at her still, sometimes, doing nothing more than breathing in her cot by his bed, and his heart burns fiercer than any heat he’s known.

There are pinwheels of golden green in Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes' hazel eyes, light and darkness both that shine with the doctor’s interest and curiosity. But not a trace of judgement. No hint of scandal or reproof.

The corner of Fernandes' mouth quirks back at Arthur in the most minute of smiles, and the breath Arthur hadn’t even realised he’d been holding shudders, startled, out of his chest.

Delicacy is not an oft-used tool in Ludwig Beilschmidt’s arsenal, not when a problem can be presented immediately to the solution. “I realise it is something of an imposition, doctor, but would you be able to watch her for the evening?” The bitter coffee-pepper taste of Ludwig’s impatience is a heavy reminder of his presence. The clock is always ticking, and it gets stuffed up Arthur’s nose. “There is a new case out in Ohio, and the team could really use Arthur’s eyes on the scene while it is still relatively fresh.”

“A girl?” Fernandes asks Arthur quietly, and Arthur looks back at him a little helplessly.

“Ludwig, you can’t just steamroll people into babysitting. Dr. Fernandes -”

“I would be happy to help,” says Fernandes, and Arthur really begins longing for some aspirin.

Ludwig nods, pleased. “Then it is settled. Thank you, doctor.” Arthur chirps, irritated again - perhaps Ludwig would like to double-check this arrangement with the infant’s mother? -, but Ludwig is already back to ignoring him, marching out of the room with one last commandment: “Arthur, I need you to be ready to go in 20.”

20? 20 minutes is barely enough time for Arthur to turn his head - never mind his arse - around, not when he has a thousand and one different important things he now has to impart to Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes.

So he frowns at Fernandes. He could have gone home. “You didn’t have to do that.” Amends - “You don’t have to do this.”

“And leave you - or should I say Ludwig - without a babysitter?” The click of Fernandes' briefcase as it closes sounds like more than one thing being shut. “Arthur, you never mentioned that you are a parent.”

“It wasn’t relevant to our conversations,” says Arthur. Adding a stubborn, “I find it best to maintain certain boundaries between work and home,” to Fernandes' raised eyebrows. “Where possible.”

“Boundaries can be healthy, they say,” Fernandes observes, making a great show of reaching for his overcoat and sliding it onto his arms. Look at him, so theatrically busy and paying Arthur no mind. “Or isolating.”

Arthur just snorts again, already expecting the sting in the tail.

It isn’t like Arthur believes Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes is the sort of alpha, from more barbarous days of yore, who would either kill or drive off the offspring of alphas other than himself if children were placed into his care. Dr. Fernandes, paediatric speciality or no, has a careful touch with the vulnerable.

Snapshots of the Williams’ kitchen are seared into Arthur’s mind now, each an ever-fixed mark, the mingled smells of wet iron, sour fear and sharp gunpowder all tangled up with the sense-memory of the tiled edges of the kitchen floor biting into Arthur’s knees, the sticky wet pulsing of heartblood over his hands. When the night’s gloaming stretches out dark and dreadful Arthur remembers his own fingers - cold, white under all that blood and trembling - useless on Madeline’s throat as the girl juddered and quaked beneath him, drowning on dry land in that ever-growing river of red - and then the confident touch from Fernandes, stepping in, taking over, his palms warm and fingers sure and steady as he held the last of his patient’s precious life inside of her.

Fernandes had kept Madeline alive long enough for the EMTs to arrive, and then escorted her to the hospital. In the days that had followed, he had been just as much of a fixture in Madeline’s ward as Arthur himself. Falling asleep at Madeline’s bedside, Madeline's hand clasped safely in his own.

Take away the knife, the blood, the floor, the injury - Fernandes has hands tender enough to curve around a trusting infant’s head, long-fingered and sure, and he is strong and intelligent enough to defend her. But - take away the death, the comatose girl, the psychiatric evaluation, the talks of God and power - Arthur has still only known the alpha in front of him for a metaphorical five minutes. A few weeks.

And Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes doesn’t seem like the sort of man who would deal well with having baby spit-up on him. He looks sweet and smooth and easy-going, suave as any rich alpha going courting - or, perhaps, as slyly smug as a particularly pampered cat.

“Tell me about your little one,” says Fernandes anyway, and Arthur sighs. If the good doctor is so determined…

“Lenore,” says Arthur. She whom the angels call - as she fusses back. “Lenore Kirkland. She’s six months old, and looks like the cross between a princess, a pixie, and a dumpling. I had her in March.”

Fernandes makes no attempt to hide the keen sweep of his gaze from Arthur’s top to bottom and back upwards again, shameless in his curiosity. Making an assessment. “You have recovered quickly from the pregnancy. I couldn’t tell.” Apparently confident enough in his abilities as a medical doctor to believe he should have been able to tell that Arthur had recently carried and borne a child, ugh. “Her other parent is unavailable to take care of her?”

“He was never in the picture,” Arthur says. Flatly. His tone very much implying that if Fernandes digs at this topic any more than necessary, Lenore’s other biological parent won’t be the only one pushed out of frame.

Fernandes dips his head - taking the hint - so Arthur continues.

“You’ll need to pick up Lenore from the Academy crèche. It closes at 9, so there’s no need to hurry if you’re busy, and I’ll phone ahead to let them know you’ll be handling pick-up. You should -” Arthur hesitates, the necessary logistics of handing his daughter over into another’s care floating to mind - and then sitting horribly ill at-ease with the vision of the elegant man in front of him, “uh, you should probably take my car. For her car seat. It’s a bastard to take out and put in again so it’s probably easiest for you just to take the whole vehicle.” 

Fernandes' face does a thing. It’s a minuscule thing, so infinitesimally tiny that if Arthur hadn’t been watching the microscopic shifts of the other man’s expressions he would have missed it, but definitely a thing.

Honestly, it’s quite a beautiful thing, as the only way in which Arthur can think to describe it is Arthur Kirkland, I have seen your Volvo. (Marianne has an expression that might be a close cousin to the look, but, somehow, Marianne has learnt the arcane art of coaxing Lenore’s baby seat into agreeing with her long enough for her to transfer it between Arthur’s vehicle and her own. Arthur has yet to develop the knack of it himself.)

“I can get a taxi home from the airport,” he assures Fernandes, solicitous now he has the schadenfreude of Fernandes' dismay to cheer him for the rest of the night. (Let his shitty dog hair-covered car stand testament to a universal truth: even the most smugly prepared soul should look before they leap.)

Fernandes purses his lips, his dismay now warring with his disapproval of Arthur being put-out because of Ludwig’s demands. “At the Bureau’s expense, I hope?”

“My travel expenses will be the delight of the accounting department,” Arthur says dryly - and is promptly warmed as well by Fernandes' soft huff of laughter. So Arthur can afford to be magnanimous as he fishes out his car key. “If you want to fleece them as well, I promise to see and say nothing. You- uh, you don’t have to stay the whole evening with Lenore, you know. My neighbour is always happy to take her if you explain I’m held up - Nancy, with the bright red mailbox covered in flower stickers, house right before mine and perm you can see for miles. You can drop Lenore off there.”

“It is really no trouble, Arthur.” Fernandes - even with the dual threats of a six month-old and Arthur’s Volvo hanging over his head - still appears to be sincere, those long fingers of his brushing against Arthur’s fingertips as he takes the key from Arthur’s hand. (Citrus again. Like the type used in that English tea: bergamot.) “Though I will need your home address.”

Right. Yes. That will be another not-so-little boundary Arthur is going to have to permit Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes to cross this evening in the name of emergency childcare. “Ah. Yeah, I’ll- I’ll text you that ASAP.”

“You definitely have my cell phone number?”

Arthur nods; he definitely has Fernandes' cell phone number. Not that he has used it for much so far except to confirm two appointments with the other man at Fernandes' office.

“...Um.” Arthur stalls, drawing his lower lip back between his teeth to chew on it as Fernandes looks at him inquiringly. What constitutes a reasonable first-time favour from someone who is not quite a colleague, not quite a co-parent, and not quite an assigned psychiatrist? “If you - uh - wouldn’t mind stopping at mine either way? My dogs will need letting out for a run in the grass, and, if you could give them a scoop each of the emergency kibble in the bag in my kitchen, I’ll owe you one.”

Fernandes' head tilts minutely, studying him.

“...Assuming you don’t have any issues with dogs.”

“I do not,” says Fernandes simply, and Arthur has never been more grateful to not be asked any further questions about his pack of canines. Least of all how many he has of them.

“House keys,” Arthur proclaims instead, depositing the named items into Fernandes' waiting palm after he has dug them up out of the depths of his blazer pocket. And brushed the lint off of them. “And- uh-”

Arthur tugs the (old, mud-coloured, dog-chewed) scarf from around his neck before he can think too hard about it, stepping forward to sling the item of clothing up and around Fernandes' neck.

They share breath for a moment: vanillic paper and apples, petrichor and musky bergamot, oak and - at the soft swallow of Fernandes' throat - resinous vetiver. The scarf’s wool is scratchy in comparison to the softer (expensive) weave of Fernandes' overcoat against Arthur’s skin, and the colour of the accessory turns Fernandes' outfit into something muddy.

Uh.

Though Fernandes is undeniably the taller of the two of them, there is not so much difference between Fernandes and Arthur in height - and yet Arthur feels every single inch of that difference as Fernandes, eyebrows raised once more, looks down at both the offending scarf and Arthur as Arthur stands in front of him holding both of the scarf’s tail ends, willing himself not to flush. Arthur’s wrap shirt that day - designed with nursing mothers in mind and cut in the omega style - has a deep asymmetrical neckline, and, without his scarf as protection, Arthur’s blush would visibly flood his entire face and throat a vulnerable pink. This close to Fernandes, leaning into Fernandes' gravitational field and with the alpha’s scent full in his lungs… it would be like dripping blood into shark-infested waters.

Arthur stalls embarrassment by keeping his eyes trained on Fernandes' tanned jawline instead of on whatever look the doctor has decided to allow into his eyes, instead of on whatever dangerous twist there might be now to Fernandes' mouth. The two of them are not close enough acquaintances to be exchanging items of clothing - especially not clothing that Arthur has worn so often, that has rubbed against his scent glands and has his natural omega scent embedded so deeply in the cloth. It’s. Very personal.

“Lenore won’t settle if you don’t smell like me, so if you just.” Arthur pats awkwardly at both the scarf and Fernandes' breastbone with the flat of one hand - most likely squashing the alpha’s nipple somewhere beneath. A warm drum beats steadily under his palm and Arthur’s chest feels tight. “Sort of tuck her up against that.”

Fernandes recovers quickly, gracefully pretending that Arthur has not just committed a horrific social faux pas by thrusting a scented item at him with extreme overfamiliarity and no advance warning. (Boundaries, ha.) “It’s a good suggestion.” He reaches out to take the trailing ends of the scarf from Arthur and- and Arthur stutters backwards from the other man. Before he can do more damage.

Though it seems Fernandes had only taken the scarf to tie it into a loose knot around his throat. Ah.

“Don’t worry, Arthur. I promise I am not wholly incompetent with babies, and I have your number to call you if there are any problems.”

That is not what Arthur had been concerned about.

Well, that is not entirely what Arthur had been concerned about.

What does Arthur’s private life look like through Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes' eyes? It’s an ungainly thing to set up against Fernandes' polished veneer, to hold up to that finish Fernandes has smoothed out over his charmed existence. All that polish in Fernandes' life, his obvious casual wealth - both socially and materially -, his apparent effortless competence with everything he does. So evidently, easily, alpha that others instinctively defer to him, that Fernandes brings a cooked breakfast with him on trips afield to provide for the less prepared waiflings thrust upon him. Trace back on Fernandes' phylogenetic tree, and his ancestors must have all been the prime of their genetic subdivision.

Arthur life’s, in contrast, is nothing but lumps and bumps, like porridge that needs a great deal more stirring before it can be served for breakfast. Hic sunt dracones, something not in Fernandes' cartography: the uncharted realms of dopey dogs, daughters that are produced like magic tricks, and clunky cars with fur shed on the seats and rattling, rainbow-coloured baby toys rolling around in the footwells.

The cathedral of Dr. Fernandes' Baltimore office is a far cry from Arthur’s farmhouse out in the fields of Virginia where the afflictions of middle class single motherhood for the canine-hoarding and socially incompetent have stamped their mark. There is nothing sacrosanct in a living room camp-bed left unmade that morning, in a small army of used baby bottles and coffee cups on every flat (and some distinctly dangerous) surfaces, and chewed-up tennis balls nudged under every seat. One in every three floorboards in Arthur’s home creaks and groans underfoot, bags of unused supermarket salad expire in the limited space in Arthur’s fridge that isn’t dedicated to either homemade dog food or sanitised bags of expressed breast milk, and muddy towels damp with the smell of dog sit in the towering laundry pile next to stacks of baby onesies and the plaid shirt Lenore had vomited on two nights before that Arthur still hasn’t had the time to wash.

The only way the much more sophisticated puzzle piece of Dr. Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes fits into a jigsaw like that is by way of Ludwig’s presumption wielded as a mallet, and Arthur feels like he should apologise for the mismatch - before he is immediately resentful of the feeling, his pride pricked. And he is then, too, resentful of his own resentfulness, that, even decades on from the damp, poverty-stricken corners of his childhood, a favour still tastes bitter on his tongue, too much like charity.

And yet - there is no judgement in Dr. Fernandes' face or posture as he takes stock of their very different lifestyles. No pity, sympathy or condescension. There never has been, no matter what secrets Arthur has revealed to the alpha. Revelations of parenthood and tenderness weighed equally on the scales against confessions of righteousness, the satisfaction gained from putting bad people down.

Fernandes simply… accepts. It all. All of it.

“Right,” says Arthur. Remembers Fernandes volunteered for this (babysitting, dealing with all of Arthur’s shit, whatever else may be) and begrudgingly adds, “Thank you again. I’ll-” a gesture at the open door of the classroom behind him. Ludwig will have Arthur's head if he makes the team late for the flight, and Arthur still has some aspirin and water he needs to down before he can consent to being trapped in a metal box with Beilschmidt and his team for several hours. “I need to go now, but I’ll phone the crèche and then send you my address.”

Fernandes nods, his plush mouth still a solemn thing above Arthur’s ugly scarf though his eyes crinkle, once more, with what Arthur might almost dare to call fondness. “Safe travels to Ohio.”

…He really doesn’t know what he’s let himself in for, does he?

That’s alright, Arthur thinks as he leaves the lecture hall, raising one hand at Dr. Fernandes behind him in a parting farewell. Arthur isn’t too sure what he’s let himself in for with any of this evening’s developments either.

*****

*****

*****

No doubt some of these are more self-evident than others, but here’s a list all the same of some of our dramatis personae that have names here less familiar to fandom: Dr. Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes - Portugal Dr. Marianne Bonnefoy - Female France Madeline Williams - Female Canada Lenore Kirkland - OC, Herself

‘Lenore’ is 100% a reference to Poe’s The Raven, as are all chapter titles. It’s also a reference to Gottfried August Bürger’s gothic ballad Lenore, which has some interesting parallels with themes in this story/the series the Hannibal version of this story is part of.

NEXT CHAPTER

[localgirlbecomesobsessed]

Leo x Xena x Sho

(Established relationship)

Minors dni~

Alan is third? fourth wheeling?~but he’s the gentle giant kind of best friend so it’s allowed.

The Race

“We need to figure out how strong these anomalies are.”

Alan gestured to the three strange vehicles in front of them, as if that was a perfect or reasonable explanation for waking them up at 6AM. The three other students all stood bleary eyed in their pyjamas as they debated the likelieness of coming out of alive after attempting to murder Alan.

The odds were not in their favour.

Xena was an unlucky victim in Alan’s endeavour being brought into the fray just because she was unluckily in the same place as the desired victims.

she was wearing a black hello kitty pj set, Sho was wearing the white and Leo was wearing the pink. It was Leo’s idea to all be matching, after he and Sho kidnapped Xena on her way home. She had worked a big mission with frostheim but there’s no rest for the wicked and she had to jump straight into helping Thoma with all the paperwork and then Jin with whatever annoying tasks he wanted to set for her and THEN Kaito side tracked her and begged for help with his homework which he didn’t even do instead he attempted to flirt whilst getting flustered as he was unable to read her face something that happens way too many times and that kaito keeps telling her makes him nervous.

She was exhausted so when they pulled up on Bonnie and practically swooped her onto the bike she just let it happen. After that they threw her into the already prepared bath, with a special peach bathbomb and a dozen candles surrounding it. Leo had put a seaweed face mask on her as well as himself and Sho who disappeared into his kitchen. She nearly fell asleep in the bath if it weren’t for Leo chattering away as he washed her hair. She was too tired to even argue about the level of doting nor did she want to complain as calmness overtook her as she allowed herself to be spoiled by Leo.she didn’t even complain when he took the selfie of the two of them in their face mask as she sighed in a state of tranquility which overwhelmed her as she melted in Leo’s hands. She didn’t want to leave the bath but through Leo’s insistence she eventually did putting on the prepared pj set that matched with what the other two were already wearing.

Sho cooked them a feast of all different new sample foods for the truck, which she devoured after Leo dried her hair-she wasn’t used to this sort of treatment and generally felt like crying at the tenderness and kindness as both Sho and Leo sat beside her, she took their hands into her own giving each a gentle kiss as she gave them a tired smile. The two looking down at her adoringly as a light blush dusted Sho’s face and a Cheshire Cat grin spread across Leo’s.

The two chattered away as she curled up between them, crashing out almost immediately as she fell asleep to the sound of their voices.

She was usually someone who woke up at the slightest thing, yet she was out like a light the whole night…that was until Alan came charging in blaring an air horn without realising Xena was there too. She was hidden between the two in a mini blanket mountain as both Sho and Leo curled into her, the two shouting profanities at Alan as they tried to hide with her in the blanket mountain.

The three bleary eyed and ready to murder squad was dragged outside to the quad, Alan was apologetic for Xena but not entirely as it did help with what he needed.In a state of confusion they allowed Alan to guild them there thinking it was an emergency-although Xena and Leo had to be convinced not to kill the captain of vagastrom by a very tired and exasperated Sho.

Thus here they were staring at the vehicles in outstounded fury as Alan looked at them expectantly.

“What the fuck do you mean?what you want us to fight a tricycle be fucking for real you eurgh-fucking himbo.”

Leo’s fury dwindled down quickly as tiredness took over-he tried to repel a yawn from taking over mid sentence but the yawn won the fight disgruntling Leo even further. Xena looked as stony as ever as she deathglared at the ‘vehicles’ before her and Sho looked like he still had no idea what was going on, clearly not in a state of coherence yet.

There was a tricycle, a tandem bike and a scooter.

“They’ve just come in and won’t respond to the normal tests, we have to test on how they deal with having a rider and how compatible they are-they need the information immediately, I got the call from dante.”

All four of them wore deadpanned looks as they stared at the demonic bikes, Alan frowned at them in annoyance as he tried to think of what vehicle to use.

Leo sighed as he brushed a hand through his hair, he was about to chew the captain out even more when a flurry of black ran by him and literally threw themselves onto the tricycle. Xena as stoic as ever held her middle finger up at all of them as a murderous glint sparkled in her eyes. She did not do well in the morning…especially at 6am in the morning.

Alan frowned as he grasped bandanas arm leading him to the tandem bike, leaving Leo with the scooter.

He put his foot onto the scooter with a look of disgust.

“I’m not fucking doing th-“

His foot was stuck.

He literally couldn’t move and by the disgruntled look from Alan and Sho neither could they. He whipped his phone out as he took a picture of the two idiots looking laughably cute on the bike, he swung his phone back over Xena who looked absolutely ridiculous as she pulled the hood up of her hoodie and was sat with her knees up in the air as she awaited to start the race. Her stoic expression made it even more ridiculous as she stared off into the distance.

He then took an insane amount of selfies as he wanted proof of the stupidity that was his life at Darkwick. Maybe this was his punishment for looking into Dante and Alan.

“I guess we sta-“

Before Alan could finish Xena darted off looking even more ridiculous than before as her little legs went into overdrive as she forced her away back to vagastrom dorm. The wheels squeaked as the child sized tricycle sped off ahead of them.

She was tired and she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to be back in bed in the next twenty minutes. Leo and the tandem duo looked at eachother in wide eyed surprise as they watched her disappear around the corner, Alan was next to shoot off as Sho still sat there half asleep, he almost fell off as Alan went speeding away.

Leo sighed as he once again tried to take his foot off of the scooter, failing miserably and accepting his fate a

he started scooting back to the dorms.

_____________________

Xena’s fury got her back to the dorm in ten minutes as she wordlessly got up from the tricycle seeming to have met the goals of the anomaly successfully.

She pushed her way into the dorms before collapsing on the sofa of the shared area. She groaned in exhaustion in the empty room as she heard the squeaky wheels of the tricycle follow behind her. She didn’t even bother to look up at the strange anomaly as she slowly fell back asleep.

Alan was next to arrive 5 minutes later with Sho holding on for dear life in the second seat. The tandem bike let them off but seemed almost hesitant in doing so, Alan dragged Sho into the dorms spotting xena crashed out on the sofa, the tricycle sat beside her seeming almost happy as it rings its bell to greet them.

He’ll have to write that down in the report, the tandem didn’t seem to have much of a personality seeming almost grumpy in spirit whereas the tricycle was brimming with a fire. He watched in amusement as Sho collapsed on top of Xena-snuggling into her as she made a croaky groan in response taking Sho’s hand in her own.

Alan enjoyed the peacefulness of the morning, the quiet sounds of Sho snoring echoed throughout the room. He went to grab himself a cold coffee but as he did he heard a loud clatter just outside the door.

“FUCK SAKE.”

Leo’s finally here.

Another loud bang and the whirlwind that is Leo came crashing through the doors. He frowned at Alan before sighing as he searched for his favourite duo, his eyes landed on their sleeping figures and Alan watched amused as Leo followed Sho’s lead and dumped himself on top of the other two.

Both groaned in response as xena finally turned around to make herself more comfortable. She snuggled into Sho who snuggled into her who had Leo snuggling into the both of them. It was a cute dog pile and Alan snapped a quick picture sending the awfully blurry picture to all three of them before going to fill out the paperwork.

Alan sighed as he sorted through the paperwork-It seems only the tricycle was worth bringing into the fold-the tandem and scooter can stay until they figure out something else.

———————————————-

When Xena and sho woke up Leo was already scrolling through his phone, he shoved his phone into their faces as they looked at his new post.

It was an assortment of pictures of Xena with her face mask on, the set up of the bath showing it covered in candles and the bathbomb-Sho cooking up the feast and the three of them eating-numerous selfies of the trio-Xena crashed out between them with Leo and Sho throwing up a peace sign in the selfie-lastly the blurry picture taken by Alan of the three of them crashed out on the sofa.

Spoiling our girlfriend so she lets us use her as a pillow #thebestboyfriendstoeverexist

[leonawriter]

I made it through about 80 pages of the book I've been reading while watching the game awards last night, up until I started losing focus from tiredness and also from not seeing enough that really got me excited.

Like, there were a few that were cool and innovative or just plain fun looking! The Murder House multiplayer at the start, the Split Story one, Outer Worlds was presented with a sense of humour, which I loved! New Witcher, with Ciri! And Okami!!!

But so many, no matter how pretty they were made up like, were just "here is how you can hack and slash through a new game's worth of enemies in varying levels of realism." And so, so many were just showing off how hyperrealistic their graphics were, which made me be like "how powerful a console does that need? How loud is the engine gonna be?" Plus like. I do NOT need to see the pores of their skin.

Award related highlights included seeing Black Myth Wukong win so much, and HYV get NOTHING. Like, I may play the train game but THANK GOD. I kept looking for a hint of dark skin or different body types in those trailers and expecting the not much I saw.

It was... kinda weird seeing Astro Bot win so much? But mostly because I don't have any idea how many play it. Or what it's like.

Echoes of Wisdom got two nominations, not just Best Family Game, but no awards. Part of me is sad, and yet - I still wish they'd chosen a different art style. I really don't like the one they've gone with for this and the Link's Awakening remake. I'd prefer anything closer to what we had in Wind Waker, or even just a more accurate artistic non-3D representation of the old GBC art.

XIV not winning was... not surprising to me? On the one hand I was happy to see it at all. On the other, I distinctly remember (and still feel) that I loved the first half of Dawntrail to pieces. Loved it! And then the sci-fi dystopia is just so jarring and so often the narrative didn't know what it wanted to say (in terms of the main party accepting or opposing what they were seeing, the whole "cultural differences!" thing about the mutilation of souls)... that I still don't enjoy going to those areas at all.

Actually, y'know what the real highlight was? The two muppets heckling everyone, no matter how famous or revered in the industry they were. Loved them.

[quitealotofsodapop]

Since Dasheng had a nightmare over the thought of having multiples, how does he feel about the twins? Zhanshi and the others sounds excited about it at least.

Referencing: Dasheng's nightmare. >:)

This monkey is Terrified.

By this point he's babysat the Gold and Silver Demon Twins, and he still has the calabash burns from the incident. So this monkey dad scared at the possibility of more than one chaos infant at once.

The HiB fam have also experienced Xiaoyun's tense hatching/first few years. The preemie cub required a lot of attention and extra care in the first months. When news of the twins comes about, Xiaoyun is about three years old and finally starting to run around on his own. The fam are very proud and very tired.

Then while chilling around Kingdom of Women on an adventure, they notice something off about Zhanshi's reflection in the river water...

Dasheng faints when the explanation clicks. Zhanshi shrieks with joy.

More so because they didn't know they could make kids. Being "outside the natural order" (as the Buddha explains in Jttw) doesnt really give you much idea of how you're *supposed* to reproduce. Both monkeys thought it was randomly-spawning Stone Eggs only.

Then again, considering how *ahem* amourous ReboundedHeroes are on eachother, Dasheng is relieved only one of them got pregnant. (Except Pigsy when he fell in the river, but that was resolved).

Dasheng is scared. But more for his mate. Zhanshi has always been his right-hand warrior - and to see her experience the unpredicable symptoms of pregnancy freaks him out.

Zhanshi: *starts sobbing* HiB fam: *all in attack-mode* Dasheng, ready to murder: "WHO HURT MY WIFE!?" Zhanshi, sniffling/laughing: "Sorry love. There was a dead wasp inside this fig and it made me sad." Dasheng: *picks up the discarded fig and glares/eye-lazers it to dust* Zhanshi, cravings activated: "...now I want barbeque." Pigsy: *concerned squeal?!*

She also gets very fatigued, a far cry from her usual self. She essentially spends the last few weeks bedridden from tiredness, bored out of her mind while her mate paces their home like a guard dog. Pigsy is a surprisingly great help during this time, pulling out the pipa for some music and stories whenever the warrior feels too tired to read.

At the end of the day, Dasheng would be happy with any number of infants if it they and Zhanshi come out of it healthy and happy.

The twins come out, surprisingly not as copies of their LEM, but as a duo of little coconut macaroons. Like their baba, their baby fur is a messy mix of white and brown streaks. Its only when they get older does their hair darken to a deep red-auburn. Their six ears and deep violet eyes still give clear indication who their mother is.

They're both curious and chirpy, and are already trying to climb over their big siblings (Liuer and Shui Lian were delighted). Xiaoyun is introduced cautiously, and immediately curls around the new babies in a mixture of wonder and protectiveness.

Dasheng cries (and faints) with relief that his twins are not Jin and Yin-level monsters. Like Xiaoyun before them, The Twins have their dear baba wrapped around their little fingers the moment they reach out and grab at his face. Dasheng can do nothing but pepper his growing family with kisses. X3

I feel like these twins end up named after nuts/trees because of their furs. Or maybe the themed route (Liuer = little flow/floats, Shui Lian = water lily, + Xiaoyun = little cloud), and their named them after water phenomenon like rain or snow depending on how chaotic Zhanshi's magic made the weather XD

[limpfisted]

IMPORTANT WYLL HC:

wyll is far more understanding than you probably think he is, of violence, n even “mean” answers.

he IMMEDIATLEY wants to kill every damn goblin, n tells u so

he wants to kill the spider guy with a big boot. he tells u so, with so much tiredness at the existence of monsters he cant just step on in a giant’s shoes.

he approves of drinking with the bartender thorme and lying and intimidating and telling stories. and is VERY impressed to the point of fear and awe when u convince SPOILERS to unalive himself n his friends. he sounds a bit horny abt it tbh.

on the other hand, he’s distrustful of monsters and criminals n cultists n wants them all dead—but he’s willing to make “deals” with devils. thats the whole point of his character, lol. if ur character is evil, but has trauma, and doesn’t personally kick puppies or steal lollipops from babies, he will groan, n he will bicker, n he will mumble n snarl n roll his eyes n shuffle his feet, but he can RESPECT strength, a desire to overcome hardship n suffering, the NEED for survival and to keep fighting.

foolishly, even at level one, wyll believes he can win every fight with enough charm, ingenuity, creativity, n hard work. he believes he’s smarter than devils. he can control them. he can protect ppl from them, n still use them as fuel to “stoke his fires.”

his father believed might makes right. for all his talk of heroism n justice—these r flimsy, corruptable ideals.

THIS IS THE WHOLE POINT OF HIS CHARACTER. that he grows and changes, that he finds more freedom than his father’s whole deal AND mizora’s whole deal. tht he is a hypocrite that lies and distorts the truth in his naivetee and complexity and pain—but these are aspects of himself that he can grow from, that he can base his sense of self on, working on them—or making them part of his identity.

wyll wants to live. more than that, he WANTS to fight, he LOVES the hunt.

violence is not offputting, talent, even EVIL talent, can be used for ur own gain.

wyll is NOT “talk abt ur feelings.” he is “MURDER IS OK SOMETIMES, N I DO NOT HAVE DEPRESSION. I AM SO SO NORMAL. LETS KILL THIS CLOWN.”

[dramallamas]

HIII!

I would like to know if you started writing the jwds AU orrr are you not..?

hi

i'm alive but i had a whole typical ao3 author curse moment so... yeah. save your £9.5k and don't go to uni and also make sure to get a health check up kids!

ANYWAY. Technically I have a whole chapter ready to go but nothing is complete. It would be 1/? for a while as Netflix very kindly decided to take Beyond Evil OFF OF NETFLIX so i have to look for a new source :/

So for now I present the unedited first chapter as ao3 is currently down and I haven't finished going through this bitch yet:

The world has been god awful for a long time, but this is an extra level of fucked that, quite frankly, Juwon could really do without.

His father would hate him even more if he saw him now: standing in front of his bathroom mirror with blood gushing out of his nose like a waterfall. One of his hands clutches the edge of his sink as he leans over it and the other is pressed against his nose and mouth in a futile attempt to stop the flow of it. He refuses to look in the mirror, afraid that he will see the hellish version of him grinning like a maniac. He can hear it, though, the taunts it throws out to try and lure him into a false sense of security.

He must be one of the first people to be overcome with this sudden infection because there has been no records of people having the same symptoms in anything other than some unreliable chat rooms in the smallest corners of the internet. Nothing they said was useful anyway. He knows what he is becoming: a monster, creature of darkness and nightmares, freak of nature, something along those lines.

That is the goal of his sadistic reflection: to get him to turn. He won’t let it win, though, of course he won’t. He is human and will fight this infection until the bitter end, and maybe there is a small chance it will go away. 

The last of the blood drips from Juwon’s nose and he slowly removes his hand, staring at the blood coating it. It’s so gross but he cannot look away from how he has turned his bathroom sink into what looks like a crime scene. Immediately he washes the blood off his hand, face and the sink whilst pointedly ignoring his reflection who offers deal after deal in an attempt to claim his soul in exchange for something he wants, such as freedom from his father, or the answers to any case.

It’s tempting, Juwon won’t lie, but it’s not worth giving up his life for. It is a deal with the devil, a double-edged sword, and something Juwon would never trust. That thing in the mirror just wants him to surrender himself to his curse so it can turn him into a horrific monster. 

Juwon leaves his bathroom and goes to collapse on his sofa. There’s still the taste of his own blood on his tongue from where it had seeped into his mouth earlier but he makes no move to change it. Instead, tiredness seeps into his bones as he melts into the sofa. The excessive nosebleeds always leave him exhausted. 

For now, these moments of relapse are the majority and worst of it. It’s messy and uncontrollable (causing some sudden bathroom breaks in public settings) but Juwon knows it could be worse by a long shot, and that it will be. He takes a small comfort in the fact he hasn’t hit that stage yet.

There is a part of him that is curious as to what type of monster he would be. Would he constantly be seeing red, hurting people and killing them? Or would he be relatively calm, but just horrific looking? And what monster-skills would he develop? Strength? Speed? Night vision? 

However, this curiosity is not enough for him to give in. He has to fight this, even on the days where he would rather cave in. 

One shit day followed the next and now he’s stuck in a small town called Manyang, who’s only reputation is for a serial murder case. Not that that case doesn’t interest him. On the contrary, he intends to solve it despite it going cold 20 years ago, and quite fortunately he already has the perfect suspect in mind: Lee Dongsik.

Lee Dongsik is someone he is somewhat familiar with already, having read his file. He was actually arrested for being the prime suspect of the aforementioned case but was let go due to lack of evidence and a perfect alibi. Juwon suspects foul play. Something doesn’t add up with this and everything he knows revolves around this man. Quite fortunately, Lee Dongsik is also an inspector at the substation Juwon has been stationed.

However, Juwon quickly learns that Dongsik is the most infuriating man on the face of the earth. He takes every opportunity to tease him and never gives him a straight answer. It’s very hard to have peace when he is around. He couldn’t have asked for a more annoying partner.

To make matters worse, this increase of stress and frustration is not helping his affliction. His nosebleeds have become more frequent, meaning he has to make some creative yet believable excuses or just slip away while they happen. He has to carry a handkerchief or a tissue packet with him everywhere to clean his face the best he can afterwards. He’s lucky that nobody has questioned it beyond it being him not wanting to socialise or just a regular, totally human, nosebleed he gets every now and then when they see small traces of blood on his face. 

His reflection, inner monster, whatever it is, has also been more of a menace than before. It laughs at him and is trying harder and harder to get him to accept his situation and let go. It promises him answers to the cold case, recognising Juwon’s desire to solve it. However, Juwon knows that even if he got them, they would only be self-satisfactory and he couldn’t use them in the real world.

The most concerning part is that his ‘monsterization’ is progressing quicker than anticipated and there has been a new development. Every now and then, his eyes will match his reflection’s: a deep black that absorbs all the light entering it. In this state, he feels like he is going crazy and wants to thrash out at anything and everything. He is still in control, but is more prone to acting upon impulse. This is a danger that he can only recognise in hindsight and then clean the aftermath of it, such as tidying the kitchen he made a mess of or covering up a small hole he punched in the wall. Juwon is glad that nobody has seen those moments of weakness. 

Still, Juwon does his job to the best of his ability and doesn’t let it stop him from pursuing the truth and justice. He can manage his condition just fine and won’t let it get to him.

It’s not long before things start to go south in Manyang. This girl, Kang Minjeong, 21 years old, is drunk and cuffed to the seats in the substation. Juwon immediately doesn’t like her, but holds himself back from showing it too because clearly everyone else here cares about her a lot, and he could do without the entire town hating his guts.

In her drunken state, she whines at Dongsik that she ‘wasn’t cheating on him’ whilst she was out. Does that mean that Dongsik and her are together? It feels a bit weird but Dongsik is an insane person so he doesn’t put it past him. It would actually make sense considering how much Dongsik cares about her and puts up with as she throws a tantrum like an immature teenager. It shouldn’t bother him about Dongsik’s relationship status, but he justifies it as something relating to the case and he has to find out everything he can about this man in order to solve it. He will have to verify this new information later when he gets the chance. 

She eventually sneaks out some hours later when nobody's looking. She must still be wandering around and not home considering her keys are still on the floor, which he only noticed in an almost-argument with Dongsik (a regular occurrence by this point).

Juwon doesn’t stick around to see what happens that night. He has new points to add to his case wall and would benefit from a decent night's sleep in regards to his plans for tomorrow. 

The following morning, Juwon gets up before the sun does and drives down to Manyang to be there by 5am. He sits in his car outside of Dongsik’s house, waiting for him to leave. He needs to have a talk with him. 

He doesn’t have to wait long as within 5-10 minutes, Dongsik walks out of his front door. Commenting on why he is up so early seems stupid, as it’s more than likely Dongsik would probably ask “why are you up at 5am to just park outside my house and watch me? Are you a stalker?” Frankly, Juwon would rather avoid that conversation.

They end up taking a walk around the neighbourhood, or as Dongsik calls it, a ‘thorough tour of our jurisdiction’. He isn’t sure why, considering he is familiar with most of Manyang by now and knows all the points of interest that he needs to know. They see rows of houses, Dongsik pointing out the odd thing or two but for the most part it is a completely normal, nice-looking neighbourhood, at least on the surface level. It wouldn’t be too horrible to move here.

He expresses the intention to do so to Dongsik, who doesn’t seem that bothered by it, but more curious about Juwon. 

“Just what about me interests you so much?” Dongsik asks, stepping into Juwon’s personal space. In any other situation, the question would be seen as flirtatious, but with Dongsik, one is never certain with his intentions. He doubts it’s that, though. 

“I don’t think it’s that I’m a cop,” he continues, “perhaps that I’m a suspect?” 

The question hits the nail on the head, but Juwon isn’t surprised. It was clearly rhetorical and Dongsik also knows that the answer is yes.

“Let me ask you,” he says instead, flipping Dongsik’s question back at him, “just what about me interests you so much?”

There has to be something, as there is no logical reason Dongsik would keep toying with him for as long as he has. What could interest him to play along (though Juwon isn’t playing) with Juwon?

He presses on, “you seem dying to know what I was up to at Foreign Affairs.” He doesn’t back down, not to Dongsik. He couldn’t care less what he thought of Juwon nor what he found at Foreign Affairs but if there is a button Juwon can press, he will press it. 

Dongsik is about to respond, but something catches his eye behind Juwon. His face falls. Dongsik pushes past him and Juwon turns to follow; that’s when he sees it. Minjeong’s fingertips, exactly like the case from 20 years ago.

He feels frozen, rooted in place as he debates on what to do. It’s not fear, more pure shock that takes over him. He mentally shakes himself. This case has been busted wide open and as both a police officer and the first one to discover these fingertips he should call it in. 

Then he hears it, the choked back sob coming from Dongsik that makes him hesitate, look up from his phone and stare at the man who has lost someone who he now knows was like a daughter to him. 

He feels… something. An urge to comfort Dongsik, tell him he’s sorry and that he isn’t alone. It really hits him how this man has lost so many people including all his family. Juwon still has his dad, even though he is not a great one.

Damn it, he shouldn’t think like that. That kind of thinking is dangerous especially when Dongsik is the culprit. This has to be an act, in order to gain some sympathy and attempt to convince him otherwise. 

Too bad, Lee Dongsik, too bad. Juwon calls in the fingertips.

Juwon doesn’t hang around much after the rest of the local police force arrives. He can feel the telltale signs of his monsterization taking over and needs to get out of sight fast. 

He rushes back to his car and drives back to his flat as fast as legally possible. He makes it, but not without getting blood in his car and on his clothes. He punches the code to his apartment so aggressively, it’s a miracle that it isn’t broken, and then stumbles through the door, clutching at the wall for balance as the voice in his ears grows louder and a pins-and-needles like tingling appears under his skin. 

That’s new, and bad. He can only feel it in certain parts of his body, from the tips of his left hand up his shoulder to the side of his neck and face and top of his head, as well as all along the left side of his torso. It hurts where his clothes touch his skin and hair sticks to his forehead. Any type of contact creates a new kind of horrific pain. 

He knows his eyes have gone dark, and that he probably looks like he has just committed a murder with all the blood on him. But that is the least of his worries when in his mind he is reaching out and screaming for someone or something to help him and take the pain away, someone other than his inner monster. He leans his right side against the wall while the tears that have spilled over burns against his cheeks. 

He stares at his bloodstained hands and thinks he sees something grow through his skin, changing his hand into something else, but he isn’t sure. He feels so light headed that he could easily just be imagining it. 

Slowly, he slumps down the wall, sitting near his thankfully closed front door. He aches so much that it’s driving him insane. Juwon’s fist collides with the wall, creating a decently sized hole in the once flawless white paint, small chips of plaster and paint falling to the floor. 

[antis0cial23]

The Pride of the Navy

Chapter 4: The Grand Canyon

Summary: Test simulations and tested friendships headline the show

Warnings: Cursing, insults

Another obscenely long shower was on Quinlan’s to-do list. Partially due to Quin waking up unbearably early even before her alarm, and partially that even after sleeping for eight solid hours, Quin still felt as tired as she did leaving base the previous day. The hot water flicked down her back as her shoulders screamed at her for the two hundred pushups she was forced to do. After what felt like an hour, she got out and went on with her morning routine, finally grabbing her silver aviators before leaving her front door, jumping into her impala.

Quinlan was in her car, no music playing for the fact it required too much energy to even listen to. After the end of training yesterday, she and Phoenix walked together toward their cars in silence, each other being there just to know that whatever the fresh hell they just went through, they weren’t alone. That’s when they both overheard none other than Hangman, with an accompanying Coyote, near the Top Gun graduates' photos, point out a familiar name. Except it wasn’t under the grad class of twenty-ten but under the class of nineteen-eighty-six.

“Bradshaw. As I live and breathe.” The signature ‘Jake “Hangman” Seresin’ smirk plastered on his face. Quinlan knew exactly who he was pointing at, all blood feeling like it drained from her limbs. Although Quin elected to ignore what she had heard she hoped, silently praying, Hangman would be a gentleman for once in his life and ignore the history he stared at. But hope could only go so far, and she knew whatever Hangman had just learned wasn’t going to end well.

Quinlan walked into base, parked closer to hangar 7 than the previous day, and accidentally right next to the iconic antique Bronco of Bradley Bradshaw. Coincidentally, totally. Seeing about half of the aviators seated, Quin took the same spot she was in before, but only Bob behind her so far.

“How’d you sleep, Bobby boy?” Quin tried not to portray her tiredness so obviously through her tone of voice, but damn, it was hard. Bob just tilted his head at the new nickname.

“Like I was dead. But apparently not dead enough to feel rested.” Quin agreed with every word. That was the deepest she’d slept since probably she was born, but dear god did she need more sleep. Phoenix sauntered into the hangar, looking convincingly rested, even suspiciously so. She glanced at Rooster, whose head was resting against his desk, arms limp at his sides since before Quin had walked in and sat down. Quin had an amused look while staring at the obviously sleep-deprived man, matching Phoenix, and Bob. Only difference? Quin spoke before she could stop herself.

“D’ya sleep well, sport?” At such a depressing-looking sight, Quinlan couldn’t help herself as she spoke, voice overflowing with sarcasm. What did she get in return? A shocked look from Bob, an amused headshake from Phoenix, and an earth-shattering glare from Rooster, which confirmed the thought that if he wasn’t so tired, Quin would most certainly be dead.

Maverick had walked through the doors and Rooster wanted to either punch someone, cry, or leave. Given none of those was an option without mostly severe consequences, he sat up, tried to look like he didn’t want to commit murder of the third degree, and stared at the screen ahead. Maverick assessed the group, looking almost just as sleep-deprived as them. The screen lit up, with bright digital lights saying, ‘TIME ON TARGET -3:00:00’.

“Time…” Maverick nodded his head towards the screen, “is your greatest enemy.” Quin shared a quiet sigh with Phoenix, and the lesson was off.

“Phase one of the mission will be a low-level ingress attacking in two plane teams.” Maverick pointed to the new map layout on the screen, a canyon colored by green lines, a warped grid showing the depth. “You’ll fly along this narrow canyon to your target.” A quiet ‘what the fuck’ left Quin’s mouth, Rooster barely nodding in response.

“Radar-guided surface-to-air missiles defend the area. These SAMs… they’re lethal. But they were designed to protect the skies above, not the canyon below.” Maverick saw the nerves on every pilot in front of him, knowing he’d be in the same position if he was the student instead of the teacher.

“That’s because the enemy knows no one is insane- “An interjection from none other than Quin, “Or stupid.” “Enough to try and fly below them.” Maverick gave the two a look, what that look meant, Rooster nor Quinlan could decipher.

“That’s exactly what I’m gonna train you to do.” Looking more widely at that class, versus the two pilots in the front row, Maverick continued with mission details.

“On the day, your altitude will be one hundred feet, maximum.” Yep, it was confirmed, this was gonna be a suicide mission.

“You exceed this altitude, radar will spot you, and you’re dead.” The nonchalant tone in his voice truly unsettled every flier’s thoughts. Someone wasn’t coming back.

“Your air speed will be six hundred sixty knots. Maximum. Time to target, two and a half minutes. That’s because fifth-generation fighters wait at an air base nearby. In a head-to-head with these planes in your F-18s… Again, you’re dead. That’s why you need to get in, hit your target, and be gone before these planes even have a chance of catching you.” Good Lord, Jesus Christ above, or whoever the fuck resided in the heavens, needed to bless this mission personally at this point. But Maverick wasn’t done talking.

“This makes time your greatest adversary. You’ll fly a route in your NAV system that simulates the canyon. The faster you navigate this canyon, the harder it will be to stay under the radar of these enemy SAMs.” Not a single one of them was ready for this. Not even the flying legend, Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell, himself.

“The tighter the turns, the more intensely the force of gravity on your body multiplies. Compressing your lungs, forcing the blood from your brain, impairing your judgment, and reaction time.” That much they all knew, but what they didn’t, is just how many times this mission would induce that bone-crushing weight.

“For this training; max ceiling three hundred feet. Time to target, three minutes. Good luck.” And boy, oh, boy, did they need it. Gathering themselves on the way to the locker rooms, the chosen twelve could only hope to grasp the importance of this mission. Quinlan followed the majority, her, and Bob lagging towards the back of the group. Some of the pilots looked as ready as ever, insert Hangman here, and some looked ready to shit themselves, example, Fritz. Phoenix and Quin separated from the mass amounts of testosterone, going to the female locker room.

“Cas…” Neither Phoenix nor Quin were people who easily showed emotion, but with one word Quin knew they had the same thought. Neither of them was ready for what was to come. Training was one thing, but the ever-looming mission date was another.

“Cas. Do you honestly think half of us can do this? We are all cocky motherfuckers but saying and actually doing are two very, very different things.” Not many saw it, but Natasha Trace worried about anything and everything. After all, it wasn’t just her in her plane she had to worry about. Another human being, in this case Robert Floyd, trusted her with their life. Trusting her to bring them back to their family, safe and all in one piece. And that is why Quinlan opted to fly solo. Making sure she didn’t die was enough, looking after a second life? No, thank you.

“Nix, you are one of the best pilots I know, and so are most of these other guys. If anyone can fly this mission successfully, it's one of us.” In her head, Quin had already been analyzing everyone’s flight habits, seeing who would, and subsequently wouldn’t, make the cut. But flying a new course with new parameters? Every previous thought went into the trash.

“Come on, Nix. We gotta get back to the hangar.” On the outside, Quinlan was calm and collected, but inside? She felt like a cat-five hurricane ready to decimate the coast. Swirling in circles of intense emotion, the deep corner of her mind that housed her unseen feelings taking a beating like rough waves on the rocks, the bottle of containment slowly crumbling. And those were the last words Quin spoke before Phoenix was up in the air with Coyote. All the aviators were gathered in the small green room, gathered around the radio. Some sat on stools, some leaning on the bar-like counter, but all intently listening to the plane comms.

“Time to target is one minute thirty, we are two seconds behind, increase to four eighty knots.” Bob’s voice, always sounding somehow mathematical, sounded, the for the first time since pre-flight check.

“We gotta move, Coyote!” Phoenix urged, earning confirmation from the single pilot, only to be followed by Phoenix’s curse. Quinlan looked around the room at the other aviators, masking her worry to analyze the others. Rooster, standing as far away from her as he possibly could, clenched his jaw as his eyebrows furrowed. Hangman looked as disinterested as possible, a few of the others showing small indications of worry just like Rooster. Next up, was Payback and Fanboy, ever so unluckily accompanied by Hangman. All huddled once more around the radio, Quin and Bob shared a concerned look, because who could possibly fathom what shit the resident cocky pilot Lieutenant Seresin was going to pull.

“Hangman, ease up! The canyon is getting tighter-“Payback, a talented pilot but nonetheless flying with Hangman, spoke worriedly with the strain evident in his voice.

“Negative, Payback. Increase your speed.” The smirk could almost be seen through the comms. Quin just knew his pearl-white teeth were glinting in the sun’s glare, at the expense of his fellow pilot.

“Of fucking course.” A disappointed but expectant sigh left Quin’s mouth after she heard Bob speak, many of the other fliers nodded in agreement, or gave small words of similar thought. Rooster just clenched his fist, the anger seeping into his hazel eyes. If asked, Quinlan would contest the fact she studied his every move, but old habits die hard. After another few seconds of Payback and Fanboy yelling at the resident asshole to slow down, they slammed into the imaginary canyon wall, signifying the end of their run. Up next? Quinlan, Omaha, and Fritz. Well, here they went.

“Cas, good luck.” Bob gave a curt nod, his hand squeezing her shoulder. Phoenix nodded, even Rooster sparing her a quick glance. That was new… But alas, off she went, her plane engine revving to life with the force equivalent to Zeus’ tantrums.

“Y’all boys ready?” Quin was confident in her flying abilities, but this course was probably nothing any Navy fighter pilot had flown. She was just lucky if she made it to target. To her? Didn’t matter how long it took. Quinlan squeezed the mismatched dog tags in her pocket, those being her good luck charm. And so, they reached the start of the course.

“Your time starts now.” Maverick’s voice spoke in their ears, confirming the time was ticking. Each corner she turned, the weight on her lungs increased, and the blood in her head did the opposite.

“Cas! We are ten seconds behind schedule, we are running out of time! Increase speed to five hundred knots!” Omaha spoke with a tone of concern, but time didn’t matter right now. At least, not to Quin.

“Negative increase, Omaha! We can make up time elsewhere, canyon’s getting tighter!” Her tone was firm, no room for re-negotiation. Once Quin’s mind was made, it was hard to change. With less and less space, it felt like the wings on her plane were scratching the imaginary walls of the canyon. Surprisingly, it was possible to feel claustrophobic on an imaginary track and Quinlan felt it.

“Casper, you’re slowing down! Oh, fuck!” Fritz’s voice rang in Quin’s ears. They had gone above the max ceiling.

“God damnit!” The curse slipped quickly from Quin’s lips, her quiet demeanor crumbling in seconds. By the time Quin made it back to the green room, Rooster was up in the air. Quin was beyond frustrated, purely with herself. She was the reason her wingman was dead. She unconsciously slowed down. Hypothetically, Fritz and Omaha were dead. Her fault. A hand rested on her shoulder, the figure behind her.

“You did good Cas, made it the farthest out of all of us.” Bob’s words of reassurance did absolutely nothing for her frustration but were apricated anyways. Bob received a small nod, one of acknowledgement but nothing more, and he returned to his spot next to Phoenix. Rooster was getting told to increase his speed, just like Quin was told, except, he was double the time Quinlan was behind by. In the corner, Hangman huffed a short laugh,

“Looks like we got two slow pokes on our team.” A few of the other cocky pilots chuckled with Hangman, imitating the way he said two like fucked up parrots.

“Zip it, flyboy. Hope your wingmen enjoy being dead for the sake of your ignorance.” Quin sneered, her voice like poison. Quin was normally quiet, saying a few sarcastic phrases here and there, mainly her bell necklace being her voice, giving away her head shakes and movements, but not today. Today she was pissed, at herself mainly, and was in absolutely no mood to take Hangman’s shit.

“Ooo, did I hit a nerve, kitten?” The smirk still rested on his face, well that was until Quinlan lunged. Thankfully, for Hangman’s sake at least, both Phoenix and Bob restrained her shoulders, and Hangman’s now deemed bodyguard, Coyote, stood in front of the pilot.

“The kitty has claws…” The smirk gone, but a small smile in its place still irked Quinlan to no end, but Phoenix spoke before she could.

“Another word, and I stop holding her back.” By now everyone had stopped paying attention to the radio, not realizing Rooster had made it to target, even if it was a minute late. Nor did anyone hear Captain Mitchell open the door to the green room, seeing the room separated.

“What the hell happened.” Maverick demanded, more confused than anything else.

“An egotistical asshole with a mouth even more full of shit than his daddy’s ass kissing list.” Hangman’s eyes widened, nostrils flaring in anger. He usually didn’t care what people said to him, but discounting what he had to do to get where he was? That made him angry. Even Phoenix was surprised when those words left Quin’s mouth, even if they did without her thinking, and if Rooster had heard it he would be too.

“Both of you, cool it. Before you two decide to commit murder, we need to go through critiques.” That was all Maverick could muster, given he had absolutely no fucking clue how to handle them.

“I’m cool of you’re cool, Kitty.” And the smirk was back. Hangman had moved closer to Quinlan’s face, her anger dissipating inwardly to pure fatigue. The nickname was one Phoenix’s old wizzo used to all her, because of her collar like necklace, but hearing it leave Hangman’s mouth, she was deeply angered.

“Watch it, Bagman. I bite.” Quinlan snapped her jaw up, biting air, her teeth clacking together. Hangman exhaled through his nose, and Quin was the first to leave the room, Bob and Phoenix hot on her heels, walking passed a slightly shocked Mav in the process. Once far enough away from the others the burning question was asked.

“What in the hell was that!” Quinlan couldn’t tell if Phoenix was upset, impressed, or both. Quin shrugged.

“Got tired of Hangman talking shit, ts’all.” Quin lied through her teeth, having taken her frustration out of the suspiciously ken doll like aviator and with that, Phoenix knew that was all she was getting from Quin. With a concerned glance at Bob, the three continued back to the hangar for their so-called flight critiques. Once back, Rooster was already in his seat, having gone straight there. As more of them filed in, he felt like he missed something. Especially once he saw Hangman glaring at the back of Quin’s head. Turning back towards Phoenix and Bob, Rooster asked them a question.

“What the fuck did I miss…?” His confusion, yet inability to consider asking the quiet pilot next to him made Phoenix roll her eyes.

“Not now, Rooster. Why don’t you ask Cas later.” Her tone was clipped, words short, not looking forward for what was to come.

“Now for your critiques…” Mav walked up the center isle from behind them all, and this right here, was the absolute last thing every single aviator in the hangar needed at that moment. But they didn’t ever get to choose what they needed; the Navy made those choices for them.

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ACCEPTED ! seen walking around edgecastle; ZAGREUS ZERVAS, HYPNOS DRAKOS, THANATOS DRAKOS, HEATHER MASON, TWYLA BOOGEYMAN, RAVI SINGH, DAISY JONES, REBECCA CHAMBERS, CARL GRIMES, ALEX KELLER, HADDIE KAUR please message the main within 48 hrs to receive the discord invite

{ cis man, 27, he/him, hades/greek mythology, not allowed } it isn’t every day you see someone that looks like KIM MIN KYU wandering around these woods. lucky i picked you up, you give off sort of a BURNING DESIRE TO ESCAPE, EXCITMENT OVER EVERYDAY THINGS, and A KINDNESS THAT CAN ONLY COME FROM PAIN vibe, this town will eat you alive. you some kind of tax collector? ❝GROUNDSKEEPER at BISMUTH COUNTY CEMETERY, actually. in edgecastle ❞. oh, i stand corrected. hey, crank the radio up. do you like LEMON BOY? ❝ yeah… CAVETOWN is my favorite ❞. you’ve got good taste, pal. say, what’s your name, stranger? ❝ ZAGREUS ZERVAS❞

{ agender, 26, they/them, hades/greek mythology, not allowed } it isn’t every day you see someone that looks like TON HEUKELS wandering around these woods. lucky i picked you up, you give off sort of a THE EVER PRESENT FEELING OF TIREDNESS, A DEEP RED NEARLY BLOODLIKE, and THE UNNERVING FEELING OF BEING LEFT OUT vibe, this town will eat you alive. you some kind of tax collector? ❝ STITCH-A-BEAR EMPLOYEE, actually. in edgecastle ❞. oh, i stand corrected. hey, crank the radio up. do you like MR.SANDMAN? ❝ yeah… THE CORDETTES is my favorite ❞. you’ve got good taste, pal. say, what’s your name, stranger? ❝ HYPNOS DRAKOS ❞

{ non binary, 26, they/them, hades/greek mythology, dupes not allowed } it isn’t every day you see someone that looks like TON HEUKELS wandering around these woods. lucky i picked you up, you give off sort of a SMOKE SURROUNDING YOUR FORM WHILE TELEPORTING, BUTTERFLIES FLUTTERING AROUND YOU, SILVER HAIR AND GOLDEN EYES, THE WEIGHT OF A SCYTHE HELD IN ONE OF YOUR HANDS, FLOATING OFF THE GROUND INSTEAD OF WALKING, GREY SKIN WITH YOUR NAILS PAINTED BLACK, SHYNESS FOLLOWING YOU AROUND LIKE AN OLD FRIEND, DRESSED IN HODDED HIMATIONS, WREATH OF POPPIES, NEVER LETTING MORTALS ESCAPE DEATH vibe, this town will eat you alive. you some kind of tax collector? ❝ MORTICIAN AT BISMUTH COUNTY CEMETERY, actually. in edgecastle ❞. oh, i stand corrected. hey, crank the radio up. do you like CHASING SHADOWS? ❝ yeah… IMMINENCE is my favorite ❞.  you’ve got good taste, pal. say, what’s your name, stranger? ❝ THANATOS DRAKOS ❞ ( bonnie )

{ cis woman, 21, she/her, silent hill, dupes not allowed } it isn’t every day you see someone that looks like CANNELLE FERRAGU wandering around these woods. lucky i picked you up, you give off sort of a FRECKLES ACROSS HER CHEEKS & WHITE VESTS WITH HOODIES UNDERNEATH vibe, this town will eat you alive. you some kind of tax collector? ❝ STAFF AT STITCH-A-BEAR, actually. in edgecastle ❞. oh, i stand corrected. hey, crank the radio up. do you like YOU'RE NOT HERE? ❝ yeah… AKIRA YAMAOKA is my favorite ❞. you’ve got good taste, pal. say, what’s your name, stranger? ❝ HEATHER MASON ❞ ( dipper, 25, he/him, est )

{ non-binary, 22, she/they, monster high, dupes not allowed } it isn’t every day you see someone that looks like CHENG XIAO wandering around these woods. lucky i picked you up, you give off sort of a PREFERRING THE COMPANY OF BOOKS AND CRITTERS TO ACTUAL HUMAN PEOPLE; TWIRLING A TEAL BEAD BRACELET AROUND YOUR WRIST WHILE UNDER STRESS and DEADPAN DELIVERY BEING MISTAKEN FOR SARCASM vibe, this town will eat you alive. you some kind of tax collector? ❝ LIBRARIAN, actually. in edgecastle ❞. oh, i stand corrected. hey, crank the radio up. do you like TOUGH TO BE A BUG ? ❝ yeah… TINYUMBRELLAS is my favorite ❞. you’ve got good taste, pal. say, what’s your name, stranger? ❝ TWYLA BOOGEYMAN. ❞

{ demi man, 24, he/they, a good girl’s guide to murder, dupes not allowed } it isn’t every day you see someone that looks like VIVEIK KALRA wandering around these woods. lucky i picked you up, you give off sort of a GOLDEN RETRIEVER LEVEL TYPE OF LOYALTY AND STUBBORNNESS; BEING TEASED FOR YOUR QUESTIONABLE CHILDHOOD FASHION CHOICES and “REAL MEN WEAR FLORAL WHILE TRESPASSING !” vibe, this town will eat you alive. you some kind of tax collector? ❝ INTERN AT A LAWFIRM, actually. in edgecastle ❞. oh, i stand corrected. hey, crank the radio up. do you like WATCHING HIM FADE AWAY ? ❝ yeah… MAC DEMARCO is my favorite ❞. you’ve got good taste, pal. say, what’s your name, stranger? ❝ RAVI SINGH. ❞

{ cis woman, 24, she/her, daisy jones & the six, dupes not allowed } it isn’t every day you see someone that looks like BREE KISH wandering around these woods. lucky i picked you up, you give off sort of a THE COMBINATION OF CHAMPAGNE, COFFEE AND SOMETHING EXTRA THAT YOU PERSONALLY COINED THE ‘UP AND DOWN’; NEVER THE MUSE, ONLY THE SOMEBODY, END OF FUCKING STORY and WRITING SONGS ABOUT LOVE WITHOUT EVER HAVING EXPERIENCED IT YOURSELF ” vibe, this town will eat you alive. you some kind of tax collector? ❝ UP-AND-COMING MUSICIAN, actually. in edgecastle ❞. oh, i stand corrected. hey, crank the radio up. do you like EDGE OF SEVENTEEN ? ❝ yeah… STEVIE NICKS is my favorite ❞. you’ve got good taste, pal. say, what’s your name, stranger? ❝ MARGARET 'DAISY' JONES. ❞

{ non-binary, 24, they/she, resident evil, dupes not allowed } it isn’t every day you see someone that looks like HOYEON JUNG wandering around these woods. lucky i picked you up, you give off sort of a SCARED OF THE DARK, A COLLECTION OF HOUSEPLANTS, & TIRED CHILD PRODIGY vibe, this town will eat you alive. you some kind of tax collector? ❝ EMERGENCY ROOM NURSE, actually. in edgecastle. ❞. oh, i stand corrected. hey, crank the radio up. do you like FOURTH OF JULY? ❝ yeah… SUFJAN STEVENS is my favorite ❞. you’ve got good taste, pal. say, what’s your name, stranger? ❝ REBECCA CHAMBERS. ❞ ( kiri )

{ trans man, 23, he/him, the walking dead, dupes not allowed } it isn’t every day you see someone that looks like LUKA SABBAT wandering around these woods. lucky i picked you up, you give off sort of a WELL LOVED COMIC BOOKS, RECORD COLLECTIONS, & DRY HUMOR vibe, this town will eat you alive. you some kind of tax collector? ❝ SERVER at ASTROBOBS PIZZA PARLOR, actually. in edgecastle. ❞. oh, i stand corrected. hey, crank the radio up. do you like YOUNG? ❝ yeah… VACATIONS is my favorite ❞. you’ve got good taste, pal. say, what’s your name, stranger? ❝ CARL GRIMES. ❞ ( kiri )

{ cisgender man, 38, he/him, call of duty, dupes not allowed } it isn’t every day you see someone that looks like MIKE VOGEL wandering around these woods. lucky i picked you up, you give off sort of a POORLY WRITTEN NOTES, FOLLOWING THE PEOPLE YOU LOVE TO THE ENDS OF THE EARTH, TERRIBLE, i mean, TERRIBLE DRIVING, vibe, this town will eat you alive. you some kind of tax collector? ❝ TRAUMA SURGEON, actually. in edgecastle. ❞. oh, i stand corrected. hey, crank the radio up. do you like GOOD OLD FASHIONED LOVER BOY? ❝ yeah… QUEEN is my favorite ❞. you’ve got good taste, pal. say, what’s your name, stranger? ❝ ALEX KELLER. ❞ ( kiri )

{ trans woman, 32, she/her, dead by daylight, dupes not allowed } it isn’t every day you see someone that looks like [NO FC] wandering around these woods. lucky i picked you up, you give off sort of a SLEEPLESS NIGHTS, GRIM DETERMINATION, SUNRAYS STREAMING THROUGH FOG vibe, this town will eat you alive. you some kind of tax collector? ❝ PODCASTER, actually. in edgecastle ❞. oh, i stand corrected. hey, crank the radio up. do you like DEAD SOULS? ❝ yeah… NINE INCH NAILS is my favorite ❞.  you’ve got good taste, pal. say, what’s your name, stranger? ❝ HADDIE KAUR ❞ ( gerry, 20, est, he/him )

[lightcreators]

Harshness  of  his  sentence  would  give  immediate  opposite  effect  of  what  he  desired.  Nevertheless,  concerning  the  latter,  how  he  would  even  get  what  he  WANTED,  screaming  it  like  an  whim  and  hoped  to  be  listened  to  the  second  ?  Internally,  if  he  wasn't  the  reflection  of  some  ghost  who  always  find  manners  to  achieving  that  kind  of  results  no  matter  how  much  needed  to  be  sacrified,  no  matter  how  insisting  he  remained  to  be,  maybe  circumstances  would  have  been  different  ?  Funny  when,  in  some  manner,  even  for  the  metaphoric  reflection,  these  reflected  circumstances  were  necessery  in  certain  points  for  made  the  goal  possible  to  begin  with.  He  could  wishing  lot  of  things  with  the  Witch  of  Miracles,  with  a  man  holding  the  Underground  upon  his  hands,  with  another  asshole  in  black  that  awaiting  the  right  moment  to  eat  other  villains  …  but  not  his  complete  mean  to  get  an  high  level  of  immunity  with  an  inner  embrace.  Timing  was  just  bad.  Timing  just  had  been  horribly  picked  when  someone  of  the  Ministry  decided  to  show  up.  It  wasn't  like  even,  concerning  possibilities  would  be  presented  at  distance,  he  would  be  able  to  do  his  little  investigation  at  distance  :  even  though  he  remained  the  observer  of  something  going  on,  since  another  villain  was  pressuring  him  with  his  wish,  for  sure,  she  must  had  been  observed  back  …  remaining  strange  playground  for  their  amused eyes.

He  didn't  know  how  he  was  going  to  do  it,  but  he  didn't  wanted  to  becoming  the  omen  of  war.  He  didn't  know  how  he  could  possibily  fixing  all  by  himself  circumstances  he  wasn't  controlling,  but  he  would  need  to  find  a  way  for  settle  down  things  in  one  way  or  another.  Somewhere,  he  was  glad,  this  time  around,  he  was  DISTRACTED  right  in  moment  when  emotionally  he  wanted  finally  let  himself  go  within  that  nice  and  terrible  painful  melancholy  of  tiredness.  He  could  distracting  enough  to  holding  himself  back  to  kill  dear  Potter  right  away  (  and  would  have  to  find  false  excuses  to  himself  to  actually  not  kill  him  back  ),  but  the  second  state  he  was  perceived  with  wasn't  going  to  leave  easily.  He  wasn't  supposed  to  experiencing  once  more  something  who  almost  killed  him  once,  and  oh,  who  pulled  circumstances  in  an  hellfire  …  Meaning  that  ?  It  would  restarting  all  over  again  ?  He  would  be  flattered  with  another  curse  that  will  break  every  fragment  of  his  soul  internally  until  he  get  released  almost  dead  ?  Hadn't  he  enough  paid  of  that  already  ?  Hadn't  he  enough  suffered  already  for  no  fucking  particular  reason  than  that  curse  to  be  endlessly  tourmented  and  tortured  by  others  ?  ❝  No.  No,  it's  fine.  ❞   He  reassured  with  a  low  voice,  in  which  he  remained  with  an  obligation  to  force  himself  to  face  reality  of  circumstances.  Something  that  he  could  do  within  his  presented  body.  Nah,  the  imposter  of  Alois  Trancy  inside  an  previous  life  would  have  closed  store  for  a  long  moment,  and  oh,  would  have  almost  pleading  someone  else  about  what  happened  for  that  reaction  …  when  currently,  Alois  Trancy  new  generation,  'I  am  going  to  be  like  the  original'  wanted  to  cause  a  murder.  Assassinating  an  Dark  Lord  too,  it  would  turn  things  much  easier,  but  it  was  Potter  supposed  to  do  that  …  and  now  he  had  another  problem  to  consider  with  the  Ministry.  Wave  of  suspicious  remained  inside  his  features  as  he  was  apparently  out  of  whatever  loop.  Coincidence  were  horribly  amusing  with  him,  though  she  couldn't  know  that  :  in  one  manner  or  another,  a  meaning  was  always  presented.  When  she  expressed  concerns  of  her  visit,  an  gentle  'Ah'  betrayed  his  expression.  ❝  Well,  you  show  up  not  in  the  best  of  timing.  ❞   He  amusingly  noticed  as  himself  didn't  desired  ponder  too  much  on  this.  ❝  Little  spell  error.  ❞   If  he  was  speaking  about  Potter  name  now,  he  would  insulting  him  as  he  never  did.  ❝  Someone  forgot  a  no  entry  sign  to  attack  me  because  he  was  worried  in  his  own  way.  ❞   He  shrugged.  ❝  Celebrities  are  forgiven  right  away but  I  doubt  you're  coming  for  that.  Don't  be  so  hard  on  main  person  concerned  if  you  come  across  him,  he's  getting  on  my  nerves  and  I'm  having  trouble  controlling  my  temper  at  the  moment,  I  do  him  a  favor  .  ❞ 

                   ˜”*°•.     From  the  thinnest  thread  was  the  world  hanging  -  war  lurking  on  the  horizon ,  the  biggest  threat  the  wizarding  world  had  seen  in  years .  How  many  people  had�� died  during  the  Wizarding  War ?  How  many  families  had  been  torn  to  pieces  ?  How  many   souls  had  been  lost ?  But  he  didn’t  wish  to  see  it .  Lost  in  delusions ,  away  from  the  truth ,  the  Minister  had  done  nothing  to  prepare  for  the  forthcoming  threat .  There  were  hints  everywhere,  that  boy  himself  on  the  trial  claiming  that  the  Dark  Lord  was  coming .  Sure,  it’d  been  easier  for  the  ministry  to  ignore  his  words ,  swallow  in  the  sweet  serenity  of  fairytales  instead,  but  for  how  long ?  How  long  till  destruction  hit  and  nothing  but  ashes  were  left  to  be  seen ? 

Which  was  why  she’d  taken  action .  She’d  tried.  She’d  really  tried  to  talk  to  him,  to  make  him  see  something,  anything  that  would  save  the  world  they  were  supposed  to  be  protecting .  Yet,  he’d  refused . And  now ?  Now  the  Minister  was  supposedly  sick,  unavailable,  and  she  was  the  voice  of  the  Ministry.    Even  if  in  reality  he  was  imprisoned  -  set  to  be  free  when  this  mess  was  solved .  For  weeks  had  she  been  playing  this  game  already  -  only  few  trusted  knowing  the  bitter  truth.  And  with  the  evidence  that  the  Dark  Lord  was  returning  growing   more  and  more  obvious,  she  couldn’t  have  simply  ignored  the  source  of  all  this  chaos ; Hogwarts . Hadn’t  been  the  Malfoy  family  suspected  Death  Eaters  during  the  first  war,  after  all ?  And  with  the  Potter  boy  who  seemed  to  have  more  clues  than  anyone  in  this  world  as  to  what  was  happening  being  in  that  place,  avoiding  a  visit  there  even  with  the  excuse  of  having  to  converse  with  the  headmaster  would’ve  been  inane.

❝ Shouldn’t  I ? ❞  Question  came  simple ,  yet  kind  too .  Never  had  she  liked  the  idea  of  ‘collateral  damage’  or  ‘sacrificable  people’.  And  this  was  not  an  exception  to  the  rule.  Sure,  she  wouldn’t  have  visited  the  nursery  if  it  hadn’t  been  for  the  suspicious  situation  surrounding  the  specific  boy,  however  it  didn’t  mean  that  he  was  insignificant .  None  was .  When  the  other  mentioned  about  catching  the  attention  of  the  ministry,  she  merely  shook  her  head  negatively ,  smiled.  ❝ Don’t  worry,  you  are  not  in  trouble .  I  was  having  a  conversation  with  your  Headmaster  about  the  nursery  facilities  and  your  accident  among   of  other  students,  was  brought  up . ❞  Half  truth,  half  lie .  ❝ How  did  it  happen  if  I  may  ask ? ❞