#wait i lied. THREE branches

[fisheito]

im takin those

@fisheito is partially to blame for this one

[milkistar]

𝐕𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔. ⊹ ˚ 𝐏𝐓. 𝟐

can you take this spike? will it wash away this jet black, now? [ . . . ] please save my soul. [ . . . ]

i'll never let them hurt you, not tonight.

⤹ you can find pt. 1 › here. ┆ pt. 3 › here.

you were sent on a mission to hunt a dangerous vampire, but when you finally find him, he’s nothing like the monster you expected - he doesn’t fit the stories you were told.

★:: sunghoon (enhypen) x reader. tags:: gn reader, vampire au, reader should kill the vampire but guess what, blood, mentions of violence, mentions of murder.

you stayed in the church for an hour after sunrise. you knew that vampires couldn’t tolerate sunlight, so they had already disappeared from the forest for a while, but you wanted to be sure you wouldn’t run into any of them; after all, you were unarmed.

in the end, that vampire—sunghoon—hadn’t lied to you. it was truly consecrated ground, and he had really saved your life. you couldn’t deny it—you were curious to know why.

you stepped out of the church cautiously, looking around for any potential threats—you were still in a forest, after all. it was all clear.

you pulled your phone out of your uniform pocket and checked the battery: there was still a little left, hopefully enough.

last night, after taking refuge in the church, you had tried to call the academy for help, but there was no signal. and, in fact, there wasn’t any that morning either.

with a sigh, you started walking through the forest, searching for a place where your phone would get reception.

your leg muscles ached from last night’s sprint, and the time spent awake in the church (there was no way you were going to sleep in a situation like that), so the act of standing up and walking once again was harder than it seemed.

meanwhile, you couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened the night before. was it terrifying? absolutely. did you feel guilty for surviving while your teammates likely hadn’t? you could bet on it. and yet, those weren’t the thoughts tormenting your mind.

the studies you had done on vampires, the textbooks you had read, the certainties on which your life had been built for the past few years… they were all wrong.

sure, vampires had proven to be bloodthirsty monsters, just like everyone had always said (you could still feel that red liquid on your hand), but they weren’t as different from humans as they were described.

and that was a crucial detail.

sunghoon had repaid the favor you had done him by not killing him, and then he had also kept his word. it was almost ridiculous because many humans weren’t even capable of that. and then—

and then, distracted by the signal icon finally appearing on your phone, you tripped and fell to the ground over a branch. or rather, a person.

a dead person.

instinctively, you brought a hand to your mouth to stifle a scream as your eyes gradually recognized the remains of the person in front of you: it was kieran, a foreign student a couple of years older than you.

the visible parts of his body were covered in bites and bruises, his uniform stained with blood and torn in several places. his body, so drained of blood, would be enough to give you nightmares for years to come.

“oh my god,” you whispered, though such an exclamation felt terribly out of place in a situation like this.

with trembling hands, you managed to dial the academy’s number and pressed the phone to your ear.

you waited for an answer on the other end, then spoke. “this is y/n y/s from the mission regarding the vampire. i need assistance—there is at least one confirmed dead.”

—---

the days following that event passed as slowly as a movie you hate but are forced to watch. sunghoon and kieran’s ravaged body were a constant weight in your mind.

during those days, the academy’s research team made progress on the case, and as the sole survivor, you were reassigned to the mission.

your suspicions had been confirmed: all three of your teammates had died, all in the same way—killed by vampires.

you were questioned about that night, but you didn’t mention sunghoon. you said you had found the church on your own, by accident, while trying to escape, and decided to take shelter inside. there was no need for them to know the truth, right? you knew it wasn’t right, but you liked convincing yourself otherwise.

regardless of your help, the researchers managed to track down the culprits. apparently, the murders of your teammates—and those of the civilians—weren’t the work of a single individual, but an entire clan of seven members.

the clan, at least three centuries old, was known as one of the most dangerous and bloodthirsty in the supernatural world. since their formation, they had killed hundreds, if not thousands, of people.

but here came the interesting part: you were the only survivor in their entire history.

it made no sense. why you?

that evening, after classes, you grabbed every file you could find about the clan from the archives, determined to learn more about the situation.

you went to the library, which was strangely almost always empty, and compared the files with books about vampires you had taken from the shelves.

that wing of the academy was a place you often visited when you wanted to study, reflect, or simply relax. the white walls and towering mahogany shelves filled with books were like a paradise to you—they made you feel at ease.

you started comparing everything written about the clan with what expert supernatural historians and doctors said about vampires, sorting plausible facts from obvious fabrications.

you were so absorbed in your research that you didn’t notice a man sitting across from you in the library—a man with pale skin and raven-black hair.

“if you wanted to know something about me, sweetheart, you could’ve just asked.” his voice pulled you back to reality.

you didn’t need to look up to know it was him—that voice was something you hadn’t been able to forget.

when you did look at him, his eyes were no longer red like they had been that night but black, like his hair.

'like his bloodstained clothes,' a voice inside you reminded you, but you silenced it.

“what are you doing here?” you asked, glancing around. no one was noticing the vampire speaking to you at that moment, right?

“oh, come on, are you suffering from memory loss now?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, his expression disappointed. “i told you i’d come visit.”

in fact, he had. and he had also proven to be a man of his word. yet, his visit was the last thing you had expected.

he rested his chin on the palm of his hand, elbow propped on the table, and looked bored at the files in front of you.

you took deep breaths, trying to steady your heartbeat, which was rapidly accelerating. despite everything, that vampire made you more than a little uneasy.

“these reports are inaccurate,” he said, picking up a sheet from your files and bringing it closer to his face to read it better—it was the approximate victim count. “we’ve killed far more.”

he slid the paper back toward you across the wooden table. “but they deserved it.”

“how could anyone ever deserve death?” you asked, trying your best not to raise your voice. what he was saying made no sense.

nonsense you should have expected from a vampire. but in those days, your image of him had become too romanticized, almost making you forget his true nature. luckily, he had come to remind you.

“were you there?” he asked, locking eyes with yours. the boredom on his face was replaced by seriousness.

you didn’t answer—it was obvious. their murders had happened in different places around the world, spanning centuries of history. you were just a human—it was impossible for you to have been there.

“exactly,” he said after studying your expression. “don’t judge what you don’t understand.”

a moment of silence passed, where he continued to look at you while you wondered why no one had started screaming ‘vampire!’ at his presence yet.

then, you decided to break the quiet with the question that had been circling in your mind. “why did you decide to save me?”

he said nothing for a moment, then smiled—exactly like he had that night, in an almost unsettling way.

“why didn’t you tell your superiors about me?” he asked in return, his sharp canines visible behind his grin.

it was a fair question, but one even you didn’t know the answer to.

you watched as he stood from his chair, unnoticed once again.

“expect another visit from me. i want to hear what other fantasy stories you’ve found about me.” he chuckled slightly, then turned around, giving you his back. “this time, don’t forget, sweetheart.”

without looking back, he gave you a small wave and walked away, undisturbed.

you sat there for a couple of minutes, staring at the pages in front of you. then, with a frustrated groan, you slammed the books shut with a thud.

this time, everyone turned to look at your table.

a/n : not gonna lie that wasn't supposed to be out this early 😭😭 but i needed to distract myself with something, so -

‹𝟹 taglist :: @whateveridontcaresheesh ﹑ @gudkc ﹑ @tasnemluvs .

[nerd-who-likes-cats]

Akanda Tsum! Or wait... is it Akedya? ... Siam Tsum!

@rakiah has an adorable set of twins. Which twin is this? They won't tell you.

I considered doing both twins, but I realized there could be even more opportunity for chaos if it was just one, but nobody knew which twin it was. (Story under cut)

Akanda and Akedya were sitting outside ramshackle dorm when the portal opened, waking Kat, who they'd been intending to mess with while he slept. They looked up at the bright light as tsum after tsum fell from the sky. Akanda spotted one with red hair set to land nearby, and the two gave chase. They lept after the terrified tsum, only to bonk into each other as the red-haired tsum fled into the undergrowth.

The pair were lashing their tails, ready to pursue it, when they spotted something in another bush, a small pair of ears poking out for just a moment. They darted over, only to find the bush empty, and a small tail peaking down from the branches of a nearby tree. Each time they caught up, it was somewhere different, and they chased this catlike tsum onto the roof and around the chimney until-

Crash! The two boys had chased the tsum over a rotting piece of roof that couldn't hold their weight, and fell into the building. A laughing purr came from above and they looked up to see blue eyes much like their own looking down at them.

As the twins and the tsum locked eyes, a bond and agreement was silently made.

"Let's get out of here before they realize the roof's collapsed" said Akanda.

"I'll carry you since our legs are longer" Akedya told the tsum. And the trio were off.

Once a distance away, the tsum leapt out of Akedya's arms, and dashed off. Right under the feet of some poor guy running across the yard. Noting this man had hair in his face and likely couldn't see well anyways, the twins took the chance to try to show up the tsum and each other, until Akanda saw Rook in the distance watching them, and correctly suggested they run off again before getting dragged back to Pomefiore.

Their phones buzzed at the same time. And they checked to see: "Students, it has come to my attention that the tsums have returned to Night Raven College. All students who encounter one of these small creatures must bring it to the headmages office posthaste."

"This'll be fun" Akanda smirked

"Let's go meet the other tsums" Akedya grinned.

The three were the first to arrive, and Crowley looked between the two of them and the tsum "do you know which of you this tsum takes after?" He asked in a tired voice.

All three smiled at him.

"Its hard to say" said Akanda

"You'll need to know though, won't you" added Akedya.

"Yes I need to know. It's school policy that tsum-alikes are the responsibility of those they take after so I need to know who I'm assigning it to!" Crowley frowned at them.

"Can you tell us apart in the first place though?" One of the boys asked innocently.

"Of course I can!" Crowley lied.

"Then you should have no trouble telling who this tsum takes after" with how the twins moved about, even someone who could identify the pair would have trouble keeping track of who was who.

"This isn't a game." The headmaster said sternly "I am your headmage, so you are going to answer my question."

"Well..." Akanda began.

"Its hard to tell for us too..." Akedya said with a smile.

"But there's an easy way if only somebody could catch him" Akanda lied.

"Yes" Akedya continued "Akedya has a mole on his back left shoulder that I don't, if you caught the tsum we could check."

"But we haven't been able to catch it ourselves. It'll follow us, but won't let us touch it." Akanda shrugged.

Crowley looked at the tsum, which was knocking things off his desk. And the twins sat back to watch what would unfold next. This would be fun.

[wholoveseggs]

Dark Star {Part One}

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

Part One

{Elijah Mikaelson x f!Reader} Bound by love that defies centuries, Elijah Mikaelson will do whatever it takes to resurrect his lost wife. Even if it means forsaking everything he believes in. Once the north star guiding his family, his shattered heart now leads him down a darker path, transforming him into a version beyond redemption. A damned soul, drawing his family into an abyss they may never escape.

♡♡ Hello my lovely followers! This will be a six part series inspired by @njeancastro316 post about red door Elijah (Girl, I've been writing this non-stop since you tagged me! thank you for the inspo). I really put my whole heart into this one, {I even made a playlist to capture the vibes} exploring the depths of Elijah's character and his struggle between love and darkness. Enjoy! && expect pain... ♡♡

6.8k words - Warnings: angst, angst and more angst, grief, heartbreak, intense violence, red door Elijah, emotional turmoil, so much Mikaelson family drama {the whole gang is here && some faves from Mystic Falls will show up later}, No smut in this part, but prepare for plenty of darkness... oh! && croissants...

{Part Two}{Part Three}{Part Four}{Part Five}{Part Six}

@gorgeouslydangerous @starkleila @lydia1369sworld @notleylaaa @vampiresluv

@myanmy @xflowerbombxo @maryvibess @always-and-forever-daydreaming

@spnaquakindgdom @amournoir @meeom @damienmorton @wickedmuse

@cs-please @complicatedandconfusing-25 @youcanhavemybuckanyday @akala6670229 @yeaiamme2

@itsjulzandmydiamonds @witch-of-letters @elijahstwink @rosecentury

@amanda08319 @starshipcookie @li-da-savage @veggie-eggrolls @spideybv28

@sunkissedebony97 @idk00sblog @savannaounana @sekaishell @b1tchy

@loving-and-dreaming @fancycassie-stayfancy @hcqwxrtss123 @iamawkwardandshy @ziayamikaelson

@absolutemarveltrash @darkened-writer @nina6708 @evasmlp

@madeinmyownmind-blog @lovelyy-moonlight @blacknightrises @poppet05 @sweetieseven

@xoxo-shy @nova-j @decaffeinatedparadisepost @fandom-princess-forevermore

Prologue ~ Europe 13th Century

"This way!" A boy laughed as he darted beneath a low-hanging branch. Behind him, a small girl hurried along, lifting her skirt to keep up, her breath catching in short gasps.

"Slow down! Wait for me!" she called, tripping over roots and brambles in her haste. "I can't run as fast as you!"

The boy glanced back, grinning. "Then hurry, will you."

"We ought to be home by now." She replied, frowning.

"We are almost there," he replied, leaping over a fallen branch before turning to face her, eyes gleaming. "We can get home quicker through the woods."

"I don’t like it," she murmured, clutching her skirt tighter. Shadows crept over the path as the sun sank lower, casting an orange glow through the dense branches. "The hour grows late."

The boy shook his head, catching her hand with a reassuring squeeze. "We’ll be fine. It’s only a short way."

Reluctantly, she nodded, holding onto him. "If anything ill should happen, I’ll tell Mother."

He only laughed, tugging her down the narrow path. "If something ill happens, you may not get the chance!"

Their laughter echoed in the stillness as they raced ahead. The trees grew taller, their branches clawing toward the darkening sky, while thick underbrush crowded the trail, rustling with each step. Yet the children, lost in their game, scarcely noticed, laughing and squealing as they chased one another.

Then, a sound, a subtle, almost a whisper, seeped through the quiet. The girl stopped, clutching the boy’s arm. “Did you hear that?”

“What is it?”

“Shh,” she hissed, pulling him closer, her wide eyes searching the shadows. "Listen."

They stood in silence, the air heavy and still, broken only by their own quickening breaths.

“It’s nothing. Perhaps a deer-”

“No, it’s more than that,” she whispered. Somewhere ahead, faint and distant, came the flicker of firelight. And with it, laughter. Wild and strange.

“What is that?” the boy asked, his voice barely a breath.

“Quiet,” she said, creeping forward, pulling him toward the light.

They peered out from behind a tree, breath catching at the sight before them. A great fire blazed, roaring into the sky as shadows twisted around it. Two figures danced wildly around the flames, naked, their skin smeared with red and ash. Their laughter, sharp and otherworldly, pierced the night air.

The girl’s scream barely escaped her lips before the boy’s hand clamped over her mouth, pulling her back. They stumbled, clutching one another, then turned and fled, racing down the trail as fast as their little legs would carry them, branches clawing at their clothes.

By the time they burst into the village, their faces were pale, their breaths ragged. Villagers gathered around as the children stumbled forward, pointing frantically toward the woods.

“Demons!” the girl gasped, clutching at the skirts of the nearest woman. “They’re out there! In the forest!”

There was a hushed sadness over the compound. The lights seemed to have dimmed, and the atmosphere hung heavy, cold and suffocating. It had been that way since the night Elijah found your lifeless body on the cold pavement. The night that changed everything.

Rebekah didn’t like it here anymore. Her home felt more like a tomb than a residence. It was too quiet, too full of memories and emotions too painful to confront. Her big brother was suffering, and there was nothing she could do to help him.

She found Klaus sitting in the courtyard, staring blankly at a chessboard. The pieces were scattered, mid-game, but his focus seemed to drift in and out. Normally, this contemplative silence from him made her nervous, but today she couldn’t muster the energy to care. The weight of everything was too much.

“Any news?” Rebekah asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Klaus didn’t move, didn’t speak at first. He shifted a chess piece absentmindedly and shrugged.

The sound of Marcel’s footsteps echoed through the stillness of the courtyard. She felt one of his warm hands rest gently on the small of her back, and she leaned into him, drawing comfort from his presence.

“I’ve been asking around. Only lead I have is that he’s somewhere in Europe,” Marcel said, his voice sounding hollow.

“Well, where in Europe?” Klaus finally spoke, his gaze never leaving the board.

“Don’t know. Haven’t pinpointed his exact location yet,” Marcel sighed. “But he’s been killing low-level Strix members, leaving bodies in his wake.”

Klaus scoffed softly, moving another piece on the board. “Keep looking,”

“You almost sound like you care,” Rebekah hissed, glaring at him.

“Don’t start with me, little sister,” Klaus warned, his voice low and sharp.

“Elijah has always been there for us,” she snapped, “And when he needs our help, where are you? Sitting here, playing chess with yourself.”

Klaus’s fist slammed down on the chessboard, sending the pieces flying across the table. He stood abruptly, stalking toward her, his eyes blazing. But Rebekah didn’t flinch, didn’t step back. She held his glare with her own, unrelenting.

“What do you want me to do?” Klaus roared, his voice cracking as his anger gave way to the grief simmering beneath. “Tell me, Rebekah. How do I fix this?”

“I want you to find him!” she screamed, tears stinging her eyes. “He’s our brother, Nik!”

Klaus’s shoulders slumped. His rage deflated, leaving him hollow. “I don’t know how to fix this, little sister,” he admitted quietly.

Marcel cleared his throat, stepping forward. “Maybe we should give him some time. Let him mourn her.”

“He’s not mourning, Marcel,” Klaus growled, clenching his jaw. “He’s murdering. He hasn’t even accepted that she’s dead.”

Rebekah and Marcel exchanged worried glances.

“We can’t just let him destroy himself,” Rebekah argued, her voice breaking. “Wherever he is, whoever crosses his path... they’re doomed. He’s out of control.”

“He’s changed,” Marcel muttered, rubbing his temple. “I’ve never seen him like this. So violent, so volatile.”

“That’s why I’m worried, Nik,” Rebekah said, her tone deadly serious. “If he’s not stopped, the Elijah we know will be gone. He will become a monster.”

Klaus looked down at the shattered chess pieces scattered across the table. “We are monsters, Rebekah,” he whispered, his voice raw.

“No, Nik,” she said, her voice trembling. “Not like this.”

Klaus remained silent for a moment, then lifted his gaze to meet hers. “Suppose someone took Marcellus from you. What would you do?”

“I would raze this earth and dance on the ashes,” she answered without hesitation, the fire of her love and loyalty burning bright in her eyes.

“That’s what he’s doing,” Klaus said darkly.

“Yes,” Rebekah agreed, “but Elijah would come for me. He would find me, and help me, keep me from losing myself. Now he’s the one who needs help.”

“How do we stop him?” Marcel asked, though his voice was laden with doubt.

Klaus shook his head slowly. “We don’t.”

“Nik…” Rebekah started, her voice pleading.

“We contain the damage,” Klaus cut her off, the steely resolve returning to his voice. “I’ll go to Europe. I’ll bring him back.”

Rebekah exhaled, relief flooding through her, and she pulled Klaus into a tight hug. She didn’t say anything, just held him as though her arms alone could keep the family from falling apart. He hugged her back, and for a moment, the cracks in their family seemed to close.

Marcel stood behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently.

When she finally pulled away, Rebekah gave her brother a sad smile. “Be careful.”

Klaus nodded. “I will.”

His eyes flicked to Marcel, and the two men exchanged a knowing look. They both understood how dangerous this was. That if Elijah couldn’t be saved, they might lose him forever.

Or worse... they might have to put him down.

Two members of the Strix walked side by side, their steps echoing off the marble floors. One glanced around nervously, eyeing the high-tech security measures surrounding them, cameras in every corner, reinforced steel doors, layers of magical barriers.

"Is this really necessary? I can't stand being cooped up here. What's the point?" the taller vampire complained, his voice echoing through the empty corridor.

"Protocol," the other replied, his tone bored. "You know how paranoid Tristan can be. But I’m telling you, no one's getting in here. Not even him."

"I don’t get it. We had nothing to do with her death. Why are we hiding?"

"He doesn’t know that." The second vampire shook his head, his eyes flicking toward a monitor displaying multiple feeds from around the compound. “And he doesn’t seem to care about guilt or innocence anymore.”

They stopped at a reinforced door, pressing their palms to the scanners. As the heavy doors slid open, the two shared a final glance, the reality sinking in that even their supposed impenetrable defenses might not be enough.

They stepped into the dim room, illuminated only by the flickering light of the chandelier hanging above a long oak table. Strix members filled the chairs, their faces tense and uneasy. They had gathered in secret, far from prying eyes. Whispers of fear and uncertainty drifted across the room, but no one dared to speak above a murmur. The air was heavy with dread, and no one felt safe.

At the head of the table, Aya stood, her sharp gaze cutting through the room like a blade. She had always been the picture of composure, a pillar of strength, but now, her patience was thinning, her power waning, cracks in her armor where fear leaked through. Beside her, Tristan de Martel leaned casually in his chair, an amused smile playing on his lips, as if this was all a game to him. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the faces of his fellow Strix members, reveling in their discomfort.

“We all know why we’re here,” Aya began, her voice cold and steady, but there was an underlying tension to it, like a string about to snap. “Our ranks are thinning, and the reason is no secret.”

A murmur rippled through the room. Heads turned, glances were exchanged. They knew. Everyone knew.

“Elijah Mikaelson,” Tristan added, his voice smooth and casual, as if he were discussing the weather. His eyes gleamed with a cruel delight. “The noble brother has gone rogue. It seems the death of his beloved has… unraveled him.”

"That's an interesting way of putting it," one Strix member commented, his voice dripping with disdain. "He ripped apart fifty of my men, left a trail of bodies and witnesses, it took me days to cover it all up,"

"And how many vampires has he killed since then? Hundreds? Thousands?" another voice chimed in, sounding bitter.

"You're just scared," another vampire challenged, his tone mocking.

"Of course, we're scared. Do you know what he's capable of?" the first vampire hissed, baring his teeth.

"Silence," Aya ordered, her tone icy. The room fell quiet, the air crackling with tension. "We cannot defeat him, nor can we sit by and wait for him to tear us apart. He has lost his humanity, and it's clear that we must take action."

"We have already taken action and all it does is piss him off," the Strix member grumbled, "I have no interest in fighting a losing battle."

"You're a coward," Aya snarled, her eyes flashing with anger.

"What would you have us do?" another vampire spoke up, their voice strained, "We're no match for him."

"Perhaps we should consider a bargain," Tristan suggested, a sly smirk creeping across his lips. "Find the killer, deliver them to him, and save ourselves the trouble of being murdered."

The members murmured amongst themselves, some seeming open to the idea, while others still appeared wary.

"I cannot fathom why someone would be so foolish. Surely the person who did this knows the repercussions," a member said, a hint of fear in their voice.

Tristan's smile widened. "They were foolish indeed, and now they are the most hunted man, or woman, in the world,"

Aya's face was impassive, her mind racing. She had no doubt that Elijah would tear down the world to find his killer, and if the Strix didn't deliver them, he would do the same to their ranks. Tristan's indifference infuriated her. While he sat there with a smile, the Strix were suffering the consequences of his poor leadership.

A soft little cough pulled her from her thoughts, and she looked up to see a small girl standing at the other end of the table. She looked no older than twelve, with delicate features and wide, doe-like eyes. She looked lost, and this wasn't a place you could just wander into.

Other members noticed her presence and got to their feet, the scraping of chairs echoing off the walls. Aya narrowed her eyes, taking in the girl's appearance.

"Who are you?" Aya asked, her voice sharp.

The girl was clearly terrified, her hands shaking, and she looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Aya found it strange. She didn't sense the power of a witch coming off her, she was just a girl, and a very young one at that.

"I-I'm sorry," the girl stammered, her voice barely a whisper, "I don't know why I'm here. I just woke up here and now, I-I'm scared,"

"How did you get in here?" Aya questioned, her voice low and menacing.

"A nice man told me to come here," the girl mumbled, her eyes darting around the room, taking in the tense, hostile atmosphere. "He wanted me to talk to you."

Aya raised an eyebrow. "And why would he want that?"

The girl shrugged, her eyes brimming with tears. "I don't know, please, I just want to go home,"

"What did he look like?" Aya pressed, her voice growing louder.

"He had dark hair, and brown eyes," the girl sniffled, trying to hold back her sobs.

Tristan's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing dangerously. The room was suddenly silent, the tension now unbearable. Aya stared at the girl, her face an unreadable mask, but inside, her mind was racing.

"What did he want you to say?" Aya asked, her voice quiet, dangerous.

The girl’s breath hitched, her words barely audible. "That... he will give all of you a slow death."

The temperature in the room plummeted, and a cold shiver ran down Aya’s spine. She struggled to hide her unease, but the implication was clear: Elijah had infiltrated their sanctuary.

"A-and that... if I can get in..." The girl gulped, her small voice quaking, "He can too."

The room fell into a suffocating silence as the weight of her words settled on the group. Tristan shot up from his chair, his face dark with fury.

“Lockdown procedures. Now.” Tristan barked, his voice commanding and harsh.

"What about the girl?" Aya asked, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the trembling child. Her instincts told her something wasn’t right.

"Kill her," Tristan spat, his voice cold and merciless. "She’s served her purpose."

The room erupted into chaos. Sirens blared as the compound went into immediate lockdown. The lights flickered, dimming to an eerie glow. The Strix moved quickly, vanishing into the shadows, their bodies blurring as they scattered, heading for safe rooms or exit points.

Aya hesitated for a moment, her gaze still fixed on the girl. She started toward her, but a voice in her head warned her against it. With one last glance, she turned and hurried toward the safe room.

The little girl stood trembling in the darkness, tears streaming down her face. The once-imposing vampires had fled, leaving her all alone in the icy silence.

"It's okay, sweetheart," a voice purred from the shadows, smooth and calming. The girl gasped, her heart racing as she felt a hand on her shoulder, firm yet oddly comforting.

She turned to see a tall man standing behind her, his dark hair framing his sharp features, his kind eyes watching her closely. "Run along now," he said softly, giving her a gentle push toward the door.

The girl nodded quickly, wiping her tears before scampering away, the door sliding shut behind her with a soft hiss.

Elijah watched her go, his kind smile fading as the room returned to darkness. His eyes glinted coldly, the warmth in them vanishing like smoke. Slowly, the veins beneath his eyes darkened, spreading like cracks in the surface of his calm exterior.

He was already inside.

As the sirens echoed, he vanished into the shadows once more, his presence like a gathering storm. And what followed this storm, was pure, unrelenting destruction.

The soft drone of a news broadcast drifted through an abandoned loft, dust floating through the air. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, the room dark and shadowy, save for the light of a flickering TV. The anchor woman's face was somber, her voice solemn.

“Une tragédie a frappé Paris la nuit dernière... un incendie dévastateur a détruit un immeuble historique, laissant peu de traces de ce qui s’y trouvait. Les autorités locales confirment que l’origine du feu demeure inconnue, mais la rapidité à laquelle il s’est propagé soulève des questions.”

Subtitles scrolled across the bottom of the screen in English: "A tragic accident struck Paris last night... a devastating fire destroyed a historic building, leaving few traces of what was inside. Local authorities confirm that the cause of the fire is unknown, but the speed at which it spread raises questions."

The camera cut to images of the smoldering wreckage. Blackened stone, twisted metal, and fire trucks still spraying water over what little remained.

Elijah wasn't paying attention to the TV anymore; he had his head in his hands, hunched over in a chair, his body wracked with sobs. Bodies were strewn about the room, blood spattered on the walls and floors. A macabre painting of violence and rage. The sight of the lifeless forms weighed heavily on him, a chilling reminder of his own actions.

He didn't know how long he had been there, but it felt like an eternity. Each day blended into the next, the hours stretching into a meaningless void. Days would go by where he felt utterly detached, lost in a sea of grief and loss, and then the anger would return, awakening him to a new trail of bodies. There were so many, too many, and yet it wasn't enough.

“Les témoins affirment avoir vu des ombres avant que l’incendie n’éclate, mais aucune preuve tangible n’a été trouvée. Des sources proches de l’enquête évoquent une possible attaque ciblée, bien que les détails restent flous.”

"Witnesses reported seeing shadows before the fire broke out, but no physical evidence has been found. Sources close to the investigation say there may have been a targeted attack, though details remain unclear."

"You used a child? My love, what has become of you?"

Elijah didn't flinch, didn't react as he felt your arms wrap around his shoulders, your lips pressing a gentle kiss on his cheek. Your voice was soft, tinged with sadness and disappointment. He hated himself for it.

"She's fine," Elijah said, his voice strained, barely able to meet your gaze.

"You don't know that," you sighed, your hands moving to his chest, trying to soothe him. "And you know this isn't the way,"

"There is no other way," he replied, his voice cracking, desperation lacing his words.

"You used an innocent child, one not much older than Hope," you said, a hint of anger breaking through your sadness.

Elijah stiffened. He knew you were right. It didn't make what he did any better, and he felt his self-loathing increase tenfold.

"They killed you; I did what I had to," Elijah defended, but the words felt hollow, a pitiful excuse.

"This isn't the way," you repeated, your voice pleading, "and you don't know who did it, or why. This is all just a guess, a hunch."

He let out another quiet sob, then grabbed his glass of blood and threw it against the wall, the shards falling like crimson rain. He stared at the stain on the wall, watching the liquid trickle down, and he couldn't help but feel a sick sense of satisfaction.

"You have to stop," you whispered, appearing in front of him, your hand cupping his cheek, trying to pull him away from the dark, destructive spiral he was on.

"I can't," he said, his voice breaking, unable to look at you, this ghost haunting him.

"Please," you begged, your hand moving to his neck, gently stroking his skin, trying to comfort him. "I know this pain. It's agony, it's consuming, but I promise you, it will fade."

He pulled you onto his lap, his arms wrapping around you, holding you close, trying to breathe in your scent, to feel your warmth. But he couldn't. You were an echo, a phantom he couldn't grasp.

"You can't bring me back. You know that," you whispered, your voice barely audible, a soft, sad reminder.

He didn't respond, just held you, his fingers digging into your skin, his eyes closed tightly, fighting back tears. He had spent so many nights like this, crying himself to sleep, waking up to nothing, just an empty bed, a cold room, and a hollow, broken heart.

He opened his eyes and let out a gasp as he realized he was clinging to one of the dead bodies on the floor, the vampire's skin gray and decaying, the body long since gone cold.

Elijah released the body and staggered to his feet, his head swimming with despair and self-loathing. His pain and sorrow gave way to anger and frustration, fueling the urge to hurt, to destroy anything and anyone.

"Par ailleurs, une jeune fille a disparu après ne pas être rentrée chez elle. La jeune fille, qui aurait douze ans, a été vue pour la dernière fois dans la zone de l'incendie,"

"In other news, a young girl has gone missing after failing to return home. The girl, who is reported to be twelve years old, was last seen in the area of the fire..."

Elijah snapped, grabbing the TV and throwing it against the wall, the sound of shattering glass echoing through the room. His rage burned bright, a hot, white flame. His heart raced, his breathing ragged, his body shaking with fury.

He wanted to scream, he wanted to kill, but more than anything, he wanted you. He wanted to hold you, to feel your warmth, to hear your voice. He couldn't take it anymore; he was falling apart.

Klaus was never a big croissant fan; he preferred something heartier for breakfast. But here, in France, the flaky pastry seemed to taste infinitely better. Maybe it was the morning sunlight filtering through the café windows or the distant sounds of bustling streets.

He took a sip of his espresso, his eyes scanning the crowded café, absorbing the lively atmosphere. Freya sat across from him, her brow furrowed as she read a spell book, her expression thoughtful.

"Anything in there about wrangling wayward siblings?" Klaus teased, a wry grin playing on his lips.

Freya glanced up, a slight frown creasing her forehead. "That's more your area of expertise."

Klaus let out a huff of laughter. "Fair enough."

Freya’s expression softened, a small smile breaking through. "It will be okay. We'll find him."

Klaus nodded, biting into his croissant, the flakes melting in his mouth. The clatter of dishes and murmurs of conversation surrounded them, along with the distant strains of a busker playing a violin.

"Then what? I’ve never known what to say to him," Klaus said, a hint of sadness in his voice. "He’s always the one with the wise words, not me."

"Honesty is all we have," Freya replied, her tone gentle. "We tell him we miss him, that he’s our brother, and we want him home."

"And that we need to have a funeral, or at least a memorial. Hope is very confused about what happened to her aunt," Klaus added, his gaze drifting to the people walking by the window.

"We'll do it together, as a family," Freya reassured, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. Her touch was gentle, a lifeline in the turmoil. "He needs to know we’re here for him."

"And if he doesn’t want to come back? What then?" Klaus asked, his voice heavy with concern.

"We will cross that bridge when we get to it." Freya pointed at the spell book, her expression brightening. "I’m looking into ways to calm his mind. Perhaps if he can control his rage, he can start to heal."

"I don’t wish to subdue him," Klaus said, frowning. "He deserves the right to his pain, to grieve in his own way."

Freya’s eyes widened, surprised by his response. It wouldn’t be the first time Klaus had tried to force Elijah or the rest of their family into doing things his way. Yet, despite his brashness, she knew Klaus was a man of deep, powerful emotions, capable of empathy.

"What?" Klaus asked, quirking an eyebrow at her.

"You’ve grown," Freya smiled. "It’s good to see."

"Don’t get used to it," Klaus quipped, taking another bite of his croissant and washing it down with a sip of his espresso. "I wish for us to go back to normal, where I’m the problem."

"You’ll never not be a problem, Nik," Freya grinned, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Rude," he scowled.

"But true," she sighed, returning to her book with a smile.

Klaus took another sip of his espresso, his gaze drifting to the TV hanging in the corner. A news broadcast caught his attention, the images of a fire flickering on the screen. He leaned forward, his expression sharpening as he listened intently.

"De nouvelles informations proviennent de l'enquête sur l'incendie du centre-ville de Paris. La police a désormais identifié plus de deux cents corps retrouvés sur les lieux, sans aucune indication pour l'instant du nombre de personnes portées disparues. Il semblerait que les victimes étaient toutes membres de une société privée de conservation d'œuvres d'art, possédant des participations dans plusieurs pays. Alors que les autorités enquêtent toujours sur la cause de l'incendie, il a été suggéré que l'incendie avait été allumé délibérément.”

"There is new information coming in from the investigation into the fire in downtown Paris. Police have now identified more than two hundred bodies recovered from the scene, with no indication yet of how many are still missing. It's believed the victims were all members of a private art curation company, with holdings in several countries. While authorities are still investigating the cause of the blaze, it's being suggested the fire was set deliberately."

Klaus’s stomach dropped, a familiar dread creeping in. The timing was too convenient, and this 'art curation company' sounded like a cover for a secret society. He gestured to the screen, espresso still in hand, splashing a few drops onto the table. "Looks like a place for us to visit, wouldn’t you say?"

Freya looked up, her brow furrowing. "Do you think Elijah has anything to do with it?"

"If this organization is the Strix -sorry, was the Strix- then absolutely," Klaus replied, a grim smile forming on his lips. "Perhaps they gave him the answers he was looking for. Answers we weren’t able to find."

"I can’t imagine it would have been a pleasant reunion," Freya sighed, shaking her head. "I can’t say I blame him."

Klaus’s smile faded. He had tried his best, searching for months through the ashes of Elijah’s rage. He had gone from city to city, country to country, even continent to continent. And now, as he stood on the brink of discovery, he couldn’t help but wonder what condition Elijah would be in when they finally found him.

"Well then, no point in wasting any more time," Klaus said, taking a final sip of his espresso.

Freya nodded, closing her book, quickly downing her coffee before stealing the last bite of Klaus’s croissant, earning a playful glare.

"Oi!" he growled, "I was going to eat that."

"Too slow, brother," she smirked.

Klaus rolled his eyes and stood, tossing a wad of cash on the table without bothering to count. The two of them hurried out, the waiter shaking his head as he picked up the money and Klaus's empty plate.

"Americans," he muttered under his breath.

The site of the fire was a blackened husk, the acrid smell of smoke still heavy in the air. Klaus and Freya walked along the sidewalk, watching the firefighters douse the smoldering remains with water. Distant sirens echoed, a haunting reminder of the chaos that had unfolded.

"Can't believe it's still burning," Klaus mused, a slight frown on his face.

"Must have been quite the inferno," Freya remarked, her expression thoughtful.

"Magic?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, I don't sense any," Freya said, shaking her head. "Whoever started it didn't use magic."

Klaus glanced at her, a smirk on his lips. "I thought you didn't think Elijah had anything to do with it?"

Freya shrugged. "Maybe he did, maybe he didn't."

Klaus wrinkled his nose, his keen sense of smell picking up the lingering scent of blood beneath all the ash and smoke. Human, vampire, a mix of the two. The fire had raged through the night, burning hot and fast, devouring everything in its path.

"I do sense death, though," Freya murmured, her brow furrowing, her expression darkening. "Lots of it."

"Well, I can't imagine there'll be much left for us to find, considering how thorough my brother is," Klaus muttered, his gaze roving over the ruined buildings, his stomach sinking.

"Why are you so sure it was him?" Freya asked, her eyes narrowing.

"Because I can smell his cologne, no1 passant guardant," Klaus replied, wrinkling his nose.

"Kinda weird that you can smell that, Nik," Freya smirked, giving him a sideways glance.

"I'm a hybrid, love; it's one of my many gifts," Klaus replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

Freya shook her head, a wry grin on her lips, suppressing a giggle as she watched her brother sniff the air, his eyes closed, his expression one of intense concentration.

"Could be someone else with the same taste in cologne; you never know," she teased, nudging him with her elbow.

"It’s very difficult to come by; only a handful of stores carry it," Klaus muttered, ignoring her teasing. "And... she bought it for him just before... you know."

"Ah," Freya's expression softened, her amusement replaced by a mix of sadness and understanding.

Klaus opened his eyes, his gaze sweeping over the destruction once more, the weight of grief settling on his shoulders. He missed you. Your laughter, your wit, the way you could put him in his place. He admired your loyalty, your strength, and how much you loved his brother.

"What are you thinking about?" Freya asked, her voice quiet and cautious.

"Our departed sister-in-law... the cause of all of this," Klaus said, a sad smile on his lips.

"You can't blame her, you know," Freya murmured, her eyes filled with understanding and sympathy. "I miss her too."

"It's hard to be reminded, is all," Klaus replied, a hint of pain in his voice.

Freya gave him a soft, sympathetic smile, her hand gently squeezing his shoulder. "You know... I never learned how they met," she said, trying to steer the conversation toward something less melancholy.

Klaus laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, it's quite a tale, and some parts I'm not privy to. But I can tell you that she was a novice in a convent," he began, a sparkle in his eye.

"A nun?!" Freya exclaimed, her eyebrows shooting up.

"Indeed, although she hadn't taken her vows," Klaus chuckled, amused by the surprised look on her face.

"So, what happened? How did they end up together?" Freya asked, intrigued.

"For all parties involved, it was quite a dramatic affair," Klaus continued, a wistful smile forming on his lips. "But we have more important things to focus on, don't you think?"

Freya sighed, rolling her eyes. "You're no fun."

Klaus let out a huff of laughter and returned to focusing on the scents around him, trying to find a trail, something that might lead him to his brother. He caught the faintest whiff of blood, the scent leading away from the fire, and deeper into the city.

"This way," he said, striding confidently down a street, away from the site of the fire.

Freya hurried to catch up, her long legs making short work of the distance, her boots clattering on the cobblestone streets.

"How can you be so sure?" Freya asked, falling in step beside him, her voice low and cautious.

"I just am," Klaus said, his tone brooking no argument. "That bloody cologne of his is everywhere. No one else has such atrocious taste in fragrances."

"Nik..." Freya cautioned, her tone warning, her gaze flickering to the passersby, making sure no one was eavesdropping. "We don't know what's waiting for us. We can't just charge in."

"I know; that's why you are going in first, my dear sister," Klaus smirked, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Nik," Freya protested, her expression indignant.

"Don't worry, I'll be right behind you," Klaus grinned, giving her a playful nudge as they rounded a corner.

The two of them came to a stop outside an old building, its stone façade crumbling, the windows boarded up. Klaus gestured for Freya to go in, and with a roll of her eyes, she did.

"This place is creepy," she muttered, her boots echoing on the cracked tile floor.

"There's blood, a lot of it," Klaus said, sniffing the air, his eyes closed, his body tensed. "Upstairs."

They made their way up an old spiral staircase, the steps creaking under their feet. They reached a landing; the hallway was dark and narrow.

"Down there," Klaus said, pointing at a closed door at the end of the hall.

Freya nodded and slowly approached the door, her senses alert, her magic tingling under her skin. It was eerily quiet; the silence weighed heavy in the air, pressing down on her.

She stopped at the door, her hand hovering over the handle. She looked back at Klaus, his expression calm and composed, but she could sense his nervousness, his apprehension.

"Ready?" she whispered.

Klaus gave her a curt nod. Freya took a deep breath and turned the handle, the door opening with a creak.

"Elijah?"

The two of them were met with the sight of a massacre: body parts strewn across the room, blood splattered on the walls.

Freya gasped and took a step back, Klaus's hand gripping her shoulder. His eyes roved over the carnage, landing on a lone figure in the middle of the room, standing motionless.

"Elijah," Klaus breathed.

His brother was wearing an old T-shirt and jeans, tattered and bloodstained, covered in dirt. His hair was matted and wild, his eyes haunted, the light dimmed within them.

Klaus and Freya stepped inside, careful not to slip on the blood, the floor sticky and wet. They approached Elijah slowly, his gaze fixed on the severed arm in his hand, his eyes dull and lifeless.

"Brother?" Klaus said, his voice barely above a whisper, his hand reaching out.

"You are not real," Elijah murmured, not taking his eyes off the limb, his expression vacant and distant.

"Elijah, we're here," Freya said gently. "It's time to come home."

"I won't be fooled again," Elijah hissed, his grip tightening on the severed arm.

Klaus took a tentative step forward, one arm stretched behind him to protect Freya, the other held out, placating and non-threatening. "We're not illusions, brother," he said softly, reassuringly.

"Freya," Elijah breathed, his head snapping up, his gaze finding hers.

"Yes, Elijah, it's me," she replied, giving him a gentle smile.

He blinked, his eyes flicking from her face to Klaus's, his brow furrowing. "Have you found a way to bring her back?"

Klaus and Freya exchanged glances, their expressions sad and resigned. It wasn't something Freya wanted to do... to tap into such dark magic. She had been searching for you on the other side but found no trace. She believed you had found peace, and to tear you away from that would be a cursed, evil thing, an affront to the balance between life and death.

"Elijah, there's no way, not without consequence," Klaus said, his tone firm, his eyes filled with regret. "We discussed this."

Elijah dropped the severed arm, his hands clenching into fists. "You're wrong. There is a way."

"Elijah," Freya began, but he cut her off.

"Bring her back," he demanded, his eyes burning with intensity.

"I can't," Freya said, her voice quiet and regretful. "I'm sorry, Elijah. She's gone; she's at rest."

"No, no, no," Elijah growled, his hands coming up to grip his hair, tugging at the roots, his chest heaving, eyes wild.

"Brother, she's in a better place," Klaus tried, his tone firm and reassuring. "I think it's time you come home... You need to let her go."

Elijah shook his head, his breathing ragged, his whole body trembling. "No, no, no," he chanted, his eyes darting around the room, looking for something.

"Elijah," Freya murmured, her brow furrowed, her expression concerned. "Please, come with us. She wouldn't want this for you."

"No, no, no!" he growled, his voice echoing off the blood-spattered walls, his face contorted in a mask of rage.

He grabbed a nearby table and threw it against the wall, the sound of splintering wood reverberating through the air.

"Bloody hell," Klaus growled, grabbing Freya and yanking her backward, shielding her with his body.

Elijah lunged at them, his fangs bared, a murderous look in his eyes. He tackled Klaus, sending them both crashing into the wall, the plaster cracking under the impact.

"Nik!" Freya exclaimed, her magic sparking at her fingertips.

"Elijah, you've gone mad," Klaus grunted, shoving him away, sending him careening across the room. "She's dead."

"Niklaus," Elijah growled, his body vibrating with anger, the haunted, hollow look in his eyes replaced by raw, unhinged rage. "Bring. Her. Back."

"We can't, and you know it," Klaus spat, his eyes flashing yellow, his face shifting into the hybrid’s feral features. "She's at peace, Elijah. We need to let her go."

"I won't, I can't," Elijah raged, his body trembling, his eyes filling with unshed tears that threatened to spill over. His voice broke. "How can you ask me to do that?"

Freya’s heart clenched at the sight of her brother unraveling, his usual restraint shattered. "Come home, please," Freya pleaded, her eyes welling with tears, her voice thick with desperation. "We can help you."

Elijah's chest heaved, his wild eyes shifting from Klaus to Freya, barely recognizing them. "Get out," he growled, the words vibrating through the bloodstained room. His gaze locked on Klaus, his voice turning into a vicious snarl. "GET OUT!"

Klaus stared at him for a moment, his expression conflicted. Freya watched him pull a silver dagger out of his pocket, the familiar glint of the cursed weapon that had subjugated their family time and time again. She hadn't even known he had brought one with him, and her heart clenched at the sight. She didn’t want this for either of them. But given Elijah's state, she knew it was necessary.

"I'm sorry, Elijah," Klaus said, his voice solemn. He rushed forward, his movements a blur, and before Elijah could react, he buried the blade in his brother’s chest. The gasp Elijah let out echoed in the empty, ravaged room. The look on his face was heartbreaking, a mixture of shock and pain. Klaus had to steel himself against the emotion threatening to overtake him, reminding himself it was for the best, for all of them.

"Rest now, brother," Klaus murmured, pulling him into a tight embrace, cradling his body as Elijah slumped, his strength leaving him. His big brother, the north star of the family, now lost to grief.

"I thought you didn't want to subdue him," Freya whispered, her voice shaky, her eyes wide with shock as she pressed a trembling hand against her mouth.

"It was a last resort," Klaus said, his voice thick with emotion, trying and failing to hide the crack in his composure. "I couldn't bear seeing him like this any longer. I didn't think... he would be so... unhinged."

"He's grieving," Freya said softly, her eyes filled with sympathy as she knelt beside them, brushing a hand through Elijah’s matted hair. "He loves her, Nik. Losing her... it's broken him."

"I know," Klaus muttered, his arms tightening around Elijah, holding him close as if he could protect him from the demons he was fighting inside. His voice cracked, and before he could stop it, a tear slipped down his cheek. Quickly, he wiped it away, trying to maintain his strength.

"Time to go home," Klaus said, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with sorrow. "For all of us."

Freya reached out, gently taking Elijah's limp hand in hers, squeezing it tight as they prepared to leave the nightmare behind. She hoped and prayed that Elijah could feel her love through the numbness, that somewhere, deep within the wreckage of his mind, he knew they would never give up on him.

That the battle to bring you back hadn’t been in vain. It had only just begun.

{Part Two}{Part Three}{Part Four}{Part Five}{Part Six}

[authorred]

Frostbitten | Li Shen/Zayne x reader | Love and Deepspace

➺ Preface: Taking a trip with Zayne up to the snowy mountains was something you were looking forward to. Spending time with him and taking a break from your busy schedules are what you both need. But halfway through your trip, the aether core in your heart acts up, and your weakened heart begins to give.

➺ I was inspired by the one scene in Zayne's branched route trailer where he runs up to MC and carries her when she collapses TEEHEEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE IT'S SO HOT SEEING MEN WORRY LIKE THAT HOOOYYY MMMMYYYYY GAAAWWWOOUUURRRDDDDDD

➺ Part 2

Warning(s): As angsty as I can make it. You almost die, good luck

As you step off of the train and onto the slightly snowy platform, you stretch your limbs and take in a deep breath. “Ah, finally,” you sigh in relief. “It’s no fun being cramped in a booth seat for three hours with nothing to do.”

Zayne comes up behind you wordlessly, carrying the few bags you brought with you on the trip. “Impatient as always,” he says. “Like a child.”

“I should’ve brought my laptop but I decided not to in the moment,” you sigh again. “I should’ve brought it for the actual travel time. Now I feel restless.”

“There’s plenty of things to do while we’re here,” Zayne assures. “It’s a small village, but I’m confident that you’ll find something that piques your interest. It’s rather easy to do.”

You roll your eyes and grab a bag from Zayne’s arm to help him. “Yeah, yeah, okay. I get it. I have the attention span of a goldfish.”

“Not quite a goldfish. Perhaps a small dog or a bird.”

You playfully shove him and his body follows through, stumbling a step or two away. You know he could’ve resisted a bit more, easily, but where’s the fun in that? “Shut up and let’s go already. We got a cabin waiting for us.” With that, you begin to stalk off in the direction of the station exit. Zayne doesn’t say anything and trails behind you like a shadow.

~

The cabin is much nicer than you originally thought. A cozy lounge, a small kitchen and dining area, and a loft upstairs with only one bed ;). There’s a nice fireplace in front of the small sofa with firewood already sat inside of it. It smells slightly of the outside trees, wood, and some hints of smoke.

“Oh, this is nice,” you say, placing your bags on the floor in the foyer. “Cozy and warm. I wonder if the kitchen is filled.”

“Just like you to be thinking of food.”

“It’s getting close to lunch—can you blame me?” You throw him a look over your shoulder before bouncing into the small, but homey kitchen. After inspecting all the cabinets and the small refrigerator you can see some left over nonperishables, bottles of water, pots and pans, and other miscellaneous items. “Mm, seems we’ll have to go into town if we want to actually eat food,” you say. “I’m glad it’s not that far from here.”

Zayne joins you in the kitchen and glances around. “It certainly is quaint,” he says. “Not bad.”

~

After an hour you and Zayne manage to make a small lunch just enough to tide you over. Afterwards you were planning to walk to the town store to buy more groceries for a proper dinner.

Halfway through your small lunch, you pause your eating. You take a moment, shifting and adjusting your body, rolling your shoulders out. You feel an uncomfortable feeling in your chest—as if the muscles are contracting. It’s a small point of discomfort but one you can’t ignore.

Zayne eyes you curiously, giving you a moment to assess whatever it is that’s wrong. After a few seconds of slight discomfort on your face he asks, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” you reply. “Just a weird feeling is all. Maybe I haven’t stretched enough. It feels like a cramp.”

“Where?”

“My chest.” You subconsciously rub where there’s pain, your fingers gently massaging into the skin above your heart. Immediately, Zayne’s face drops in concern.

“Do you have pain in your jaw or left arm? Do you feel tired? Nauseous?”

“What?” You blink at him. “No. It feels like a cramp. I probably didn’t stretch enough after my shift yesterday.”

Zayne doesn’t relax, though he takes your word for it. “I see,” he replies quietly. “Stretching after strenuous exercise is important in keeping muscles from straining or tearing. And to reduce soreness. Please make sure to do it whenever you can.”

You nod, the pain fading, but never disappearing. “I know. I will. After this I’ll do a few stretches and see if it helps.”

~

Despite your earlier complaint of having chest pain, you still insisted on taking a walk to the town store. Zayne was hesitant, preferring to do it himself or to make sure you’re okay. But your insistence won out, and now you two are traipsing down a beautiful snowy trail to the town.

“It’s so beautiful here,” you say. “Cold, but beautiful. Snowy mountains and terrain are always so picturesque.”

Zayne hums in agreement and looks around at the surrounding area before turning his head to look at you, who’s admiring the distant mountains. His gaze is uncharacteristically soft. “Some things truly are beautiful no matter what.”

You let out a chuckle and nod, still unaware of his eyes on you. “Yeah, it is.”

Halfway through your walk, you start to slow. You pause, taking a moment to breathe. It’s hard to breathe. Like you can’t catch your breath. Every time you attempt to take a deep inhale it’s like your body is stopping you. Dread wells up inside of you but youl try to calm yourself down. The pain in your chest that never fully stopped blooms again, and your face scrunches up in slight discomfort. You take a step back, attemping to collect yourself from the sudden slap of lightheadedness that just hit you.

Zayne stops a few feet away from you and turns, his face scrunching up in concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Zayne, I don’t feel good. . .” You start to stumble, and Zayne immediately strides over to you. You reach your hand out to which he grasps tightly. He cradles your cheek in his other hand and looks down at you. His eyes flit over your face, taking in your expression and current physical condition. Your complexion is completely off, and you’re on the verge of losing consciousness. Your vision is blurry and you can make out his face through the lightheaded haze. Your chest hurts a lot.

Without a word, Zayne picks you up bridal style and begins to march back to the cabin. His brows are furrowed in determination and worry, lips pressed in a thin line. He’s not dumb. He knows what it is—it’s your heart. Most likely cardiac arrest from all the issues you have regarding it. He needs to get you medical attention—immediately. If he doesn’t, then—

Zayne shakes his head, clearing it of any unnecessary thought. His focus is making sure you’re okay. His steps are driven forward with the single thought of keeping you alive; heavy and steady. The nearest hospital to the cabin is close to 40 minutes away. He prays to whatever god there is to keep you from death in that time.

“Zayne,” you rasp out, your vision beginning to grow bright and contrasting. “My heart hurts.”

“I know,” Zayne replies softly, walking up the wooden porch of the cabin. “Hang on. Everything will be okay.”

You don’t realize you fall unconscious until the sense of impending doom vanishes.

~

Everything that could go wrong did go wrong. The aether core in your heart destabilized and that caused your heart to give. Fluctuations of your evol forced your body to become unstable, and therefore unpredictable. Zayne managed to contact help but by the time it arrived your body was under so much stress from your heart growing weak, that it became borderline dangerous to perform any intervention on you.

Zayne is but a cardiologist. As brilliant as he is, this is not something within his realm. He knows about Protocore Syndrome and how it can affect the body and the cardiovascular system, but never before has it evolved in turning you into an unstable core yourself.

They had no choice but to intubate and isolate you. Specialists who had an idea of what’s going on said you very well could be a ticking time bomb (you can imagine how that went over with Zayne). Your body pulses and glows, following the veins in your flesh and circling around your heart like koi fish. It would be beautiful, if not for the fact you could possibly explode in a flux of evol so strong you could level the area.

Zayne watches from the observation mezzanine, his brows tightly knit together. He can feel his ice begin to spread across his neck and shoulders, the feeling a burning cold that forces him to look away from you. Taking a few deep breaths, he forces the ice to recede. It hurts. It always does. But he can’t help it. He can’t stop.

His eyes slowly slide back over to you. He knew he should’ve pushed you to take care of yourself more—or done it himself. Why didn’t he do it? Why do you never listen? He knew your heart wasn’t strong to begin with and yet you became a Hunter, go on dangerous missions, ignore instructions. . . something has to be wrong. There has to be a disconnect.

Is it him? Is he too cold? Too detached? If you die—

If you die. . . what then?

Zayne stands there for a moment before turning his head and walking from the observation window. He has a meeting to attend to; one that will decide on how to proceed with this issue. On how to care for you.

His Hunter will not die. Not under his care. Not while he’s alive.

[toon-tales]

Here it is! Part three! Omg, I'm so excited for this!

Let's begin!

Ok, so, I know a lot of people say that Poppy hasn't changed a lot in the third movie but let me stop you right there!

Here's our girl, our happy-go-lucky queen cutely dressed and if I may, waiting for her boyfriend to compliment her looks like he always does

But then she notices something is wrong

You can see in the third pic, she was thinking how to approach the matter, because this, after all, is her boyfriend's old home, where he used to live with his grandmother. And in the fourth pic, her brows are even more furrowed

And here, oh my gosh this scene:

Can we look at Poppy, PLEASE?!

She's paying her full attention to Branch. She wants him to talk, to open up to her. HER EYES ARE FILLED WITH HOPE SHE'S ENCOURAGING HIM TO TALK TO HER

Skip, skip, skip, skiiiiiip, annnndddd here:

"I'm not hearing no!"

Branch doesn't look sad, he doesn't look mad, he doesn't look scared, he doesn't look uncomfortable, and most importantly, he doesn't look forced

True, Poppy was all "We are so in!", but unlike in Twt, she actually listened to Branch when he wanted to talk to her, and Branch actually talked when something he didn't like was going on. Do you even see how much they've grown?

Now, Poppy knows how hard life is without a sibling, and she doesn't want her boyfriend to just take his family for granted. Her heart was in the right place, people

And Branch didn't say no! He didn't refuse! They talked, different opinions and different thoughts and different mindsets, yet they worked things out

And yeah, I know Branch was probably thinking 'what have I gotten myself into' in this scene

But the entire movie was just Branch having issues and dealing with them. And Poppy was trying to help him. Also, in case you haven't noticed, things do not work out the way Poppy has imagined, just like in Twt, but the difference? Later, she didn't leave Branch alone to go save Floyd, she went with him. Now, I hear you saying: she went because Branch didn't say anything to her, while they fought in Twt, that's why she left him

Wrong!

Let me remind you that Branch lied to her, kept things from her, kept his feelings from her, didn't open up, and literally was being sarcastic and you can see she was hurt in this scene

And they're in a new relationship which Branch is already beginning with hiding stuff, yet she put all that behind because -I'm not gonna say boyfriend - the man she loved, needed her. So, yeah. She's changed

Takes a deep breath

Now, let's move on, shall we?

I just wanted to point out how Poppy was looking at Branch when he was trying to yet again hide his feelings. She knows what's up

Moving on to this scene:

The way she's telling them to include Branch? The pure happiness and excitement on her face for him! PLEASE?! May I remind you that SHE WASN'T SINGING WITH THEM BUT WAS THIS HAPPY FOR BRANCH?!

Now, I've already talked about the scenes I'm going to talk about now in the analysis posts, but I'm gonna copy-paste them here because I don't want you people going to those posts, then return to this one and lose your focus and vibe

You have Branch, whose brothers' return has reopened scars he's been trying to close for so long, and has just found out his brother is being held captive, and is now in a rescue mission to save him and sing the perfect family harmony, the same thing that they failed miserably at the last time so they walked out and never talked to each other again, comforting his girlfriend. Poppy needed time, needed him, and he was ready to give her all the time she needed and stay with her. Proof? He didn't move until she has left first, ensuring she was ready to leave

Then we have Poppy, who has just found out her boyfriend has been hiding secrets from her, and watched as he reluctantly agreed to reunite with his brothers, and discovered she had a sister that she knew n o t h i n g about, and that this sister was so afraid to leave her safe place and go with her, deciding to go help Branch save his brother. She took one last glance at the walls separating her from Viva, then walked towards Rhonda, silently signaling she was ready to leave.

They were both dealing with stuff, needed time to open up/stay, yet each one thought of the other

Then this scene was SOMETHING ELSE-

"Where are you going?"

"To save Floyd, alone. I didn't need them growing up and I don't need them now." He didn't even look back when he said, "What are you doing?"

And the look of disbelief on her face. "What do you mean? I'm coming with you!"

He literally gave her a blind eye, didn't look at her. He didn't want to get weak. "Why bother? Aren't you gonna leave me eventually anyway?" He was certain. He didn't wait for any reassurances because he didn't want to hear any and live a lie again. "Everyone else does."

But despite that, Poppy did NOT give up on him

"I have been by your side from the moment we've met, and you've been by mine. Let's give each other some credit here."

'and you've been by mine' this wasn't about her, but about THEM. This line has so much depth and meaning for their relationship

"You're right, I'm sorry. Thank you."

He started with the apology because he knew what he just said was WRONG. He knew she wasn't leaving, they've always been there for each other. And I don't think he thanked her for coming, maybe for reminding him? I mean, that's Branch we're talking about, he would surely have thoughts and insecurities about people leaving him

But Poppy's always there to remind him that she's always there

His mission is her mission. She was willingly going for an insane rescue mission, and face people BRANCH HIMSELF didn't know anything about, all the while trying to deal with the separation between her and Viva. But she was going with him. Because that's just them

All they wanted was for the other to be happy

And in the end? It worked out just fine

So, to sum up this post, and the previous two: no, Branch isn't perfect like we claim, nor Poppy is, too. Hiding things? Sure, that happens. Lying? Happens as well. Disagreements? Oh, yeah, lots of those. But in the end of the day? They work things out

Branch is perfect for Poppy, and Poppy is perfect for Branch

That's just love, and it doesn't have to be perfect all the time

Sooooo, that's it? Omg that was fuuuun!

Anyway, as usual, feel free to add or comment on anything!

Part one

Part two

[raineandsky]

Heeey what’s up?XD i’ve got an idea which’s not letting me sleep in the night, I would be so happy if you wrote something like this. So basically: villain gets badly injured and supervillain leaves him behind, because villain is no more use in this state. He lies on his bed waiting for death to come and take him, also questioning his every decision that had led to this situation . When hero finds him, villain tells him to finish it quickly, he’s not even resisting . But instead hero brings his nemesis home with him, takes care of him and overall acts nice, which makes villain doubt his own sanity for a second.

Bonus points if hero tried to mock the villain(friendly ofc), expecting him to snap back, but instead villain just accepted it, making hero even more worried

Sorry if it’s too specific (*o*)💞

oooouuugghhhhh i have a soft spot for this kinda dynamic........ this was fun, thank you for the request!

tw: near death, blood

-

It’s close.

The villain can feel it. The pain is ebbing, the world is fading. A light chill is slowing blanketing him the closer he falls to the narrow edge of existence.

It’s a miracle he made it here at all, frankly, but the noise outside is a pleasant distraction from having to think about any of what brought him here. The quiet hum of the city below, the birds twittering on the branches outside his window, the door down the hall clicking shut, the chatter of the people on the street below, the—

Was that his door?

Any other day, the villain would’ve leapt up and taken the intruder on with his bare hands. But today is not any other day, and he can only watch as his bedroom door silently swings open.

Damn, he knew he shouldn’t have oiled those hinges last week.

“Oh,” the hero says faintly from the doorway, as if he’s surprised to find the villain in his own house. “You’re not looking so good.”

The villain lets out a sarcastic wheeze that sends a surge of pain through his chest. “I wonder whose fault that is.”

The hero approaches the bed, almost nervous, and the villain can see his nemesis’s favourite weapon tucked at his side, the metal protruding from his hip like it’s part of him. Maybe it is. It certainly seemed like it when it turned on the villain before.

The hero tsks humourously, the sound almost lost on the villain deafened ears entirely. “Those are the words of someone who didn’t dodge fast enough.”

“Can we stop dancing now and get to the good bit?” It’s intended to be sharp, harsh, but the lack of energy makes it come out like he’s begging. As if the villain ever would. “It’s a little unprofessional to follow your enemies home, but I think this might be for the best.”

“Oh, would you like me to fix you a drink while you bleed out, sir?” The hero breathes laugh, his usual grin worming teasingly onto his face. “Read you one last bedtime story?”

It’s a beautiful set up from the hero, really. On any other day, the villain would’ve laughed in his face and accepted either of those offers before putting him in the ground. Today is not any other day, so the villain just sighs and simply says, “I’d like you to put me out my misery.”

The grin on the hero’s face, patiently awaiting the usual retort, slips. The villain can barely find it in himself to put a name to the emotion his nemesis is slowly falling into.

“[Villain], wh—” The first flickers of uncertainty from the hero the villain’s ever seen. “I can’t do that. You know that’s against my hero’s code.”

“Eh, well,” the villain manages from behind halting breaths, “maybe it’d work out better for us both if you were the bad guy for once.”

The hero’s eyes flick over the villain’s face, then the crimson halo slowly seeping into the sheets, then, for some reason, at an ornate watch on his wrist.

“Alright,” he says confidently, like he’s just concocted a perfect plan in those three seconds. “Alright, I have fifteen minutes before the Agency starts asking where I’ve gone. Can you walk?”

“You can shoot me lying down, [Hero], I’m not wasting the last of my life obeying your orders.”

“It’s not an order, you moron,” the hero snaps, somehow gentle and annoyed at the same time. “It’s a request, and this is definitely not the last of your stupid, badly-spent life. Come on.”

-

Five days pass in what the villain assumes is the hero’s house. Not a decision the villain would’ve made, but he’s had five more days to judge the man about it than if he hadn’t made that decision, so really he can’t say too much on it.

The hero’s been in and out, much like the villain’s consciousness. A bandage here, a bowl of food there. Soft words, softer touches. When the villain meets him with more clarity and finds a smirk on the idiot’s face, his first worry is that he’s said something nice in his half-alive stupor.

“You’re more awake than you were,” the hero comments idly. “That’s good. Up to eating?”

The villain stares at his reflection in the soup the hero’s holding out to him. The blood caking his face before is gone, the giant gash the villain remembers the hero giving him barely a pink line now.

He’s better. Maybe the villain isn’t as awake as he thought, because this treatment, from the hero of all people, is rather charming.

He takes the bowl slowly, giving it a sniff. “Is it poisoned?”

“You’re definitely back!” The hero laughs, his smile wide and bright, and the villain almost smiles too. “No, it’s not poisoned. It’s not too flavourful, and the veg in it is nice and soft. Take your time.”

The villain brings the bowl to his lips and takes a sip of the broth. The hero wasn’t lying—tame, light, and not tasting even slightly of arsenic. “Thanks.”

It doesn’t sound natural to the villain’s ears, but the hero beams like it’s exactly what he wanted to hear.

The two of them sit in silence as the villain slowly works the soup down until it’s just a couple of carrots floating in a rather meagre sea. It’s warmed him nicely, woken him up a little. This care isn’t something the villain’s earned. Why is the hero doing this? Why is it making him so soft?

He’s been slowly planning his question, the obvious one, the one that’s been bothering him since the hero hoisted him out of bed and into recovery like he deserved it.

This question, carefully planned in the villain’s head, comes out as a rather pathetic, “Why would you do that?”

The hero shrugs, shaking his head slightly. “Any other day, I wouldn’t,” he offers with a light smile. “But it wasn’t any other day, and I felt like giving you another try.”

The villain nods and looks back into his soup. The hero, after a moment of awkward silence, adds, “Is that okay?”

Maybe any other day it wouldn’t have been. But today isn’t like any other day.

The villain shoots him an awkward smile and hero returns it cheerfully. Maybe this is the day he finally lets a hero win.

[slytherin-pen]

Season of Shadows II

paring: Azriel x OC!Ivy

word count: 6.5k

warnings: aftermath of war, burning of dead child (not mc), mentions of dead people, protective Az

a/n: i went crazy with the word count on this one, whoops! things are gearing up though!!

Part 1

Ivy sat in front of her vanity as she swept half of her blonde hair away from her face and braided it. Today she was traveling to the Spring Court with Azriel, and as she got ready, she tried to ignore how her knee bounced or hands shook. Whether out of anxiety or excitement, she couldn’t quite decipher.

The last time she went to Spring she was alone. Completely, utterly alone. Sure, she had been with the Inner Circle for six months by then, but she didn’t know them that well. Ivy still didn’t feel she could claim to know them. Compared to their 500-year-old friendships and their mating bonds, Ivy felt like a stranger living in their home. She couldn’t even call herself a roommate as she, shamefully, didn’t pay any rent. Rhysand refused to accept any money from her and smoothed it over by stating it was only logical she kept her money while she saved up for an apartment of her own. Not that Rhysand hadn’t offered that Ivy could stay permanently at the House of Wind, but she never had the chance to live on her own, and what better time for firsts than while living in a new city?

Ivy smoothed her tunic as she padded over to the window facing the streets of Velaris. She still couldn’t believe it was real. Fitting for a secret city that outsiders weren’t supposed to know about. Outsider. Ivy banished that thought. She fought alongside them—lack of fighting skills be damned. She stayed out of the way, thankfully her magic worked long range and was more of an assist than anything, but she was there. And she protected this city just as they had. She belonged here. Once she had an apartment, it would feel more permanent, she’s sure of it.

She grabbed her brown leather satchel off the dresser and triple-checked that she packed everything they would need for today. Ivy had something up her sleeve for today, and the fact he was the Spymaster made her feel less confident in her ability to keep it a secret. Nothing got past Azriel. Not that he needed to be expertly skilled in reading people to know that when she couldn’t bite down a smile or a nervous giggle, she was lying through her teeth. Ivy never lied about anything serious, of course, but trying to outsmart the Spymaster became a bit of a game between them. Well, it’s a game for Ivy. She wasn’t sure if Azriel was aware of his participation or not, but the idea of him playing along made it all the more fun.

It started simply with moving an item out of place to see if he would notice. Of course he did. Ivy supposed a three-branch candlestick meant to be the table centerpiece wasn’t the most subtle object, but she took on the challenge valiantly. Next, it was swapping the side of his plate the silverware was on, rearranging the pillows on the couch, and replacing his book about war tactics on the table beside the armchair he favorites with a romance novel. She always waited for him to step away, then rushed to move the targeted object before placing herself back in her previous position. Hair swooshing as the air blew past her and cheeks flushed with a childlike glee, she’d cross her legs and pick up the book she was pretending to read. Whenever Azriel questioned her about the obvious difference, she’d feign ignorance and joke about house faeries. Ivy suspected he had caught onto the game when his brief exits became more frequent and he seemed to come back right as she finished patting down her hair. Almost as if he had been waiting for her.

A knock on the guest room door pulled her from her thoughts. Ivy fixed the satchel strap over her shoulder and turned the knob. “Hey, you,” she smiled warmly.

Azriel stood in the doorway, his wings slightly unfurled and shadows swirling casually on his shoulders. The morning sun reflected off his Illyrian leathers and cobalt siphons, as if freshly cleaned.

He returned the smile as his eyes roamed over her appearance. A pale pink tunic tucked into black pants, her feet clad in black riding boots. The perfect mix of her old Spring Court and new Night Court wardrobe. “Ready for an adventure?”

“You have no clue what I have in store for you, Shadowsinger,” Ivy drawled as she brushed past him towards the stairs, flicking blonde strands over her shoulder as she walked.

“That sounds awfully ominous, Miss Meadows. Should I be concerned for my safety?” he asked as he followed her down the stairs.

As Ivy entered the dining room, she greedily sniffed the aroma of pancakes and cinnamon porridge. “The only time you should be concerned for your safety around me is if I’m hungry, but thankfully our wonderful High Lord has that covered.” She plopped down in a chair and began shoveling food onto her plate.

The aforementioned High Lord chuckled as he sipped on orange juice, already dressed in his crisp black suit. “Don’t thank me, thank the House. She does it all herself.”

“She?” Azriel questioned as he sat down next to Ivy and reached for his servings of food.

“Nesta decided the house is female,” Feyre supplied across the table from Ivy. Feyre wore Illyrian leathers, ready to join Nesta and Cassian’s second round of training after breakfast, Ivy presumed.

Ivy swallowed her mouthful of syrup-covered pancakes. “Quite fitting, if you ask me. I don’t see any males cooking or cleaning around here.”

Rhysand placed a hand on his heart. “I’ll have you know I washed my whiskey glass last night,” he retorted.

“Oh, the poor, powerful High Lord had to wash his glass himself! The blasphemy!” Ivy added extra flair by pretending to faint on Azriel’s shoulder with the back of her hand covering her face.

Azriel chuckled as he looked down at Ivy’s terrible attempt at acting unconscious—if the dimples in her cheeks and vibration of giggles were any indication. “It appears you have competition in the dramatics department, Rhys.”

“Mother, help us,” Feyre laughed as she placed a loving hand on her mate’s arm.

“Dramatics can be a wonderful battle strategy,” Rhysand mused while raising a single finger. “Your technique against the Hybern forces impressed even me, Ivy. Slapping them with tree branches added some pizazz to the battlefield,” Rhysand said, a smirk growing on his lips.

Ivy forced a smile as she straightened in her seat. “It was nothing,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “Nothing compared to Feyre’s water wolves, that’s for sure.”

Feyre reached across the table and grabbed Ivy’s hand, wide blue eyes meeting her own. “Are you kidding? When the vines wrapped around their ankles and slammed them into the ground back and forth, Cauldron, I was having trouble paying attention to my opponents. I would’ve been content to sit there and watch you smack them silly,” she giggled.

“It’s true,” Rhysand interjected. “Even Cassian fumbled in the sky laughing when he first saw what was happening.”

Before Ivy could invent another excuse to end the discussion, Azriel spoke up. “It was brilliant,” he whispered, making eye contact with her as he graced her with a rare, toothy smile.

She looked down at her lap to hide her blush before returning her attention to Feyre. “I’m just glad I could help at all. I can never thank you enough for allowing me, a stranger, to tag along with you.” If Ivy dug deep enough, there was some resentment for her High Lady. The reasons behind Feyre’s infiltration of the Spring Court remained a mystery to her, but regardless, Spring would have fallen to corruption because of High Lord Tamlin granting Hybern access. Feyre may have just exasperated that process for whatever her motives were, but Ivy was grateful to have a home, even a beating heart. That’s more than most of her old neighbors can say.

“That’s the only time I ever looked into your mind, mostly because I didn’t even know how to control that power yet,” Feyre said sheepishly. “But either way, I knew you didn’t have bad intentions. We're all just trying to save our people in whichever ways we can.”

Ivy nodded as Azriel rose from the table. “We should get going now. It’s almost ten o’clock,” he said.

“Oh,” Ivy gasped. “I almost forgot.” She scrambled out of her seat and adjusted the belt around her waist. She would regret eating all that gluten later.

“I know the Spring Court is your home,” Rhysand started hesitantly, “but be careful. Home court or not, don’t let your guard down. There could be stray soldiers or Mother knows what other creatures are lurking about. I want you both back in one piece.”

Ivy mocked a salute. “Aye, aye, High Lord.”

Azriel shook his head as he placed a hand on the small of her back and guided her toward the balcony doors. “I’ll keep her out of trouble,” he shot over his shoulder, earning a swift elbow in the ribs from Ivy. It tickled.

As they stepped onto the balcony, the anxiety settled in Ivy’s bones. She was going back to the Spring Court, overgrown bat in tow. She still hadn’t decided whether Azriel was adding to or relieving her nerves. He’d make a good bodyguard, no doubt, but something about showing him this side of herself—a side no one else in the Inner Circle had seen–rattled her. Everything they knew about her was from her word alone, and brief images through Rhysand and Feyre’s daemati powers to ensure they weren’t allowing a traitor into their precious city. Azriel was about to get a firsthand account of where she grew up, or what’s left of it. That vulnerability made her gut churn. She’d gotten comfortable being a mystery since she fled everything she’d ever known.

Azriel watched as Ivy stared out at the view of the city, lost in thought. He presumed today would be a hard day for her, much like every time he returned to Illyria was hard on him. Though Azriel was angry at the culture of the place he used to call home, he couldn’t begin to fathom what emotions Ivy felt about returning to her ransacked court. He had caught flashes of emotion across her face at the table—discomfort, longing, and even a little anger. Ivy couldn’t hide from him even if she tried, but she seemed to default into a tight-lipped smile when topics about the Spring Court or her powers came up. It was enough of a cover for the rest of their family, but Azriel knew that’s all it was. A mask over what she truly felt. He’d spent more time than he’d like to admit wondering what she honestly thought of her new life here, beyond the hospitable ‘thank you’s’ for not leaving her to sleep on the streets, as if the bare minimum was above what she expected.

When she first arrived in Velaris they were in the months leading up to war, then they were in the midst of war, and Azriel wasn’t sure whether to consider the present a part of the aftermath of war or some part after it, but it seemed to blend into one for Ivy. Since that night they returned to the House of Wind together after a family night at Rita’s, Ivy hadn’t let her emotions slip again. That was the first time she had confided in him since they met, and he wouldn’t let it be the last time. So far, they have a surface-level friendship with great banter, much like she does with the rest of the family. Though Ivy didn’t seem to recognize that even that was abnormal for the Shadowsinger with fresh faces, he couldn’t deny he wished to grow closer to her.

Since the day they met when he and Cassian came to rescue the trio of Spring refugees from Eris and his brothers, her wit and humor had ensnared him. Even moments after a battle to the death, she joked and squealed as her stomach lurched mid-flight. She laughed while Cassian hauled Feyre and Lucien into the sky, and bombarded Azriel with questions about his shadows—like if the wind could blow them away. Azriel had remained stoic, ‌answering a few questions with curt words or a sidelong glance. He had chuckled later though, after returning to his room and his shadows repeated the questions about them.

No one had ever dared inquire about his shadows as much as Ivy had, and his shadows appeared to love the attention on them and chided him about his reluctance to entertain her. As time went on, it became more difficult to reign in his shadows around her. Even now, they swirled around her feet and hid in her hair. She didn’t seem to mind—on the contrary—she referred to them as cute. Azriel had considered informing her about the atrocious males his shadows had strangled, but thought better of it. Instead, he opted to answer her more subtle questions about them to quell her curiosity. That was apparently the equivalent of leaving food out for stray cats. Her curiosity and comfort in interrogating him only grew, and she kept coming back for more, like each answer might be the last she ever gets. He didn’t dare tell her that his shadows would sooner learn how to communicate with her themselves than let that happen.

Azriel didn’t resist admiring Ivy’s beauty as her back faced him, only a small portion of her face visible through her mess of golden locks dancing in the wind around her face. Her face tilted up towards the sky, eyes closed as she stood on the edge of the roof. The golden glow of the sun reflected off the rocks of the mountain and cast hues of yellow, orange, and red upon her pale features. The way she drank in the sunlight reminded him of flowers blooming in spring, desperate for the warmth it brought after a harsh winter. Breathing new life into it, into her, as she banished a blizzard of thoughts from her mind.

“Sorry about that, spaced out for a bit there,” she muttered sheepishly, making slow steps towards him as she stared at her feet.

“I don’t mind,” he reassured her. “You’re the one who has us on a schedule.”

“Shall we go then?”

Azriel nodded, and his reflexes kicked in as she jumped into his chest, arms wrapping under her legs and around her waist. He grunted and glared at her innocent, fluttering eyelashes. If Azriel was not a male with impeccable self-control, he’d kiss that smirk right off her face, but alas, he was. So he flapped his wings and took to the sky, ignoring the devious giggles caressing his neck.

He knew it was another one of her games. Try to catch him off guard and see if he failed to catch her. After he caught on, he thought about testing how she’d react if he hesitated and let her fall, but then he considered that maybe this meant something. He hadn’t a clue what. Didn’t know enough about her past to come up with that conclusion on his own, and opted to continue letting his instincts take over. Prove that he would catch her every time, even if she flung her body at him like a lunatic trying to defy gravity.

“Are you excited to be stuck with me for a whole day?” Ivy inquired over the roaring winds.

Azriel kept his gaze straight ahead, but the corners of his lips twitched. “Am I considered stuck if I chose to come? Not to mention I am the one carrying you. If anyone is stuck here, it would be you.”

Ivy groaned and nuzzled her face further into his chest. “Don’t remind me of how I would inevitably splatter on the ground should you choose to drop me.”

“I would never,” Azriel stated firmly, his tone laced with so much conviction even Ivy’s intruding anxieties could not doubt it.

She nodded and tightened her arms around his neck, deigning to remain silent for the rest of the flight, lest she try to catch his gaze and instead find the ground thousands of feet below them and hurl her guts. Her tolerance to flying heavily relied on her mood, and right now, anxiety was already bubbling in her stomach. She prayed to the Mother that Azriel didn’t notice how sweaty she was, or Cauldron help her if he could smell her. Who was she kidding? He could definitely smell the stress radiating off her, thanks to his Fae senses. She was certainly drowning in his scent of night-chilled mist and cedar.

They landed in a clearing in the woods a couple of miles south of her village, Cloverhill. Azriel gently placed her down on the ground and folded his wings, his shadows immediately darting through the trees to scan for signs of danger.

“Well, we’re here,” Ivy sighed heavily, glancing around at the trees. Woods that used to be filled with the sounds of birdsongs and skittering paws were now eerily silent.

Azriel’s eyes roamed over her tense form, frowning for a second before resuming his neutral mask. “How are you feeling?”

Her hands found the end of her tunic and pulled. One of her many nervous tics Azriel had gathered. “It’s—I don’t know what I feel. I’ve seen it as it is now, but my brain kept showing me images of how it used to be, knowing that wasn’t what I would find. It’s strange.”

“Our minds are powerful and tricky,” Azriel said. “I’ve seen warriors who have PTSD plagued with both images of things that happened and things their minds made worse than it was. I’ve seen families with denial that their loved one had passed so strong that they demanded we show them the body.”

Ivy nodded slowly and adjusted the satchel over her shoulder. “Standing here won’t change anything, so we best get going,” she said, then slid her tight-lipped smile in place.

Azriel gave a curt nod and followed right behind her as she weaved through the overgrown grass and gnarled tree roots. Some of his shadows returned with the message that all was clear, and he prayed to the Mother it remained that way. This trip was emotional enough for her, and Azriel couldn’t stand the thought of anyone, or anything, making it worse. Least of all Tamlin possibly coming across them while in beast form. He hoped that bringing her here would give her some closure, enough to ease her heartache until Spring was rebuilt or whatever came next for the Court.

He selfishly held onto the idea that she wouldn’t return here permanently one day, once all was restored and prospering again. That she would call the Night Court her home and never look back at the Court that caused her so much pain. Azriel didn’t know what it was like to miss your first home, to have all the wonderful memories replaced with horror, and to want nothing more than to fix it for your sanity’s sake. But he understood the feeling of being helpless. That was all he knew as a child, every time he was wrenched away from his sobbing mother after their hour-long weekly visits.

They trudged through the forest, twigs snapping and leaves crunching under their boots. Through a gap in the trees, Azriel saw the first signs of life–smoke rising from a cobblestone chimney.

“It’s just up this way,” Ivy called over her shoulder.

As the outskirts of the village came into view, Azriel’s heart sank. The smell of rotten and charred flesh assaulted his senses. Ivy pulled the collar of her tunic up to cover her nose, sending him a horrified glance. Scattered around the village were burn pits which, judging by the smell, Azriel assumed were for bodies. He watched as a male in tattered clothes approached one pit with a small lump wrapped in cloth. Tears streamed down his tan face, washing away the dirt in their path.

Ivy pulled down her collar from her nose as she gasped, “Mother, spare us.” Her head whipped towards Azriel, her blue eyes wide and bloodshot. He sidled up to her side and rested a hand on the small of her back. A child, his shadows whispered to him. His face crumpled. The male kneeled before the pit and his mouth moved frantically as he clutched the body to his chest. He pressed a lingering kiss to the top of the child’s head and placed them in the fire. Azriel and Ivy did not move as the male stood in front of the fire, watching the flames spread over the cloth and rise above his shoulders. Ivy glanced around, noticing that she and Azriel were the only ones who stopped. The villagers carried on with their tasks as if nothing was happening. As if a child hadn’t just been tossed into a fire. A female continued to hang wet clothes on a laundry line–another female with a child in tow carried a basket of bread as they walked down the gravel path, and a male sat on a boulder sharpening his sword. It was as if this was an everyday occurrence.

Ivy exhaled a shuddering breath, grabbed Azriel’s hand, and guided him down the path. They passed cottages with busted down doors and collapsed wooden walls. Shattered windows and broken fences on land that used to hold livestock—now empty bar the odd carcass. The remnants of blood still stained the ground. Puddles where people either bled to death or streaks where others were drug out of their homes after the injury.

The sound of Ivy’s sniffles filled the silence. Azriel squeezed the hand that still held his and spread his wings to offer what little privacy he could as they passed the fae milling about.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Ivy wiped her nose with her other sleeve and offered him a tight-lipped smile. “It’s hard to see it like this,” she admits, her voice cracking. “I don’t know what the traditions for death are in your court, but in Spring it is vital that we’re buried. That we’re laid to rest in the soil where the flowers bloom. That we continue the cycle of life and rebirth. We believe that if we’re buried, we will one day return as something else–someone new. It could be as a youngling or as a fawn. It is why we have so many restrictions on hunting–certain species and specific woods. We believe that after so many centuries, if we are reborn, we will know about the Hunting Wood whereas normal game will not. Our ancestors will avoid it and no one has to worry about possibly killing their late grandmother. Burning them–” her breath hitches, and Azriel swipes his thumb over her knuckles in smoothing motions. “To burn them breaks that cycle. They will not be reborn. They will not enter the afterlife. They will be stuck wandering the place in which they died for all of eternity.”

“That sounds horrible,” Azriel said softly.

“It is. It makes me wonder what happened to Wells. I never found his grave when I came last. They likely burned him too,” she sighed.

Azriel took another look at their surroundings. “This is–” he started, trailing off as his eyes snagged on more and more destruction. His shadows drifted through blades of grass and whispered every detail in his ear. It is truly worse than he ever thought imaginable.

“A disaster. A massacre,” she finished. Ivy divided her gaze between Azriel and her steps as they walked. “Before Tamlin allowed Hybern to enter, he offered for people to move to the eastern border, but it wasn’t feasible for those of us this far west. Especially here in Cloverhill, where most of his soldiers and their families reside. The western villages, Verdant Bay and Oak Valley, are half the size of Cloverhill and Thornwood and simply can’t house the populations. Those in Petal Brook, the village nearest to the High Lord’s manor, consist mostly of his personal sentries who would rather fight an Attor alone than leave their positions. Spring is very conservative and we hold honor in the highest regard–it’s more valuable than gold. To flee, even for the safety of your family, is as good as a death sentence. Soldiers would refuse to follow their orders, villagers would scorn them as they passed through, and businesses would blacklist them from receiving services.”

Azriel regarded Ivy thoughtfully, strands of his black hair falling in his face as his head tilted. “You seem to know a lot about the inner workings and culture within the Court. Not to underestimate you, but it is uncommon for your average female.”

Ivy smirked, but the usual light in her eyes wasn’t there. “That’s because I am not average. My father was a Commander under General Aeron. He’d discuss battle plans and political gossip every night at dinner. When I couldn’t sleep as a child, I’d sneak into his office and sit in his lap while he went over reports and whatnot.” Ivy waved her hand dismissively. “I learned a thing or two over the years. I wanted to be like him when I grew up, commanding armies and swinging swords. He always dissuaded me from it, though. ‘Little girls aren’t meant for bloodshed,’ he’d say.”

“You proved him wrong when you fought against Hybern.”

Ivy huffed a laugh. “I suppose. I can’t imagine it was that impressive from the afterlife.”

A crease formed between Azriel’s brows. “Why do you do that?” he inquired.

“Do what?”

“Diminish yourself.”

Ivy’s head snapped toward Azriel. “I do no such thing.”

“Yes, you do. Every time someone praises you or your powers, you brush it off or change the subject. Why?”

Ivy kicked a rock with the toe of her boot as she attempted to ignore the holes Azriel bore into the side of head. He was incredibly patient. More so than Ivy. Eventually, she succumbed to the awkward silence. “It’s just–I don’t know, I just do. I don’t like the attention or the expectation. I wasn’t praised much as a child. Whenever I did something my father deemed good, it became expected of me. Anything less was a disappointment. Now, after the war–what happened in Spring–I already feel like a failure. Like I let everyone down. I don’t want to add to it. If no one expects anything of me, then it’s impossible for me to let them down.”

Azriel hummed contemplatively. “Do you feel as if you let your father down a lot as a child?”

Ivy felt her throat tighten, eyes prickling with tears. She blinked them away. “Hard to say. My father was a male of few words and stern-faced. Courtesy of the military, I’m sure. If I disappointed him, he’d just shake his head and walk away. If I did something right, he’d nod and occasionally pat me on the shoulder. Are you done interrogating me, Spymaster?”

“Sorry,” Azriel grimaced. “An old habit. I would like to get to know you better, though.”

A small smile spread across Ivy’s lips as she shook her head. “You do know me.”

“What you decide I am allowed to know.”

“You have some catching up to do, if you ask me. Care to share?”

“Touche.”

The sun was high in the sky when they reached Ivy’s part of the village. Despite the high stone walls surrounding homes and their fortress designs, they were not immune to damage. Soot covered the walls, a sign of past fires, and the stones were nothing more than crumbled rock in some areas.

“My home is around here,” Ivy announced. Her skin was sticky with sweat, and her frizzy hair clung to her face and neck. Azriel, to no one’s surprise, still looked as immaculate as ever. His tan skin practically glowed in the afternoon light, and his hair didn’t look the least bit ruffled. It was wildly unfair, Ivy thought. This was her home, and yet he looked better in it than she did.

Some of her old neighbors were outside their homes, gawking and whispering. Ivy kept her head down and picked at her nails. Azriel’s sharp gaze scanned the fae, he and his shadows picking up on their agitation. His free hand moved to Truth-Teller sheathed at his thigh.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the Spring Court’s little deserter,” an elderly fae with crooked fingers from her job as a seamstress drawled.

A male, dressed in blacksmith garb with a long beard scoffed. “Didn’t think we’d see you again, Ivy. What, got tired of playing pet to the Night Court?”

Ivy’s jaw tightened, and she tried her best to keep her voice even. “I’m here on business, not to entertain your gossip.”

Another female, closer to Ivy’s age, laughed mockingly. “Business? Since when does a traitor get trusted with anything? You turned your back on us, abandoned your home—”

Azriel stepped forward, his voice dangerously calm. “Choose your next words carefully.”

The female straightens, and the flicking of her eyes betrays her nerves. “Well, it’s the truth isn’t it? She left us for your kind.”

The male spits on the ground at Ivy’s feet. “Your family doesn't belong here anymore.”

“You don’t know what I went through. What happened at Tamlin’s manor.” Ivy’s eyes burned, but she kept her chin lifted.

The elderly female spoke up again, glaring at Ivy with dark eyes full of resentment. “We survived. We stayed. And you ran.”

Azriel stepped fully between them then, his wings flaring to hide Ivy behind him. “She made a choice to save herself, to try to save her people, and she doesn’t owe you any explanation. If any of you speak to her like that again, you’ll regret it.”

They regarded Azriel with wary looks, the scent of their fear blowing in the wind. Heat crawled up Ivy’s neck and spread across her cheeks, her hands trembling. Azriel glared at the fae, and his shadows hissed and poised to strike. The fae backed off, but that didn’t stop the dirty looks that followed Ivy’s back.

“Kind neighbors you have,” Azriel said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Ivy cleared her throat. “I told you Spring Court is conservative. I fled, therefore I am a traitor.”

“Maybe if you were a soldier, but you weren’t. You were just a citizen. Last I checked, citizens don’t make oaths to stay during times of war.”

Ivy shrugged and kept her face turned away from his all too knowing gaze.

Azriel tilted his head up as they approached a brass gate between two stone walls. Pine trees towered over the white painted house, casting enough shade for the rest of his shadows to come out from under his wings and survey the area.

The gate creaked as Ivy pushed it open, revealing overgrown weeds and dead shrubbery. Peach and pear trees had lost their leaves, their rotten fruits laid on the ground with flies swarming them. Sandspurs caught the fabric of their pants as they trod toward the house.

“Welcome to my humble home,” Ivy muttered.

Azriel hummed. “I can tell it was beautiful once.”

“It was.”

The wooden steps leading up to the porch shifted with Azriel and Ivy’s weight, weakened from the test of time and war. Dust flew in their faces once Ivy pushed the front door open.

“Cauldron,” Ivy coughed, waving her hand in her face.

When Azriel finished clearing his lungs, he asked, “What exactly are we looking for?”

Ivy turned in a slow circle, eyes roaming over the damage with her lips twisted to the side. “I didn’t have any time to pack when I left with the High Lady, as we had been at Tamlin’s manor, so anything sentimental that survived, I suppose.”

Azriel nodded as he followed her through the house. It was a decent size, two-stories of what he could tell had once been a lovely home meant for a family of status in the village. A kitchen, dining room, sitting room, and an office on the first floor. Upstairs there were five bedrooms, the extras for servants or other help, he surmised.

The stair railing jerked as Ivy grabbed hold of it, and Azriel’s shadows rushed to support her back for balance. She looked back at him with a grateful smile. Her room was so Ivy, he thought to himself. Pale green walls, pink bedding, white furniture, and plants hanging from the ceiling. Despite the dust and damage, it had more life than her room back at the House of Wind.

Ivy immediately went to her bookshelf, pulling out books and opening them to scan the pages quickly. She started making a pile of the ones she wished to take with her. “Can you look under my bed?” she requested. “I should have a larger bag somewhere.”

Azriel’s shadows slithered under the bed, pulling out a tan canvas backpack, and held it up in the air.

“Oh!” Ivy beamed, grabbing the bag from the shadows’ hold. “Perfect.”

Azriel’s lips twitched upward as he continued to survey the room while Ivy packed her things. The view out her bedroom windows was of the backyard. The stone walls surrounding the yard had spots where they were nothing more than crumbles of rock like the front, and what used to be what looks like a stable was empty. Beyond that was an expanse of field, now charred, but he could imagine the wildflowers that used to grow there.

Ivy tied off the strings of the backpack and slung it over the shoulder that wasn’t carrying her satchel. “Okay, we can head back downstairs now. I have something I want to show you.”

She took the stairs two at a time, much to Azriel’s dismay, but his shadows swarmed her lest she fall. Ivy dropped her backpack by the front door and led him toward the back of the house. The backdoor opened up to the expansive yard Azriel saw from her bedroom window.

She pointed to a large patch of dirt. “This is where my father and his soldiers would train sometimes.” She continued walking through the yard and Azriel dutifully followed, eyes roaming over every spot she pointed at. “That used to be the stables,” she said, pointing at the wooden structure. “I had a Thoroughbred named Honey, because she was golden and sweet. My father bought her for me when I was a youngling and could barely swing my leg over the saddle—even with a stool.”

Azriel chuckled, his mind conjuring a vision of a young Ivy clawing her way on top of a horse three times her size.

“I imagine you don’t ride horses much,” she mused. “With the wings.” She swatted at a bug that flew in her face as she trekked through the grass.

Azriel’s wings twitched with the acknowledgment. “No, I’ve never ridden.”

“Would you even want to?” she asked, looking back at him.

He tilted his head to the side in thought. “I don’t foresee it going well. I might spook the horse.”

“Or you’d topple right off,” Ivy giggled.

“I would not,” Azriel scoffed. “Learning to balance with your wings is the first step to learning how to fly.”

“Sure, but have you ever had to balance them while on top of a moving animal?”

Azriel made a face that said ‘no, but I will not say it aloud’ and she laughed.

“Finally!” Ivy exclaimed as they left the area of charred grass and found a small patch of flowers near the woods. She pulled a pair of gloves and a glass jar from her satchel before crouching down.

The flowers were silver, glimmering in the sunlight with thorns down the stems. “This is called Altheia’s Kiss,” Ivy informed him. “It is my gift to you.” She dropped the batch of flowers into the jar and tightened the lid before standing up.

“I appreciate the thought, but how are flowers that must be handled with gloves a gift? Lest you are planning my demise, Miss Meadows,” Azriel said with a smirk.

Ivy scoffed and swatted his shoulder. “Altheia’s Kiss,” she said, holding up the jar, “when brewed in tea or cooked into anything, can act as a truth serum. So, whenever you get bored with interrogating people, you can just slip them a small portion of this and they cannot lie. You must be careful, though, more than a petal or two, and they may never stop yapping. Or worse—die.”

Azriel’s jaw dropped, and even his shadows seemed to pause to examine the flower.

“I know, I know. You have a High Lord and Lady who can read minds, but I imagine you only call upon them when you’re desperate. With this, you won’t have to be,” she said, placing the jar and pair of gloves back in her satchel.

“You—” Azriel started, then glanced back and forth between Ivy and the patch of flowers she had picked from. “That’s incredible,” he said with a smile.

She smiled back. “Come on, we’ll head back to the house to grab my things and return home before nightfall. I’d rather not find out what beasts are roaming the Court these days.”

Azriel couldn’t agree more and followed her back to the house. As soon as they entered, though, the hairs on Azriel’s neck rose. His senses were on high alert–even Ivy had paused just beyond the threshold. She looked at him, trepidation written all over her face. Someone had been here. His shadows dispersed throughout the house and Azriel rose a single finger to his lips, signaling to be silent. She nodded as his remaining shadows swirled around his feet, preventing the floors from creaking as he stalked through the rooms.

By the front door, where Ivy’s bag laid on the floor, was an envelope with an emerald wax seal addressed to Ivy. Once his shadows returned to him with confirmation the intruder was no longer in the house, he called her over.

“What is it?” she asked, striding toward him, her hair flowing behind her.

He handed the envelope to her with his gloved hand.

She ripped it open, tossing the envelope aside as she held up the note. She gasped, reading over the scrawled ink again and again as she felt the color drain from her face. Written across the scrap of paper, as if someone had been in a rush, were the words ‘He’s alive’.

Azriel read over the letter himself after she handed it to him. His shadows couldn’t pick up on anything other than the faint scent of rose and strawberries, a signature scent for most citizens of the Spring Court. Even though Ivy had her own scent of peonies and the breeze, there was still the slight note of the Spring Court beneath it. “What do you think this means?” he asked, eyes boring into hers.

She blinked the tears away from her eyes and took the note back, reading it again with wide eyes. “I think it means Wells is still alive.”

[mystverse]

♡ THOSE THREE DAYS : : 이 동혁 [LEE DONGHYUCK] | YOUR GALLERY

♡ 120322 - YOUR BIRTHDAY : : No, you didn't tell him that it was what you wanted but he knew it. How? Because, he listens as much as he speaks. He loves it when you tell him your interests and he thinks that he should know. How else would he know that you'd be the happiest if he took you to the bookstore? Ever since he knew, he plans these dates that revolves around reading. He gets you a book and lies on your lap while you read it to him. He got that little moon lamp you wanted for your study table. Anything that makes you comfortable. He even tries to get into it, though he's more of a movie person. But who would have thought he would just show up at 10 in the morning asking you to get ready and take you to the bookstore on your birthday? He'd have the whole day planned, and you can just relax and switch off your brain. (He'd not forget to take a selca from your phone to set it as your wallpaper, though. It is to shoo away people he says.) The day will end with you talking to him in your softest voice as you scroll through bookstagram and him staring at you with so much love.

♡ 060622 - HIS BIRTHDAY : : It's your time to plan. A day to celebrate the sunshine in your life. It's one of those outdoor dates you planned. Take him to a nice outdoor restaurant which has a killer view and delicious food. What you had thought would be a romantic date turned into a mini circus? You watch him be silly and adorable while you wait for the orders to arrive. One minute he is sitting and next he's hanging off a tree branch. There's never dull moment around him. You click pictures all throughout the day to reminisce because you had been the happiest while watching him. You'd say he's the weirder one out of you both while you watch him pose in intriguing ways. This is that one hell of a day that you'd never forget.

♡ 090922 - THAT DAY THAT HE LET EVERYONE KNOW : : You didn't think that he would. Your relationship with him had always been private, and you had been satisfied with that. On a random day, he asked you if you minded making your relationship public. You had said no because as much as you loved the 'private but not secret' game, you've always wanted to play the 'public and don't give a fuck' game. You are dating Lee Haechan, and you are flexing it because he's that good of a lover. But you hadn't really thought that he would just say it. You thought it was a fleeting thought that comes and goes whenever he sneaks into your bed at 3. You still remember how it went on that day and you understood why he bought you VIP tickets to that concert, THE DREAM SHOW 2, IN A DREAM in Seoul. You had been taking pictures of him all night charming everyone in his rockstar like glory. It was during the last ment he had spoken about you, and his words still are carved into your heart.

"여러분 오늘 밤에는 중요한 사람을 소개하고 싶습니다. 그녀는 내가 달려가는 팔이었고, 내가 울부짖는 어깨였고, 내가 꼭 안고 있는 마음이었다. 그녀는 나를 태양이라고 부르기 때문에 나는 그녀가 나의 달이라고 생각한다고 여러분에게 말하고 싶습니다. 달에 대한 사랑을 숨겨야 한다는 건 억울한 일이겠죠?"

[ Everyone, there's an important person I want to introduce tonight. She has been the arms I run to, the shoulder I cry on, and the heart I hold close. She calls me her sunshine, and so i want to tell you guys that I think she's my moon. it's unfair that i have to hide my love for the moon, right?]

The spotlight is on you as Haechan smiles and walks closer to the side you are in, looking up ardently. That playful smile never left. No one noticed the tremble in his voice but you did. You place your hand against the glass and look at him with a soft smile. You see his glassy eyes and you tell him not to cry.

"달이 참 아름답죠? 너희들은 내가 달을 가지고 있는 걸 부러워하지?"

[The moon is beautiful, isn’t it? You guys are envious that I have the moon, right?]

He chuckles while the rest of the dream laugh at him, all because he's looking not the moon but at you, just you.

: MYST

[iwriteiguessandiloveit]

BJ's Gift (part 1)

and the post we've all been waiting for...

BJ's Gift (part 1)

“C’mon baby, not even after all I've done for ‘ya?” Beetlejuice clasps his hands together like a begging man and dramatically falls to his knees. “Three little words, that's all it’ll take.” You lower yourself down so your face is level with the town model. “No, BJ. Every time I let you out, you do some crazy shit I have to fix.” 

He put a hand to his chest, mock offended. “You were the one ‘ta ask me to get rid’a your nasty roommate. I just followed orders.” A small bright yellow circle rings his head and he gives what you think is supposed to be an innocent grin before it turns red and breaks. “Woops.” 

Before you can stop it, a smile forms on your lips and you giggle. “I didn't ask you to possess her and make her suck on the landlord’s toes. He had a fungal infection, for goodness sake.” 

He shimmied up a plastic tree to be more level with you, lounging on a branch with his feet kicking through the air. “I never said I'd be humane about it. Besides, I’d tried the normal spooky poltergeist shtick. She was a toughie.” 

You shook your head. ‘Mmmmmm… I guess.’

It was true. You’d found a poster advertising Beetlejuice, claiming he could scare any living being into leaving your house top-speed. You were so fed up with your nasty roommate making snarky comments, not picking up after themselves, etcetera; That you’d taken a shot in the dark. And somehow it worked. But he’d gotten rid of her in the most disgusting way possible, and yeah, you were a little put out with the Ghost With The Most. 

Ever since that ‘little incident’, he'd been a constant presence in your life. Harassing you through the bathroom mirror while you were in the shower, glitching out your computer screen with his special pop-up ads, begging you to let him out again so he could go feral. You never obliged, of course, considering the amount of havoc he wreaked on your life the first time you met him. You kept telling yourself to ignore him, get rid of him through any means necessary; But somehow after a long day, you'd find yourself walking up the creaky attic stairs, crossing over to the model town, squatting down and whispering-"BJ? 'You there?" It was infuriating that you were so attached. 

Turning on your heels, you made a show of leaving. “Bye, BJ.” 

“Wait-WAIT! There's somethin’ I got for ‘ya!” The urgency in his tone made you turn around. 

‘That got your attention, didn't it?’ Beetlejuice chuckled. ‘Pop those three B-words and it’s all yours.'

‘This better not be a trick.’ 

He put his hands palms-up in front of you, shrugging. ‘When have I ever lied to ‘ya, Babes?’ 

You shouldn't have done it, but he had the dopiest, most shit-eating grin on his face. Maybe you were just tired of his begging, or maybe (just maybe) you were a little curious of what he was on about. So despite your better judgment, you threw your head back and dramatically sighed-‘Beetlejuice…’ 

He dropped out of the tree and landed on his ass. ‘I knew you’d come around! We’re gonna have the time of our afterlives, I promise-’ 

‘Beetlejuice!’ The room began to spin and floaters flashed across your vision. 

‘C’mon, just one more…’  through your hazy vision Beej was bouncing up and down pumping his fists in the air.

‘BEETLEJUICE!!!’ You heard a faint ‘it’s showtime!’ and the world exploded into a burst of acid green light; The floor slipped out from under you and you plummeted down a spiral of black and white. 

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

~thanks for reading! Stay tuned for part 2, where things get better~

(Thanks to Voidgoulette, who inspired me with her asks on 'anything Keatlejuice')

-IWIGAILI

[anyamaris]

Secrets of the Heart

Pairing: Guardian!Baekhyun x Guardian!F!Reader

Dark Academia Career: Mystical Guardians/Keepers of Ancient Knowledge

Summary: For ages, a secret society has kept the darkest, most dangerous mysteries hidden from the world to keep it safe. By training guardians who show the capability to fight and protect these ancient relics from falling into the wrong hands, two compatible students are placed in hidden vaults after extensive training. You've longed for this your entire life, but then you find yourself trapped with the one man you never wanted to see again.

Word Count: 4827

Genre/Trope: Dark Academia/Non Idol AU, smut/angst, magical au

Warnings: Adult language, magical references, reader is a grump, Baek is Baek 💕oral (f. receiving), implied rough school years, overarching ideas of dark, dangerous secrets in the vault.

Tags- @lapydiaries @ksmutsociety @cafekitsune for the amazing dividers!

Thank you @pars-ley @yoonguurt and @frenchkisstheabyss for beta reading and helping me get this done!

A HUGE thank you to @potatomountain for the gorgeous banner, you're amazing!

A/N: This is for the @ksmutsociety Dark Academia event The Velvet Vault. This is part one, so I hope you all enjoy and I want to thank all the other participants for all the fun we had together working on these! I can't wait to read them! Check out other authors here!

It has taken you days to decipher the clues, but you’ve finally arrived at your destination.

Your heart almost leaps from your chest in excitement as you walk through the unassuming doors before you.

The tension in your shoulders seems to abate the tiniest bit as you take in the vast interior of the actual vault.  

From the outside, it only appears as a maintenance door in an otherwise abandoned area.

Yet here, beneath the acres of wilderness in the middle of nowhere, lies a wealth of knowledge and secrets that only few in this world will ever even be aware of.

You think back on the letter you’d received for your posting weeks ago.

“Guardian 1485, you’ve been assigned to your post. Consider this your final test, and thank you for your service.”

From the outside, such a letter would give nothing away, but everything you needed to find your way lay in the inconspicuous note.

Using everything you’ve learned during your time at the academy, you’d left the populated world to inhabit this subterranean utopia.

It didn’t need to be said that failing would result in the very treasures of wisdom you’re now raking your eager eyes over to be locked away from your gaze forever.

You’d descended the timeworn stairs for what felt like ages, until you found yourself before the ancient doors that symbolized the culmination of your hard earned efforts.

The vast open room before you looms stories high, shelves of books appearing to disappear into the reaches above you, rolling ladders positioned here and there to take you up to the next little balcony to access small areas.

Makes sense now why I went down so many stairs, you think to yourself as you take in your new home.

Home…you think, your eyes fluttering closed at the comforting thought.

Hitching the strap of the duffle bag higher on your shoulder, you smile softly to yourself as you slowly turn around in a circle once more, enjoying the beautiful view of what is likely just the surface of what hides down here.

A large table sits amidst the open space in the middle of the cavernous room, as well as small alcoves here and there to perch and work.

Sconces adorn the dark paneled walls, allowing you to appreciate how vast the massive room actually is. 

Before long, you find yourself wandering away from the library area, noticing the small halls branching off in three directions from the large room.  

The first hall seems to lead to kitchen and dining areas, so you head towards the middle hallway.

You pause briefly before you head down that way, eyes drawn to the third hallway.  

A shiver runs down your spine as your thoughts run wild about what lies that way, as there's a scrawling script carved into the threshold.

Both excitement and apprehension mix as you decide to settle in first, before getting swept away by your curiosity.

I wonder if my partner has arrived, you think to yourself as you finally set your feet on the path to your new lodgings.

An open framed doorway shows off a common area, filled with comfy looking couches, a few small tables as well as some bookshelves that appear to have board games, and much more modern books for leisure reading.

A small television adorns the far wall and you smile as you notice there are even a few gaming consoles on the shelf beneath.  

You can only assume that your unknown companion is either already further down in a room, or hasn’t arrived yet.  

Turning to continue down the hall, you take in a dining room, what appears to be a small storage area, then two doors opposite one another at the end of the hall.  

As you head towards them, a soft humming fills the silence, and you realize you’re not alone.

Ah, they must be here already, you think to yourself as you notice the door on the left is open a crack.

The melodic voice draws you in, and you can’t stop yourself from taking a peek through the gap to seek out the owner.

Wide shoulders grace your sight, short dark hair skimming the collar of a black shirt.

The figure looks to be unpacking his own personal duffle as he sings, and you feel yourself enraptured by his lovely song.

You know that the assignments are random, so this man could be from any of the academies around the world.  

Hopefully he’s-

Your thoughts die in your mind as the figure turns, and you notice you’ve pushed the door open further without even realizing it.

It wasn’t the abrupt end of the melody that has your entire being sinking into the depths of despair opening up beneath you. 

No, it was the man that the glorious ballad belonged to that has you begging to be swallowed whole by the void.

The dark brown eyes dance merrily, completely freezing your tongue as a voice you know all too well shatters your dreams.

“It’s you! What a surprise!” 

It’s as if your very soul slowly seeps out of your body, as his voice knocks you right back to the life you’d left behind at the academy. 

Of all the people, of all the Guardians you could have possibly been assigned with….

His big goofy grin breaks you from your frozen trance as he approaches you, looking as if this isn’t the worst thing to ever happen.

Finally managing a weak semblance of a smile, you just let out a soft breath.

“Yeah…great.” you all but groan.

The one person you thought you’d finally been rid of.

Byun Baekhyun.

Weeks have passed and you’ve done your best to settle into this new, fascinating environment.

This was everything you’ve longed for, worth every agonizing minute spent in the harsh preparation you were subjected to at the academy.

Solitude, tranquility, exhilaration.

All things you feel as you inhale the ancient parchment of the script before you.  

Diligently translating the forbidden text, you find yourself lost in reverie, pondering what type of person belonged to the hand that had penned this.

The chime of the large lock startles you from your focus, drawing your gaze from the yellowed pages before you.

Arching your back as you look up, your jaw crack open in a large yawn.  

Midnight already? You think, rolling your shoulders as you rub your eyes with a fist.  

It was sunlight before you’d sat down with this set of tomes, but clearly the day had gotten away from you.

Smiling to yourself, you gently place the silk ribbon between the pages, closing the heavy tome before standing to allow your blood to flow a bit better to your legs.

“It’s like we’re right back at the academy.” A cheerful voice breaks the silence, and it takes everything within you to not groan out loud in annoyance.

Baekhyun just grins at you, perching in one of the narrow alcoves with his legs extended, a laptop resting on his thighs.

“Not quite.” You mutter, turning to ignore the man as you ponder when the last time you ate was.

“Did you want to eat?” Baekhyun’s voice seems to pluck the very thoughts from your mind, raising your irritation even more.

“Fine.” You grumble, not even turning to look his way as you head towards the kitchen hall.

Even though it’s been weeks since you’d walked through those doors, you’d barely spoken a handful of words at the man.

He acts as if we’re friendly, as if he’s completely clueless that it’s better not to interact with one another.

“Did you want to try the-” He starts.

Finally feeling your frustration build, you snap at him,“Will you please just stop?” 

Your voice is soft, yet cold, not even turning to address him.  

The air stills around you as a moment drags by as a small twinge of guilt teases at your heart.

There’s nothing to feel bad about, you think.  

“Alright.” 

His voice is hushed, almost sad and you can’t help but feel as if you’ve kicked a puppy.

Goddamn it, you think, why’d it have to be him?

Taking a breath, you shake your head, back still to him.

“I’m just hungry and tired.  I’ll cook something.” 

“Awesome!” 

There it is, that god's awful cheeriness that seems to come so easily to him.

Weariness washes over you, making you sigh as you head to the kitchen, hearing him bouncing along behind you.

The large restaurant style kitchen is a dream, you think as you head to the large walk in cooler to see what you can find to throw together.

Gathering ingredients, you do your best to ignore the man who is now kicking his feet from the tall stool he’s sat on, watching you curiously from the island in the middle of the room.

At least he seems to get that I don’t want to hear his annoying voice, you think as you start cooking.

It was a long way from the big dining hall you’d eaten in at the school.

Your thoughts drift back to all the times you’d longed to be invited into the groups of kids who were talking and laughing with one another; bantering about the rankings, coordinating meetups, discussing classes.

It’s not that you’d necessarily chosen to eat alone, solitary and quiet as you watched on, but it’s also not as if anyone had even made an attempt to-

That’s not true, a small part of your brain reminds you.

The twinkling eyes of the man watching you cook just brings back all the frustration you felt as you recall that very look from across the dining hall.

He was always smiling, laughing, bright and bubbly.  

Uncaring.

Must be nice to not have to work for anything, to not have to prove yourself…

Old resentment churns in your gut, as you try to put it all out of your head.

It doesn't matter now, and you’re stuck here with him no matter how you feel.

The least you could do was attempt to coexist.

He finally breaks the silence between you, his voice heard easily over the noises of the pan on the stove.

“You don’t talk much.” he observes, “I was always curious about that. At the academy  students used to say you don’t like people, but I always thought-” he rambles, as you tap the metal spatula, clanking it loudly against the pan,, clearing your throat, you feel your old instinct to run away creep in.

“You always thought what?” You ask softly, your shoulders tense as you wait for him to say the worries in your mind.

He pauses before continuing, slowing down and seeming a bit more subdued by your sudden gesture.

“...that you just really liked to study and focus.”

Blinking at the odd words you hadn’t expected to hear, you finally glance over your shoulder at the man staring back at you.

His big dopey grin only confuses you more, as it always has, as you release a soft breath.

He didn’t say the words in your head, the words you always heard whispered amidst your “peers” at the academy.

“Why doesn’t she speak to anyone?”

“I heard her gift was strange, I’m surprised she got in here…”

“I’ve never even heard of her family.”

“Family? I heard she’s an orphan, she doesn’t even have a surname-”

They didn’t even have the decency to laugh at you or giggle at your expense as they said these things.

It was the horrible pity behind those condescending eyes, the whispers of doubt as they seemed to avoid you.

Well…all but the strange man currently tilting his head at you.

“I did. I still do.” You tell him, unable to break his gaze as he beams at you.

Shaking off his weird conversation and unwelcome memories, you turn back to check the food.  

“Ah, well that’s good! I mean, I don’t know how you don’t lose your mind after hours of that, but if you like it…” He shrugs.

“It’s my task, as you know.” You state simply, turning back to the food, then grabbing some plates to serve it to him, then your own.

“Of course. I just figured…we could get to know one another more” he says, looking at you with hopeful eyes.

“Ask anything you want about my work here, I’m happy to answer.” you tell him, taking a seat, making sure there’s one between you.

His hopeful smile falters as he slowly nods, turning to eat his meal.

“Ah…well…okay, we can talk about work,” he says.

Shaking your head, you dig into your own meal, not understanding why he’s going so far, even here, to pity you. 

You just didn’t know how to tell him he didn’t have to bother.

You both eat your meal, mostly in silence, not quite sure what he wants from you.

Things have been quiet in the common area and you can’t help but find it almost stifling.

Who knew you’d end up craving a break to the monotony, when usually you relish in it?

Despite your resistance to his attempts to get to know you, you find yourself searching Baekhyun out as you glance up from your vial.  

More and more as time passes, you find your gaze straying from whatever it was you were doing to seek him out.

It was just curiosity, seeing as he’s the only one around.

It definitely isn’t interest in him, as much as the distracting man tries to get to know you.

You’ve been employing some of the chemistry from your transmutation book for a few hours now, but you can’t seem to focus enough to get it right.

Blowing out a frustrated breath, you try to stop yourself from wondering what he’s doing.

Maybe I’ll go check my plants, you think, gently placing the glass vessel back in its rack.

You stand and make your way down the long hallway, idly pondering what lies behind some of the locked doors.

As you brush your fingers across each door frame, you can feel the shimmering tension of strong magic protecting the secrets within.

Suppressing a shiver, you finally reach the glass doors that lead into the underground garden where the herbs grow.

A smile already plays across your lips as you slip inside, breathing in the fragrance of the thriving plants.  

How they did so well down here was a mystery-

Your thoughts are cut off as you hear the familiar soft melody of singing, eyes immediately seeking the only other being that resides here.

A gentle white light illuminates an area off to the right, down a pathway overhung with branches from the trees.

Furrowing your brow, you slowly approach the crouched figure of Baekhyun.

White light glows from his outstretched hands as he seems to almost caress the plants growing in front of him.

Your breath catches as you watch the tiny sprouts react, seeming to almost lean towards his open palms, stretching to bask in the light.

Taking in a rare moment to observe, you can’t help but admire the way his dark hair falls over his brow, the muscles in his broad shoulders flexing as he gently sings to the growth.

Without even looking at you, his song trails off and he speaks softly.

“This particular patch was infected with a blight,” he informs you, “I’ll likely change the setup a bit so they aren’t getting affected by the fungi nearby…”

Blinking yourself out of the little trance his voice has put you in, you just swallow and nod, feeling silly as it’s not like he can see you.

“Okay,” you whisper, finding yourself drawn forward to crouch beside him and watch the process.

Within the academy, it was forbidden to share any personal powers amongst your fellow students; it was ingrained in you from the start that the most important thing was keeping your posts safe.

That included never knowing what others were capable of, until you were placed.

You had wondered why you weren’t told who your partner was, and weren’t informed about his powers.

Everything is a test, you think wryly, sighing.

As always, it was for you to find out on your own, as he was likely not informed about yours.

“How…?” You ask him, still whispering as if speaking in any tone louder than a whisper will break the spell he seems to be holding over the plants.

Your eyes are locked on him as he finally looks away from his work, his eyes caramel in the glow of his magic as they meet yours.

A gentle smile plays on his lips, and he studies your face for a moment before responding.

“Photosynthesis...it’s a lucky side effect of my gift.” 

“I had no idea that you were the reason they were thriving.” You feel the strange warmth of something in the pit of your stomach as you watch him return to tending the fragile herbs.

Minutes tick by, and what should feel awkward as you watch him only feels calming and comfortable.

You’re unsure how much you like this unexpected feeling.

The oppressive darkness cradling you in its grasp is suddenly broken by a sliver of white, cutting through the comforting cloud.

Groggily, you open your eyes to see a shadowy figure in your now open doorway.

Before reacting on impulse, you take stock of everything around you like you were trained.

You are lying in your bed, deep within the vault.  

Counting the beats of your heart, calming your breathing, you watch as the figure slowly steps forward.

“Baekhyun?” You whisper softly, hoping desperately that it’s the only other person that resides here with you.

The figure doesn’t utter a word, but a soft white glow begins to emit from his palms, then almost forms a soft aura around him as he slowly approaches your bed.

Sitting up, you furrow your brow in confusion.

Certainly, something has happened, he wouldn’t come into your room otherwise.

“Say it again.” he hums, finally reaching your bed.

Yet instead of stopping and waiting for a response, he’s climbing onto the mattress with you, one knee at a time as he slowly crawls his way up to you.

“What-say what…Baekhyun, what are you-?” you manage, before his lips are on yours.

He takes advantage of your open mouth when you gasp in surprise, his tongue searching for yours.

The fugitive muscle ignores the logic of your mind as it meets his eagerly, as do your arms as they wrap around his neck.  

A soft whimper leaves your throat as the man pushes you back onto the bed, dragging the covers off of you before settling his weight between your wantonly parted legs.

“Shh…” he hums as he breaks the kiss, his lips skimming along your jawbone to nip over to your ear, “I can’t stop myself, I want you…”

Warmth pools between your legs as you feel the stiff bulge grind against your core.  

“Baekhyun-” you whine out as he tears at the flimsy nightgown, his hands kneading and grasping your breasts, your sides, touching everywhere as the tiny buttons give or fly off to gods knows where.

“Yes, my name…keep saying it…” his voice has dropped to a lower tone, his heavy breathing causing your hips to lift.  

Mind swirling with desire, you can’t help the way your body reacts to his touch.

As much as the academy prepared you for, this was not one of the things you had ever expected to encounter.

You didn’t have the will to stop him.

This was exactly what you wanted.

The realization has your eyes flying open, looking down at the handsome man as he parts your gown, exposing your naked body to him.

Even his eyes seem to glow with that heavenly light as he looks up at you, letting his gaze rake slowly down your body.

“I may not be able to get you to talk to me, so I’ll make you scream instead…” He rasps out, then your legs are over his shoulders as he slips his hands under your ass, lifting your cunt to his face like you’re his feast.

Whatever words you could have responded with are lost as his lips wrap around your sensitive clit, tongue flicking gently in a circle as he stares up at you.

The glow surrounding him allows you a full view of what he’s doing and it causes your eyes to roll back in your head.

Reaching down to grasp tendrils of his hair, you use your other hand to grab at the pillow under your head; unable to stop your hips from bucking up towards him, and encouraging his wicked mouth.

Shadows flicker along the edges of his light as you feel the need to touch him, to return the same pleasure but he only doubles down, burying his face into you.

His tongue slips down to tease at your entrance as his nose nudges your delicate bud, and you should feel shame at the pooling moisture he’s gathering and swallowing up.

Yet his eyes are brazen, silently pleading with you to let go and scream for him.

So you do.

Your thighs tighten around his head and his eyes blaze with heat like you’ve never seen, white hot and burning as he moans into you.

It doesn’t take much to make you lose complete control.

Just one finger replacing his tongue, his teeth nipping gently at your throbbing clit before he’s sucking and licking you into insanity.

Thrusting deep within you, his impossibly long finger curls and you’re crying his name for all the slumbering creatures beneath the earth to hear.

Hips lifting, thrusting into his face, his palm cups your ass as he helps you ride your way through your orgasm.

“Baekhyun, fuck I-”  

His glowing eyes flicker, your head swimming as confusion overcomes you.

“Hey…hey-” you hear, and startled, you feel yourself gasping for air as you sit up.

“Hey, you were screaming for me? Is everything okay?”

Blinking, looking around, you realize that you're still in your bed.

But looking down, your nightgown is still intact, buttons perfectly placed.

Covers are drawn over you, and Baekhyun hovers near the door, looking confused and concerned.  

“Was it a nightmare?” He asks tentatively.

Trying to calm yourself, you merely nod, taking in a deep breath.

“Yeah…” you answer, covering your face with your hand at the memory…and the soaked panties you’re currently concealing beneath the blanket.

“Yeah…nightmare…I’m fine.” you tell him hollowly, and he just nods, pausing a moment before he’s turning to close the door behind him.

“Fuck…” you say, flopping back on your pillow, cheeks heating with the memory of the “nightmare.”

What the fuck is wrong with you?

The following days, you swear Baekhyun senses something is off.

What the hell possessed you to dream of him in that way? 

Why the fuck are you upset, it was only a dream??

You find yourself going over the same line for the 15th time, still unable to comprehend it and you just lean back in your chair to run your hand over your face.

Before, you’d have heard something from Baekhyun like, “Is something wrong?” or “Is everything okay?”

But now…

You glance over, catching him looking away right as you do, going back to whatever it was he was documenting.

He’s been especially withdrawn, not his usual exuberant self since the garden…since the night you woke up screaming his name.

Feeling the heat travel up your neck at the thought, you clear your throat and rub the spot as if that will help it disappear.

Who knew you’d be missing his normal annoying banter.

“I can’t focus…I…maybe I should eat…” you say out loud, eyes darting to him as he sits in his little alcove.

His eyes meet yours, seeming to search for something, but you have no idea what.  

“Come if you want...I’ll likely make more than I can manage anyhow.” You toss out, turning to walk towards the kitchens.

Not sure why, but your heart sinks as silence meets you, but then seems to bob right back as you hear his feet hit the tiles and he slowly follows behind you.

It’s just a meal, you think, chastising yourself as you go about pulling out ingredients.

You can feel his eyes on you as you set about preparing your meal, and you glance over to study him.

“I’m sorry again about waking you the other evening.” You say, flinching at how your voice shakes.

He merely shrugs, settling his elbow on the counter and placing his hand on his palm as he studies you.

“Nothing to be sorry about.  It happens.”  

Frowning, you just turn back around to pay attention to the food and not burn anything.

“When we were at the academy, you used to do this late at night.” He finally breaks the silence.

Turning to give him an odd look, you try to think about all the late nights you ended up in the kitchens there.

“How…how do you know that?”  You ask him softly, swallowing at how his cheeks redden and his gaze drops, suddenly finding the counter interesting.

“I used to have nightmares too…sometimes I still do.” He whispers, fingernail tracing the patterns in the glossy marble.

“Occasionally, I would wander to clear my mind.  One night…I came across you in the kitchen cooking and humming.”

A smile teases at his lips, his eyes unfocused as if remembering, “I got curious and looked inside to see who was up so late.  I’d…never seen you smile before.  No matter how many times I tried to talk to you…but that night…” he shrugs again, his eyes flicking up to meet yours before looking away again.

Raising an eyebrow, you can only wait for him to continue, oddly fascinated to be told he’d been spying on you.

It doesn’t feel invasive like it should, no…it just has you wondering what he thought, what he saw…what he felt.

“I smiled?” You ask him gently, encouraging him.  

He looks up at you, eyes flicking back and forth as they study you, his corners of his lips lifting slowly.  

“Yes…you were beau-” he starts, but then his eyes widen, standing abruptly as he points behind you.

“Oh shit!” you exclaim, turning as you finally register the smoke pouring from the dry, burning food in the pan.

“Hold on, don’t panic-” he says, yet before his words get through to you, you’re grabbing the metal handle with your bare hand.

The clatter of the pan hitting the burner echoes through the room as you gasp, your hand throbbing with searing pain.

“Oh god, fuck, I’m stupid-” 

“Wait, don’t move.” He hums, calmly turning off the burner before turning to grasp your wounded hand.  

“It’s so fucking cliche, burning my hand, I’m an idiot-” you find yourself rambling.

“Shh…” he whispers, turning your palm up in his hands, studying the long angry burn on your skin.

Swallowing heavily, you can only nod, heart beating quickly at his proximity, at his gentle touch as he leans down to softly blow on your injury. 

The soft glow that surrounds both of your hands is warm, then cool as you feel relief.  

Startled, you watch the welt that was forming slowly fade until only unblemished skin remains.

“You…you can heal?” You ask him, stunned into stuttering your words.

His eyes are still on your palm, his thumb gently tracing the memory of the now healed burn before he nods.  

“Please be more careful.” He asks, glancing up at you as his fingers linger on your skin.

Blushing, you just nod back at him, your brain racing with confusion.

“How cliche of me, grabbing a pan without a mitt, of course I’d do something like that.  I don’t normally burn food, you know.  Now I’m going to have to-” you rant, pulling your hand from his as you attempt to turn around and clean up the now ruined food.

“You are beautiful when you smile. I wish I could see it more.” He blurts out, freezing you in your tracks.  

Eyes wide, you turn slowly to stare at him in disbelief.

It’s his turn to go beet red, fumbling for his own words as he seems to realize he said that out loud.

“I mean, you’re beautiful anyhow but I like when you seem happy…fuck…I just don’t want you to hate me like you do and I don’t know how to make you more comfortable…” 

Dumbfounded at the outpouring of confusing words, you can’t manage to get a syllable out before he’s rushing from the room.  

“I’m not hungry, I’m fine, I’ve got things to do-” the door swings shut before he finishes, leaving you standing dazed and staring off after him.

You’re not sure what is going on here, but things just got that much more confusing.

[muzzlemouths]

Hello hello, @chaoticgouda! It is I, your very very (very) late Secret Santa! Terribly sorry for keeping you waiting as long as I did — the story got away from me, and by that I mean I went slightly over the necessary wordcount.

You mentioned a love for horror, angst, and hurt/comfort, which I consider myself quite versed in, so I pulled out all the stops for this one. Hope you enjoy it! But, uh...do heed the warnings.

Dream-Eater!Moon x Insomniac!Y/N

Word Count: 8,540 Warnings: Fear and anxiety, isolation trauma, unreality, eye and mouth horror, body horror, (brief) gore, psychological horror

Three days, now. Three days since you’ve slept. Three days since that unblinking stare first crawled through the gap beneath your bedroom door, eyes like scarlet diamonds in a deep pool of nothingness and narrowed with an ire you couldn’t explain. Three days since you showed some spine and told it to go away. You’ve never suffered with sleep paralysis before, and you saw no reason for it to start now, yet you failed to come up with any better explanation for the thing at the foot of your bed. 

A flicker of motion draws your eyes to the far side of the room. The sweetgum outside waves with the breeze, gnarled branches contorting like ugly, knotted limbs, their shadow dancing across your wall under the full moon.

You’re acting like a child. No one else would flinch at a tree tapping its spindly fingers against the glass, or feel their shoulders tense in the stillness of an otherwise too-quiet room, the perpetuation of which is immediately interrupted by the softest ting of a bell. This brief distraction is all it takes. Your gaze snaps again toward the familiar set of eyes as if on cue only to find them missing. A bleak, damning emptiness in their place. 

Three days since the eyes first appeared to watch you strife with a good night’s rest.

Not once, in that time, have they ever moved.

It isn’t as though they possessed a body to carry them between positions, after all. The eyes were discarnate. Incorporeal. They had appeared in the darkness and in the darkness is where they stayed, with not head nor tail of any proper frame. 

Yet you are unequivocally aware of the hands that draw from the darkest part of your room to flatten against the foot of your bed — painted in a blue so deep it challenges the very night itself — and the gangly wrists that follow, knuckles sharp like jutting bone under stretched skin. Narrow shoulders that taper into a waist almost skeletal, pinched around a ribcage that doesn’t exist, digitigrade legs that go on for longer than they should. A ghastly body that wafts between tangible and formless, its crude excuse for flesh coming away like smoke and fading into the surrounding darkness of your bedroom. It is a struggle to see the ghoulish thing among the shadows, even as it climbs ever higher along your mattress, yet you find yourself incapable of looking away.

Perhaps this demon has you paralyzed, after all.

It certainly feels that way as the creature looms closer and closer, still, ascending your body where it lies frozen, scarlet eyes fixated ahead, until its smooth, expressionless face comes to rest dangerously close to your own. Again, that foreign bell rings out as it goes still.

You swallow your tongue and taste nothing but dread. Words collect uselessly behind your teeth as it raises a hand from beside your torso and brings it against your jaw, claws — carved into a needlelike point and inky blue as the fingers they’re attached to — trace a path along your cheek. A whisper on the skin, and only that. The strange sensation might even tickle if your heart weren’t threatening to squeeze between the bars of your ribcage and burst through your chest altogether.

This creature, whatever it is, awkwardly thumbs against the skin beside your eye and back down again. A bizarre hush, “Shhh shh,” spills between lips that aren’t there.

The tenderness it performs is decisively unpracticed. Even still, at the third and final ring of an invisible bell you suddenly find it entirely too difficult to keep your eyes open. Time appears to slow, a warm grogginess seeping between your bones as you continue to fight a losing battle, the siren call of sleep luring you in. Lower and lower do your eyelids fall, heavy with exhaustion, until you are able to convince yourself that the cold and unfamiliar weight against your chest is nothing more than a dream.

Then its maw comes open with silent resolve.

You aren’t sure how you missed them before; the teeth. Two rows of jagged canines that grin impossibly wide, its poor excuse for skin stretching upwards, eyes rolling to sit at the back of its scalp to accommodate a mouth that opens like a serpent’s unhinged jaw.

Adrenaline surges through your spine like thunder and ripples along the skin of your palm as it rushes through the shadow’s body and bashes into the switch of your nearest lamp. Yellow light floods your room in a blink, shooing darkness back into the corners as you look frantically for a demon that isn’t there. 

You are unbearably alone.

-

The following evening starts with the last cup in the coffee pot — it falls from the pot’s mouth with a sluggish dribble that heralds the emptied bottom, four mugs worth of the stuff with three chugged down already over the course of the afternoon.

It has been four days since you last slept.

This self inflicted torture is not without reason; regardless of how ridiculous said reason is. Nevertheless it had you doing everything in your power to stay awake. Currently, that meant surviving on a frankly excessive amount of caffeine and running circles through your apartment, desperate for any task that stimulated the brain and kept you from giving in to the sweet embrace of your bed.

These tribulations are not meant to be endured alone. The companionship of someone — anyone, be it friend or family — surely eases the burden of such a daunting task, but it isn’t that simple.

And you aren’t sure where to look for the camaraderie you so desperately seek.

The sun has already begun its downward path when you finish washing out the emptied pot and set it in the rack to dry, your drink forgotten save for the one gulp you savored before deciding that dishes needed to be done. The water runs too hot as you bow the head of a fork under the spout and scrub it clean between the bars. Even now you remember the static which paraded down your fingers the night before, rushing through your skin until it singed, the taste of fear so thick on your tongue that not even the coffee could outrun it. 

You dreaded the thought of returning to your bedroom later in the night and contesting with the thing that tried to devour you whole only a matter of hours prior. Maybe you could keep to the couch tonight, instead. Or, better yet, not let yourself rest your feet in any way to begin with.

Rest led to idleness and idleness led to sleep and sleep led to—

Thwack!

Your head snaps upward from the sink where your hands have begun to prune, watching through half-lidded eyes as the steller's jay outside your kitchen window throws a second twig against the glass. 

It’s a pretty little thing. A head and beak black as onyx, vibrant blue blooms proudly across its chest and down its back to the very base of its tail, which extends further than the average. Actually, the longer you look, the more it seems…off, somehow. Wrong. Its body is too large, its beak far sharper than necessary, and the eyes—

You break away from the window with a fierce shake of your head and firmly reprimand yourself for thinking that the eyes which stared back were scarlet. That isn’t possible. You’re sorely in need of a full night’s rest and it is this fact alone that prevents you from thinking clearly, already jeopardizing your ability to tell what is and isn’t real, apparently. You needed to get a grip.

The faucet bleeds money down the drain as you turn from it and find your beloved mug on the counter again, hands tender from the scalding water and trembling slightly as they bring the ceramic to your lips. 

But your coffee returns cold.

You’re confident that no more than a minute or two had passed since you last abandoned the mug — certainly not a lengthy enough time that your coffee should feel like ice against your lips.

Just another delusion brought on by fatigue, you decide. Time begins to lose its meaning when you refuse to keep your internal clock on track. You’re lucky this is the worst your symptoms have become with the strain that’s been collecting in the bags under your eyes already.

Nothing the microwave can’t fix, at least. It’ll lose the wonderful bite of a freshly poured cup, which is always unfortunate, but it’s better than trying to doctor this thing into a proper iced latte. 

You turn on your heel, narrowly brushing the sharp divide between your illuminated kitchen and the dark room beyond it, shadowed furniture staring back at you — dusty from a lack of guests — and make for the small radioactive box on your kitchen counter.

Narrowed eyes watch your back. A shred of the night comprised of knobbly joints and a starving mouth hung slightly ajar, scarlet gaze unblinking. It remains in place as you walk past it, just out of reach, keeping still like a wandering corpse in the corner of your livingroom.

It’s better that you don’t immediately sense its presence beyond a shudder at the base of your spine.

The microwave door opens with a pop, the slide of your mug along the plate grating against your already strained nerves. You slam the door shut harder than you mean to and see a scarlet glow staring back at you in the reflection.

Twisting on your heel exposes nothing but a dark, empty room.

You are unbearably alone.

The microwave screams at your back, announcing the completion of its task  — beep, beep, beep

beep

beep

beng

ting

ting

Silverware on a wine glass; a toast. The hurried look over your shoulder reveals an extravagant ballroom where your kitchen once stood. Mahogany furniture carved with intricate detail that stands over a polished floor, radiant and brilliantly gold under the eyes of an enormous chandelier. A crowd in lavish gowns, masks adorning each stranger’s face. Their waltzes slow to a stop as a glass of chardonnay lifts into the air.

Startling, you blink in rapid succession and peer from side to side in an effort to find the subject of this beautiful tribute, only to see all eyes turning in your direction. The stranger congratulates you to the sound of an uproarious applause — for what, you aren’t sure.

A familiar pair of eyes stares at you from the reflection in the glass.

Your heel swivels for the umpteenth time, neck snapping to catch a glimpse of the figure you know is there, now, refusing to be fooled a second time.

For whatever reason, the creature does not bother hiding itself from your stare. Perhaps because, despite its inherent familiarity, the form it takes now is nothing like the nightmarish frame it boasts in the shadows. 

Rather, it — he? — dresses in regalia akin to the rest of the masquerading crowd; sleek trousers and a poet's blouse, deep blue, cinched neatly under a bone-white corset at his waist. An enormous cloak hangs over their shoulders, bridged with silver chain, black as night on the outside with the promise of vibrant color hidden underneath.

A silvery mask carved into the shape of a crescent moon is fitted atop their face, and blue silks flow from behind it, spilling down his shoulders and tapering into a point like a vibrant comet, its end adorned in a large, pearlescent bell.

His scarlet eyes are damning on their own, but the ring of that bell is all you need to confirm his identity — you could recognize its song in your sleep. 

The irony of it all is lost on you.

The orchestra continues, the stranger's waltz continuing with seamless fluidity around you. A spinning pair blocks your line of sight for only a moment and just like that, he is gone. 

Nevertheless, the bell persists. Louder than boisterous laughter, sharper than the click of heels and clinking glasses, it echoes from every angle until you're made dizzy from spinning yourself in circles. Round and round you go, following each chime and always finding him just a second too late. Your effort to hunt him out of the crowd becomes desperate until you drive yourself mad with the sound, until its formerly pleasant ring becomes overwhelming. 

You throw yourself into the thick of the party at the barest whisper of its silvery voice and run yourself directly into a guest, their mask coming loose from the impact and falling with an ear-shattering clatter, harsher than it ought to be.

The instruments halt their song, heralding a pin-drop silence.

You're quick to stutter an apology and quicker, still, to crouch and pluck the thin decorative wood from the floor. It is light as a feather between your fingers, hardly weighing a whisper for the violent sound that pours through the room a second time as your eyes raise to meet the guest's and the mask falls again from your hand.

A smooth face stares back. Barren, colors bleeding together where the eyes, nose, and mouth are meant to be, like an oil painting — but the artist forgot to draw up the features, or there was an accident and their hand smudged through where the face normally goes. 

You shake another apology from your tongue and stumble backwards, your back meeting with the shoulder of another guest. The incessant thump thump thump of your heartbeat quickens still as you turn around to face the stranger, who shares the same fate. So, too, do the remaining guests lose their masks, each and every one of them falling away in comparative silence to reveal nothing behind them but stretches of empty flesh.

A scream climbs up your throat and rattles your teeth, trapped behind tight lips. You swallow around it like bitter liquor and squeeze your eyes shut, blocking everything out as best you can despite still feeling their voiceless stares burning into you, pleading for mercy between shaking breaths as realization strikes. You need to wake up. Wake up.

WAKE UP.

Your eyes snap open to the chime of a bell.

Scarlet eyes watch you from the back of the room. The figure turns, seemingly indifferent to what is happening around you, and makes for a door that hadn't been there a moment ago, disappearing through it without so much as a secondary glance in your direction.

A way out. Perhaps your only way out. You had no choice but to follow him.

Your knees threaten to buckle as they take you through the faceless crowd, idle bodies who turn to follow your escape but thankfully make no move to stop you even as you burst through the door and spill out the other side.

A single room greets you, empty of furniture and only half as bright. No bell accompanies it, the masked figure having disappeared already, and that remains true until you tiptoe forward and hear the click of the door shutting behind you.

The figure — Moon, you decide —stands before it, scarlet eyes wide and hungry as they settle on your trembling frame. He narrows the space between you with one smooth step and you respond in kind by replacing the distance with one step back, so on and so forth with increasing persistence to bridge the gap until he's walked you against the wall.

“That was almost too easy,” they hum.

The voice that answers you isn’t the one you were expecting. Actually, you weren’t expecting a voice at all. Thus far this creature has been nothing but growls and metallic rings. They’ve never encouraged the idea that they are capable of words.

“Why are you following me?” You swallow the quiver in your voice to demand.

“You followed me through the door, did you not?” He asks, and you can feel the way his grin splits behind the mask. “Come, now, don’t give me that look. I’m only trying to help.”

You can’t help the scoff that cuts from your throat. “In what way is this helping?” You exclaim. Then, thinking better of it, you shake your head, “Actually, don’t answer that. If you’re so willing to talk, suddenly, then I think I deserve to ask some questions myself.”

He stops in place where he had been encroaching on what small distance remained between you, the click of his heel lapsing into silence, as though the notion actually surprised him. Then, inevitably, the smile returns. He offers you a slow nod and gestures wordlessly for you to continue.

“Who—” your cheeks puff out in frustration, “what are you?”

His eyes light up, an expression that twists your gut in the face of his excitement. “I am a star,” he answers easily, “extraterrestrial dust, or something akin to it. A collection of atoms. Memories, thoughts, and concerns. A construct which underlines that which has happened, will happen, and is never meant to be.” He takes a bow, extending the cloak’s wing in his right hand to expose the whirling galaxy that shifts and stirs on the underside. “Somnium devorator, as your kind call me.”

The edge of your fear is replaced with the barest notion of curiosity — and beyond that, anger. This guy is talking straight nonsense as far as you’re concerned, and it doesn’t provide the answer you’re looking for, it’s only created more questions.

“Why should I believe you?” your eyes flicker between him and the remaining three walls, hopeful for another escape route — you don’t miss the way he moves forward each time you aren’t busy with words, “Better yet, why decide you’re going to take on an appearance like this,” you gesture vaguely towards him, “when you’ve been all too content with imitating a walking shadow until this point?”

Their head tilts sloooooow to the side, fingers twitching. The resemblance to a cat stalking prey is almost uncanny. “Thought this form might be less frightening,” he answers, notably skipping right over your first question, “are you not charmed?”

You dislike his choice of wording. More than that, you hate the laziness in his gestures, as though he has all day to play with you. If you were to believe him even in the slightest it would mean you were running around in his mise en scène — he has every reason to take his time.

It’s your turn to refuse him an answer, instead swiftly moving on with your long list of questions. “Alright, let’s say you’re telling the truth. Why go through all of this effort?” Your search for an alternative door returns with terrible news. Only the one exists. Effectively, you are trapped between two nightmares. You need to keep him talking. “What is it you want from me?”

Their mask begins to splinter, a sharp cheshire smile shining through the cracks. Moon’s voice lowers into a pitch that makes your stomach curdle. “I’m hungry, little dreamer,” shrill laughter escapes between his teeth, “and I think you’ve kept me waiting long enough.”

Alright, screw talking.

You break past him and shoulder your way through the door, more than willing to relive the horrors on the other side if it meant getting away from a creature that would have you for dinner if you stuck around any longer. Only when you’re past the threshold do you spare a glance behind you to see him stood in place, only those same, scarlet eyes following your path as the door shuts again. Turning around, you are met with the presence of an entirely different room.

Rather, a hallway. Bright and vibrant as the ballroom itself, it stretches on endlessly with no clear escape in sight, offering a parade of doors on either side, each door no different from the last as you pace forward. 

The door you first came from opens with an audible click, and you need not waste time looking behind you to know who enters through it. The chime of a silver bell sings to you outright.

Your brisk walk turns into a run.

The hall goes on for miles, still, offering you no relief in the form of escape when you enter through a door at random only to end up on the other side. An endless maze that leads you no further away from the masked creature, who follows you down the hall at an easy, nonchalant pace, happy to let you run yourself ragged like this.

Behind him, the room begins to crumble. As though the strings of reality were being snapped one by one, step by heel-toed step, the dream is devoured in his wake — it leaves nothing behind.

The small flame which started in your chest has crept between the gaps in your ribcage and set fire to every limb, now impossible to ignore, it burns and burns and burns. Your lungs spasm in a desperate attempt to suck in air as though every breath will be your last. Your legs plead for relief as they carry you through another door and this one, against all odds, leads to a room most familiar to you.

You’re right back where you started.

The empty room is different this time if only by the secondary door across from you, and although you are just plain sick of doors, by now, you aren’t going to curse a gift when it’s given. Instead, you march forward, pausing at the door you exited from only briefly to lock it in place. You aren’t hopeful that it will stop a reality devouring demon, but you can buy yourself some time at the very least.

Or maybe not. The doorknob twitches when you’re not two steps away from it, a low and frustrated growl slipping through the gaps, and suddenly you can’t get across the room and to the other door fast enough.

Your hand catches on the knob and gives it an earnest twist. Nothing. It refuses to be turned more than half an inch, evidently locked from the other side, and in a brief moment of outright hysteria you wonder if you’re struggling uselessly with the same door that stands behind you, having just locked it yourself only a moment ago. How cruel, in that case, to give you a false sense of hope.

The door at your back rattles and splinters at its sides as Moon rages just beyond it. Then it stills, all at once, and everything falls silent.

You dare not allow yourself to think they would give up so soon, your sigh of relief held hostage until you know for sure that you're in the clear only to hear the telltale ring of a bell echo through the gap beneath the door. So, too, does the shadow follow. A misty presence that you're more familiar with which pries its way into the bright room and recollects itself once its through, mask and all, and you are left trapped for what is likely the last time.

"Silly, silly me, thinking you might make this easy for me," Moon tuts, "are you quite done running now?"

“I wouldn’t be running if you weren’t chasing me,” you retort, nose wrinkling at the accusation. Your back presses up against the door as he ventures a step closer, but only that. You don’t bother trying to hide the noise you’re making as your hand wrestles fruitlessly with the doorknob behind you.

“You’re being ridiculous,” the demon sighs, “this could all go away if you would only let me help you.”

Back and forth, back and forth, the metal twists in your palm like your life depends on it. “Sure, I’ll just lie down and let you eat me, then,” you scoff, “I’m not stupid!”

Scarlet eyes blink behind the mask, quick with surprise. He stares at you with a look as though maybe you are a little stupid. If he believes it, he has no intentions of vocalizing the thought. Instead he deflates at the shoulders with another long, tired sigh and moves the cape aside so he can better reach for you — that is, he extends a hand in your direction, palm side up. Fitted in masquerade regalia like he is, it almost looks like he’s asking you to dance.

“Don’t be scared,” their voice lowers into a murmur, small and harmless when compared to the sharp grin that splits their cheeks. “I need you to trust me.”

You hardly have the time to consider it.

The silver knob finally gives in with a violent crack of metal screws and the door flies open behind you, pulling you back that final step into the embrace of nothingness — not a hall nor a ballroom nor anything at all catches you, rather, an endless abyss carries you down, down, down.

 Moon watches your plummet from the illuminated doorway until you fall out of sight.

Your body jolts awake with a start. You’re back in your house again, sitting on your kitchen floor and slumped against the cabinets. Just a dream. Just a really, really weird dream. 

Looking up, you notice the microwave still awaiting your input. The cup remains cold where it sits on the other side. Despite hearing its digital response clear as day — and the rhythmic beep beep beep that follows — you evidently never even got around to punching the numbers in. 

When had you fallen asleep?

You rub the remnants of shock and crusted sleep away with the heel of your palm and then use the counter for support to force yourself back to your feet, fitfully ignoring the way your muscles groan with a soreness that has no sane reason to be there.

A quick glance at your microwave lets you know that you were out for just under an hour. An alarming discovery, really, because at the time it felt as though you had been trapped in that hallway for years, and plunging through darkness for centuries.

You can’t risk falling asleep a second time.

You decide against drinking that last cup of joe, thinking better of it, since it’s bound to be stale by now and, anyway, all that caffeine might have been what gave you such vivid dreams in the first place. 

Still, you can’t help but wonder just how real any of it was, and the first thing you do upon picking yourself up from the floor is warily check around the corners for any signs of the shadowy figure…finding nothing and no one. How silly; it really was just a dream. 

You make your way out of the kitchen and into the livingroom, instead, turning on the lamp beside the wall on your way in so it basks the small room in light. The couch springs bounce as you slump against them, eyes already scanning the area for the television remote after deciding that you need some kind of distraction from whatever the hell all of that was. 

The feeling of its eyes on you still lingers.

Determined to ignore it, you continue digging along the seams until you find the remote between two cushions, and bring it forward with an exhausted sigh, hopping through channels one by one with no clear intent in mind and for only a few seconds before the screen abruptly cuts to black.

Confused, you try again, digging your thumb into the power button and getting about as far as you had the first time before the power cuts. Again, you turn it on, and again, the same thing happens. You’re less patient with the third attempt and must remind yourself that throwing the remote into your screen won’t solve the issue when it inevitably fizzles out before your eyes. 

Irritated, you spring from your couch on borrowed energy and pace forward to look behind the television, just to see if maybe the cord is hanging halfway out of the outlet, seeing as that’s the only conclusion you can think to come to. Everything looks to be in its place, though, and this does nothing but frustrate you further. You just wanted to relax, damn it.

Behind you, the familiar ring of a bell.

You turn around to find nothing there at all (a party trick that doesn’t exactly surprise you, anymore) and march back to the couch on tired legs, adamant to pretend the creature isn’t watching you from somewhere as you slump against the cushions again and reach for the remote. But it’s gone — of course it is — and you search everywhere for it; between the cushions, on the floor, even peering across the room to see if you brought it with you to check out the television, but no. Nothing. 

It is with a great and mighty sigh that you leave the couch for a third time, lowering yourself to the floor and climbing onto your hands and knees, deciding to check the space under your couch as a last ditch attempt at finding the damned thing.

A pair of scarlet eyes stares back.

You scramble backwards with an ear splitting shriek, narrowly avoiding the shadowy claws that swipe at your retreating form and tear a stripe through the hem of your pant leg when they catch. 

From a safe yard away you see the creature withdraw back into the darkness under the couch, its eyes narrowing in unmasked frustration. A thin line of shadow paces behind it like a metronome, left, right, left, right, the chime of its bell following suit.

A cat lashing its tail in agitation. Charming — cute, even, if this thing weren’t trying to eat you.

Perhaps it is the delirium from lack of sleep or perhaps only spite that drives you to do what you do next, which is to laugh. A noise that has the demon’s eyes losing their beautiful scarlet color, pupils dilating into pinpricks and leaving behind empty pools of black.

“Look who’s trapped now,” you sneer. “Can’t get me in the light outside of in dreams, can you?”

Thoroughly invested in your patronizing, you're much too distracted to notice the way he slinks further into the darkness, disappearing entirely only to resurface a moment later in the extended shadow of your lamp.

The laughter dies in your throat, replaced with a wary silence as you watch the demon slink formlessly around the light's base and up its long neck, careful to stay on the side bathed in darkness. A spindly body peels itself from the shadows and clings to the wall by the palm of its hands, then — with one smooth kick from half-formed legs — your only source of light meets the floor with an enormous clatter…plunging the room into darkness.

Well, shit. 

Moon is at your throat before you can think to crawl away, a towering presence that pins your back to the floor and snarls low into your ear. Strings of inky drool collecting between his teeth are the last thing you see before your head turns away, eyes squeezing shut, resigned to becoming the dreaded beast's next meal.

Until the presence of its hand at your cheek brings you to look again.

A noise not dissimilar to a purr dribbles from his throat as long, disjointed fingers comb through your hair, razor-sharp nails kept at bay with each slow, careful stroke. 

"I nnnne—" Moon's head shakes from side to side, words drawn with a sharp and tedious hiss, as if each one requires effort to form, different from the ease with which he spoke in your dream — after all, a shadow isn’t meant to talk. "Need you to trussssst me."

That was easier said than done. Still, they make no move to lash out at you, keeping, instead, to brushing his knuckles along the roof of your scalp and down the other side. If you didn’t know any better you would think he was attempting to soothe you, like a parent might comfort a child after a nightmare. And then it dawns on you.

That's exactly what he's doing. Or trying to do, anyway, as awkward and unpracticed as it is. You wonder how many times he watched humans perform this song and dance — if maybe he considered it a ritual, or just something that made the tears go away.

You search his eyes for anything trustworthy, and find the smallest twinkle of light within. "You...you aren't here to eat me, are you?" 

Again, Moon shakes his head. "Jussst the nightmare," he promises, "I will not hhharm you."

Swallowing around what small amount of fear you can, opting to trust him, if only for now, you answer the demon with a slow and wary nod. "A-And you’ll leave, after? When you’re finished, um—”

“Devouring, yesss,” His mouth parts to make room for a wetted tongue. It protrudes from the back of his throat to swipe over hungry teeth — glistening like stars in a midnight sky — drips of sticky black crawling down his jaw to land soundlessly against your skin.

You resist the urge to close your eyes again, decisively holding firm, even if your voice is anything but. “I — I can’t be the only one having dreams, even nightmares, around here. Why not move on to someone else?” You watch them pause, considering. It’s hard to keep the chastizing tone out of your voice. Demon or not, this thing is acting ridiculous, if not a little childish. “You could easily find someone else to hunt, right?” A grimace pulls on your face at the poor choice of words but, well, that’s basically what this whole week has been. Endurance hunting. They’ve only been waiting for you to tire yourself out — while exhausting themselves in the process. “I just don’t understand. Why are you starving yourself of a meal?”

An annoyed chitter clicks from between their teeth. “Why are you starving yourself of sleep?”

You bite the inside of your cheek hard, not wanting to let the ‘touche’ be spoken aloud. “You know why,” you say instead. “You saw the nightmare too, didn’t you? It’s worse than anything my brain has come up with in years. Worse than the ballroom, and the faceless strangers, and the endless hallway. Worse than—” your teeth clack painfully under the force with which your mouth snaps shut, decisively keeping that thought tucked behind you, but it’s obvious by his flinch that Moon knows what you were going to say, regardless.

The nightmare that crept into your mind four days prior was worse than even him.

Silence answers you. You aren’t sure what you expected, really. Why would a demon, even the tailed, belled, poor-attempts-at-comfort kind, have any sympathy for a bad dream? If anything, you’re sure he encouraged its existence. 

“What about it scares you so much?”

His voice jolts you from your thoughts, catching you off guard. Your answer is interrupted by the quiet voice of a newscaster as your television roars back to life and blue light pours from the screen — forcing him back under the couch with a weak hiss. Evidently, his strength to mess with your electronics is finally all used up.

“It’s…stupid,” you begin, attempting to sound bored as you lift yourself by the elbows and shrug. You consider twisting around to power off your television manually, but the short length of distance between you isn’t terrible. It allows you some breathing room — and an excuse to not look him in the eyes as you continue. 

“There’s no monsters or faceless crowds. It’s just me in this big, empty space, and I’m…alone. Unbearably alone.” You smile; a wry and pathetic attempt at pretending even as your own words betray you, hushed into a whisper. “That scares me more than anything.”

Your eyes search his own for any sign of empathy. You’re sure the implications are not lost on him; the single pillow on your bed, the absence of texts from friends or calls from family, your furniture left to grow dusty with no one around to impress. The lack of evidence that you aren’t already living the nightmare you’re so desperately trying to avoid.

The bell rings through their continued silence, tapping gently against the floor where their tail sways, his expression unreadable from under the couch. You fidget awkwardly with the torn hem of your pants and decide to continue, if only to fill the silence. “I don’t expect you to understand,” you admit, “it’s natural for you to be alone — hazards of your line of work, right?” 

The words come off as a joke — lighthearted, even if the laugh that follows is dry — but his bell falls silent.

“...It can get lonely, sssometimes.”

Your mouth goes dry, all attempts at humor dying in your throat at once, and you frown. Their awkward form of comfort immediately comes to mind. How long have they been watching humanity from the sidelines, you wonder. Curious if not hopeful for a glimpse of that life. What it might feel like to be comforted, or to hold someone’s hand, or even just have someone to talk to. Even in the crowd — even in your dreams — he kept his back against the wall, entirely alone. 

Maybe he understands more than you think.

“You know why, then. Why I don’t want to risk falling asleep and— and going back to that.” Your eyes betray you. Despite your best efforts you can not stop the tears that brim at the corners, thick with frustration and a bone-deep exhaustion, they burn hot against the dark circles beneath your eyes. You swipe at them with the bottom of your shirt, refusing to let them carry down your cheeks. “Even if you promised to get rid of the nightmare for good, I— I cant. I don’t want to experience it again.”

More silence answers you. God, this is humiliating. You begin to wonder if it was childish of you to assume the monster under your bed would pay your worries any mind. Those scarlet eyes only stare, apathetic and cold as the day you first saw them. You decide he isn’t going to give you the answer you want and so move to stand, but his throat offers a whine, halting your retreat, and his eyes are suddenly wide with thought.

“What if I show you something scarier?”

A funny noise slips between your teeth; something between a laugh, and a scoff. You crawl forward to lie down beside the couch, stomach to the floor, placing your head on your arms so you can stare him down at eye level. “Scarier than my nightmare?” You ask, “I doubt even you would be able to pull that off. I’m desensitized to all of your tricks, already.”

The creature’s grin is wide and sharp, that of a truly frightful thing. You wonder, then, why his eyes look so terribly sad. “Not all of them,” he tells you. “How about we ssstrike a deal?”

Your mother had always warned you about making deals with demons. Well, she hadn’t, but it’s common sense not to. That said, your common sense left the stage three nights ago, at minimum, and your curiosity currently ruled the intermission. You wanted to see where they were going with this. “What did you have in mind?”

There it is, again — that shrill laughter. “If I scare you, mmmore than even the nightmare,” Moon begins, “you will sleep for me.”

Your brow creases, eyebrows pinching together. “And if you can’t?” You ask, “If my nightmare is still worse than whatever you manage to come up with?”

“Then I’ll leave,” he promises, “and I won’t return.”

Oh. Well, that certainly sweetened the deal, didn’t it? Especially since you’re completely sure he’s just talking out of his ass. He might have scared you a few days ago — and admittedly, he still does, now — but nothing compares to the dark recesses that have kept you up for three straight nights, of that you are certain. With this confidence in mind, your answer comes easily. 

Your hand extends toward them, disappearing into the shadow beneath your couch, and cool, boney fingers snake around your palm in turn. 

“You have a deal.”

-

The curtains in your bedroom are pulled shut, the door closed, and the overhead light turned off. Moon crouches like a stone-still gargoyle in the far corner of your room where the soft light of your bedside table lamp can’t get to him.

Lastly, you climb into bed. “Remind me again why I’m doing this?” The covers are pulled back, but you don’t yet get under them. “I don’t like the idea of being a sitting duck, you know. When you told me to turn the lights off I didn’t think you meant all of them. Silly me, I guess.”

“Hushhh,” Moon hisses. They nod towards the bedside lamp. “That one too.” Seeing your eyes narrow with suspicion, they have the gall to sneer, showing their teeth as they finally stands to full height. Even slouched as he is, his shadowed head brushes along your ceiling, too-long limbs hanging limply at his boney sides. They watch your hand reach for the light and hesitate, still, only risking one step forward to plead their case, scarlet eyes aglow. “You trust me, don’t you?”

You very much do not trust him, though you want to. In fact, in order for this to work, you need to. He knows this as well as you do, and you believe he is hoping you’ll cut him some slack, maybe. It’s fortunate, then, that you’re too deep into this mess to turn back now. 

“Just this once,” you tell him, and with the flick of a switch your bedroom lapses into darkness.

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, and it is for this reason that you hear the transformation before you see it. 

A sound like stretched wires and loosened, plucked seams carries through the room, his shadowed form beginning to lose its shape all at once. Scarlet eyes liquify cartoonishly, dripping like candle wax down his cheeks, mouth sagging in tow like a burlap sack coming undone. The space between their eyes purses open with ease, a gap just wide enough for tapered claws to snag against the flesh on either end and— 

Their skin is split open and shred like a viscous cocoon, peeled away to reveal something inchoate, a grotesque assembly of viscera, blackened entrails wrapping around a wiry frame of jagged, mismatched teeth, thin like cords and cables, bleeding together into a blistering excuse of a carcass that drips and oozes and spills along your floor, and it is alive, pulsing along his anatomy like winged insects smothering the bark of a tree

— and from every bend there is a humanesque face, featureless as the masked strangers and protruding as though they are trapped behind skin, and between each shallow crevice there grows an eye, swollen and frantically looking in all directions, the veined tissue stretched thin across the expanse of their chassis, each a vibrant red like the blood pounding in your ears. His macabre torso swings forward on backwards legs, crawling forward on all fours, the remaining six limbs dragged behind like deadweight as he reaches the foot of your bed.

You are not winning this bet.

The mere sound they make — a long, suffocated groan — is enough to make your blood run cold. Goosebumps swarm your arms, every hair standing on end. You retreat against the frame of your bed and face them with a whimper as the tears begin to pour, you can do nothing but sit there, knees tucked to your chest, confused and pitifully lost for what to say for fear that you’ll simply open your mouth and gag. A cold sweat builds along your skin and soaks into the sheets that are pulled taut under daggered claws as this—this thing ambles onto your mattress.

A pleading, vehement shake of your head makes them freeze in place. Your heart hammers out of your chest as all eyes twist forward to meet you with a hideous squelch, and suddenly the very act of breathing feels impossible.

Moon — or whatever has become of them — extends a single hand in your direction. Throbbing bone meets your cheek and brushes away the tears, stilling only when you flinch, and though his ever changing face gives nothing away you can tell, near-immediately, that you’ve wounded him.

You finally understand the careful wording behind his proposal. ‘If I scare you’, they had said. Indeed — worse than even the nightmares, Moon was a terrifying, monstrous thing.

Again does that familiar, shrill laughter fill your ears. "I wwwin." 

It's bitter. There is no victory in his voice. He knew the odds and played them well in his favor even at the cost of exposing the uglier side, and now you’re here, pressed against the headboard and faced with a dripping maw that is just ghoulish enough to make you forget about the way he smiled at you only a short while ago.

Your head shakes for another reason entirely, this time. “I—I’m not scared,” you insist, desperate to ignore the tremble lining your throat, “I’m not.”

Admitting it would mean losing and losing meant having to face another nightmare all together, but more than that, you force the lie between chattering teeth because the way he looks at you is devastating, as though he’s realized only now the damage that’s been done. You will never look at him the same way again.

Yet he remains firm, answering you with a murmur. "Come nnnow, firefly, a deal is a deal,” he tells you, “it’s time for bed."

The demon in your bedroom, heinous and ugly and towering, guides you softly beneath your many covers. He fluffs your pillow. He tucks you in. He considers another stroke through your hair, a kiss to your forehead as he’s seen time and time again — he decides against it. Instead, Moon draws himself away from you, imagining that you can’t bear to look at him for a moment longer. Prepared to wait by the empty corner of your room, instead.

You reach out — catch him by the hand. One of many. Viscous muscle dribbles over your fingers, cold to the touch, but your hold remains steadfast.

The sight he is met with when he turns around is that of you propped up on one elbow, eyes wide with fear of another kind, and he can’t help but return to your side. 

"Stay here?" You ask. "...I don't want to be alone."

His motley of eyes blink in perfect unison, though he says nothing, at first, thoroughly shocked to silence. Why call a nightmare to the foot of your bed? Was it a trick? An excuse to smother your guilt? They can’t imagine another reason. Yet, undeniably, they watch as you lower yourself against the mattress again and use your other hand to raise the covers, inviting him inside. 

And he nods too eagerly — climbs onto the bed in a hurry as if scared you will change your mind, and only then does he squeeze your hand back. 

“You’re not,” they promise, “I’m right hhhere.”

Inky puddles trickle against your sheets as they tuck themselves under your offering of blankets, disappearing to the space at your feet if only for a moment, and returning, again, with familiar scarlet eyes that blink at you from the darkness.

Smooth shadow fits against your palm and curls between your fingers, refusing to let go, and as you hold hands with this strange creature — who has brought himself to the very brink of starvation for your sake — you begin to wonder if your nightmare isn’t so impossible to face after all.

“Promise me,” you cram the words around a yawn, “you have to swear to me that you won’t let the nightmare go on for long.”

Moon smiles with both sets of teeth, extending a shadowed hand to you, and offering his pinky. “I won’t leave a crumb behind,” he says, “you have my word.”

Your laughter is wary, but there all the same, a weak and hopeful smile playing on your lips. You want to believe him. You have to believe him.

An unavoidable weight tugs at your eyelids as your pinky curls around his own, four days of exhaustion catching up with you at last, and finally, tucked against shadow, your eyes fall shut. And everything

goes

quiet.

This abyss is dreadfully familiar. The expanse around you is black as the night without any stars to offer relief, and when you cast your voice into the darkness, looking for someone — anyone — to call back, not even your own voice returns.

You are unbearably alone.

A cold chill runs through you, aching within your chest like a broken heart. Your body makes itself terribly small, arms tucking around themselves as tears threaten to spill over your cheeks once more, the feeling of isolation too much, already. It eats away at you until even the darkness feels like a comfort, and you want nothing more than to be swallowed up by it, so that you might never have to feel this loneliness again.

How wonderful it is, then, to hear the chime of bell.

Your whirl on your heel to see Moon before you, dressed again in masquerade regalia, bent at the waist and with his arm outstretched, a charming grin splitting his cheeks behind the mask. His offer to dance is left unspoken, and he will wait as long as you need, but you hardly hesitate for even a moment this time before accepting with a smile of your own.

He sweeps you into a dance immediately, humming the tune of a familiar waltz and he carries you around the dark expanse, hand braced against the small of your back, whisking you this way and that until laughter builds in your throat and the room doesn’t feel so empty anymore.

The stars beneath his cloak escape from the fabric to dance overhead.  Galaxies of purple and blue and orange, nebulas that are red and brilliant gold, constellations which illuminate the darkness until the surrounding color reflects underfoot, and you dance across a sky of stained glass.

He dips you with a flourish, cloak tails soaring above their shoulders like wings pulled straight from the night sky, and as his chin tilts to look your way you want nothing more than to draw the mask from his face and see the smile that lies beneath.

He is visibly wary as your hand reaches for its silvery frame, though he makes no move to stop you. Perhaps he is scared that you will hate what you find on the other side — scared that he is too frightening, too monstrous without something to cover his face. 

But as it comes away, and you are met again with those scarlet eyes, you think of nothing more than how happy they’ve made you. Your hand frames their cheek with another bout of laughter as you mind the many eyes and teeth under your thumb, and when his smile widens so, too, does your own, because for the first time in forever you don’t feel so alone.

And you think that maybe, just maybe, you never want this dream to end.

[yuzurujenn]

[2025.02.25] GOETHE April issue - Yuzuru Hanyu Special 30th Birthday Edition

Cover Story

The cover shoot took place at a studio in Sendai, Yuzuru Hanyu’s hometown. That day, he had multiple media shoots, with ours scheduled last. Despite how tired he must have been, Hanyu entered the studio with a deep bow, saying, “Thank you for waiting! I look forward to working with you!” His thoughtfulness instantly captured everyone’s hearts.

The shoot spanned 20 pages and lasted for quite some time. Yet what left the editorial team in awe was his unwavering focus and astonishing ability to adapt to the photographer’s requests. He effortlessly absorbed each instruction and transformed it into expressions that far exceeded our expectations. In one of the most memorable shots, Hanyu holds his own pair of skates—a reflection of his deep love and passion for figure skating.

At the end of the shoot, he once again bowed deeply and said, “Thank you very much! Thank you for your hard work!” before swiftly leaving the studio. The entire team couldn’t help but burst into spontaneous applause.

Interview: Challenging a New Self

On December 7, 2024, professional figure skater Yuzuru Hanyu turned 30. Even now, he continues to train with greater intensity than when he won his Olympic gold medals. We delve into the mindset, beliefs, and unwavering determination at the core of a man who constantly strives to evolve and surpass himself.

Special Interview Part 1: "I Decided to Stick to What I Believe Is Right"

The Current State of Yuzuru Hanyu at 30

For Yuzuru Hanyu, Japan’s national skating treasure, there’s no need for empty flattery. It has been about two and a half years since he announced his professional transition in July 2022. As the executive producer of his own ice shows, he has completed three major productions: GIFT at the Tokyo Dome, followed by RE_PRAY and ECHOES OF LIFE. These monumental achievements brought him a sense of fulfillment that could only come from overcoming such grand challenges. Reflecting on his journey, Hanyu speaks calmly:

"It was both tough and fulfilling. Being thrown into a world of freedom also brought its own kind of restrictions and made me realize my own limitations. It’s been a journey of searching, reaching out, and finally starting to understand many things by my third year as a professional. My connection to visuals, projections, and how the stories link to the programs has deepened significantly. It feels like all the efforts I’ve made beyond skating—branching out, absorbing inspiration—are finally starting to grow into a solid trunk."

Stepping into a space where Hanyu performs feels almost reverent. Through his ice stories, he tackles the profound theme of the meaning of life itself. His wholehearted performances pose philosophical questions to modern society:

"I’ve always wondered about the meaning of my own life since I was young. By the time I became aware of myself, I already had a name and was already ‘living.’ My earliest memory is realizing I could blink on my own. That night, I wondered: What if I fall asleep and wake up as a baby again? Life is so intangible—you can’t even prove your own existence. Because life is so fleeting, I hope my performances can inspire people to reflect on life and what it means to be alive."

The right thing to do is to leave it to each and every once-in-a-lifetime encounter.

Hanyu’s pride in his method of expression is clear. Rather than conforming to expectations, he listens to his inner voice and translates that honesty into his performances. One example he mentions is his 2023 show RE_PRAY, which drew on video game worlds to portray the destiny that lies beyond the choices we make in life.

"Honestly, if I were choosing music just for those who supported me during my competitive career, I think I should have stuck with classical pieces. But I deliberately chose game music because I decided to stick to what I believe is good. As a result, game fans and people who hadn’t been interested in figure skating started to watch my performances, expanding the audience. Every time I create something, I want it to be something I genuinely love, something that resonates with me. I’d be happy if fans of those original works see my respect for them while also enjoying my performance as Yuzuru Hanyu’s unique form of entertainment."

His most recent show, ECHOES OF LIFE, combined piano compositions with contemporary dance and hip-hop to convey the idea that what seems like coincidence might actually be destiny.

"I’ve recently realized that with the right skills and creativity, a lot can be done even on ice. This time, I worked hard to bring movements I learned off the ice onto it. I constantly think about what I want to express at its core and try to translate that through figure skating."

When asked about future performances, Hanyu candidly admits to the uncertainties and evolving passions in his journey:

"Over time, my creative ideas may dwindle. There aren’t many things in life you can dedicate yourself to with complete passion. For me, it’s been figure skating, games, manga, and anime. But who knows? Maybe turning 30 will lead me to discover new interests. I think trusting in those chance encounters is the right approach for now."

Special Interview Part 2 "I Take Pride in the Fact That What I’ve Been Doing Is a Sport"

Being an Athlete Is My Foundation: The Profession of Yuzuru Hanyu

When breaking down what it means to be “Professional: Yuzuru Hanyu,” one thing becomes clear—he never cuts corners in creating captivating performances. His unwavering belief in figure skating as a sport underpins every intense and powerful routine.

"When I turned pro, I made it clear from the start: I am an athlete. Figure skating, while inherently an artistic sport, is a discipline in which the athletic aspect makes up about 80 percent. Without physical strength, you can't skate properly, and without technical skill, landing a quad is impossible. In Ice Story, doing two quads after skating for 30 minutes was nearly impossible. The most important thing for me as a pro is not to lean too heavily into the artistic side just because I’m no longer competing. I take great pride in the fact that what I have dedicated myself to is a sport. As an athlete, I strive for strength and the ability to inspire. I believe that my professional pride now lies in continuing to merge the inspiration drawn from the power of sports with the emotional impact of art."

When thinking of Yuzuru Hanyu during his competitive days, one imagines his hunger for victory and raw instincts on full display. While that aspect remains unchanged, what has evolved is his definition of "victory."

“Every time I create a program, I build it with the mindset that it’s impossible to complete. In a good way. Before, winning and becoming a champion was my main goal. Now, executing this program perfectly has become my challenge and my goal. If I can’t do it flawlessly, that’s my defeat. If I can, that’s my victory. Since an Ice Story performance doesn’t end in just one day, it motivates me to aim for perfection in every subsequent performance. It's like turning what I once thought was impossible into something possible within myself.”

How does he maintain such a consistently high level of motivation? The way he sets his goals reveals the essence of a truly exceptional athlete.

"Setting goals in life is very difficult. The closer the goal is, the easier it is to achieve, but the sense of accomplishment doesn't really generate a sense of self-efficacy. But if the goal is too far away, it feels unattainable, and every day just becomes a struggle. But for me, setting distant goals is more enjoyable in a sense, even if it means struggling along the way."

Searching Earnestly, Finding Value Within Himself

Despite his illustrious records, including two Olympic gold medals, behind those achievements lie countless failures and relentless trial and error. His fighting spirit, the ability to keep standing up after every setback, is rooted in witnessing the resilience of people rebuilding after the Great East Japan Earthquake—an event he experienced firsthand.

“Humans tend to remember negative experiences much more vividly, so forgetting failure is impossible. But every failure has a reason behind it. Maybe it’s because the goal-setting was wrong. But instead of giving up, I search for solutions—whether it's a lack of effort on my part, the wrong method of practicing, or even focusing on the wrong technical aspects. If I keep searching without giving up, I believe I can achieve it. It is really difficult to have the strength to believe. But like the people rebuilding from the Noto Earthquake or the Hibakusha who received the Nobel Peace Prize, I'm sure they are where they are today because they have continued to believe for so long. I experienced 3/11 firsthand, so I have a deep understanding of how powerful human belief can be. It sounds idealistic, but if you don’t give up, things will somehow work out. However, if you half-heartedly try without full commitment, nothing will change. That’s why it’s important to seriously search for what’s valuable to you and keep working on it steadily.”

I have more muscle, technique and knowledge now than I did when I was competing.

The daily routine to remain a top athlete. It was self-training six days a week, an average of more than five hours a day.

“I practice on the ice and train off-ice for about three hours every day. After a quick break, I sometimes train for another three hours, focusing on weightlifting—lifting barbells, swinging dumbbells, the typical weight training exercises. There is no time to relax. Sometimes, my exhaustion shows in my attitude. But I’ve learned to recognize when I’m pushing too hard and try to rest intentionally.”

While he was a fierce competitor during his active career, as a professional now, he’s also a solitary artist. His commitment has become second nature, and through it, he constantly transforms himself into a higher version of who he is.

“In figure skating, even sleeping needs to be considered part of your training. It wasn’t just about being a professional athlete; even during my competitive days, I had to structure my entire life around winning Olympic gold. That hasn’t changed. To be honest, I definitely practice more now than I did back then, I'm more toned, I have more muscle, and I have more technique and knowledge. It's fun to keep improving myself like that."

Valuing Every Small Moment Each Day

At 19, Hanyu won gold at the Sochi Olympics, and at 23, he achieved back-to-back victories at the PyeongChang Olympics. In his late 20s, he attempted the unprecedented quadruple Axel and made a fresh start as a professional skater. The 30 years of his life so far, marked by legendary achievements, are simply a continuation of his present, where he continues to live life to the fullest.

“I think I’ve always been fully focused on the present. From the outside, people probably think I’m someone with an incredibly strong core. But in reality, the thoughts and ideas surrounding that core can be quite fragile. When something bad happens, when I see something unpleasant, when someone says something hurtful… I waver easily. It’s easy for me to lose motivation for practice. But looking back on my 30 years,  I think I’ve always managed to live through those wavering moments with care and keep going.”

Now at a pivotal age of 30, Hanyu describes himself as being "in his prime." His widened experience and perspective bring a deep sense of fulfillment.

“I finally feel like my knowledge, imagination, and physical ability are reaching a new level. There are still many times when my body doesn’t fully align with what I envision, but I've finally begun to grasp how to train in a way that moves me closer to that goal. When I set a goal, I think I have a pretty good understanding of the path to achieving it. But I'm sure when I'm 40, I'll realize that I still didn't understand anything back then. It feels like I’ll keep repeating that process forever.”

“I Probably Have a Stronger Sense of Anticipation for Tomorrow Than Most People"

How does he see himself as a professional skater moving forward? Aware of the ever-present risk of injury, his eyes remain fixed on the future.

“I think I probably have a stronger sense of anticipation for tomorrow than most people. That’s why I feel that if I don’t take responsibility for my actions today, tomorrow will only become more difficult. For example, I think my physical condition today is a direct result of what I did yesterday. I don’t know if this mindset comes from being an athlete. Honestly, in figure skating, even if I go to practice tomorrow, there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to practice the day after. So, it's not that easy to draw a blueprint for the future. But, just as I’ve worked hard for the past 30 years, I want to keep valuing the little moments of each day. I hope that when I look back tomorrow, I can think, ‘I gave it my all today.’”

A life rich in experiences has shaped his intricate way of thinking. Yet, he still leaves room for the unexpected. For Yuzuru Hanyu, a one-of-a-kind skater, walking his own path with unwavering composure is, in itself, a continuous challenge.

Source: GOETHE Apr 2025 issue, pg 15, pg 87-101 https://goetheweb.jp/person/article/20250226-yuzuru-hanyu?heading=2 Info: https://www.amazon.co.jp/dp/B0DRNR4BX6?tag=goetheweb-22

[honeyhae-svt]

On My Command

SEVENTEEN FANFICTION (SERIES)

AFAB!READER x SEVENTEEN - MNID!!!

GENRE: Mafia, Businesses, Dark Romance, Smut, Gangs, RomCom, Action, Fem!Reader x Mafia!Seventeen, Baddie!Reader x Businessmen!Seventeen

⚠️ WARNINGS ⚠️: Language, Kissing, Making Out, Persistence. -warnings for this chapter

♡-Mention of other groups like TXT, EXO, ENHA, G-IDLE, LE SSERA, NCT DREAM, RIIZE (this is a series so ig i will be adding more to than these warnings) - MDNI OR I WILL BLOCK THOSE WITHOUT AGE INDICATOR ON BIO.

READER IS NAMED LI MEI QIANG!!!

>>>> IMAGES ARE FROM PINTEREST so yeah, ctto. Enjoy babies. ♡

On My Command - Masterlist (Chapters)

CHAPTER 2

"I heard our rival's CEO is either Chinese or Japanese," Wonwoo remarked, drawing the group's attention. "Who did you hear that from? And why didn't you share it as soon as you knew?" Jeonghan demanded.

"We weren't sure yet... so we decided to wait until Minghao and Hoshi could confirm it," Wonwoo explained. "What we know for sure is that they're not Korean," Soonyoung added, and Minghao and Hoshi nodded in agreement.

Xu Minghao is a Chinese member of Seventeen, known for his skills as both a hacker and a slasher. He's adept with blades, particularly nunchucks, and excels at coding. His contributions to the company include producing, design work, and managing store branches throughout the city alongside Mingyu.

Minghao shut his laptop and whispered something to Soonyoung, who nodded in response.

"I swear, if you keep another thing from us, I'll be the one to cut your tongues off," Seungkwan said, rolling his eyes at their exchange.

"S.Coups told us to keep quiet until now," Minghao clarified, and Wonwoo and Soonyoung. "But we need confirmation soon. The shipments are arriving in three days, and we can't afford any sabotage," another voice chimed in.

"We're aware," Jeonghan replied, glaring at the hacking team. "These hackers are too slow and don't take their jobs seriously."

"You can't blame us entirely. We've already done a lot for the group," Jihoon retorted, clearly annoyed.

"Jun, Dino, have you found any information yet?" Joshua asked, cutting through the argument. "We just returned from another mission, so apologies for the delay. We've confirmed that the rival company is indeed Chinese," Junhui said, tossing an envelope onto the table.

"You had this information all along and didn't share it sooner?" Jeonghan asked, grabbing the envelope and scanning its contents.

"We only just got it ourselves. Don't put the blame on us," Junhui replied.

"Well at least you guys did better on your researching than the hacking team," Seungkwan says, side-eyeing the team mentioned which makes Hoshi want to leap and beat Seungkwan up into a pulp, but of course, he wouldn't do that. Seungcheol would kill them if they caused another trouble.

Wen Junhui, another Chinese member of the group, is renowned for his research skills alongside Dino. He contributes to both planning and production and is responsible for disguises, which he handles with great expertise. His insane visuals are enough to make you think he'd bring no harm.

Lee Chan Lee Chan, known as Dino, is the maknae and excels in cons and disguises. He plays a key role in the group's planning and production and is known for his charisma, which enhances his disguise work.

Jeonghan, Joshua, Woozi, and Deokyeom left for their separate meetings, leaving the remaining eight members in the room.

"This is our first mission failure," one man said, disappointment evident in his voice. "It's not a complete failure yet. The deadline isn't up," Soonyoung assured him. "We were split into three groups, each with four members. We might have managed better if we had worked together."

"Ay, ay, it's alright, Vernon-ah. We just need to learn from our mistakes and do better next time," Seungkwan said, patting Vernon’s shoulder. "Besides, we all had different missions, so we couldn't assist each other."

Chwe Vernon, the American member, has high expectations and views 'failure' as unacceptable. He is involved in both business and gang operations, excelling as a strategist and sharpshooter.

"Even so, it's okay to be disappointed," Wonwoo said, standing up. "I'm leaving," he added before walking out."I’ll leave too," Vernon said, also rising from his seat and exiting. "Those two really have such huge egos," Seungkwan remarked as he watched them go.

You were at work at the beauty store, successfully convincing a customer to buy three products. The sale boosted your confidence.

"Mei, our boss is visiting today because of yesterday's incident," Yuqi informed you, and you acknowledged the news.

Li Mei Quiang / YN, the protagonist, is a persuasive and observant 22-year-old Chinese who has lived in Korea since age six. Your expertise in psychological thinking and sociability makes you effective in your job.

Song Yuqi, a Chinese who moved to Korea four years ago, has become your close friend. She often calls you 'Unnie,' meaning older sister, as she is two years younger than you.

Choi Beomgyu, Choi Beomgyu, your best friend and a part-time store employee, is a year older and works as a musician. His social nature and connection to his band add to his role at the store. He also has his own set of other friends that is part of his band, and is practically a social butterfly.

Lee Heeseung, one of the people that you hold close with, your guardian since you were six, took you in when you were lost at the airport. Though his family needed convincing, he became your legal guardian and treated you like his own sister (once he reached his legal age). Ever wondered how a six year old even got there? Well, you were lost at an airport, you didn't know how to speak korean, so he took you with him.

He works at a small company, enough to make a living while taking care of you. He is five years older and treats you like his real little sister.

—AEYA HERE!: Count this as one of character introduction! Hehe, and, oh.

Choi Seungcheol is the boss of the Seventeen group, known for his stern and commanding presence. He has successfully led the group in both business and gang activities for five years.

3 days later.

The tension in the air was palpable as you stood in front of the manager, his eyes drilling into yours with an intensity that made your skin crawl. “You didn’t recover the stolen products, did you?” His question was pointed, almost as if he was challenging you.

You raised an eyebrow, biting back the urge to lash out. “No, sir...” you answered, your tone laced with thinly veiled sarcasm. His hand shot out, gripping your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. He smirked, a sinister glint in his eyes. “You know what that’ll cost you, right?”

A dangerous grin curled your lips. “And why exactly am I the only one getting punished? It’s not my fault your damn store doesn’t have any security.” You swatted his hand away, your voice dripping with defiance. Yuqi and Beomgyu exchanged knowing glances—they’d seen this side of you before.

The manager’s eyes narrowed, caught off guard by your audacity. “You little—do you want me to fire you?”

You didn’t back down. “Fire me? Because your store doesn’t have the budget for a single security guard? Or is it that you’re pocketing the money instead?” You tilted your head, feigning innocence, your voice cutting through the room like a knife.

For a moment, he was speechless, his bravado crumbling. “W-what are you implying?” gulping in his words at the sudden statement you had made. You grinned in a smug kind of way like the proud and confident woman that you are.

“You know exactly what I’m implying,” you shot back, leaning in just enough to make him uncomfortable. “The company’s successful nationwide. There’s no way it can’t afford proper security unless someone’s skimming off the top. Should I take this up with the CEO?”

Yuqi and Beomgyu were silently cheering you on from behind. Your boldness was nothing new to them, but it never failed to amaze. The manager, realizing he was backed into a corner, stammered out a weak excuse before scurrying off, tail between his legs. Of course, he could've defended himself, but you knew too much and he just couldn't find the words to deny it. He'd get away from more humiliation. As the manager, he'd have more power over you, but you towered over him so quickly he didn't have the time to escalate things. He didn't see that coming, he was the new manager after all.

“Damn, that was epic,” Beomgyu whispered, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Seriously, unnie, you’re my hero,” Yuqi added, eyes shining with admiration.

You waved them off, checking your phone as it buzzed. The manager had sent you a message, instructing you to handle an incoming shipment at the airport. A sly smile crept onto your face as you replied with a curt, “Send me the details.”

Jeonghan, Joshua, Woozi, and Deokyeom were sipping their coffees, scanning the bustling terminal. They were waiting for the arrival of a critical shipment—a shipment they suspected had been compromised by their rivals.

“There,” Jeonghan muttered, nodding towards a woman talking to a man who matched the description of the dealer they were expecting. His eyes narrowed as he noticed something off. “That’s not the manager.”

“What do you mean?” Joshua asked, following Jeonghan’s gaze.

“The manager is supposed to be a guy,” Jeonghan replied, suspicion growing in his chest. “Could they be using someone else to do their dirty work?”

Woozi was already tapping away on his laptop, pulling up information on the mystery woman. “Li Mei Quiang... She’s listed as an employee from one of our branches, but there’s not much else here.”

Jeonghan’s mind was racing. “Why would a manager delegate something this important to a regular employee?”

Woozi’s eyes widened as more information came through. “It’s possible the manager’s a spy. He’s only been with the company a month—just before this whole mess with two groups started.”

Joshua frowned, piecing it together. “It was all planned. They sent him in as a mole.”

“And what about her?” Deokyeom chimed in, nodding towards you. “She could be part of it, too. There’s so little info on her, and she’s been working there for two years. Seems like a perfect candidate for a spy.”

Jeonghan sighed, his gaze still locked on you. “We’ll keep an eye on her, but for now, let’s make sure these products don’t end up in the wrong hands.”

The four men watched as you and the dealer loaded boxes into a truck. The tension was high as they followed you to the store, where they intercepted you just as you were about to offload the shipment.

Woozi approached you with a steely determination, flashing his ID. “These products need to be examined first.”

You glared at him, blocking his path. “And who the hell are you to make that call?”

Woozi’s irritation was palpable, but he kept his cool as he showed you his identification. Reluctantly, you stepped aside, arms crossed, watching as they took the boxes.

---

“So, we managed to stop the sabotaged shipment,” Soonyoung said, slumping into his chair, a sigh of relief escaping his lips. “But I’m still not sure about that girl,” Jeonghan muttered, pacing the room.

“You think she’s working with them?” Chan asked, leaning back in his seat.

“Possibly,” Jeonghan replied, rubbing his temples. “She might be more involved than we thought.”

“Relax, hyung,” Chan said, trying to ease the tension. “They wouldn’t send someone important out in the open like that. It’s too risky.”

Before Jeonghan could respond, Wonwoo and Mingyu entered the room, looking drained. “Turns out the ones who sabotaged our products were from EXO,” Woozi announced, breaking the silence.

“EXO?” Chan echoed, incredulous. “What the hell do they want with us?”

“They see us as competition,” Seungcheol said, his voice grim. “They’ve started a business here in Korea, and we’re in their way.”

Their company has been going well for the past 5 years, yet this commotion started about a week ago, making the rest of Seventeen members alert at the suddenness. EXO was a chinese group gang who had recently started their own business here in Korea a few months ago.

“Great, so now we’re dealing with a bunch of sore losers who resort to sabotage,” Seungkwan scoffed.

Seungcheol nodded, his expression dark. “We’ve lost a lot of money because of them. But this isn’t over. We’re going to double down on security and make sure every shipment is checked thoroughly. And as for that girl...”

Jeonghan straightened, his eyes narrowing. “We’ll keep a close watch on her. If she’s working with EXO, we’ll find out soon enough.”

He knew something was different too, but they also could be wrong. Wasting a time on that is just a big no for them given to the situation they're in for now.

Seventeen knew that they've already sent a few spies to their company to take note of whatever they had planned, so EXO was practically one step ahead of Seventeen.

A tense silence settled over the room as the members of Seventeen prepared for the inevitable confrontation. The stakes had never been higher, but they weren’t about to let anyone bring them down.

---

You walked back into the store, still reeling from the encounter. Your mind raced, wondering what the hell just happened. But there was no time to dwell on it—you had a job to do. And something told you this was just the beginning of a much bigger game.

The sun barely broke through the clouds that Sunday, casting a muted light across the room as you moved with purpose, determined to clean every corner of your apartment. Heeseung wasn’t home, so you had the place to yourself—rare time to get things in order on your day off.

As you wiped down the countertops, the silence was interrupted by your phone buzzing on the counter. You glanced at the screen: an unknown number. Ignoring it was second nature; you never took calls from numbers you didn’t recognize. But the phone buzzed again and again, the persistent vibration grating on your nerves.

“The hell is this?” you muttered, irritation creeping into your voice as you prepared to block the number. Just as you were about to hit the button, the phone buzzed again, your thumb accidentally grazing the answer key in your frustration.

“You finally answered,” came a hoarse voice, instantly familiar and unwelcome. Your heart skipped a beat, a cold realization sinking in. “Who is this?” you demanded, now holding the phone to your ear.

“Baby… Please… Come back to me,” the man’s voice cracked, punctuated by the sound of soft sobs. Recognition hit you like a wave—this was your ex, the one you broke up with over a year ago, his obsession clearly as strong as ever.You hung up abruptly, a frustrated sigh escaping your lips as you massaged your temples, trying to stave off the headache that was beginning to form. The phone buzzed again, the same number flashing on the screen. You blocked it immediately, your frustration bubbling over. “How did this guy even get my new number?” you muttered. You’d changed it twice, yet somehow he’d found you again.

Hours later, the apartment was finally spotless, and the only task left was to take out the trash. You had missed the janitor’s usual rounds, so you grabbed the bag and headed for the stairs. As you descended, the faint sound of footsteps echoed behind you. At first, you brushed it off as someone else taking the stairs, but as you reached the third floor, a hand suddenly gripped your arm, spinning you around.

Your instinct was to fight, to kick the assailant away, but then you saw his face—Riki, your ex-lover. Your body tensed, recognizing him instantly.“Riki…?” you muttered, eyes narrowing in disbelief.

Nishimura Riki, the same guy you’d dated for three months before calling it quits. Heeseung’s friend, a year younger than you, with a reputation for being far too obsessive. Even after a year, he clearly hadn’t moved on.

“I told you, we can’t,” you said, your voice firm with frustration. “Babe, please, just one last chance,” Riki pleaded, his voice desperate as he grabbed your hand, ignoring the trash bag you were holding. “I just held the trash, don’t touch that,” you snapped, yanking your hand away. “Let��s talk some other time. Not now.”

But Riki wasn’t about to give up easily. He lunged forward, wrapping his arms around you from behind in a desperate hug. “Riki! Let go of me or I’ll cut both your arms off!” you yelled, your voice echoing off the stairwell walls.

“Baby… I don’t know what I did wrong, why did we have to break up?” Riki’s voice was filled with pain, his grip still tight around you. “I swear, this guy is so stubborn,” you thought, pushing him away with all your strength until you were finally free.

“For the thousandth time, you didn’t do anything wrong. We just didn’t work out, okay?” you said, putting as much distance as possible between you and him.

Riki was a good guy—too good. Caring, loving, understanding, he had every quality someone could want. But that was the problem; he was too nice, and you didn’t feel like you deserved it. You didn’t take things seriously, and you knew that if you didn’t end it early, it would only hurt him more. But looking at him now, you realized how wrong you’d been.

You shouldn't have dated him in the first place, right? Your brother had set you up with him, on which you did agree to go on dates until you found it to yourself that you weren't that serious about it, which made you regret your decision.

“I’m sorry, Riki,” you said, your voice softer now as you turned to finally head downstairs. You hurried to the ground floor, feeling his gaze on you until you reached the exit. You placed the trash bag with the others by the side of the building, taking a deep breath as you bent over, hands on your knees.

You watched as Riki’s figure retreated, driving away, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Just as you felt a slight relief, another figure caught your eye—a man dressed entirely in black, with a mask covering most of his face and a cap pulled low over his eyes. You’d seen him around the complex before, always looking out of place. You decided not to get involved—whatever his business was, it was none of yours.

Back in your apartment, exhaustion washed over you as you slumped onto the bed, scrolling through your phone mindlessly until sleep finally claimed you.

Across town, in a dimly lit meeting room, a man entered, his footsteps echoing in the silence. Eleven figures were already seated around a large table, their faces obscured by shadows. The man took his place, and the one next to him leaned in, whispering, “What took you so long?”

“Seventeen has upgraded their security,” the man replied, his voice low. “The new system’s protection is too high—I can’t hack into it anymore.”

The leader at the head of the table slammed his hand down, the sound reverberating through the room. “Shut it. Because of your reckless actions, they found out about the shipments! Now you can’t even stay focused!” he shouted, his voice filled with barely contained anger. “Contact those seven boys and the three spies I’ve placed in each of their stores. Seventeen is already on to us.”

The group nodded in agreement, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife.

The following Tuesday, you were back at work, talking to Yuqi about the argument you had with Heeseung the day before. “Typical sibling fights,” Yuqi remarked with a shrug, while you rolled your eyes in response.

“Even if I’m mad, I don’t have the right to be. He’s the one who raised me,” you said, sighing as you fixed the shelves, Yuqi nodding along.

After a brief silence, Yuqi suddenly perked up. “Oh, unnie, do you have any plans for your birthday tomorrow?” she asked, her tone light.

You thought for a moment before shrugging. “Not really. Heeseung said he’s busy, and Beomgyu has something going on, so I guess there are no plans this year.”

"But unnie, we should still celebrate!" Yuqi insists, her excitement has not diminished. "How about we go clubbing? You're stressed, and maybe a night out will help."

You considered her suggestion, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Not a bad idea. I didn’t have anything planned, but I guess this could work.”

The next day, Shuhua picked you up in her luxurious limo, Yuqi and Minnie already inside. You wore a simple black dress with white off-shoulder puffed sleeves and a slit up the side, practical yet elegant. Your makeup was light, accentuating your natural beauty.

As soon as you stepped into the car, the girls squealed in delight, their eyes wide with admiration. “You guys act like you’ve never seen me before,” you quipped, rolling your eyes as you took a seat.

“We just wanted to give you extra attention since it’s your birthday,” Minnie said with a chuckle, the other two nodding in agreement. “Happy birthday, pretty girl,” Shuhua added, handing you a pair of designer bags.

“Thank you, girlies,” you replied, smiling as you accepted the gifts. Shuhua, ever the generous CEO, had picked out something luxurious, while Yuqi handed you a small box containing a delicate necklace engraved with all your names.

“Aww, this is really sweet,” you said, giving Yuqi a hug before slipping on the necklace. The car ride was loud and full of laughter, the four of you enjoying each other’s company until you arrived at the club.

The night was going well—too well, perhaps. A few hours in, the girls were already passed out, Minnie was nowhere to be found, Yuqi was slumped over the table, and Shuhua was making out with some random guy. You found yourself alone at the bar, the night still young but already feeling drawn out.

It was just after midnight, and you watched the crowd from above, perched on a stool with your legs crossed and your chin resting in your hand. You were starting to feel the effects of the drinks you’d had when a man walked into the room, instantly drawing everyone’s attention.

He was striking—tall, around 178-180 cm, dressed in a slim-fitting, jet-black suit that accentuated his lean frame. The suit’s fabric caught the light with a subtle sheen, perfectly tailored to his body. Underneath, a crisp white shirt contrasted sharply against the dark suit, the collar open just enough to reveal a glimpse of his collarbone. His deep burgundy tie added a splash of color, and a simple silver tie pin completed the look. His hair, slightly tousled yet meticulously styled, framed his sharp jawline, softening the intensity of his gaze. The way he carried himself—with a quiet confidence and a subtle, knowing smile—commanded the room’s attention.

His presence was magnetic, and despite yourself, being tipsy, you found yourself drawn into his presence. He started a conversation with you, offering you a few more drinks, making you feel more tipsy and you just couldn't help but feel drawn to this man in front of you. After a few moments of talking, the next thing you knew is that you had your lips all over his already.

~~~You've reached the end. Wait for Chap 3 ;)

On My Command - Masterlist (Chapters)

—AEYA HERE!: YNNIE??? WHAT ARE YOU DOING??? ಥ⁠‿⁠ಥ and who is that man? (⁠人⁠ ⁠•͈⁠ᴗ⁠•͈⁠)

—AEYA HERE!: your likes, reblogs, follows are very much appreciated. it boosts my dopamine and makes me want to upload asap so yeah, interacting with me really helps ^^

-NOW OPEN FOR TAGLIST!!! MESSAGE ME / COMMENT YOUR @ AND I WILL BE TAGGING THOSE WHO WANTS TO BE UPDATED ^w^

[quietblueriver]

**Update: now 1k longer, edited, and with two additional nights' worth of obsessive CR thoughts. Much like how to hit post/publish without going back to change a million things, I have yet to figure out the line between rb and "so different it deserves a new post" and maybe never will!

Also now on AO3.

----

Three cheers for the surprisingly lengthy, emotionally complex conversation in Ep. 96. Still thinking about that devastating rooftop moment, and never not thinking about Imogen Temult, so here's this, in which Imogen visits her favorite place without her favorite person, gets a surprise visitor, and has some thoughts about Laudna and their future. Some light spoilers for Ep. 96.

-

There was a cool breeze ruffling the fabric of her skirt against the skin of her leg, and Imogen took a moment to bask, eyes closed, face turned up to the warmth of the sun. When she blinked open her eyes, she found exactly what she expected: the old oak that took up a corner of the sprawling yard, a faded-white bench swing hanging from one sturdy branch; the little shelter for firewood, empty at the moment, a green wheelbarrow parked just beside it; the raised garden beds bursting with color that framed a pathway to the porch steps where she sat. The most familiar place she had never been. 

Home. 

“Of course,” she breathed out. Her mind’s decision to bring her here was at once almost unbearably cruel and a kindness she was surprised she could grant herself, and tears burned at the back of her eyes as she ran her palms over the smooth, dark-stained wood of the step next to her hip.

The sound of her own voice made her realize exactly how quiet the world around her was–no birds chirping, empty hitching posts, bees gone from the thriving patch of wildflowers. The house behind her waited still and free of the whistle of the kettle and shuffle of stockinged feet, missing the absent-minded humming and chorus of mundane thoughts that made Imogen feel most at home.  

 “Of course,” she said again, a little louder and a lot more resigned. 

It didn’t seem right, that the chasm in Imogen’s stomach, already bottomless, could somehow grow deeper, but that was what was happening, her mind returning to Laudna’s skin under her lips on that rooftop, Laudna’s body wrapped in blankets and shifting quietly away from Imogen. 

She felt like a coward, letting her go again, flying back through that window, turning her own body into itself in bed. She could’ve stayed, should’ve stayed, should’ve pushed. But then, it was Laudna’s choice. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? Giving Laudna the choice, the control, the autonomy she’d had taken from her for so long? 

This wasn’t the first time she’d prepared herself to lose Laudna. She had watched FCG, well-intentioned, try to force her back to them at Whitestone. She had understood, even as she’d wanted to kill them a little. But when it was her turn, Imogen made sure Laudna knew it was her choice and that Imogen would never try to take that from her. It was still true. Imogen loved Laudna far too much to try to force her hand. 

Now, though. Now there was the green ghost of Delilah Briarwood, sharp voice chasing Laudna’s like a wolf after its prey. Closer and closer and closer. 

It felt less and less like giving Laudna a choice and more and more like leaving her to be eaten. Imogen worried, always, about what that bitch was saying to Laudna, what she was doing to Laudna. She worried about how much influence she had and about whether Laudna could see it. 

But then Laudna had been the one to say that she didn’t know if there was much point in distinguishing between them anymore. 

That was it for Imogen. It was one thing if Laudna couldn’t see Delilah, couldn’t understand that her choices might not be fully her own. But Laudna knew. Laudna knew she wasn’t alone, knew Delilah was more than just a passenger, and Imogen had done all she could to be clear about Delilah’s lies and Laudna’s own power, to offer Laudna perspective on who she was to Imogen without Delilah. 

And with all of that, she had made her choice. Imogen didn’t understand. She didn’t understand how Laudna could see Delilah for what she was, for what she wanted, and still believe she could control her, still choose to try. Then again, of course she didn’t. It was so fucking messy and it had been for longer than Imogen had been alive, and anyway, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t her choice to understand; it was her choice to respect.

She could do that. It had broken her, was still breaking her, but she would always, always respect what Laudna chose for herself. She had nodded, cracked open on that rooftop. She had accepted what she heard and what it meant, for Laudna and for her and for the future she had thought they both wanted. 

I’m going to miss our little cottage, though.

She hadn’t meant it as a shot. It was grief over something she thought, hoped, Laudna might be grieving, too. It’s not like Imogen thought Laudna’s decision had been easy. 

Still, she hadn’t expected the look she received in return, the surprised, broken stare, the shaking sob and flood of ichor that Laudna tried to stem. It was like Laudna hadn’t realized that their future was there to lose. Maybe she hadn’t. Laudna never did seem to understand how much Imogen loved her, no matter how clear Imogen tried to make it. Maybe she’d heard Imogen’s very real dreams as passing thoughts. Maybe Imogen’s concession of their future had been the first time Laudna had seen it clearly. 

Or maybe things were right fucked up, and Laudna needed to cry about it. 

Either way, Imogen wasn’t fool enough to expect that Laudna’s possible moment of comprehension would change anything. Sure, she’d sounded different with the Hells, less like she was expecting death, a dead end, and more like she wanted to take back control, but Laudna also knew the rest of the Hells were less likely to respect her choices than Imogen, that any hint of her willingness to let Delilah take control, even on a suicide mission, might lead them to push Laudna away. Imogen had no doubt that Laudna loved her, had no doubt, really, that if she was right about Laudna’s realization that it meant something, but Imogen wasn’t hanging her hope on that. 

Laudna had made her choice.

“So,” she said aloud, voice soft as she took in the green grass stretched before her, the fence line separating their cottage from the forest, Laudna’s thriving tomatoes and okra, supported in their little cages. “Just me then.” 

And wasn’t that a dangerous realization. 

Because Imogen’s whole life was about control. Her mind, her body, her emotions, she knew all of them needed to be held tightly, that letting go meant danger for anyone around her. But here, now, all alone? The small, steady voice of reason inside of her lost to the reality of her isolation. “Just me,” she whispered, and in a snap, her scars burned, light flashing under and around her skin, tears falling hot down her cheeks. A storm of fear and anger and desperation and hurt let loose. The bursts of lightning that crackled around her did not set the house on fire. She might be alone, but she could never, would never, hurt what was theirs.

Instead, she stood, still burning, and walked to the top of the stairs, staring at the post that ran from the tin roof through the floor of the porch. She considered, watched little bolts strike out harmlessly at the porch and the railing. 

She’d been six years old the first time she wrecked the cleaning station in the barn, tiny, furious body pushing buckets and tack and brushes, flipping the table in a show of strength that followed her for years through drunken stories from the other stable hands. At her daddy’s hard order, she had stomped her way to her room, slamming the door with tears streaming down her face.

Imogen’s daddy hadn’t understood a lot of things about her, but he’d understood her that night. Relvin, who had all of her anger and none of her magic, had come to get her from her room and taken her to the back of the old storage barn, where he’d used a rafter to hang a densely packed sack of hay at her height. He’d taken her hand, still small enough to fit fully in his, and shown her how to make a fist. 

Now, just like he’d taught her, she curled her scarred fingers and folded her thumb across the outside, squared up to a cut of wood that was absolutely going to win this fight, and swung as hard as she could. Sure enough, with a grunt and a flash of pain, Imogen pulled back to find her knuckles bloodied and the wood smeared with dark red but as solid as ever. She contemplated her unblemished right hand, and it was only the sound of rustling grass that stopped her from another round. 

Her head shot up and toward the corner of the house and the source of the noise. She was in her own mind, her own dream, but that didn’t mean shit, really. She wiped at her eyes, hissing at the pain and glad for it and for the blood now surely on her cheeks, and she let the heat crackle the air around her. She was ready and out of patience for any bullshit. No matter the evidence of her weakness now marring the wood next to her, this place was sacred, and she was going to be pissed if somebody had come here to fight. 

Imogen relaxed, air cooling, as she took in the figure that loped toward her. He was horrifying, a mass of patchy dark hair and exposed bone, dripping ichor and torn flesh. His eyes glowed and his deadly teeth showed through his half-torn jaw. As Imogen walked down the steps to wait, she felt deep fondness at the wagging tail and lolling tongue that felt so incongruous to the rest of the hellbeast. Fun scary. 

“Hey, baby boy,” she said affectionately as he got closer, and his tail wagged harder at her voice. She leaned forward when he made it to her, cupping his face to scratch behind his jaw, wincing at the pain in her hand. His fur was mostly intact under her fingers, although the jaw itself was a blend of bone and ichor and random thin patches of hair against Imogen’s palms. “What’re you doin’ here?” 

As if in answer, he pulled back and whined, licked at her cuts and the forming bruise, the familiar sticky, black liquid cooling and covering the split skin. 

“I’m okay,” she reassured, aware that even beyond the evidence of violence, the intermittent purple static around her body probably wasn’t particularly convincing. She was right, it seemed–the tilt of his head was skeptical, and he huffed at her loudly, but his eyes were fond. Imogen saw Laudna in him so clearly in that moment that she lost her breath for a second. 

“Fuck.” 

Another whine, another lick, and Imogen conceded the point. “Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Maybe I’m not doin’ so good. You come all this way just to check up on me?”

He moved forward and pressed his head into her thighs, and she scratched at the parts of his back and ribs that she could, stopping when she noticed the pain in her hand was gone. Flexing, she pulled it back to look more closely, wiping the blood and ichor off carelessly on her shorts. Sure enough, the skin was healed, and Caviar was staring at her, tongue hanging from the open side of his mouth. 

She could’ve healed it herself. This was her mind, after all, and it wasn’t one of those dreams where she felt like a passenger. She could’ve stopped the pain entirely, stopped it before it ever started. She hadn’t.

Not as herself, anyway.

It wasn’t a surprise, really. It only made sense that the kindest, gentlest parts of herself would manifest this way. It had been Laudna who taught her how to love herself, and it was Laudna she wanted with her now. 

Big eyes blinked up at her, and just like the cottage, just like her knuckles, Caviar’s presence was a welcome wound, and one she’d inflicted on herself. 

Imogen fought a sob, only half successfully, and Caviar whined again. “Kinda fucked up, sweet thing,” she rasped. A drop of ichor fell from his tongue to the packed dirt in front of the stairs. She wiped her eyes again and sighed, reaching down to smooth the hair between his eyes with her thumb. “How about a little walk in the garden, yeah? And then maybe a snack?”

-

It took a minute to pull off her boots, toss them a little carelessly on the uncharacteristically empty shelf inside the door. She had nothing to hang on the shiny, empty brass hooks that waited above it, and she didn’t dwell, following Caviar through the living room to the little kitchen in the back. The kettle rested on the stove, and she filled it and set it to boil before moving to the shelves on the opposite wall. 

“Okay, Cavvy. Let’s see what we’ve got, hmm?”

There was a glass jar filled with cookies that Imogen knew were for Cav; they were fresh, and they smelled like pumpkin and cinnamon. He scarfed down two happily while she found the tea leaves. She turned to the shelves near the window where she knew her favorite mug was waiting for her next to Laudna’s. Her hand fell back to her side as she took them in, her mug and Laudna’s and the small collection of others, all in a neat and tidy line with their rims up. Imogen stared until the water boiled and the kettle whistled, stared until Caviar bumped her leg.

She put a hand absently on his head, felt bone under her ring and pinky fingers. “Your mama did that,” she said evenly, blinking and looking down at him. “This is our house.” He pressed up into her hand, and she scratched obligingly. “This is our house.” 

She ignored her own mug and pulled Laudna’s down, setting it on the table and filling the strainer in the yellow ceramic teapot. She poured the water and waited for the leaves to steep and then sipped her tea in silence as Caviar settled by her feet. A blue tea towel embroidered with a small white oleander in the corner rested over the top of one chair, smudged with orange-tinted batter and smelling of cinnamon. 

Imogen never had been a very good baker. 

-

“I think Orym was lyin’ to her.” 

Caviar’s head rested on Imogen’s thigh, just above her knee, as she lay with her arms spread wide on the worn blue and gray rug in their living room. He lifted it slightly at her words, and she brought a hand down to finger the tip of his good ear, the one without a chunk missing, the way that he liked. 

“I know he loves her,” she assured, and Caviar pushed himself up on his massive paws and shifted so that his body was pressed into hers, Imogen’s arm resting on his surprisingly dry, largely exposed ribs. “I don’t mean that. I just,” she traced bone with her index finger, staring at the wicker basket full of yarn beside the chair that Laudna favored, a cousin to the one at Zhudanna’s, “I heard them talkin’ about her, about trust, and I think Orym…He knows Delilah won’t let him close if she doesn’t trust him. He knows she’s listnin’ whenever she can. It’s about Delilah. Always fuckin’ Delilah.” 

She rolled onto her side, moving her arm so she could rest her head on her bicep and curling the other across Cav’s body. He huffed out a sigh, breath a harsher reminder of death than his mother’s, decomposition to her sweet decay. Imogen didn’t mind it. 

“He doesn’t wanna hurt Laudna.” Goosebumps formed where his cold body made contact with the exposed skin of her legs. “But he will.”

A low growl started in Caviar’s chest and Imogen made a soothing noise, noticed a stray sock under Laudna’s chair. “I know, baby. You’re a good boy.”

He was a good boy. He’d come as Delilah gained a better foothold, Imogen knew, a manifestation of Laudna’s anger and fear and hurt and power, her desire to protect.

And maybe Laudna saw him as further evidence of Delilah’s power and usefulness but Imogen knew better. Delilah would protect them only as much as it benefitted her, and it was a complicated balance when weighed against the need for Laudna to give her as little trouble as possible, sure, but one that definitely would’ve left at least a few of the Hells dead and buried several times over.

There was no calculation for Laudna. Caviar sprang readily, her body literally tearing itself open to be of use, and he snarled and snapped for the people Laudna loved. He was Laudna’s beast. 

His hackles now were built from Imogen, from love and a desire to protect that Laudna did not often extend to herself. She liked the look of it on him. The growl continued, a comforting rumble, as Imogen spelled Laudna’s name against his fur. “We’ll keep an eye on it.” 

-

She hadn’t wanted to go upstairs, but Caviar made the decision for her, interrupting her carpet brooding and disappearing around the corner to the staircase after a pointed look back at her. She followed, resigned, but stopped halfway there, eyes stuck on the pair of boots next to her own and the one now-occupied brass hook. She knew them, boots black and worn and scarf maroon and soft, big enough to use as a shawl if she wanted, Laudna’s frame so small it wrapped around her easily. She took a half-step toward them but at the impatient bark from upstairs, she tore herself away and started to climb.

He was waiting for her by Laudna’s bedside table, which was exactly as it should be–a paperback novel, spine bent so many times the title was hardly legible between the yellowed cracks, sat waiting next to another wicker basket, this one containing an embroidery hoop and some fabric. A small pin cushion peeked out of the top, clearly custom-made, the glinting metal protruding from the stuffed rat skull making Pate look even more disturbing than usual.

A white quilt with an intricate pattern of overlapping rings covered the bed, the green and gold and blue and purple striking but not garish. She sat on her side, smoothed a hand over the fabric, felt the dips and ridges of the stitches in the pattern. Caviar’s deadly claws clicked against the wood as he made his way to her, and she bit her lip for a minute before scooting over onto Laudna’s side, breathing in the smell of her on the pillow and patting the bed next to her. With menacing grace, Caviar joined her and spun once before settling, nose tucked under his tail, the curve of his spine just touching Imogen’s torso. 

She watched the rise and fall of his body, eyes moving across the ragged realities of him. A hound of ill omen, and he looked like one. He was fierce and violent, a weapon, but Laudna, who knew what it was to be used and feared, who didn’t seem to be able to see him fully as herself, had given him a name, opened her chest for him and fussed over him and, at one point, asked Imogen whether putting him in a sweater would be “undignified.” 

“Your mama’s ridiculous,” she said quietly, gratified when he remained still and unbothered. “I’m very in love with her.” A beat, her palm scrunching the quilt at her side. “I thought she knew, y’know? I thought she heard me when I…” 

She flattened the fabric again, traced one of the rings with two fingers and thought again of Laudna’s face on that rooftop. What had she thought Imogen meant all those times? What had she meant when she said Imogen could have this? That they could have this? 

She turned her head, ear against Laudna’s pillow, and stared at her own bedside table. It didn’t have anything on it aside from a small lantern, but it wouldn’t, would it? Laudna would hand her the book, and Imogen would read aloud as she worked on whatever project or rested her head on Imogen’s stomach. 

The chasm widened this time, maybe finally out of depth to reach, and its growth brought along the urge to reach over and shatter the lantern. Instead she turned her head to the other side, took in Laudna’s dresser pushed under the window, the pitcher and glasses, the glazed speckled bowl full of feathers and small bones, and a lonely sock waiting for its pair forgotten under Laudna’s wingback. 

“Real subtle,” she said to herself, less quiet than she had been with the annoyance seeping in, because what the fuck was she supposed to do about it anyway? Caviar remained undisturbed. 

Rolling her eyes, Imogen took a few deep breaths and took stock. She very well might wreck herself again, thinking about how she couldn’t have this, trying to understand why. On the other hand, she was laying in an imaginary bed in an imaginary cottage next to an imaginary version of the monster that sometimes jumped out of her girlfriend’s chest, and if she was honest with herself, she didn’t want to leave this place or the little pieces of Laudna in it, so it seemed more likely than not that the wreck had never actually stopped. 

She did not fight the turn from that thought back to Laudna on the roof. 

I’m a dead end. Laudna had said that phrase several times in the last few weeks, and Imogen hated it, scoffed at it every time, but she should’ve understood sooner that nobody calling herself a dead end really believed she had choices. Not real ones, anyway.

The only thing that was certain for Laudna was Delilah, and at the root of it all, she believed her choice was Delilah or nothing. 

And Imogen had been clear about how she felt about Delilah.

You told me once that you hate the idea of her watching you, watching us. I’m guessing that hasn’t changed?

She hadn’t heard that question for what it was: Can you really love me this way?  

Imogen shifted on the bed, hot and anxious, and Caviar whined lowly, displeased at the movement. She ran a hand through the fur at his shoulder and then stood, pacing the space between the bed and dresser.

Laudna, shaking and unable to believe that Delilah had chosen her for a reason. Laudna, crying slow, black tears as Imogen told her she hated that Delilah was there, watching them, when just a few minutes before Laudna had admitted she wasn’t sure how to separate herself from Delilah any longer.

Imogen had let this go because she thought Laudna had made her choice, had all the information and chose her own path, and Imogen didn’t want to try to take that, but she also should’ve known that for Laudna it hadn’t felt like a real choice.

“It’s not takin’ her choice to help her understand that she has one.” Her voice was an agitated murmur, and she heard the shift of Caviar’s body on the bed, saw that he had uncurled and was watching her, still mostly relaxed but attentive. 

Fuck. Fuck. Of course Laudna couldn’t imagine their future, because she couldn’t imagine herself without Delilah, and Imogen hated her, openly and vocally and with all her heart. Delilah, who was there all the time, who had been there for thirty years, and for most of that had been Laudna’s only constant, her only company, her only protector. Delilah, who’d had all the time in the world to convince Laudna that she should be grateful to have her, that she was alive only because Delilah let her be, that she was walking around purely on the luck of the draw. 

Of course she thought her value was Delilah, thought the best she could do would be to try to take as much of Delilah’s power in service to her friends, to Imogen, as she could, even if it meant she herself would disappear. Imogen knew Delilah must love that, must love Laudna’s thoughts about self-sacrifice. The bitch.

A growl issued from the bed, and Imogen turned again to the hound, whose eyes were on her, his body now in a rigid, ready line and his lip raised in a snarl. Sighing, Imogen sat, offering her hand for him to sniff.

“I know. I know. I hate it, too.” The growling slowed although he remained tense, ready, teeth glinting. “I don’t think this is somethin’ we can fix on our own, baby. We can’t scare her away from your mama.”

But she had to go. Or, they had to give Laudna the option, a real option, to live without her, so that she felt like the choices in front of her were more than just smoke and mirrors to Delilah’s stone.

“But we’ve got help, don’t we?” She kept her voice gentle and flipped her hand slowly until his cold nose was moving along her palm. “Lots of people who love your mama. And lots of people who hate that woman.”

No matter Orym’s fears, Imogen knew Fearne had spoken for all of them when she said they’d kill Delilah as many times as it took. They just had to figure out how.

Imogen could work on that.

Well.

There were some things they had to do first, but if they survived Predathos, surely the Tempest, surely all of those people at Whitestone who hated Delilah so much, would jump at the chance to help get rid of her for good. Lord Percival was kind of a dick, but Lady Vex’ahlia seemed to have him under control, and if they couldn't help, they had to know people. Someone could help, and Imogen would absolutely fucking leverage Ruidus and Predathos and everything the Bells had done and sacrificed to get what they needed. 

They could make a plan, and Laudna could decide how she wanted to live her life. Yeah, it would hurt badly for Laudna to choose Delilah again, but at least then she and Laudna could both be sure it was a real choice. Laudna was worth the risk. Always. 

In the meantime, Imogen could hold onto this for the both of them. She wanted this, and she was ready to fight for it if Laudna wanted it, too. The spark of hope she'd tried to snuff out earlier flared back to life, and she let herself start to believe that Laudna did want it, would want it, would fight right beside her if she believed it could be real. Maybe she just needed a little hope too. Imogen could share.

Caviar licked at her, and she let him, moving to lie back down as he moved away from the edge of the bed and relaxed a little.

She put a hand on one of his front paws, and he raised it up, laying it over her arm, the rough pads scraping her skin. “We’re gonna try this again, okay? I’m gonna try this again.” Hard bone and wet sinew pressed against the inside of her elbow as he lay his head and neck over her, a comforting weight. “For Laudna.”

A bird chirped happily outside their window, and Imogen closed her eyes. 

She woke in their bed, still facing away, still curled into herself, and she turned immediately, reached out to Laudna as she stared at the sharp point of her shoulder and the plane of her back. 

Laudna? 

The response was immediate, concerned. Imogen? Are you alright? 

I love you.  

Laudna turned, and Imogen watched her eyes take her in, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip in a way that made Imogen itch to reach out and soothe her.

When their eyes met, Imogen put a hand between them. 

I love you so much. No matter what. Even if she’s with you forever, with us forever, I don’t care. I want you, okay? If you want that, want me, I’m yours. 

She was crying, dark stains moving down pale cheeks, and she was still bundled into herself, small and in her own blankets. Imogen eyed her hand between them and thought about choice. 

I…I’d like to hold your hand, if that’s something you want.

Nearly immediately, Laudna’s hand was out of her blankets and on Imogen's, cold and perfect. 

It is. It is. I…I thought you would want space. After…

Imogen shifted so that their fingers laced, traced her thumb over the skin at Laudna's wrist. 

I don’t want space from you, darlin’. I want…

She stopped because it wasn’t the time for a full conversation, but she shifted closer, lifted their hands to press a kiss to the back of Laudna’s, did it again when she heard Laudna’s small sound of relief. She laced their fingers again, thumb over knuckles this time, and moved closer still, until their feet were nearly touching, sighed happily when a cold ankle moved to rest on hers. 

Caviar came to visit in my dream. 

Oh? Laudna lifted her eyes from where they’d been fixed on their joined hands. Tell me about it?  

We went explorin’, she offered, and started with Laudna’s garden.

[sunjaesol]

saeon x heejoo | childhood friends | fluff | drabble

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

JONGNO-GU, SEOUL, 2004

BAEK SAEON (14 YEARS OLD)

"Hello... my name... is Saeon... I am... 14 years old..." Saeon slowly signed in front of the mirror.

His fingers moved in a clumsy fashion, similar to a child's chicken scratch. But it was legible enough. Heejoo would understand him.

He repeated it. "Hello, my name is Saeon. I am 14 years old..."

Glancing at his textbook, he tried the next set of signs. "How are you doing? I'm okay."

KSL was surprisingly easy to get a grasp on. It definitely beat studying Latin or French, like his parents expected him to. A lot of the gestures corresponded with actual actions and his facial expressions carried half the load. Flipping to a different page, he wanted to see what some common concepts looked like.

Acceptance. Intolerance. Hate. Friendship. Love.

He went over the words, signing each of them. But he paused on the gesture for love, the slight hesitance betraying emotions buried deep within his subconscious.

To sign 'I love you', he had to make a fist and use his other hand to caress the fist. It was akin water gliding over and embracing a rock in a creek. He repeated the gesture three times, staring intently into the mirror, as though signing it to someone else.

The families didn't often meet up, especially since Ina was deaf and wouldn't be able to communicate smoothly with Saeon. It was sort of weird that she didn't learn KSL like Heejoo, but that wasn't his business to dig into. He had his own stuff to worry about. But he hoped that by the time they met again at some awful dinner, he would be able to chat with Heejoo on her level.

They had little in common. Heejoo was only ten. At the last party, she hid under the table with dolls to stay undetected from her mother. (And he had lied to her mother, pretending he didn't know where she was.) But Heejoo didn't snap at him to eat gross fish, or force him to wear scratchy sweaters and pleated trousers. She just let him exist.

In a way, he wasn't even 'Baek Saeon' in her presence. Just... a boy.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

Saeon and Heejoo had found a tree in the back of her garden with low hanging branches, thick enough to keep their weight, and long enough that allowed them to sit comfortably.

They went four metres high, which was a considerable height for two sheltered children living in the richest suburb of Seoul. Saeon felt a streak of rebellion each time he placed his hands on the rough bark.

(His hands had lost its thick and dirty calluses. They were soft now. But he remembered.)

They each sat on their own branch, facing each other. Heejoo was annoyed, signing fast and erratic about something her mother did. Saeon monitored her gestures and expressions closely, gluing everything together in his head.

He responded, asking follow-up questions. His signing went slower than Heejoo, but she patiently waited for him. He'd never seen Heejoo be impatient.

He could talk as well. Heejoo wasn't deaf. But... well... he liked the quiet. The rustling of the trees, her breaths, faraway cars and little birds scurrying at the tops of the trees had a calming effect on him. No one yelled or scoffed, or anything like that. Heejoo didn't even roll her eyes.

Saeon responded to her, signing: "That sucks. Your mom should just learn KSL."

Heejoo paused, thinking for a beat. And then: "She's thinking about pulling me out of school. She wants me to be home schooled. I guess she doesn't want to pay for my extra needs at school anymore."

His heart dropped to his stomach. He repeated her just to be certain. "Home school?"

Saeon and Heejoo didn't even go to the same school. He went to an all boy's secondary school. It had no impact on his life. And yet, it felt like a personal offense.

The girl nodded, her mouth pulling into a sympathetic smile as though he needed the comfort in this situation.

Saeon frowned. "Let my family pay for it then. They won't even notice the extra expense."

Heejoo smiled. "We're family friends," she signed. "Not married. You can't do that."

A shiver passed through him at the gesture of 'marriage'. The thought repulsed him. Marrying someone with the name 'Baek' attached to himself? No thanks. However, with the way the Baek's and Hong's were mingling, he had a sick feeling about his future. Ina and him were the same age. He wasn't stupid.

She continued signing: "Why don't you speak anymore? I'm not deaf."

Saeon flushed in embarrassment. "I like the silence," he signed. "And I want to get better at KSL."

"You're already good at it."

"You're better," he argued, his gestures firm.

Heejoo paused, her cow eyes staring at him with an indescribable look. It unnerved him. She was very much alive, but she sometimes reminded him of a haunted child from ghost stores.

Her fingers were lethargic—no: hesitant—as they moved. "I like your voice. Speak and sign at the same time."

Saeon's jaw fell slack, stunned, and he stammered out his first actual words of the day: "My voice– it's– whatever!" Resisting a scoff, he spoke and signed, like she asked. "My voice is squeaky nowadays. It sucks."

Right on cue, his voice shot up.

The girl smiled, her nose scrunching, like she was about to laugh out loud. She didn't. "Funny," she signed.

He rolled his eyes. "Whatever..."