#when paranoia consumes the others he's unaffected

[the-flowercrown-prince]

but man. man. i can't stop thinking about joel

if joel had taken bdubs out, if he had gone for it after accidentally shooting him, he would've easily won against scott. the only reason scott was able to kill him is the hearts he got from killing bdubs

and isn't that cruel? isn't that twisted?

of course, the idea hadn't even gone through his head

because it's joel

[tsarisfanfiction]

Eclipse: Chapter 18

Fandom: Trials of Apollo Rating: Teen Genre: Family/Adventure Characters: Apollo, Hades Another fun chapter I absolutely loved writing~ Completely unrelated, this chapter also comes with a bit of an ichor warning. I have a discord server for all my fics, including this one!  If you wanna chat with me or with other readers about stuff I write (or just be social in general), hop on over and say hi! <<Chapter 17

HADES XVIII Too Many Curses and Too Much Pain

They were not fortunate.

Apollo’s warning was sharp, and the snap of his bowstring followed immediately as he loosed an arrow at the shape that came hurtling out of the trees.  Hades’ hand gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, and grimaced as a shriek announced that the arrow had struck its target.

“I said not to kill,” he scolded, but Apollo seemed unaffected as he nocked another arrow.

“I didn’t kill,” the younger god replied.  “It wasn’t a fatal shot.”  As if to prove his point, he fired another one as the shape lunged again.  “This is the home of the Curses?”

Hades wasn’t sure why Apollo felt the need to ask, but humoured him regardless.  It had been a long time since the Arai had last left Tartarus to inflict curses upon the living.  “It is.  Do not kill them.”

“Or they impart the curses your foes have unleashed upon you,” Apollo finished, his eyes smouldering.  “I remember.”

Remember what, Hades wondered, but brushed the errant thought to one side.  The Arai were not known for assailing gods – indeed, the gods had often used them, or at least let them pass unchallenged, when they wished to punish a particularly obnoxious mortal.  However, he and his brothers had learned the hard way that they could, in fact, target gods.

Zeus had never been claustrophobic, to Hades’ recollection, but when one curse had struck him down and compressed him as though he was trapped inside-

The worst thing about that particular curse was that Hades still had no idea who had cursed Zeus to be consumed like the rest of them.  It could have been their father, but it could equally have been any of their siblings, in a moment of jealous rage.  Hades himself had more than once muttered something to the effect of his youngest brother not knowing what it was like.  With the knowledge of how Zeus had changed over the years, paranoia creeping in and turning him cruel in his fear, Hades felt less sorry about it now, but at the time there had been an unease that he might have inadvertently inflicted his own pain on the only brother that had escaped it.

He did not impart this story upon his nephew; despite the cavernous abyss that had yawned into existence between himself and his youngest brother since then, there were still some things Hades would not betray.

Besides there was a more pressing matter at hand; how to escape the Arai now their attention had been caught.  Truthfully, Hades did not remember how, exactly, they had fled the first time.  He suspected they had killed them all and suffered the curses until they wore off, but that was hardly an ideal solution.

A flap of wings exploded into existence directly in front of him, and Hades jumped back, out of range of the lashing claws and talons belonging to the Arai assailing him.  She was unmistakably a sister of the Erinyes, with similar lines to her face and the same wicked grin Alecto bore when she unleashed her wrath upon Sisyphus and her other favourite victims within the Fields of Punishment.

None of the Furies had laid eyes upon Hades with such vindictive glee in their expressions, however, and Hades was forced to duck and weave as she lashed at him again, and again.  More wings rustled, and he moved faster, dodging the second, and then the third, and the fourth Arai as they descended upon him.

Off to one side, he could hear Apollo’s bowstring singing as he let arrows loose, and the shrieks of hit Arai as they were struck – if it were any archer than one of the Twins, Hades would fear a misfire killing one and inflicting their borne curse upon the younger god, but if nothing else, he could hold belief in Apollo’s aim.

He also had to mind his own aggressors, rather than letting his attention be caught by how Apollo was faring.  His Helm was designed to conceal his presence utterly, but daughters of the Night hellbent on passing on the curses of the no doubt thousands of souls who had taken umbrage with him at one point or other appeared to track using something other than sight as their claws dug into his armour.

Loud shrieks merged with the distant screams from the Acheron, causing a ringing sound of dissonance that Hades disliked intensely.  He also disliked the words the Arai spat in his direction – promises of torment, of agony and finding out what it was like to be the one stuck in eternal torture.

It did not surprise Hades in the slightest that many of the curses levelled at him came from the punished souls from his realm, who sought to break free and take their vengeance on him and any other soul involved in their eternal punishment.

He could not cut the Arai down, for fear of unleashing the curses upon himself, so he used the flat of his blade to swat them away, breaking wings and arms and claws with each hit but forced to hold back from a fatal hit.

Non-lethal defences could only hold the myriad of curses at bay for so long.

Apollo cried out.

Hades slapped away the nearest Arai and ploughed his way directly to his nephew’s side; ichor was dripping down one side of his face, deep gouges from claws narrowly missing his eye.  By itself, it was hardly an injury to faze a god – Hades had seen Apollo weather far worse in his existence, and that was before he included anything from Tartarus – but the physical injury was not the concern.

The death of the Arai was not the only way they could impart their curses.

What curse had taken hold of Apollo, Hades could not tell.  From the way he snapped another arrow into existence on his string and levelled another shot at an Arai’s wing, downing her immediately, it did not seem to be a serious one – some curses could be nothing put pettiness – but the flock of Arai sensed weakness, and struck.

Distracted by Apollo’s state, Hades almost failed to notice the Arai lashing at the back of his neck; when he did register it, the claws skimming at his form, he twisted around and slashed with his blade before common sense could override instinct.

The Arai burst into dust and the curse slammed into Hades like the rampaging Sow, stunning him for an instant as he waited for it to bloom into existence.

The last time, the curses that had been inflicted upon him had been unbearable torment, to the point he had forcibly banished them from his recall.  Doubtless, they had been from the Titans, uttered on their dying breaths as Hades and his siblings had defeated them, with an agonising cruelty to match.

This time, Hades braced for more of the same.

Nothing happened.

He could feel the curse, thrumming away on the edge of his essence, but it seemed unable to activate.  A cautious flare of his essence had it dissolving away into nothing, much to his confusion.

There was no time to dwell on the strange phenomenon, however.  The Arai had not ceased their relentless attack after a single death, and Hades was forced to resume defending himself, the unease set aside but not forgotten as he continued to bat the daughters of Nyx away with the flat of his blade.

Another sound, this time a grunt, came from Apollo, and he caught sight of a flash of gold as the archery god’s bow fell to the ground.  Deep gouges this time tore through the younger god’s bicep, ichor flowing freely down his arm.  It did not appear to faze Apollo, who punched an Arai away from himself with his bare hands before scooping his bow up once more, but the cackling of the Arai unnerved Hades.

“No archery!” one declared.  Her laugh was hoarse, as though it came from the wizened old throat of a mortal who should have let Thanatos take them decades earlier.  “No archery, son of Zeus.”

Sparing only the bare minimum of his awareness to the Arai targeting him, Hades found most of his attention focused on Apollo as he nocked another arrow and draw the bow back, only to falter almost immediately.

“What?” his nephew asked, his voice a little gasp of surprise which quickly turned to horror.

“What happened?” Hades barked out, slamming a trio of Arai away with his blade and moving so that he was back to back with his nephew, blasting away another Arai headed for Apollo’s rear.

“I- I can’t draw it back!” Apollo exclaimed, his voice descending into a wail that Hades was fairly certain had been unintentional.  “The string won’t move!”

Whoever had cursed Apollo to lose his archery was a mystery to be solved at a later date.  “Then fight without it!” Hades snapped at him.  “Did you or did you not once defeat Ares in a wrestling match?”

“But-”

“Phoebus Apollo!” he thundered, interrupting his nephew’s panicked protest.  “Now is not the time to freak out.  Fight.  The curse-”

Talons caught the side of his neck, his attention having wandered too far for too long, and the cackling of the Arai filled his ears as ice flooded his essence.

“Hades?” Apollo asked; there was a desperation in his voice all of a sudden.

“Fight,” he growled out, slashing out at the Arai responsible for the ichor dripping down onto his shoulder.  It was only when she burst into dust that he realised he hadn’t used the flat of his blade.  “By the Fates,” he cursed, then choked on nothing as the ice continued to coil within him, freezing him from the inside out.

He knew exactly who had placed this curse, but the knowledge did not help prevent it.

“Daughter-thief!” the Arai cried, and Hades felt his legs shudder, felt himself stumble.

“Uncle?” Apollo’s voice had leapt up several tones – what did his nephew call it, again?  An octave?  A warm back pressed against his own, burning against the ice within, and a noise tore itself from Hades’ throat.

It was not a scream.  Hades did not scream, even when the full brunt of his eldest sister’s fury upon the world was focused solely into his essence.  It was, however, an admission of great discomfort, and he felt Apollo still for a brief moment before his nephew tore away.

A roar of rage came from behind him, and the shrieks of the Arai shifted away from delight into something more raw, more primal, to match the wrath of Apollo.

Hades wasn’t entirely certain what had provoked it; perhaps he had been hit by another curse.  He had no time to ponder, however.  The coldest depths of winter the Overworld had ever experienced wrapped him in a crushing embrace and he could barely keep his grip on his blade as he swung it at the ever-approaching Arai.

Dust showered him, the edge of the blade catching more than the flat, and curse after curse crashed into him.  Some – several – dissipated much in the same way as the first, gnawing fruitlessly on the edges of his essence, but not all, and Hades found unbearable pain biting wherever the winter didn’t reach.

Apollo’s fury was a background roar, not comforting because nothing could be a comfort when the curses of all those that had ever, for however fleeting a moment, wished ill upon Hades surrounded him, but a reminder that he was not alone.  He had not been alone last time, and he was not alone this time, even if water gargled out of his mouth and his limbs trembled as lightning coursed through them.

He could hardly blame his brothers when he, too, had muttered many curses towards them in his darkest days, but after his last time handling the Curses, when it was those same brothers who had covered his back, the sting of betrayal was raw.

Now, his back was being covered by his nephew.  There was no familiar song of a bowstring, a curse stripping Apollo of one of his core skills, one of his first, if Hades recalled correctly, but there were shouts and grunts and the sound of impact as one thing struck another.

Until the shouts silenced.

Hades slashed another Arai in half, feeling a wave of scorching heat roll over him – Hyperion, perhaps, or maybe Hephaestus had a bad day in the forge several centuries ago? – and whirled around to see his nephew clutching at his throat with one ichor-coated hand, eyes wide.

Slowly – glacially – Hades crossed the brief distance between them and slashed away an Arai that lunged forwards.  The Curses numbers had not dwindled in the slightest, despite how many he had cut down.

“Fight,” he repeated to his nephew.  The sound he got in response was grating – a descriptor that barely scratched the surface of how terrible it was to hear.

It was a cacophony of every broken instrument Hades had ever had the misfortune to hear, and then multiple more besides, discordant and clashing in a way that physically hurt to hear.  An orchestra of the damned, torn from the hoarsest throat to ever exist.

Apollo flinched as if the sound pained him – if it pained Hades, there was no doubt it pained the god of music.

“Fight,” was all Hades could say, because until the curses stopped coming, they could not even begin to attempt to lift them.

He didn’t remember how long it had taken the effects to wear off last time, but they must have done.

Lightning sparked in his legs and he stumbled again, crashing down to one knee.  Apollo let out another of the hideous gargle-shrieks and stumbled forwards, one fist colliding with an Arai aiming to gouge Hades’ eyes out.

With a grunt, Hades hauled himself to his feet again, mumbling complaints against his siblings – only Hestia, it seemed, had not inflicted some form of curse upon him, based on the phantom bites of beaked creatures with resplendent tail feathers representing Hera’s own frustrations – and awkwardly staggered until he was once again back to back with his nephew.

Short of killing all of the Arai and suffering the full force of all the curses, he had no idea how they were going to escape.  His vision was swarmed with flapping wings no matter where he looked, and against his back Apollo was shaking.

Hades was shaking, too, as the chill of winter and jolts of lightning continued to ravage him and he drowned again and again on dry land.  It hurt, to know that his siblings had cursed him, for all that he knew he’d cursed them, too.  Demeter, he understood – she had always been forthright in her fury over his relationship with her beloved daughter, and the curse clearly dated back to their original fight, before the truce.  His brothers, and Hera, he couldn’t place the timing.  It could have been millennia ago, or it could have been last week, for all he knew.

The Arai lunged at them again, and his sword joined Apollo’s fist in bashing them back, away even as Apollo’s chest heaved like a mortal starving of air and Hades’ grip on the hilt of his blade faltered.

The screams didn’t register above Apollo’s hoarse tormented cries and the shrieks of the Arai until Hades felt the ground beneath his feet falter and his balance wavered.  Next to him – they were no longer back to back, had shifted to side to side at some point between one curse and another – Apollo stumbled and realisation crashed over Hades.

He caught Apollo’s armour as his nephew overbalanced backwards, and normally that would be enough, but his physical form hadn’t been so wrecked since the last time he was in Tartarus and while his grip didn’t fail, his own balance did.  They toppled backwards together, Hades realising far too late that during their battle they had been herded backwards, away from the trees and towards something altogether more painful, and the screams began.

Hades couldn’t move.

Poseidon’s descriptions of the full viciousness of the Acheron in Tartarus had been woefully inadequate.  Every molecule of Hades’ being was set alight, freezing and sparking and drowning from the curses while burrowing invasively deep into his essence, dragging it out for the Pit to see.  His form flickered, losing the fight to stay intact as everything beneath it tore to shreds.

When his younger brother had touched the water, Hades and Zeus had pulled him back, but Apollo had fallen with him and there was no-one left to haul them out.  They would have to get themselves out of the Acheron, but the Acheron clearly had no intention of letting them go, no matter how much they struggled.

At least, Hades thought he was struggling.  It was difficult to tell when everything that made him him was being flayed alive from the inside out.  It was difficult to tell anything at all.

He didn’t expect the hands that pulled him up.

He didn’t notice them, to start with.  His awareness was restricted down to agony and the way his essence was raked over boiling sands and frigid ice all at the same time, lanced through with electricity and drowned for good measure.  Hands tugging at his unravelling form as the Acheron whisked him directly towards the delta failed to register at all.

Then he was going up, leaving the water behind as the bank dug into his raw essence.  Faintly, he could hear an agonising cacophony of sound that wasn’t quite screams, and grunts of effort, and then he was on the bank, burning and freezing and twitching but intact, and Hades was forced to do nothing but lay in his crumpled heap, too shattered to even register how undignified he must have looked.

Another form slumped down next to him, and his eyes met the blazing currently-blue flames of Apollo’s.

His nephew was barely recognisable.  His form had almost entirely sloughed away, leaving him a flickering bundle of light covered with occasional scraps of flesh.  Golden liquid coated the ground around them, running down in miniature rivers to the Acheron.

As Hades watched, a golden shimmer slowly passed over Apollo, restoring his appearance.  For the god of healing, it was slow regeneration, especially for what was clearly only surface level restoration rather than a full heal, but Hades could feel his regeneration was even slower as his own form also re-congealed around his essence, an outer shell to simply contain himself.

As Apollo’s face reformed, tears of agony spilled down his cheeks.  Hades couldn’t comment on that, considering he was well aware of the saline tracks forming down his own reforming face.

River of Pain was far too tame a moniker for the Acheron.

For an eternity of an instant, they lay by the bank of the river, unable to move and fully vulnerable to anything that approached.  It was a state Hades despised, and as soon as the exterior of his form solidified again he hauled himself into a sitting position, surveying their surroundings in an attempt to regain his bearings and forcibly ignoring the essence-deep pain that had not been erased by his reformation.

There were no trees on their side of the bank; across the river, Hades could see the thin spindles protruding from the surface of Tartarus, and he wondered if they’d crossed the river again – but no, they’d travelled downstream and the water was still flowing as though they were on the same bank.  That did not make sense; there were no trees upwards of the Acheron, only below.

Then he noticed that the river whose bank they were upon was not the Acheron at all.

The Acheron wound almost directly towards them, intersecting with the river whose bank they sat upon before the water flowed down, towards the abyss and Chaos.  This river must have been the sixth, although Hades could not identify when they had crossed it.

At least, it put the Arai behind them, and while Hades couldn’t place exactly where they needed to head, they were also further along the route they’d needed to take, rather than having been sent completely off course.

Beside him, Apollo had also pulled himself upright.  One ichor-covered hand was massaging his throat, and his eyes flickered with distress, reminding Hades that Apollo, too, was currently under the thrall of multiple curses.

Hades could not recall if he had ever mindlessly cursed his nephew.  He sincerely hoped he hadn’t.

“We should move further from the river,” he said after a moment.  His voice sounded raw.

Apollo nodded, but when he opened his mouth to speak, the same grating, discordant screech jolted straight through Hades’ essence.  His nephew looked devastated, and Hades wondered who had cursed him to that extent.

His own curses still plagued at him, his brother’s lightning coursing through him while he drowned and froze and trembled from the combined effects of everything, but Hades pulled himself to his feet.  Apollo staggered upright, still massaging his throat as though he hoped that would restore his voice and in silence, Hades led them further from the banks of the river.

They did not travel far; unlike the upper reaches of the Pit, there were no convenient caves full of weak monsters to repurpose for their own ends.  Here, everything was exposed, and the best shelter Hades could find was none at all, simply placing them in the centre of a large, flat expanse where nothing could sneak up unseen.

The curses would not last forever; Hades suspected that they were supposed to, for mortals, but the regenerative powers of gods would, in time, overpower the Arai’s intent.  He and his brothers had huddled together and waited it out – that much, he now recalled, although he did not recall how long it had taken.  No doubt, he and Apollo would need to do the same, and he brought them to a stumbling halt.

“We must rest,” he said bluntly.  Apollo nodded, no longer attempting to speak to the thanks of Hades’ battered essence.  He had no desire to be assailed by the sounds that tore themselves from Apollo’s throat if it was not necessary.

Somehow, he hadn’t lost his hold on his sword, and he laid it on the ground as he slumped down, his nephew beside him.  Apollo’s bow was nowhere to be seen, and his quiver was empty.

There was nothing left for them to do, but rest.

Chapter 19>>

[artistic-fuss]

Threat

Commissioned by @darthfluff a good friend of mine! We have had this pet au for some time and I really appreciate her for getting me to write this!

Someone leaves a threat to Duke Luca Abele on his desk, who put it there and where does it lead?

Word reaches Dunwall too late. Far too late for Corvo’s liking, but then, to be to Corvo’s liking word would have reached Dunwall before the act had even happened. Emily finds it funny, which, in its way it is. Unfortunately, however, neither of them can take this lightly. As much as they would love to, as much as they would enjoy watching an assassin end the rein of Duke Luca Abele. There is an obligation to them both to investigate the threat. See to its integrity. Duke Luca insists to them through letters that no one would wish him dead, let alone enough so to threaten his very life. He does admit to some unsavoury business going on his Karnaca, swears that he has Officers and his head scientific teams on it. They are searching through everything and everywhere he assures them. Asks them not to come. In case they are in danger as well, so he claims. Corvo does not believe him and neither does Emily. They know enough of what he is doing in Karnaca, what he is doing to his continent, to know, many want him dead. They know and understand that there is a risk to them, risk that Emily trusts Corvo to handle with ease. As he always has. Still, he tells her that Alexi must come along.

Corvo has all the information he has loaded onto their ship before they make for the sea. He will work on the way.

They have been sent a silver graph of the threat as it was found. Corvo holds the photo up to the light of his cabin and comes to the same conclusion every time he does. The note is stabbed through deep into the wood of Abele’s desk by a whaling blade. This is no casual assassin’s threat. This is nothing that a maid or Officer would have access to. Nothing that someone in the Duke’s staff could do. Corvo hates to sound cliche and stereotypical of a paranoid Gristolian, but in this case, he has to. All signs are in front of him. All signs that he needs personally at least. This note was not left by an amateur. Amateurs do not have original Whaler blades. They do not know exactly how to put their words onto a piece of wrinkled paper to send shivers down their targets’ spines. No amateur does, but Whalers do. Ex-Whalers of course, by now he is sure. Daud, after all, has not been seen anywhere since the days prior to Emily’s coronation. Even then, he was only a flash of a blood-red coat and a pale rose resting against the grave of Empress Jessamine Kaldwin.

And yet, he is no less certain that somewhere in this mix he will be lead back to the scar-faced assassin and his men. Corvo does question whether Daud is the center of this threat, however.

Corvo combs through names and leads and finds exactly zero familiar names. Many of Duke Luca’s scientists are unfamiliar to him even. He, of course, recognizes Kirin Jindosh, and Brenna Ashworth, but the others he has not so much as heard the surnames of. Dr. William Hall? Lavina Milani? The pair are the coroners of each body that appears linked to something wrong, something sketchy. They will be looked into extensively. Lavina particularly catches his attention. Though not for the reason of him believing her linked to the bodies, or the threat even. She has reports made by officers about her, threats. Nothing as big as threatening the Duke, but as he digs deeper into what he has on her he finds that she has expressed distaste for Luca. As has Dr. Hall. Corvo is unsurprised but files those complaints away for further investigation. He must look into every little thing after all. If only to keep a reputation he has gained over his years as Lord Protector. Neither of the coroners has had any crime reported. Well, nothing Corvo would count. Swearing at a Watch Officer is, surprisingly, not a crime. No matter how colourfully the words came out. (Pointing a scalpel you hold in your hand, also, does not count. They are coroners after all.)

When the ship makes dock in Karanca after its voyage, Corvo is able to get his hands on more information, more material. He is able to see the knife in person finally and feel the weight in his hands. Drag his thumb over the divets in the Whaling blade. Holding it only solidifies his belief that it came from a Whaler. It is in near perfect condition, the same as any other Whaling Blade he has had the pleasure of coming across in his time. The note is not in Daud’s writing. Corvo was not expecting it to be. He does not know the writing, but it is untrained. The one who wrote it does not have a formal education. Nor is the writing like that of a Karnacan. The person was not born or at least, not raised in Karnaca.

Duke Luca Abele appears Corvo would not say unconcerned, but he would say that the Duke appears unaffected by the threat. If not before Corvo’s arrival, then at least after it.

Emily and Corvo are set up in a spare suite of the palace. It feels uncannily as if it is or was touched by Void. Not specifically the Outsider himself, but the Void. Corvo finds it hard to sleep there. The Void itches in his skull until he jolts awake and finds himself in an old familiar cold. Only, the place does not appear to him as the Void. Not at first. He wanders the palace through the fade and follows the traces of where the seams of the worlds tore open.

The seams lead him to the place the note was left. The Whaling Blade shivering and shaking in only the way the Void can make things move. He sees no one. Not at first, not that night. But the next he notices the shadows. He feels the mark of someone he does not know. He feels it pull and shift through the world as if the being is moving through water. The image of a Red Shark comes to mind. He cannot place why. But the red, that shade of red he can place. In one flash of the Red Shark image, he knows the red. That red matches Daud. It is the shade he has forever associated with the old Knife Of Dunwall. Still. This is not Daud. He knows that as a fact.

When awake he follows the path in his dreams. The Marked left no mark. Came in and left from a window in the ceiling and not once slipped on the wet metal of the rails. Then, went to the sea. The trail just dies above the water. Not close enough to suggest the Marked swam, but high enough to suggest they grasped something. Something tall.

Corvo heads for the docks. Asking the workers for descriptions of ships. Particularly ships with masts. Many look away from him, they do not want to speak of the ship. He asks if it is still around. They do not know. It comes and goes. The Captain does not pay to be in port. She scares them too deeply. So they have no record of when or where she docked. A few, the brave ones tell him they may be able to find someone from the ship in a tavern. But following those leads bring up nothing. No ship name.

While there, something does catch his attention. Jaime. That is the man’s name. He is Gristolian, annoyingly so. The man is too drunk to recognize Corvo, or perhaps he has been so out of the loop of politics he does not realize Corvo is still in a position of power. Whatever his reasoning, he shares with Corvo a drunken worry that his friends keep trying to turn him away from.

Never the less Jaime persists.

He shares with Corvo his paranoia of a bookshop down by a far side dock. Jaime’s friends insist that the poor old man living there needs no one just bursting into his shop. Surely doing that would give him a heart attack. And Jaime continues, tells Corvo that the man, Carlo Demorto, he spits the name out quickly as he talks. Almost like saying it summons him. He rambles to Corvo about how strongly he believes this man is no sailor, no simple old whaler, but a Whaler. He makes an exaggerated motion that causes his friends to sigh as he says Whaler the second time, trying hard to imply the Whalers of Dunwall. Then he corrects himself with another swig of rum. Carlo’s not a Whaler, but The Whaler. Daud. He shouts as the name comes back to his far from sober mind. Daud, he continues, that bookstore owner, he swears on the Empress, more proof he has no clue who he is speaking with, that the man is Daud.

Corvo returns to the palace that night, a drink in him with the persistence of Jaime, unsure if he believes the man’s speculation. For one thing, why would Daud open a bookshop? On another, how had he not been arrested or taken by Overseers? But can he really afford to ignore it at this time? The one who left the note was Marked and left on a ship. Who better to know what could be happening than the old Knife Of Dunwall, the Wolf of Man himself, Daud? He always knew so much. Corvo cannot deny that fact. Daud knew what was happening always, he was ahead of the guard, the overseers, the other gangs. And Corvo doubts that if Daud is around, that he could leave something this big alone.

In the night he returns to the Void, the Outsider smiling at him, eyes looking deeper than usual. For once, he does not speak and the world moves around Corvo, placing him somewhere he has never seen, but with people, he has seen silver graphs of. Before him stands Lavinia Milani and Dr. William Hall. The doctor is crotched in front of some sort of chair, someone, long dead, strapped in. He is fiddling with tubes from the chair, when he speaks it is consumed by the Void. The same happens with Miss. Milani’s voice. The Void’s way of telling him he is focused on the wrong part of the image. So Corvo moves on as the pair get caught in the loop of the Void.

He looks around the room they are in.

The door is open, but he cannot see passed it, it leads to inky blackness and whales. But looking up behind Dr. Hall reveals what the Void is showing him. Marked into the wall in what Corvo hopes is paint, but believes is blood, is a symbol. A series of lines he may have seen vaguely in passing. It means nothing to him then.

In the morning, however. It means so much. Miss. Malani has sent papers to the palace for him, and there in clear view on many sheets is that mark. She calls it the mark of the Eyeless. Her report tells him it is a suspected gang linked to the Void, the report ends suddenly and is hastily signed off by Dr. Hall. The ink of his pen dragging along to the edge and possibly beyond. Corvo inquires about these Eyeless with the Officers of Karnaca, they tell him they are nothing. A members-only tavern, nothing more.

He hears that too often from the Officers. Nothing more.

The murders? Blood drained bodies? Bloodflies, nothing more.

Unregistered ships in the harbour are passing by and nothing more.

Corvo despises them. They leave him with no help and no leads. He has no way of directly contacting Miss. Malani, as she is constantly busy with her own work. His only point of hope is Jaime’s suspicions, and even that is a terrible lead. Still, Corvo makes the decision that he will follow it. After all, what harm could possibly come from taking a visit to an odd bookshop?

The Karnaca sun beats down on him as he walks down the shore side street. Small businesses and smaller houses lining the walkways. The rails do not go here, Corvo has a feeling it is because no one in the area wanted it here. Everything seems so calm and old. He almost recognizes the stones under his boots. Almost. An elderly lady sits outside on her porch with a steaming cup in her hands, and Corvo feels like her eyes are filled with warning. For what he is not sure. Perhaps warning about invading into their quiet neighbourhood. He hopes that is all the warning is. But as he reaches for the handle of the bookshop with no name and a large window, exactly as Jaime described she calls out to him.

“He’s closed at the moment, darling! Why not come join me for a cup?” There is no sign on the door saying the shop is closed, nor open.

Corvo gives her a thankful wave and denies her offer. “Do you know when he will be back Ma’am? I, unfortunately, I do not have time to sit for tea.”

She gives him a warm smile and stands from her seat to lean over the edge of her railing to get a closer look at him, and her smile grows. “Oh, forgive me, Lord Attano! I had no idea you would be coming down this way!” She wanders down her stairs and over to him, not once giving a bow. Corvo is tickled by her. She pulls a key from her apron and fumbles with the shop door. “Now, Demorto will be back in only a moment if he isn’t in already. Mittens will keep a good eye on you, darling.”

She shoos Corvo into the shop and hobbles back to her porch and into her home.

The door swings closed with a jingle behind Corvo and he cannot believe all that he is seeing. The shop has as many if not more books than the Royal Library in Dunwall Tower. He does not have even enough time to wander into an aisle when he hears a loud yowl. The sound comes from above him, and as his eyes travel up, they pass over a number of odd artifacts and land on a massive cat. Black as pitch with eyes a near gold, tail twitching down the side of a shelf.

“You must be Mittens….” He says the animal’s name and the growls turn to purrs. The cat’s paws reach down onto a shelf and soon she is level with Corvo’s head, nuzzling into his face. This is certainly Mittens. Corvo raises a hand to scratch her behind the ear and before he knows it she is attempting to climb onto his shoulders. A little too big to ride on his shoulders Corvo ends up with a panther in his arms with her front paws over her shoulders and her head rubbing against his. With the panther refusing to leave his arms now, Corvo walks around the shop carrying her like he used to carry Emily when she was just a little younger.

Shelves with gaps do not truly have empty space. Where there would be empty space is filled by artifacts. Bones, plants, weapons. Things Corvo can only think must have come from Pandysia of all places. Not many people went to Pandysia, let alone returned. Or had the funds to pay for someone to bring them back. Then he turns another corner and comes face to face with a section that makes his heart stop.

These are banded books. Books on the Void. On Pandysia. Sacrilege. Spaces that need filling are filled. Filled by Bone Charms and Runes. He can feel them pulse with the power of the Void. No simple old Sailor would have these so casually sitting there. No one but Daud would be capable of keeping something like this out of the hands of the Abbey. Mittens leaves his arms finally, hopping up onto the shelf of sacrilege and a final turn has Corvo face to face with more than enough proof that this Carlo Demorto is in fact The Knife Of Dunwall.

There above the doorway to the backroom, and likely Daud’s home is the very Whaling blade Daud used back in Dunwall.

It was the most distinct of the blades. The blade itself carved with runes and words roughly translated through Pandysian and back. The handle is stained by Whale blood and ink of the deep-sea squids.

And the shop door opens behind him. He does not need to turn to know who will be behind him. And the man at the door does not need him to turn to know who he is.

“Hello, Corvo.” The voice is exactly as he remembers it. Rough and tired, only with a little more age to it. “You’re here about the note I take it? Or the Eyeless?”

So the Eyeless are important to something.

“I think it would be best if we sat down and discussed this. There is a lot to go over.” Daud steps closer to him as Corvo turns and when he reaches him he rests a hand on the taller man’s shoulder. “Lavinia will be over in the evening if I can steal you away for so long Royal Protector.” His hand leaves Corvo’s shoulder and he steps into the backroom, Mittens hopping down once more and following him.

“You knew I was coming.”

“Of course I did,” Daud replies, setting his furnace a lite and resting a kettle on top of it. “I have reason to believe that any path you followed would lead you here.”

Commission page is HERE and my AO3 is HERE

[bangtan-bunny]

Sweet Apple Muffins [1]

Pairing: Kim Namjoon x Reader (ft. Taehyung)

Word Count: 4315

Genre/Summary: Angst and fluff / brief sensuality / light swearing / feels. Namjoon has been overwhelmed with work and while you are generally supportive, he’s gone too far and forgets a very important day. You begin to go through your memories of how you met him.

A/N: Hello everyone! I posted this fanfic awhile back, but upon revamping my blog and wanting to step things up, I decided to edit and re-upload this story (and actually finish it lol) This story is very special to me because I honestly drew a lot of y/n’s thoughts and opinions from my own. Anywhoooo enjoy!

~~~~ indicates a flashback/end of flashback

“So what do you think? I mean it is just a demo, so I can fix the producing and the instrumentals sou-”

You put a finger to his lips to quiet his nervous ramblings. Namjoon always felt his work never measured up to his sky high expectations. Despite the countless all-nighters and almost non-existent diet he endured, he had to make sure everything was perfect, especially when he knew you were going to see it. His incessant tapping and avoidance of eye contact was a clear sign of this paranoia. Namjoon had put the finishing touches Bangtan’s last track of the new album, and he finally felt ready to show it to you. Pulling out your earbuds and setting them and the laptop on the coffee table, you kick your legs up onto the couch and turn to face him. He refused to shift his downward gaze until you gave a light push to his shoulder. 

“Don’t start with that now, this song is really something special. The melody is catchy, but I know ARMY will love it because of the lyrics. You guys have been taking on more serious topics surrounding our age group lately, but in this song, you’ve been able to talk about young love again, but maintained a balance with the maturity you’ve developed. It’s so individually personal, but will still hit home to anyone that has ever loved.” You chose your words carefully because you knew Namjoon trusts your opinion.

He tilted his head and made the face he always did when he was touched by something, so you knew he really took what you said to heart. You kicked up your knees to your chest, pulling the blanket tighter around your torso and leaning onto Namjoon, resting your head on his shoulder. He reached behind your back and pulled you closer, his warmth having replaced the cold you’ve been feeling from the overly air conditioned studio. It’s hard to imagine all of the nights he spent here trying to finish the album. His determination was definately admirable. Relaxing into this position, you let your mind begin wander some more. How you’ve missed this comfort. How you’ve missed him. You reach up to him, lips just about to touch before you were rudely awakened.

You barely had time to register your surroundings as the loud smack of the bedroom door sounds against the wall. Shooting up in bed, you hope for it to be the person that had been ‘haunting’ your dreams almost every night. Your shoulders slump and you lay back down in disappointment at the appearance of your best friend.

“C’mon y/n, it’s your birthday!”

He stomps over and pulls off the covers you’ve recently grown accustomed to hogging. You groan in annoyance, longing to go back to your wonderful dream.

“It’s time to get up!”

You roll over from the bubbliness that is Kim Taehyung. He frowns, but then reaches across the bed to pull open the blinds. Anger billows deep inside your chest as you scrunch your face at the unwelcomed sunshines on either side of you.

“Why did you have to get here so early, Tae?”

You tried not to sound as miserable and well, as sexually deprived, as you felt. Instead, you reluctantly sit up, look him in the face and deliver your best fake smile. Sadly, this boy could read you like a book. That sympathetic look, the one he’s been giving you more often than you like to admit, makes an appearance as he plops down next to you. Putting an arm around your slouched shoulders, he attempts to cheer you up.

“Well it’s a big day and to spend it right, we have to start early! So get dressed, we’re going to Doni’s in ten minutes.”

Doni’s was your favorite coffee shop in the city. You and Tae personally know Doni’s son who sneaks both of you the two most freshly baked muffins every morning. The shop was a little space shoved between a popular hair salon and a liquor store. At first glance the place looks pretty cheap, but it’s the comforting and homey atmosphere that keeps people coming back. At least that’s what keeps you coming back. When walking in, your attention is usually diverted to the long glass counter where all of their delicious pastries and breads are lined up along three shelves. Doni’s wife, Lara, usually worked the cash register and she would greet you kindly each morning.

The rest of the café was to the left with large chalkboards along the walls that mainly listed their drinks, pastries, specialties and prices. Then there was the ‘customer board’ along the far wall by the windows. This special board was a large chalkboard where customers could draw or write whatever they wanted and as long as it was appropriate, it wouldn’t be erased. Since this shop was more of a stop and go for most, not many people hung out long enough to write anything on the board, so it was far from being filled up. Whether you were with Tae, someone else, or by yourself, you always looked for the table by the customer board. Reading the messages helped brighten the start for your day. The tables were pretty dingy as well, with chairs varying from three to five at each one. A small jukebox lay beside “your” table, but you could never stand the music selection Doni liked (mainly Skrillex and Diplo) so you routinely became the DJ. This place was particularly special though, as it was actually the place where you met Namjoon.

“Earth to y/n, we’re burning daylight!” Tae taunts while shaking your shoulders.

You sigh deeply and take your mind off of thoughts of Namjoon. Looking into Taehyung’s hopeful eyes, you can see that he’s genuinely trying to help you. Whether he’s doing this out of care or pity, you appreciated his efforts. The least you could do was put on a believable happy face this time.

“I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

His face lights up and you see his signature box-like grin. His happiness has always been contagious so you couldn’t help the corners of your mouth perk up at the sight of his childish excitement. Taehyung was right. Today was your birthday and you were going to enjoy it. If Namjoon still wants to ignore you, even on a day like this, well actions speak louder than words then.

The thought of him still makes your stomach turn, but also makes your heart skip. This confusing and uncomfortable feeling is all you’ve had of him for the past month and a half since he’s been staying at the studio. With WINGS’s success, you know he really needs to focus on this next album. However, he hasn’t taken the time to talk with you at all. You were extremely worried about him. He hasn’t answered any of your texts or calls and the other members just give vague answers that don’t help ease you at all. But the thought of Namjoon, at least for today, is not going to consume you.

Tae is already out of the room so you summon just enough energy to get up and get dressed. Even though it’s your birthday and you could’ve tried a little harder with your appearance, you chose a comfortable hoodie and sweatpants over a pretty dress. It was below freezing outside and you weren’t about to risk getting sick just to look presentable. Being a nurse isn’t a profession where you can just call in whenever you want. You had your patients to think about. In this way, you could relate to Namjoon. Both of your jobs are very demanding, time consuming and you have people relying on you. However, at least you still managed to let him know if you were staying late or if there was a problem at the hospital. Damn it, you’re not supposed to think about him today! If only your birthday wasn’t the hardest day to forget him.

There was no need to do your hair or makeup either. It was only Tae, Doni and Lara you’d be seeing, all of whom you don’t feel the need to impress. Glancing down at the desk of the vanity, you can’t help but stare longingly at the little collage of you and Namjoon. There you are on his shoulders, attempting to “hold up” one of the Zen Temples while traveling around the lakes in Arashiyama. The two of you celebrated your first anniversary by going to Kyoto, Japan because you both were fascinated by the landscape of Arashiyama. It’s known for its hilly landscapes, forests and lakes with the original Zen temples unaffected by WWII. Its untouched environment is said to give off an aura of peace and tranquility. Witnessing something seeming to be completely separate from the developing world with Namjoon was an experience you will always cherish.

Shifting to the next picture, you roll your eyes at the photo Tae took of you and Namjoon sitting in the practice room, unaware of his presence and mouths full of ramen. Passing a few family and award show pictures, your smile drops when you spot the picture taken the first day you met.

Though it was two years ago, you could still remember every detail of that bitterly cold morning. You were heading to Doni’s again, looking forward to a mint hot chocolate and one of their brand new glazed apple muffins. Also your friend Emily had wanted you to meet her new boyfriend who you’d soon find out to be Taehyung. This also being the day you first met Tae, however, you wouldn’t become close until she broke his heart and you were there to console him. Emily was a vlogger and photographer leading her to meet him while at one of BTS’s photoshoots. Though you love her, she’s known to toy with people’s emotions, and you didn’t have the heart to tell Taehyung at the time. At the time, she told you to meet them at Doni’s at eight and then you’d spend the day together. You chuckled to yourself at how it never went according to plan.

~~~~~~~~~~

Normally you’re at Doni’s by seven and are used to the almost empty shop, so you didn’t expect it to be packed less than an hour later. You knew most people started work by nine, but you didn’t think any of those respectable business people would go to Doni’s of all places. Lara wasn’t at the counter so you decided to search the tables. Your friend had vibrant reddish hair so it didn’t take long to come to the conclusion that you beat them here. Deciding to find a place to hold until they get there, you turned to look to see if “your” table was taken.

It sort of was. There was a man there, but he had pulled the chair away from the table to face the window. On any other day, you would have assumed that even though he sat a few feet away, the table was his and you wouldn’t have bothered. However, that day you had no other choice of a seat. So you walked over to the corner with the customer chalkboard and sat down in the chair farthest from the man. You felt extremely awkward being this close to a stranger and acting as if you just rudely sat with them. Trying to distract yourself, you turned to the chalkboard which had a few new words on it.

Why is there no opposite word for loneliness?

Were we born to die.

Were we born to live.

Are we living to die,

Or are we dying to live?

The name tag with my name on it,

Is that my life?

Or is it death?

…Who knows?

Rolling your eyes at the obvious attempt for someone to sound ‘deep’ and ‘compelling,’ you scoffed before debating what new drawing you wanted to add to your little collection in the bottom corner. You were interrupted by a deep voice speaking up from behind you.  

“You disagree?”

You jumped in surprise and spun around to find that it was the man sitting by the window. He had platinum blonde hair and his smirk revealed two obvious dimples. You found him attractive, but even then you weren’t one to get all flustered just because someone looked pleasing.

“I just don’t agree with this person’s outlook. Yes, it’s perfectly fine to question why we’re here. Honestly, I think about it more than I like to admit. However, I’ve come to learn that you shouldn’t look at life as just a loan on death. That just creates a miserable existence where you don’t appreciate the adventures life offers because you’re so focused on this big “end.” Whoever wrote this needs to realize their “name tag” or whatever isn’t something prewritten for you by death. Your name tag is something you design yourself.”

You smiled more at your little speech rather than at the man. You were remembering how far you had come since the days where depression and anxiety used to control your thoughts and actions. You still struggle sometimes, but mentally, you were at a much better place now. And looking at that quote reminded you of how you used to feel.

The man’s smirk deepened and he raised an eyebrow, perhaps in surprise. Feeling his sense of superiority slip had relaxed you and made you a little cocky. He pulled his chair closer to the table and leaned forward.

“From a realist’s point of view, I don’t believe that way of thinking works for everyone. Not all people can just live happy go lucky like that,” his tone slightly mocking.

The last part struck a nerve with you because you were very aware of the happy go lucky people in this world, and you did not want to be compared to them. Especially after what you went through, you found it difficult to keep your cool at this stranger’s arrogance.

“I don’t think that what I said is happy go lucky by any means. It’s more about survival. When you question things too much, your thoughts become overwhelming. Soon enough, you’ll realize that you could question every little thing in the world for eternity. That’s when the loneliness kicks in and you see how alone you really are in this world. You’ll go mad once you embrace this. So it’s not happy go lucky,” you copied his tone, “It’s thoughtful and rational.” You took a pause before looking him right in the eyes.

“Also, there is an opposite for the word loneliness. It’s called living. Speaking of living, one of those apple muffins are calling my name.” 

Feeling that you won this conversation with the stranger, you stood to walk over to see Lara back at the register. Hearing a chair scrape against the floor, you noticed the man get up and quickly stumble beside you. He seemed to have lost his confident composure which made you feel even more proud. You had to look up at him a little, as he was taller than you thought.

“So, apple muffins, eh?” It came out awkwardly, his previous deep and confident tone had completely vanished. 

“Yeah, they just got them in for the winter. Normally I just get a pumpkin one. A mint hot chocolate sounds really good too,” you replied as the cold wind from the opening front door sent a chill throughout your body and goosebumps down your arms. You also felt awkward by going from such a deep conversation to simple small talk.

“So you’re a regular here, then?”

“I come here everyday. Today, I’m waiting for a couple friends to come by,” you said, hoping he would get the hint and get lost. Even though you weren’t that excited about Emily’s schedule, she was trying to give you a fun day and you should appreciate her attempt at getting you out of the house. At the same time though, a small part of you kind of enjoyed the man’s strange company.

“Did they ditch you?” He scoffed, his confidence had clearly returned. You rolled your eyes yet again and decided to ignore him. 

You both reached the counter and Lara immediately walked over upon seeing you. She was getting up in the years, but her voice and smile were genuine and sweet.

“Good morning, y/n and …”

Exhaustion was clear in the older woman’s voice as she waited for the man to introduce himself. Her confused expression must have been from surprise to see you with another person for once.

“Hello, my name is Namjoon. May I order two apple muffins, one grande americano and a mint hot chocolate?” You turned to him with wide eyes, but snapped back to Lara as she addressed you.

“And for you, y/n?”

The man, now you discover to be named Namjoon, placed a hand on your back and spoke for you. Your body tensed at his touch.

“It’s my turn to pay for us today, right y/n?” Hearing him say your name with that self righteous attitude angered you in a way you couldn’t articulate, but you reluctantly smiled to not embarrass yourself any further.

“That’s right, thank you Lara.”

“You shouldn’t be thanking me, y/n. The new muffins are pretty expensive.” The older woman was enjoying this as her eyes shifted from you to Namjoon, waiting for you to address him. You rigidly shifted your body to look at him, realizing he was liking this as well.

“Right. Thanks, Joonie,” you replied while hoping the cheesy nickname would throw him off. It only managed his smirk to deepen. How had he been able to get under your skin so easily within just a few minutes? 

He put an arm around you and flashed a bright grin at Lara. His action made you freeze, making you unable to talk. You couldn’t tell if it was out of shock or anger. Regardless, you let him keep control of this stupid little role play. Meanwhile, in your mind, you were planning on when to knock this guy out for making you feel like such an incompetent child.

“Your total comes to $22.57″

Namjoon leaned onto the counter, and looked Lara in the eyes with a cockiness that made you bite your tongue so hard, you swear you could taste blood. He slid his card through the reader and when it asked for the amount he wanted to pay, you watched him type in $222.57.

“I can see how hard you work in this little place, so please keep the change for yourself,” Namjoon smoothly says while you and Lara stood there, dumbfounded. 

“I’m sorry, I can’t accept this!” Lara wasn’t wealthy by any means and you couldn’t remember the last time she took a day off.

“Yes you can. Go to the ski lodge with your husband, or that new spa hotel that opened up downtown, whatever will make you happy. Everyone needs to have a little adventure sometimes.”

Now he was mocking what you said earlier. Normally you wouldn’t have cared if your opinions differed from someone else’s, but you poured your damn heart out back there and this guy was being a total ass about it.

“You’re right, thank you sir!” Lara stutters out while stumbling down the counter to get the muffins. You turned to look at him in complete shock and he just shrugged. A moment of silence ensued while you were trying to process what just happened in the past couple minutes. That was, until he came up with another jab at you.

“So these muffins were like six bucks a piece, you didn’t tell me they’d be that much!” He crossed his arms and turned away, pretending to be annoyed. 

Was he fucking kidding? If your eyes were wide before, now they were saucers. He just gave Lara a $200 tip, if that can even be called a tip. You didn’t ask him to buy you anything, so why was this your fault? And why was he still even here!? Your mouth was agape, but of course, none of these thoughts came out.

“Wow, selfish and can’t even come up with a witty comeback? You’re not as smart as I thought.”

You were beginning to see red. You wanted to scream out and punch him straight in the face, but what the hell was holding you back? This guy needed to be put in his place.

This familiar feeling reminded you of your ex-boyfriend. Being the manipulative jerk he was, he knew how to play you and your emotions. He was able to make you feel guilty for things that weren’t your fault, forgive him for the shitty way he’d treat you, and still somehow convince you to love him. He was one of the main causes for the severity of your depression. It was only when you finally caught him cheating that you were you barely strong enough to leave. So there was no way in hell a man was going to make you feel insignificant and stupid again.

“You know what, Namj-” you tried to begin your rant, but Lara’s voice cut you off.

“Here you go, kids. One grande americano, a mint hot chocolate and two apple muffins. I made sure to put extra glaze on them,” Lara said as she came back with the tray.

“Thank you and have a lovely day, Ma'am. Let’s go, y/n,” Namjoon said as he turned to walk back towards the table. 

Today was supposed to be special and here you are feeling played by this random guy. You could’ve walked right out that door, leaving Namjoon in his tracks. Emily would understand. You could start the day over, forget all about this and try to enjoy yourself. However, you somehow ended up going back to your chair. Before you started to walk away, Lara reached across the counter and placed a hand on your shoulder.

”Don’t let that one go, y/n. It’s hard to find real gentlemen these days, much less cute ones.”

Now your face was burning for an entirely different reason. All you could do was nod slightly before side stepping away from her and making your way towards the table.

Sitting back down, you grabbed your drink from the tray and took a large gulp. From many mornings of hot drinks, you became used to the scorching liquid. Namjoon looked oddly at you, but then turned down to open the bag. You chuckled at his perfectly groomed nails and pretty hands. Your ex was a rugged and dirty guy with a film of dirt always under his nails. Namjoon didn’t seem to notice as he took out the muffins and placed both in front of him. In response to your confused look, he spoke up in that arrogant voice again.

“Who said either of these were for you?” His tone and smirk made your skin crawl. This time you were determined to not give him the satisfaction of seeing you upset. 

“I assumed they were both for you. You do look like you need the extra carbs.”

“You’re calling me fat?”

“No, the opposite actually. You do look kind of scrawny,” Sarcasm practically dripping from your words.

You could see his tongue press against the inside of his cheek as he tried to keep calm. A smile spread across your face as this game was finally beginning to turn in your favor. Waiting for an opportunity, you watched his hands move away from the muffins. You then shot your hand forward and grabbed hold of the bigger one. However, he was faster than you thought because before even realizing it, his hand clasped tightly onto your wrist.

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