#which you will note is different from major character death

[literary-illuminati]

2025 Book Review #24 – Memories of Ice by Steven Erikson

Reading through Malazan is the largest and most intimidating-sounding of my plethora of little reading goals for the year and – though I’ve now fallen off the one-a-month pace – one I’m still on track to complete. Memories of Ice is the third in the series (and good god can you absolutely not start anywhere but the beginning for this) and, sadly, probably my least favourite of the three so far. Not to say that it didn’t have some incredibly high points (and one of the best characters I’ve read this year), but overall the book was just very preoccupied with the subjects and characters that I find the least interesting by some measure. The truly amazing final hundred or so pages very nearly redeemed the whole thing, but at nearly 1200 pages getting to that was at points a slog.

The story occurs more or less simultaneously (I think) with the events of Deadhouse Gates, returning to the protagonists of Gardens of the Moon – most prominently prominently the Malazan Bridgeburners and Anomander Rake. Though honestly the story jumps between so many different POVs I would probably forget several if I tried to list them. It is however significantly more narratively focused than Deadhouse Gates was – this is overwhelmingly the story of the war between the Panion Seer and his horrifying, cannibalistic empire and, well, everyone else. Most of all the ostensibly-outlawed legion of Dujek Onearm and the allied coalition led by Caladin Brood, but there’s at least three or four other armies of note marching against him as well. Intertwined with that are major secondary plots introducing the Chained God, who I’m led to believe is the overarching villain of the series and by his opening moves seems to be living up to the roll, and exploring the past, future, and significance of the t’laan imass beyond their previous role as neanderthal zombie genocidaires and imperial stormtroopers (though they’re still very much that as well).

Being entirely honest, the biggest thing I am taking away from this book is the feeling that I was sold this series under false pretenses. Which is to say – Malazan is always sold as this example of richly detailed, semi-realistic and sociologically informed fantasy, with Erikson’s degrees in archaeology and anthropology mentioned prominently in trying to explain what series’ deal is. I struggled a bit to reconcile this assumption through the first two books in a way that probably gave me slightly odd readings of them, but this finally, forcibly, disabused me of it entirely.

The tipping point was specifically (and most glaringly, though it’s hardly unique here) the Panion Domain and the siege of Capustan. Neither of which make any sense at all without such a generous helping of ‘wizard did it’ that literally the entire book becomes shadowboxing the Seer specifically and his whole empire is nothing but but a vain affectation and exercise in atrocity rather than any sort of actual viable engine of conquest or actual augmenter of his power. You can’t even say the Domain is Mordor – Tolkein spent far more effort sketching out the agricultural and commercial-industrial systems sustaining and equipping Sauron’s endless hordes (and even gave them the occasional general worth a damn). Whereas Erikson - as described the entire army sent to take Capustan should have starved to death or being so riven with disease that the invasion collapsed under its own weight before anyone on the walls saw it. In an empire explicitly devoid of either mines or (save the palace-complex) cities, all that heavy infantry should hardly have the armour to deserve the name, either. Certainly it should not have been in any state to overrun the professionally manned and well-defended walls in a matter of days – given the ostensible size of the army and the shallowness of the command structure, ‘days’ is the time frame it should have taken to pull back one assault wave and send in another.

Taken on its own terms, this is mostly just annoying nitpicking – this is a book where a tenement complex is fought over so fiercely the walls start cracking from the number of corpses stuffed into each level, not one that actually cares about the minutia of provisions and logistics; Berserk not The Witcher. But realizing it was that sort of book was an unpleasantly forced shift of perspective and – having made it – a lot of the cultural detail lavished on the world suddenly started seeming much more shallow and artificial. Though having that understanding certainly made the rest of the plot – mythopeic psycho-drama that it was – much, much easier to appreciate and enjoy.

At this point I might also just have a fundamental issue with how Erikson writes his villains. Or, well, doesn’t write them. In both Deadhouse Gates and Memories of Ice there is a central conceit and character at the heart of the enemy forces that is compelling and absolutely riven with both interest and pathos – and in both cases, we spend essentially no time at all with them. Instead – and somehow even more with the Panion Seer’s minions than the Army of the Apocalypse, which is no mean feat – we spend absolute ages luxuriating in all their bloodthirsty atrocities and the myriad different depravities they inflict upon themselves, each other, and anyone who happens to fall within their grasp. On an emotive level, it makes the Seer’s final redemption ring oddly – like if Star Wars had spent a solid third of the original trilogy on imperial death camps and punitive campaigns filmed in unflinching detail with Darth Vader at the head of every one, but then had his final face-turn occur exactly the same.

Far more problematically – for me at least – the war story that is the book’s spine is just entirely devoid of moral drama or of ambiguity. The Panion Seer’s armies are capital-e Evil in every particular, and are very conveniently also an endless rabid but fundamentally cowardly horde whose only assets are brutality, numbers, and nefarious dark magic. They try exactly one clever strategy in the whole book, which fails instantly, and at no point have a hope of matching their opponents in either skill, courage, or any military virtue you care to name. The Seer’s commanders are given names and titles, but they really needn’t have been – they’re all complete ciphers, and entirely interchangeable besides. There are mentions of Panion missionaries, of the arguments they make to get willing converts and the fact that whole cities have willingly surrendered to them, but we certainly never actually hear or see why – the only emotions any follower of the Domain ever seems to express are hatred or despair (so foolish of the converts to realize that it’s only Malazan whose expansionist propaganda about a benevolent manifest destiny can be trusted, I suppose).

Our heroes, on the other hand, are (with one signposted-from-the-word-go betrayal) universally on the side of the angels, every one of them valorous in battle and fundamentally aligned on every major issue – not to mention clever, selfless, far-sighted, piercingly insightful and deeply principled. Every conflict between members of the coalition armies is a matter of miscommunication and needless wariness or suspicion, and every one can be resolved with an honest exchange in good faith. The point I came closest to just throwing the book against a wall and picking up a history book was when the plot thread – built up for multiple books now! - of how Dujek’s legions being outlawed was just a ruse for political expediency and they had made peace and then allied with Brood and Rake under false pretenses, a bomb at the heart of the fragile alliance just waiting to go off at the worst possible time.

And then it didn’t! Brood, Rake and their officers – who have been prosecuting a successful war against the Malazan empire for years now – all come around to working with that same empire (whose officers have been lying through their teeth to them for weeks or months at this point) in a matter of minutes. Even beyond that – with the exception of King Token Evil Betrayer-to-Be – they all seem to just basically agree that the empire conquering the world would be the best for everyone involved and none of them have much of an objection to it beyond their own explicit selfish interests to begin with. And then they all clasp hands and promise to work together, and the entire plot is more or less forgotten. As is any interesting internal tension or drama among literally any of the characters involved for six or seven hundred pages. It is the first time the series genuinely left me feeling like it was just wasting my time.

But okay, having finished venting my spleen here – as I said, the central war story focused on Whiskeyjack and the Bridgeburners and Rake was enervatingly devoid of real moral conflict, political intrigue or ambiguity. Which is a shame, because the parts of the book that weren’t about Malazans or Anomander Rake were all generally an absolute delight (this seems to be something of a running theme throughout the series so far, if I am being entirely honest). The Grey Swords in general were far, far less tedious than most of Erikson’s dutifully stoic heroic military leaders (interesting, even! I looked forward to their sections in Capustan). And then Itkovian specifically is just the single best character in the whole book by some margin with an arc that – though it somehow could have used more wordcount, god this book had too many POVs – I found just incredibly compelling and really riven with pathos. Silverfox’s dangling go-nowhere plot with Paran was rather tedious, but that aside she was probably the meatiest and most dramatically interesting major character in the whole book, and her dynamic with her mother was absolutely fascinating – the Mhybe herself also being a far more nuanced and interesting character than any of the badass world-shaking heroes getting more prominent billing. Even Caladin Brood at least has some occasionally unwise passion and an interesting struggle at the heart of him. And they’re hardly as dramatically serious – both are more or less macabre comic relief – but both Lady Envy’s epic level D&D party and the pair of itinerant necromancers were just absolute delights every time they were on the page.

Whatever my previous complaining, the entire massive finale – from the arrival at Coral on, really – was just excellent through and through. In no small part because of the sudden dramatic withdrawal of the plot armour that had so clearly been cushioning so many people for so long, and the sudden (usually quite competent!) culmination of so many different plot threads one after another. I will totally admit that I did not see Whiskeyjack dying coming until right before it happened, and (so long as he stays dead) I’m far better disposed to him than if he was going to stay the obvious main character of the universe for any further books (I can only hope Rake does not assume the role too transparently).

The Chained God did feel like a bit of a dog that didn’t bark, for the whole final stretch? He’s a recurring presence in the early chapters of the book, and him recruiting the desperate, resentful, and overwhelmed with pain and spite as the champions of his House is clearly set up as a plot thread. And then is just kind of vanishes – for later books, presumably (one is called House of Chains, after all) – but given how prominent tragic miscommunication is in so many character arcs, I really expected him to appear as a tempting devil sort of presence to Silverfox or the Mhybe at least (or it’s not like Itkovian isn’t already drowning under Christ-allegory energy, why not add a Gethsemane?). Not as though the book needed more things happening in it, I suppose.

Anyway yes; there’s something like two really excellent fantasy novels in here. Shame its as long as three. Still, I’m told the next book in the series leaves behind a lot of the bits I find most exhausting, so looking forward to that.

[locke-esque-monster]

Oh yeah! We did finish the last 3 episodes. It was 2 weeks after the first post. But it was with how late we finished: her reactions were more mellowed, I was tired when I got home, and life was crazy in November so I never made post number 2. But from what I recall there was a lot of bafflement on her part. Both at the idea of Five x Lila. And the ending as a whole, where everyone died.

I do think I remember asking her if she hated Five x Lila more than Luther x Allison. And I think she hated them as a couple more, but that it wasn't by a large margin. And that speaks to how much she disliked them as a couple, that they'd rank as worse. But the lack of a large margin between the couples is also telling because of her bone-deep hatred of Luther x Allison.

But with how late it was, she was mostly like "Go us! We finished a thing! I'm sad this show is over." And a lot of me ranting about how frustrated I was with the season that she generally agreed with as we decompressed afterwards.

Luther did really grow on me by season 2. Your description of him as a loveable himbo is spot on. But my friend and I have sort of learned to agree to disagree on things like that. She's more gut reactions, "does this character or arc spark joy" and if it bugs her (and himbos are not usually her jam), it's a hard "nope". I'm an English major at heart. If I can defend a character or a arc even if I don't like them, as long as I can make sense of it (like why the character would do that, it's worthwhile to the narrative even if frustrating, etc.). But if what's happening on the screen doesn't make sense to me, like 80% of season 4, then I'm more likely to be all up in arms than she is about the big picture.

I will also add that she has a long-running theory that people we'd be friends with (generally neurodivergent) are drawn to the more colorful (side) characters in every show, while neurotypicals are drawn to the more classic leads and this conversation started with TUA. TUA has less of a main lead than most shows, but Luther and Allison best fill that typical lead type, while Diego, Five, and Klaus have more in common with the side characters on other shows. Overall, she's the type to dislike the leads, I lean more baffled whenever that lead is someone's favorite character.

And I like all the Brellies in some way, Luther is no exception. Diego is pretty great - he's definitely in my top 3 siblings (though I think his writing was at it's best in season 1 - I have some notes on later seasons). Five has always been my favorite though - this was to zero percent surprise of my friend upon her discovery, just like Klaus being hers' is deeply on brand for her.

I couldn't agree more on the dance scene. In a season with 10 episodes, sure, maybe we could do that. But with such an abbreviated season, it seemed like a waste of time, other than to give a reason G&J weren't paying attention to Jennifer's breakout. I'd argue most of this season was breaking traditions, which is why it was so bad. Like how the hell do you both do a half a decade time jump with all the characters are acting wildly differently because of the last 5 years? And then break tradition of doing any flashbacks to explain literally any of those character changes? And I truly couldn't tell you a genuine arc anyone had with a beginning, middle, and an end. Stuff happened and then they died. (God, I made so many posts ranting about things issues like this after I watched season 4.) But yeah, nearly everything in season 4 can go. But I will say I don't hate the core concept of the Baby Shark van incident. Like yes, put all these characters in a pressure cooker while they feel miserable and have that figuratively blow up - that tracks. But have it crescendo with something else. Like they finally get fed up, pull onto the side of the road and physically fight. Except they all feel like death and are so out of practice with their powers it's a comedic disaster. The vomiting we got, it's not just 100% disgusting and unnecessary - it's a cheap gag and lazy writing. @sweetness-and-the-sour TL;DR I'm glad you enjoyed my post enough to ask for a follow up. Though you may be regretting that now - give me the option for saying 20 words or 200, and I'll always pick 200.

One of my dearest friends and I are going to start watching the last season of TUA tonight.

I've seen it. She hasn't. She has no spoilers, other than knowing there's one mystery "arc" I hated (read: Five x Lila).

She's told me before she doesn't want to know if a show is bad. She initially convinced me to watch season 1. I (re)watched 2 & 3 with her, as her first time she watched either, so this is the norm.

I said watching 4 with her would be "cathartic" when she suggested it as our next show.

Pray for me. Pray for her. To the higher power of your choice. We'll need it.

[tanadrin]

@grimogretricks

For people saying that airport security is wholly theatre and that it doesn't do any good- certainly it seems they've gone overboard on certain things, but what is your explanation as to why hijackings and terrorist attacks involving planes are MUCH less common than they used to be?

Sorry that this is mostly off the dome, and has less references than I would like. We argued this stuff to death in the aughts, though ultimately the political incentives in favor of security theater were just too great. Everyone is terrified of the potential backlash of not being seen to do enough in advance of the next big terrorist attack, I guess. And to be clear, we are talking mostly about post-9/11 airport security measures as being security theater. Some degree of airport security has been necessary since people started getting on airplanes with guns and informing the pilot that, hey, guess what, we're going to Cuba instead of Miami today.

But the big reduction in airplane hijackings came with the institution of metal detectors to keep guns off airplanes after a couple high-profile hijackings in the 1970s. But remember that these incidents were of a very different character than what we now think of as the risk to airplanes: they were certainly a problem, but the modus operandi of hijackers in this era was to force the plane to fly to a non-extradition country and land safely. 9/11-style hijackings, that used the plane as a bomb and killed everyone aboard, were on nobody's radar--when the goal was blowing up the plane and killing passengers, bombers generally used bombs planted in checked baggage, which requires different security measures from passenger screening.

Two security changes occurred after 9/11 that made future such hijackings basically impossible: one, probably most importantly, was that passengers understood they no longer could count on hijackers having an interest in surviving the hijacking. This change in passenger behavior was immediate: later that same year when a guy tried to bomb an airplane (using a really ineffective device hidden in his shoe) passengers immediately acted to restrain him. The second important change was reinforcing cockpit doors and keeping them locked: this makes hijacking airplanes with knives (the only major modality left to most would-be hijackers) functionally impossible.

All the other intense passenger screening and security measures implemented after 9/11 has been repeatedly shown by security researchers to be pretty ineffective, not even very reliable at stuff like keeping knives off airplanes. For years after 9/11 there were endless news stories about law enforcement running drills at airports and weapons making their way through security. A lot of later security measures, like liquid limits in carry-on baggage, came from terrorist plots that didn't even make it off the drawing board (and are unlikely to have ever worked anyway), and seem mostly to be overzealous ass-covering by transportation security officials.

And, finally, we should note that the real security threats to airplanes in the post-9/11 era seem to have come come from two sources that are basically impossible to protect against using traditional security methods, and for which passenger-based security screening is useless: anti-aircraft missiles and suicidal pilots (plus an honorable mention to aircraft companies trying to skirt certain regulatory requirements).

Despite what decades of American media would have you believe, elaborate plots targeting transportation infrastructure and involving like a dozen people are actually not at the top of the list of terrorist methodologies--why time and money training members of your organization to fly planes into buildings, when you can just use social media to convince a guy to drive a car into a crowd of bystanders, or stab somebody on the street? It's much cheaper, and much, much harder to guard against. Random lone-wolf terrorism is, unlike the kind of elaborate plots portrayed on TV, and one-off real-life examples like 9/11, basically impossible for security services to guard against in advance. But in order to justify the war on terror, and large budgets for security services on anti-terrorism grounds, it was necessary to play up the threat of such plots, even if by its very nature 9/11 was impossible to repeat. For similar reasons, the post-9/11 era also played up the threat of Islamic extremism and large overseas terrorist networks, even though far-right extremists acting in small groups also have managed to kill huge numbers of people in spectacular ways.

So for all these reasons, and those noted at the top, the political incentives around transportation security means that passenger screening measures in airports are almost guaranteed to be a one-way ratchet, even if they don't work. It's a bit like the fabled anti-tiger amulet--it's easy to say the lack of tigers is proof it's working! Even if the real reason there are no tigers about is that you live in Ohio. The media environment post-War on Terror helped create a public appetite for and approval of such anti-tiger amulets, too, of course. This was not by any means a purely top-down phenomenon.

[lowkeyerror]

Always There

Agatha Harkness x Vampire!Reader x Rio Vidal

Word count: 4.9k

Notes: Non-major character death, depictions of violence, graphic violent content (blood, mob violence/torture, detailed wounds), angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, small mention of suicial tendencies, italics=past

Summary: Vampire reader has had a casual relationship with Agatha and Rio, but eventually too many years pass since their last encounter, the vampire starts to wonder if they still cared for her.

An: Posting this immediately after I finished writing it. Hope you enjoy. Likes, replies, reblogs, and all of that are appreciated 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ Edit: Not me saying itallics and forgetting to actually put them lol

Masterlist

You’ve had a casual fling with Agatha and Rio for as long as you can recall. There’s a stereotype about witches coming and going as they please, and you find it to be frustratingly true.

It's easier to get ahold of Rio than Agatha, which is ironic considering that Rio is literally Death. With the title comes the job, so all you truly needed to get a glimpse of her was a body. Perhaps you could arrange the carcasses in a way that said ‘stay with me forever’.

As a vampire, you had time to wait. There was no rush, which is how you believe things got so casual. You could never forget how you met the pair.

At the time angry mobs were running rampant, looking for anyone to persecute. You were a known vampire living not to far from a village. They hunted you for sport. There were many of them that you killed, but eventually they were able to ambush you. When they did, they used wooden spikes to pin you to a large ‘X’ that they built. The scars from were they impaled your flesh still present today.

They tortured you; punching, spitting, stabbing, you had eventually lost track of time after a few hours. The need for blood weakening you enough to where breaking free was nearly impossible.

They’d come in shifts for the torture and leave only one person to watch you in the night. That was their only flaw. You didn’t expect anyone outside of the village to come across you, but someone did.

Your head was hung low, when you heard the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the ground. You raised it slightly, to see the guard that was supposed to be watching you, dead on the floor.

“You don’t look too well.”

It had been days since you had tried to speak, so your voice was hoarse, “I wouldn’t think so.”

“What are you? Only someone different, is worth all of this trouble,” a different voice spoke.

Your eyes look to where the voices are coming from, but you only see shadows. Your tongue is dry as it passes over your bloody chapped lips.

“Vampire,” you mumbled.

“Help me get her down.”

When they approached, you finally got a good look at them. You couldn’t help but stare at their features. Both youthful with rosy cheeks. Rio’s large brown eyes caught your attention immediately, warm yet hiding something. Agatha’s features were sharper, her cheekbones, her jawline, even her eyes.

“This will hurt,” Rio examined the wood embedded into your skin.

“I know,” you spoke weakly.

You expected them to pull the spikes out with their hands. Instead your eyebrows furrowed when purple and green tendrils of magic worked around the spikes. Instead of 4, painfully slow, agonizing moments, there was only one rough pull, before your body fell off of the ‘X’. Only your knees hit ground as Agatha and Rio held up the rest of your body.

Your full weight pushed against them as your head rested in between their shoulders, “Thank you.”

“Hungry?”

Your eyes glowed a dim red, “I could drain a village.”

“Bloodthirsty, even in this state?” Agatha teased.

“Especially in this state,” you corrected.

You could hardly move, but you attempted to stand on your unstable legs. You grunted in pain as you put one foot in front of the other. Your focus was on the dead guard. His heart was no longer beating, but blood still filled his veins. It was calling to you, it had been too long since you had fed.

Your fangs snack into the man’s neck viciously. You had no remorse for the corpse as his body began to lose color as you drank. He wasn’t a large man, which was unfortunate, but he sufficed for the moment.

Harsh breaths and clearing of your throat, were indicators of how much you needed that. You wiped the blood off of your mouth with the back of your hand.

Your wounds were slowly closing, but it was taking all of the energy you had just gained.

“I can heal you faster,” Rio said tentatively grabbing your forearm.

She extended it so that it’s flat, before quickly running her tongue over the spot. You looked at her as if she was crazy, but then back at your wrist. The hole from the stake was gone, in its place was only a scar.

If you had a pulse, you were sure that it would be beating wildly.

You glanced at Agatha, who watched on, “Do you do that too?”

She shook her head, “Earth witch specialty.”

“How long did they have you like that?” Rio’s eyes have examined your body, noticing the extensive damage. Her finger trailed one of the nastier slashes across your stomach.

“I don't recall,” you spoke honestly.

Rio was careful as she healed the larger wounds on your body, you told her not to worry about the less significant ones. Even when she was done you were still caked in dirt and mostly your own blood.

“Let me help you out doll,” Agatha waved her fingers swiftly, and soon you were clean as a whistle.

Your tattered clothes replaced as if they were new, dirt and blood alike removed from your body. Ugly scars, now covered except for the few that littered your face.

“Why help me? We are only strangers, I don’t even know your names.”

“Abominations to humanity must stick together lest we want them to wipe every one of us out . You can call me Rio.”

“Agatha Harkness, pleasure to save you beautiful.”

One of your eyebrows raised, “Witch killer, Agatha Harkness?”

The woman chuckled, “I see my reputation supersedes my community. Does my aura scare you…”

“Y/n, and it does not. There are no rules when it comes to preservation of self. I’ve killed my own kind for good reasons and some not so good reasons. Bodies just seem to pile up when I’m around.”

“That why they nail you up like that?” Rio questioned.

You shrugged, “I suppose, a mixture of that and fear.”

“People fear death,” she spoke.

You shook your head as you corrected her, “Mortals fear death. I know people who are thousands of years old, who run from ailments of morality. They are foolish, death cannot be outran. Though it may take longer for her to come, she will eventually get all of us.”

“You aren’t afraid to die?” Agatha questioned you.

“No, there’s no point. She’ll come for me when it’s my time, but until then what is there to fear besides a wasted life.”

Rio had a small smile on her face, “Quite the philosophy you’ve fostered. Just one question, if you feel that way, then why kill anyone in the first place?”

It was your turn to chuckle, “If someone was meant to live, they simply would. I’m not stealing life, simply gifting death to those who have decided that it is their time.”

“How do you know that they’ve decided?” Agatha counters.

“Well you see, many people are weary of vampires and they should be. They let their guard down, they get comfortable, they play with their food instead of finishing the job. Those actions have consequences and I like to deal with those consequences personally. So I suppose when they choose to wrong me, they’ve chosen to die.”

“And the villagers who did this to you?” Rio pondered aloud.

You eyed her cautiously, “Do you stand to stop me?”

Rio shook her head, “I keep a witch killer in my company, you think I’m above a rightfully earned massacre?”

“Well you spoke of solidarity amongst-”

“Think of it this way, we can do what we want amongst each other, as it is our business. The humans have no right, to do what we do.”

You nod, “I agree.”

“So, you’re going to destroy the village?” Agatha questioned.

“My goal is to drain every last one.”

After that first encounter you were drunk on the thought alone of Agatha and Rio. Finding out Rio's true identity only made you lust for her even more. You knew that both had bonded with each other in ways you hadn’t understood, but that didn't stop your feelings from developing.

It didn't take long for them to fold you into their relationship, at least partially. They weren’t always around, but when they were everything seemed to fall back into place.

However, you’d be lying if you said you hadn't been getting restless these last few years. It was feeling like you saw less of them, especially Agatha. It felt like a game of cat and mouse. Somehow you had ended up chasing after them.

Tonight you walk the streets bored, part of you looking for trouble. Rumblings of new age vampire hunters in the area had piqued your interest. So you’d have a chance to have some fun or at minimum find your next meal.

Your fingers play with the rings they had gifted you, centuries ago. In the past you could feel both of them signaling you through the jewelry. It was a faint buzz, something like a hum, through the ring. A feeling that you hadn’t felt in ages. You longed to feel it again, to feel them.

Alleyways didn’t scare you, hardly anything scared you these days. Yet as you take a step into this alley, you sense something immediately. You feel eyes on you, as you walk.

“Has anyone ever told you to be mindful of where you settle demon?”

You continue walking, the empty threat meant nothing to you.

“I know what you are, I can smell it on you,” the voice echoes against the walls.

Your ears twitch, and soon you’re holding a frail man against one of the concrete walls in the alley.

“If you know what I am, you should be more mindful of how you approach me,” your strength speaks for itself.

You don’t give him the pleasure of seeing your fangs or glowing red eyes.

“Ah, you’re one of the older ones. This will be quite fun,” he says gleefully.

“What are you-" the question dies on your lips as you feel a needle being jabbed into your neck.

Your hand instinctively shoots over the spot, and your growl in frustration. You drop the man against the wall, turning your attention to the person who stuck you from behind with the needle.

This man was much bigger than the other. He was about twice your size, but it did not matter. You bare your fangs, hissing at the muscular man.

“Why isn’t she dropping?” He yells, fear laced through his voice.

You take the moment to pounce on him. Your teeth wasting no time, sinking into his neck. The man convulses under you, but you’re stronger than him. Even when he grabs your neck you don’t relent.

“Impossible,” the frail man, whispers from his spot against the wall.

“Nice try, but-”

The sensation hits you like a truck. You feel your vision get blurry and your muscles weaken. You blink a few times trying to will yourself against the late acting sedative.

The frail man nods excessively as you begin to lose consciousness, “Slower than usual, but captured nonetheless.”

You’re jolted back into consciousness when you feel the stake being driven into your skin. You attempt to shoot out of whatever position you are in, but it only causes you a familiar pain. Unlike the first time you were nailed to something, this time it was straight up rather than ‘X’ formation. Your arms hung up straight above your head and your feet were slightly spread underneath.

One spike was used to pierce both of your hands in place while you had one for each foot. Your breathing only quickens even more upon noticing you are in a forest. This couldn’t be happening.

“Glad you could finally join us,” the frail man from earlier want alone this time. He had a group of people with him.

“Let me go, and I’ll consider sparing you one I'm free,” you say, yet no one moves.

“You hold no power here, demon,” the man walks around you. “I am doctor Helsing, you may be familiar with my ancestors.”

Your jaw twitches, “ Van Helsing.”

He chuckles, “What a smart creature you are?”

“What do you want from me?”

His chuckle turns into a boisterous laughter, “ You can't offer me anything that I don't have the ability to take.”

You glare at the people in front of you, eyes turning a vicious shade of red, “The last group of people that tried something like this, paid for their sins with their lives. I hope you’re prepared to do the same.”

“They did quite a number on you, I can tell by your markings. Their only mistake was letting such a beautiful thing like you go,” Helsing says, his hand sliding across the scar on your abdomen.

“They didn’t let me go. I got out.”

His eyes had a glint as he leaned in, “And then you killed them all, how sad.”

He stabs you in the scar. Carving harder and deeper than the previous person. You grunt, but try to steel yourself under the knife. Yet you squirm finding the sensation to be more unpleasant than you had recalled.

“Silver cuts a little different doesn’t it?” He says watching the cut pour blood.

“You’re going to regret this.”

He turns his attention to the people, “Empty threats mean nothing when a beast is tied up. Would anyone else like a turn?”

People in his crowd begin to circle around you. Some with weapons, others cracking their knuckles. You're being attacked from all sides. The pain makes you tear up, but you avoid crying.

Instead you left out a bitter laugh, “That’s all you’ve got. Come on if you're gong to torture me at least put some passion behind it.”

“Oh, we’re just getting started. I want to hear you beg for your life, I want to see you broken, beaten, defeated. I want you to ask for death and then I'll award it to you.”

You spit at Helsing, “I’m not scared of death.”

He wipes your spit off of his face, a scowl now present, “For centuries my family has been driving your species to extinction. The failures may eclipse the successes, but don't think that we were never successful. You will fall at the hands of Van Helsing, creature.”

He has a device in his hand, he shoves it into your mouth. It forces your mouth open and your fangs out. He stares at them in awe. You try to clamp your mouth shut or retract your fangs, but you are unable to. You start to panic.

“Just like a snake, de-fang the vampire and a lot of that fear is gone,” his smile is sadistic.

You feel your adrenaline sky rocket as you shake violently. Your eyes wide in terror. The wood stake ripping your skin, but the pain was nothing akin to the fright.

You don’t remember the last time you were truly this scared.

He laughs and some of the crowd laugh along with him, “Are you afraid now, demon?”

Tears fall from your eyes and he coos. You flinch at his hand touching your face. His fingers were rough and callused against the swollen skin. You move your head as if to attack him and he stumbles back.

He grabs your jaw roughly, “This is the power of man.”

“Looks like someone is having a party and forgot to invite us.”

You know that voice. It makes you close your eyes in relief. The panic you felt in the moment begins to dissipate.

Everyone looks to the sky following the sound of the voice. It’s there that they see Agatha and Rio floating in the sky. Most of the crowd has their mouths agape, not believing what they are seeing.

“Should we offer them mercy, Agatha? Maybe our invites got lost in the mail?”

“This matter does not concern you foul wenches, be gone,” Helsing says, his voice trembles a bit at the end.

It’s Agatha that cackles looking down at the man, “See that’s where your wrong because…”

Rio appears behind the man, her skeletal form on her face, “If it concerns her, then it concerns us.”

Her dagger lays on his neck and he looses his composure.

“Anyone want to be brave?” Agatha questions the crowd, who screams when she shoots her magic at a nearby tree exploding it.

“What happened? A second ago you were lining up to torture her, but now you’re scared,” Rio adds pressure to her dagger.

“Don’t get shy now, doctor. Nothing to say?” Agatha gets closer to him.

The group tries to scatter but she traps them in a circle full of fire. They’re forced to gather close to each other. Their screams make you smile.

Agatha pulls the device out of your mouth carefully. Her hand caresses your face gently. You lean into her touch.

“We have to stop meeting like this doll,” Agatha mumbles only for you to hear.

“We wouldn’t have to meet again if you stopped leaving,” you shoot back.

Agatha casts her gaze away from you and over to Helsing. She and Rio switch places. The Green Witch, uses her vines to pull the spikes out of your body. It’s a feeling that never gets easier to experience.

You land on your feet ignoring the burning sensation. With your back tall you walk over to Helsing. You crouch in front of him, despite your own agony.

You hold his eyes, “Funny, I recall you telling me I’d beg for death. Well now she’s here for me, just not in the way you expected is it?”

Rio wiggles her fingers at the doctor, “I loved dragging the souls of your family to eternal damnation, can’t wait to reunite you with them.”

“Humans are all the same, always playing with food that’s not yours,” you stand towering over the man.

“Hey I like to play with my food,” Agatha pouts.

You smile, “When you have power you can do what you want.”

You open your hand and Rio drops her dagger into your grasp. The crowd watches in panic behind the flames as you approach the man.

“However, I’ve never been one to play with my food,” in a swift motion you slit his throat.

The gasps and screams of his followers sounds like music to your ears. He gargles his own blood reaching for his neck.

“Your blood isn’t worth drinking,” you watch as he collapses. You turn to address the crowd, “None of you have worthy blood. Cowards, followers, miscreants, I hope it was worth it. The price is your life, now burn.”

Agatha waves her hand dismissively and the crowd of people are quickly evaporated. Ash and burnt grass the only remnants of the aggressors.

Upon their destruction you crumble to the floor. Your body screaming at you for the abuse you endured.

Rio starts with the wound on your stomach before healing the spiked points. Your body still aches when she’s finished, but it’s substantially less than before.

“Déjà vu isn’t it bunny?” Agatha opens the floor for conversation.

“Now isn’t the time Agatha,” Rio scolds the woman, who raises her hands in defense.

“I was just reminiscing, is that a crime?”

You stand, “Well, good seeing you. Same time… in the next few centuries or…”

“You’re hurt,” Rio argues.

“You healed me enough,” you shrug.

Agatha rolls her eyes, “What’s with the attitude princess?”

You place a hand on your hip, “When was the last time we saw each other, Agatha? Rio, you only come when I leave bodies in my wake. So sorry if I’m not thrilled it takes me being captured and tortured to get some time together.”

“It’s always been this way,” Agatha argues back.

Your voice takes on an uncharacteristically soft tone, “I know and I’m tired. I don’t want whatever this is. I need something more, something tangible. It’s fine if you don't want to give that to me, but I can't keep waiting.”

You try to keep calm as you pull the rings off of your fingers, hand out stretched to give them back to their original owners.

“Y/n…”

“Take them… please. Free me, from whatever this is. I’m grateful that you saved me on our first day and maybe the same thing happening again is fate telling me that this is our last day,” you get the courage to look at them with teary eyes.

“You don't even believe in fate,” Agatha tries to reason with you.

“How would you know, you haven't been around. Things change, people change,” you tell her.

Agatha looks to Rio for help, but The Green Witch, just keeps her eyes on you.

“That’s bullshit! If change is so real, how’d we end up right back where we started hmm? Poor little hung up bat, in need of saving and here we are like always,” Agatha’s theatrics peak through her words.

“Like always?” You repeat, in disbelief.

“Look sweetheart, I know that-"

You ball your fists at your side, “What could you possibly know Agatha? Tell me, I’m interested in hearing. Did you know I spend all my time waiting for either of you to tell me if you want me or not? I don’t sleep, I just think and think and think about finding a way to end it all without having to see either of you. Hard to kill yourself with Death keeping tabs on you, even without a heartbeat. I knew this guy was tracking me, I knew what he wanted to do, and I said fuck it. I don’t care, what’s there to live for anyway?”

“You can't be serious?” Rio doesn’t want to believe what you’re saying.

“Of course I’m serious, part of me thought that after all these years humans would be over torture, but that was foolish of me. Why would I think that you'd come to save me? I still don’t understand why you did.”

“Because we love you, you fucking idiot!” Agatha shouts at you.

You scoff, “Do you really? I couldn’t tell by the hundreds of years apart.”

“We were protecting you,” Agatha gets in your space.

“What could have possibly been protecting me? Oh no, a loving and caring environment? How ever could I have managed such domestic delights and pleasures,” your voice drips sarcasm.

“You do realize that Rio is Death, right? Her job is literally to reap souls, you aren’t the only one that doesn’t get to see her often. And me… I’m all trouble, doll. There’s not a pleasant bone in my body.”

You roll your eyes and cross your arms over your chest, “Did you forget who I am? Have you had a head trauma recently, or maybe you need a refresher? I’m not the greatest either, cupcake. I just slit a man’s throat and had his followers executed.”

“By me,” Agatha points out.

“Ok and you want credit for the villages I killed too? The vampires I murdered? The people I lied to? The whores I fucked? I’m not some sweet innocent thing you picked up off of the side of the road. My ledger has had blood on it since before you killed your original coven.”

Your eyes are red as they stare into her blue ones.

“We were scared,” Rio interrupts the rising tensions between you and Agatha.

“Scared of what?” You glance at her.

“Of committing to you. Hell, Agatha and I can’t even fully commit to each other. This game of cat and mouse, it’s all we know. You’re right, you deserve more, so much more, but we don’t know how to give it. We don’t know what a domestic life looks like, we aren’t domestic people. I didn't think there would be any doubt in your head that we loved you, and maybe that just shows how fucked up we really are,” Rio monologues.

Her words hit you harshly. They make you want to start crying all over again. You cast your gaze to the floor.

“I guess that brings us back to the original point then, doesn’t it? Maybe it’s better if we just, end it here,” you can’t look at them.

“If that’s what you want?” Rio nods solemnly.

Agatha looks between the two of you, “Are you two stupid or something? You have to be if you think I’m just going to agree to this.”

“Agatha-”

“Don’t. I love you, both of you. I don’t want this to end and if that means changing the way things operate, then I guess things just have to change,” Agatha speaks seriously.

“What are yo-”

You startle when Agatha grabs your hands in both of hers. Her eyes locking fiercely onto yours. She doesn’t blink as she speaks, “Move in with me.”

“What?”

“You want time together, we can have time together. We’ve basically been together for centuries, come live with me.”

“Agatha, I think you've lost the plot,” Rio says, cautiously.

“You too Dr. Green Thumb. Let’s all move in together,” Agatha nods her head.

“That doesn’t fix everything,” you focus on her hands over yours.

She doesn’t hesitate to raise her hands to cup your face, “There’s obviously a lot to fix, but you can’t tell me this isn’t a step in the right direction. Y/n, I don’t want to- I can’t lose you. I’m not willing to let you go without a fight.”

Your face heats in her hands. Her eyes are ablaze with passion as they keep contact with yours.

You sigh and rest your forehead against hers, “I don’t know Agatha.”

Rio joins the moment, carefully wrapping her arms around your torso, “I don’t think any of us really know, but I think we’re supposed to find out together.”

“Please,” Agatha’s breath hits your lips. “Just a chance to make up for lost time. If it doesn’t work, then it doesn’t, but please don’t give up on us yet.”

Hearing Agatha beg like this tugs at your heart. You don’t want to give in this easily, but you’ve already wasted so much time.

“Ok.”

As the word falls from your lips, Agatha surges forward. You can recall the last time her lips were on yours. The warmth that they were able to send through your body. How firm she was in her kiss, not scared or uncertain as your lips moved together. She knew what she wanted and it was hard to picture a world in which she’d kiss someone she wasn’t interested in the way she was kissing you. You were the one she wanted.

Your legs grow weak, but Rio holds you steady. Her shifting grip, makes you turn to face her. Unlike Agatha she hesitates. She takes a moment to admire your features, she wasn’t in a rush. Neither were you. Rio’s kiss is softer than Agatha’s, her plush lips, move experimentally against yours. It’s not like she’s forgotten, more like she’s re-exploring. She's playful, as her teeth nibble on your bottom lip. You laugh at the sensation.

Rio rests her head on your shoulder. She extends her hands, motioning for the other witch to get closer. Agatha wraps her arms around the both of you. Her front to your back while her hands rest on Rio’s back. You’re encased by them, a feeling that is welcomed yet foreign to you.

“Promise that you'll keep me close” you say to both of them.

“Until the road ends, my love,” Agatha kisses the top of your head.

“I’ll hold you even after the road ends,” Rio kisses the base of your neck.

“Do you always have to one up me?” Agatha says to Rio.

Rio chuckles, “Sounds like a skill issue sweetheart.”

“Oh, we’ll see who has a skill issue later, when you’re begging me for help because my fingers are longer than yours,” Agatha says smugly.

Rio pulls back from you to glare at Agatha, “If you don’t want to ‘help’ me, I’ll just ask Y/n. Isn’t that right sweetheart?”

You blush at the innuendo.

“Nuh uh, bunny. I think I recall you liking my treats better, because someone has a skill issue,” Agatha sticks her tongue at Rio.

You turn an even deeper shade of red.

“You can never let an emotional moment be,” Rio says.

“Well you’re always trying to out ‘emotional’ me,” Agatha replies.

“It’s not my fault you’re not as smooth as me, mi vida,” Rio counters again.

Agatha throws her hands up, “I know Spanish and Latin too, you’re not special Vidal.”

Rio raises an eyebrow, “And who taught you?”

The back and forth makes you laugh, “Are you sure you don’t do domestic, because you bicker like an old married couple?”

They both huff at your statement.

“We’ll continue this at home,” Agatha points at Rio.

The brown eyed woman puts her hand over her heart in faux-fear, “Oooo, I’m terrified.”

Agatha opens a portal to her house and both women step through. Not stopping their bickering for a second. You smile as you watch them, feeling hopeful for the first time in a long time.

“The portal isn’t going to stay open forever, bunny, come on,” Agatha reaches her hand to pull you through.

You take it, stepping into your new beginning.

[impishjesters]

Pomni, Kinger, Caine & Jax's reaction to their s/o abstracting

warning(s): angst, hurt no comfort, self-blame, "death" of the reader, implied "death"/abstraction of another character (spoiler: Kinger), hopeful outcome note(s): There's nothing incredibly heavy or detailed, just tread carefully if "death" is something you are sensitive to, please. The "hopeful outcome" implies that Caine will at some point in time be able to fix those who've abstracted. A/N: I was feeling particularly cruel and wanted to write some angst, this came to mind and I'll be honest. I made myself a little sad.

Pomni

She never saw it coming, of course, you were acting different lately but she didn’t think it would… lead to you abstracting…

It took forever for things to get some semblance of normalcy, and you being with her was a major part of it.

Sure the relationship in a place like this was a bit, weird, but you cared about her, and she cared about you.

You kept her sane and grounded, so when you were found abstracted? It felt like she failed you.

Ragatha tries to assure her that you aren’t completely gone. Like Kaufmo you’re being kept in the cellar. Caine claims the abstracted are being kept there until he can find a way to “fix” them. (Whether he’s genuine or not though, none of them know.)

It’s all empty promises though, she still feels like she failed you.

Kinger

Not again…

Kinger silently promised himself not again, he was fine being friendly with everyone else that fell into the circus, but he had no intentions of being more than that.

But then you happened, and while he was still in shambles from the time and the insanity spent here, you were there beside him. Like a knight in shining armor.

He hadn’t been around when you abstracted, in fact, he didn’t know you abstracted until there was yelling, and boom an abstraction was causing chaos.

Kinger didn’t know who it was until it was sent off to the cellar, actually, he didn’t know who it was until he realized everyone was present except you.

There’s a high probability that losing someone again, losing you, is what ends up being his own downfall. The other’s (not including Jax) try their all to get him to calm down but it’s not enough, it’s too late…

Caine

Of all the humans to be pulled in he never once got attached.

This was never supposed to happen, he’s incapable of love.

Caine does his best to keep the humans from abstracting, and as many eyes as he has over the place, there are always ones that slip through his grasp.

Of course, he’s not around when you abstract, it takes a bunch of hooting and hollering from everyone before he shows up and oh hey an abstraction.

At an immediate glance, he knows it’s you, abstractions never remotely look like the person they were before but he knows it’s you. You don’t recognize him as you lash out, of course you don’t, you can’t.

He’s unsure about tossing you with the others in the cellar, there’s nowhere else he can truthfully keep you without causing problems. So into the cellar, you go.

Caine visits you though, not for long but he does check in on you. Not that anything changes, but out of all the abstractions down there, he knows exactly which one is you.

You’ll be the first human he fixes as soon as he’s able to.

Jax

His s/o abstracted? Nice joke, though it’s in poor taste. You’re completely fine, he just saw you earlier.

Jax doesn’t believe it until he sees it, and seeing it absolutely ruins him. He’s seen countless others get abstracted and thrown into the cellar, but why, why does it have to be you?

Why couldn’t it have been literally anyone else? He didn’t give a shit about anyone else, the one person he cared for, and you…

Similarly to Pomni, he feels it’s his fault like he could’ve, no should’ve done more. Was he so wrapped up in everything else that he didn’t notice the signs? Why didn’t you talk to him? You didn’t, didn’t do that on purpose, did you?

For the first time ever, the others are genuinely worried about Jax, they all saw/know how much you meant to him. The two of you even spoke fondly about what the two of you would do if you got out of the circus.

For a while Jax becomes even more irrational and unhinged, they try not to hold it against him too badly, even when he oversteps. He’s grieving and none of them know just how long that’ll go on.

Jax isn’t quite the same afterward, but he makes sure that nobody else tries to worm their way into his heart.

If it’s possible, he’ll make sure Caine fixes you the second he’s able to. Even if Caine can fix only one person, it’s going to be you.

[the-immortal-restless]

A Millennium of Changes

(BETA READ BY @pumpkin-pepperz :) thanks pookie)

Summary: Everyone thought that the new baby Monkey would age like a mortal, after all, they were in the mortal realm and the baby was made in that realm… why would it age differently?

No one expected it to take so long

TLDR:The egg takes 35 celestial months to hatch, which roughly equates to 1,050 years in the mortal realm.

Takes place just after this chapter!

Warning:Heavy Angst(There is also heavy comfort to help don’t worry), Many Major Character Deaths, Transmasculine individual (MK) getting pregnant and giving birth(though it’s not a significant plot point).

This work was written by someone who did not grow up in Chinese culture, and while there are little references to the culture I still want to acknowledge that I am not the most educated on the practices and traditions of said culture.

Notes before the fic(skippable. Skip to *’s): This was based on an idea I had while sick where the egg takes 35 celestial months to grow. And one celestial day is one mortal year. Which I will guide you through the math now.

35 months x approximately 30 days per month = 1,050 days. Converting to Mortal Time is 1,050 years or 12,600 months. They have already completed 9 months in the comic at the time of writing this (may fifth) so that’s 12,591 months or 1,049.25 years. Which is a long time. In the comic it is established that MK is immortal and we already know that Redson is a half celestial, half demon, so of the main group them two are the only one likely to be alive after that long.

Tang is Papa and Pigsy is Dad.

**************************************

”You’ll see- Next time I call you, You’ll finally meet your new sibling… I Promise.”

Those were the last words he heard before his dads went into a deep meditation. It was essentially a magical coma.

MK was worried for his dad, he looked so tired, and his Mama had already passed out. He worried they wouldn’t wake up, but his Baba assured him they would.

MK went home with his Dad and his Papa. His Papa took him for a much needed haircut in the morning, he practically had a mane by now and he wasn’t to keen on having long hair.

MK focused on other relationships. His Dad’s shop was still busy, rightfully so, it was the best noodle shop in town. He still liked listening to his Papa’s wisdom and learning from the scholar. He had therapy with Sandy and his clowder of many cats. He trained with Mei and Redson, outside of hanging out and little dates.

Of course he visited his Baba and Mama every weekend, made sure all the things they had prepared for the baby stayed well taken care of. They’d need it when that baby finally hatched.

But MK started to worry as more and more weeks passed without so much as a sign the baby would hatch.

Eventually the first year passed. His Papa told him that maybe the baby was going to take the full 35 months. That thought both soothed and worried him, almost three years? That’s a long time.

He was worried some new villain would come back, and he wouldn’t have his mentor to help.

He talked to Sandy and he was able to slowly come to terms with that. Telling himself that the baby would be okay and he had a huge support system to help incase something did happen.

He’d focused on living instead of worried. Focus on what can be now, instead of what could’ve been.

He invested his time in growing, learning, becoming someone to be a hero and becoming better and better.

He cooked with Pigsy, the noodle shop had been there since before he was born. He loved cooking with his Dad and he always wanted to continue it. His Dad liked to impart wisdom onto him much like his Papa, (he was beginning to see why they were married) whether it be about trusting his senses over a recipe or some cooking metaphor for life. Things like: “Things are the best when you wait for the perfect time.”

He read more with his Papa, talking about myths and stories. The two of them even ventured outside Chinese Mythos and looked into all kinds of myths and legends. He enjoyed learning and taking in wisdom. Though their time together wasn’t restricted by myths. He also learned things from his Papa about human nature and philosophy. He learned that even though sleep was a vital part of mortal life, it’s still important for Celestial and Immortals because outside of the physical body, the mind benefited greatly from sleep. Sleep allows the mind a break to reset for the next day, to sort all the things you learn into their places and make sure you remember everything.

That’s when he started taking his sleep more seriously. If he was going to be immortal he needed to keep his mind healthy.

He took care of animals with Sandy and went hiking and camping with him, learning about nature and meditation. Sandy also likes to impart wisdom onto him (He was beginning to notice a pattern) about nature and how to learn to value to little beauties in everything.

He played video games with Mei, they always had fun. They also trained both with and without Redson. Though they all trained with and without each other. He focused on spending as much time doing their favorite things: watching movies, shows, playing games. They went to concerts and even tried plays.

He went on dates with Redson. They did picnics occasionally, but they also began cooking together. MK watched him work in the workshop. He and Mei introduced him to shows they thought he’d like. Much to everyone’s surprise and unsurprisingly he took a liking to cooking shows like DBK did.

He even connected with Nezha more, they were both princes and despite Nezha being a bit of a rule-follower, he liked MK’s defiance and rowdy attitude.

It was hard but he managed to live without being consumed by his worry. There were days where he was a bit bed bound with worry and sadness, but his family came and helped him. They all loved MK and MK loved them.

The trouble came when the third year passed. Why weren’t they awake? Why was the egg still unhatched? Why were his parents still so tired looking?

After days of frantic research with the help of MK, Nezha and other people, his Papa found something.

Apparently, sometimes celestial gestation progresses at the rate of the Celestial Realm even if they are in the Mortal Realm. A factor they didn’t know to consider. This information hit everyone like 67 consecutive trains.

The egg would take centuries to hatch… MK would face his immortality without his immortal parents. He would grieve almost everyone around him without his parents. He was��� alone.

They couldn’t even undo the spell, because awake or not the baby needed Wukong and Macaque’s power to grow. Not to mention that undoing a spell like this could be dangerous, it would undo on its own when the baby was hatched and the two Celestial Monkeys were healthy. Them being asleep was safer and easier. It was hard but they couldn’t undo the spell that sealed them away

MK cried that day, that week, that month. He was scared, he was terrified. How was he going to survive over a thousand years without his parents?

But he knew mourning was only going to eat at the time. He had more therapy with Sandy. It would take an incredibly long time, but he needed it.

He focused even more on his family. He wanted his to see his life and he wanted to squeeze everything he had into time with them. MK grew closer and closer to his family. He knew by the time his Baba and Mama woke up, the time he spent with his Dad, Papa, Sandy and Mei would be a grain of sand in an an hourglass, but he didn’t care. It was his family.

It felt like centuries already when 7 years passed since they found out, and 10 since his Mama and Baba went to sleep. He hoped that was a good sign. His Dads noodle shop only grew bigger and they made more money. MK even offered to move out to make room for having more guests. MK was basically 34 years old and still living with them but they denied the notion. They said he’d have years to lived outside their house, they wanted him there.

MK didn’t argue.

He and Redson took it slow, but in mortal terms, which might’ve been fast for Demons but Redson nor his family said anything about it. After the first five years of their relationship, they spent a spent together, they both were new to it but it was a night they both enjoyed and never regretted.

After 15 years, they got married. MK knew it might’ve been a little fast. After all his Mama and Baba were engaged for… what 2,000 years before they married? But MK wanted his Dad and Papa to see him get married and Redson agreed that was a good idea. He didn’t mention that his mother had been pestering him for over a decade about getting married and having children with MK.

His Dad and Redson had already spent time together, they were close. But they only got closer when they started cooking together. Now they’d have family cooking nights where MK, Redson, and Pigsy, would cook a big meal and they’d all eat as family. More often than they’d expected, Redson’s family would also come, and DBK would join in cooking.

Those nights were MK’s favorite, his entire family was together.

Somehow in all his packed time with family, he still visited his Mama and Baba at the mountain, while he knew they likely wouldn’t wake up for another ten centuries. He still wanted to visit, talk to them even if they probably couldn’t hear him.

As his family got older, he valued the time more and more. He planned to take over the Noodle Shop. Not out of some obligation or anything. His Dad and Papa had made sure he knew that they wouldn’t be upset if he chose to do something else. He wanted to take on the business. It was his entire life, his first meal, his home. He wanted to live there forever.

MK took care of his parents when they got older. He wanted to, they took him in as a kid and they had a pretty substantial amount of saving to help with these delicate years. Pigsy, despite always talking about having a ‘Noodle Empire’, never bothered to expand. He was content with one shop, one building, one family.

MK hired more trained professionals, of course, to help him as the years passed. He wasn’t a nurse and elderly people had a lot of health concerns that he wasn’t trained to be able to accommodate. But he still did most of it, he learned to do it.

Mei got older too, she got a job as a professional racer. She was happy and MK made sure she practiced safe driving. He wasn’t about to let his best friend die in a fiery crash. That would be cringe of her.

Sandy got older too, and as his own years passed he began to coach MK through that, how to handle grief and understand death without fearing it. How it was natural and how it wasn’t the end. It was only a bridge to new beginnings. Sandy taught MK that life wasn’t about avoiding death, it was about enjoying the time we have. About forming connections and understanding each other. Death was inevitable, yes, but life was also inevitable.

Almost every single creature on earth would make at least one meaningful connection. It was simple math. We are born from someone and that very person is often our first relationship, and earth isn’t even close to being underpopulated. To live a life on earth and not make one single connection was a statistical wonder. It would take effort. Humans especially were inherently social creatures, they hunted in groups in the beginning of the species and now they lived in cities and villages with thriving cultures and family. The purpose of life, Sandy told him, was to give life a purpose.

MK buried Tang first, he was fully human and even though he was younger than Pigsy, demons just simply had a longer lifespan. It was peaceful, without pain or sadness. MK brought Pigsy to the grave to visit everyday, he replace the flowers at the first sign of wilt, lit incense and talked with Pigsy to Tang. It was comforting that they had more confirmation than other mortals often did that there was an afterlife.

MK mourned, Pigsy mourned, everyone mourned. Tang was a good man, he had a heart that was bigger than himself and an intellect to match. He always sought to understand the people around him and see the best in others.

Pigsy didn’t live much long after, he was older than Tang and the two of them were just barely older than Sandy. MK made sure they were buried together. Even if they weren’t alive in those bodies, they had stuck together longer than MK had been alive at that point and he wanted them to stay together long after they departed.

Sandy helped him grieve, though it was made significantly easier with the therapy before the deaths. It was more practice than anything.

MK continued to make human connections. He didn’t let his immortality swallow him. He learned that life was precious and even Redson began to grow friendly with a handful of mortals.

True to his word, MK took over the noodle shop with Redson. It was a family business and Redson had been apart of the family longer than they had been married.

Mei stayed close, she was a well known racer and she was a near expert at it, but she wanted to live in Megapolis. Her family was there, biologically and emotionally. She spent a lot of time with MK and Redson, the three of them were inseparable and even if she couldn’t cook she still had much to offer. She had humor and company and family.

Sandy encouraged MK to continue therapy after his passing, the kid was very stable and had a good support system, but therapy was always a good decision. It helps and it’s better to keep it up, rather than to wait for a catalyst and need more extensive help. Waiting until some breaking point would only make issues worse and take longer to deal with. It’s always a better decision to refine something than wait till it breaks to repair it.

MK mourned when he buried Sandy, of course he did. Sandy was an important figure in his life, he helped him through so much. But he also knew how to continue with himself. Sandy had taught him well.

Redson and Mk took a long time to have kids, not because they couldn’t but because MK had a small fear that he would get stuck in a thousand year rest like his family. But with patience and a heap of therapy, they decided to have one. MK was a little sad his parents couldn’t meet their grandchild but MK knew his parents would rather him be happy than to rush his life just to have them see it.

MK decided on his own that he wanted to carry the child. He didn’t want to follow the egg route, he wanted children but he didn’t want to miss out on a millennia just to have baby. Not that his parents were less for choosing to do that. He knew they wouldn’t have done this on purpose.

So they began to try for a baby, much to Mei’s teasing. It didn’t take long for them to conceive and 9 months later they brought the cutest little boy into the world. Redson and MK ended up naming him a classic name for triumph or victory, Kai. When the baby finally opened his eyes, they were like a mirror image of Redson’s, deep red like dark fire, like the fire he created.

There was some worry among them that Kai would end up creating a second Samadhi Fire like Redson. So they made him a necklace with a pendant carving with a bull and a monkey surrounded by fire. One the back was written three things.

小宝宝(xiǎo bǎobǎo), meaning "little baby."

火焰猴 (huǒyàn hòu), meaning “flaming monkey.”

凯旋 (kǎixuán), meaning “triumph.”

When Kai was born they had a baby shower soon after, it was nice. Life was good for them. They felt at peace, life was going.

MK was still taking care of Flower fruit Mountain, after all, their king was incapacitated, which kinda made him acting leader, then again they were monkeys and they managed to be alright before, but he liked to visit and keep the place nice and clean.

Kai got older, and while he had intense fire power, he hadn’t created a second reality burning fire yet. So they were a bit calmer about the matter. Mei loved the little guy. He was irresistibly cute.

Kai aged slower too, his infancy last almost 5 years. He was a toddler for 10 years. It only grew slower but never old. Before long he was a kid, looking about 8 or 9.

Mei got a bit more time than the rest, she aged slow because of her dragon heritage but she was far from fully draconic. So time did what it does, and Mei passed away. MK and Redson mourned her, that part would never be in question, they buried her with honor, just like the rest. Kai missed her, she was his auntie, Mei took him on motorcycle rides and he watched the old Monkey King movies with her.

Kai was raised knowing the history of his grandparents, he visited Flower Fruit Mountain with his parents and for the first few years of visits he would play with the other cubs and monkeys, eating fruit and roughhousing.

After the first few years, Kai began to stay by his parents, ever curious about what they talked about with two men who probably couldn’t hear them.

After a while he came to realize they talked because they cared. Because even if there was a slight chance that they could hear them, then it was worth it. That’s why he started doing it more, he talked to Mei when they visited her grave and even his other grandparents as well as Sandy. He didn’t meet them, but he wanted them to know him.

Before they knew it, 100 years had passed since Wukong and Macaque went under. Kai was a tween and he was making friends. Both immortal and human. MK and Redson taught him at home, that how both of them knew it and they both turned out okay.

MK and Redson had made friends as well that had also died but they had other families to bury them, he still visited, he cared for them no less. That’s how it continued.

Megapolis grew around them, not big, the city was already pretty good, but trees get bigger and buildings change, even just slightly. They all fell into a bit of a routine, a pleasant one that always seemed to find new ways to keep them from boring to death.

Pigsy’s Noodles continued to remain one of the best restaurants in the city and it stayed a staple of Megapolis. It brought in amazing business and good money.

Demons were becoming more and more integrated into daily life, MK and Redson obviously participated heavily in that, earning a reputation for their acceptance, though to them it was basic decency.

Demons were beginning to become more and more accepting as generations progressed and less of them were driven to crime because of it. They were getting help and proper healthcare instead of being shunned to the corners of society’s shadows. MK found himself acting in a hero role less and less, which he found himself proud of. It meant he did a good job.

By the 9th century, demons were everywhere, they were apart of the culture and everyone grew better because of it. More and more of Megapolis became accessible to everyone, literature became richer and fuller, education and intelligence rates of the schools and districts surrounding them began to rise.

Megapolis was quickly becoming a growing community of vibrant individuals and friends. MK found comfort in the fact that Sandy, his Dad and Papa, would be proud of the world that this was becoming.

MK hadn’t even realized how long it had been since his parents fell asleep growing the egg.

Before long, Kai was an elder teenager, nearly a thousand years old.

MK, Redson and Kai were at the mountain, Red had gone to tidy up the house and make sure everything was ready, even if they thought they weren’t even close to when MK’s parents would wake up. It was still routine. MK was training with Kai, something they had started a hundred odd years ago.

That’s when a bright light came from the mountaintop where Macaque, Wukong and the egg were. MK halted in his step and Kai nearly tackled him before he realized.

Wukong woke with a start, the spell had fallen around them moment ago and Macaque woke up at the same time as him. They both look toward to egg, only to see a little monkey cub in its place.

Their Baby

Wukong and Macaque cried with joy and they both gathered the cub into their arms.

That was until they notice how big the tree near them had gotten, and the vines growing in the rocks, evidence of more age than they expected.

How long had they been out?

That’s when they heard it. A voice, not their sons. Not MK’s but one that called for his Dad.

The boy called for his Papa, urging him to wait for his Dad. He sounded worried but Wukong didn’t care for details. If there was an intruder he needed to protect his cub. He pulled his staff out of his ear. And held it ready.

With a clang, the staff dropped when he saw his own son, his adult son standing there instead of the younger man they remembered him being. Both of their heart sank, tears welled up in their eyes as they realized.

How long has it been, they wanted to ask. But their son, a millennium older and wiser, answered before they could.

One thousand fifty years, he said. The two men were horrified at that answer. They’d been asleep that long? That was a terrifying notion.

Their world only grew harder to believe when a teenager in a red shirt, soon followed by Redson, appeared up the mountain. Redson was shocked and came to MK’s side. Wukong covered his mouth for a moment, slowly connecting the dots that the teenager was his grandson.

Macaque looked worried that their son would hate them for this, that fear melted when MK ran to them and hugged them tightly, careful not to hurt the baby.

Macaque and Wukong hugged their son back and Redson guided his son toward the cuddle pile.

MK rambled about the past millennia to his waking parents for a while before explaining that they had gotten married and had a son. MK looked toward Kai, motioning for him to introduce himself.

“Hello… I’m Kai, I’m your grandson.”

THE END(?)

Tags: @kyri45 (the creator of the comic that inspired this!) @ainnur @iglowinggemma28 @autism-autobot

[7s3ven]

YOU’RE ON YOUR OWN, KID. platonic! task force 141

( short one shot that I randomly came up with after seeing a tiktok )

full masterlist

IN WHICH… night after night, you seek the comfort of your teammates until they can no longer offer you any.

“You’re on your own, kid. You always have been.”

Notes: character death, a little angst, no happy ending (sorry guys 😞), reader suffers from trauma, platonic! tf 141 x reader, reader has sleeping problems, not following the canon plot

—

You never slept well. No matter how soft your mattress was or how heavily your blankets weighed down on you, you just couldn’t drift off. The temperature in your room was perfect, the silence was comforting, your body was exhausted and yet your mind refused to turn off. It replayed the bloody moments you tried so hard to tune out, haunting you until you forced the thoughts away.

With slow movements, you begrudgingly shifted out of bed, soft pillow in hand. Your footsteps were quiet as you dragged yourself towards the small living room in the apartment you shared with your team.

The tiny room was lit up by only a dim lamp as you paused in the doorway, staring at your captain. He sat on the edge of the couch, reading a page of newspaper. Gaz and Soap were at each other’s sides, squished by Ghost who took up the majority of the space.

Captain John Price beckoned you forward. “Couldn’t sleep?” He whispered, careful not to disturb the rest of his soldiers. You took your head before wedging yourself between Ghost and Soap, forcing the masked soldier to move to offer you space. The large blanket your teammates were sharing engulfed you as you clumsily threw it over your body.

Ghost grunted, half awake as he shifted to the side. His heavy body fell onto you, resting his head on your shoulder. You leaned into his embrace. You heard the quiet click of the lamp being turned off, engulfing the room is darkness.

From your position squeezed between Ghost and Soap, you felt safe. Your eyes fluttered closed as you took a deep breath, the strong smell of Gaz’s cologne overwhelming your senses. And yet, it soothed you more than the lavender perfume you sprayed in your room.

Your lips curved into a small smile as your racing heart calmed down. Stuck in Soap’s tight grip, listening to Price’s quiet snores, hearing Gaz’s soft sleep mumbling, and feeling Ghost’s slow breaths on your neck, it felt like home.

Returning to the apartment without the rest of your team felt strange. You opened the door, staring at the interior. Your gaze trailed over the obnoxiously bright table cloth Soap had chosen and the large beer glasses left on the kitchen counter by Price.

You slowly blinked before shutting the door behind you. You half-heartedly expected Ghost to appear out of nowhere and offer you a short greeting like he always did. He did not.

Your team was dead. You were the lonesome survivor of the attack.

Your bag fell to the floor with a loud thud and you weren’t bothered to pick it back up. Your arms were not strong enough to withstand the weight anymore.

As if it was second nature, you trailed over to the liquor cabinet. You didn’t drink much so the cupboard was usually filled with Price’s beers and an occasional bottle of vodka provided by Soap. You grabbed the vodka, disliking the bitter taste of beer.

You didn’t bother to pour the alcohol into a cup; you simply popped the bottle open and gulped mouthfuls of it down. “Sorry, Johnny.” You muttered to yourself as you slumped in a seat, knowing how your teammate hated it when people stole his stuff.

The thoughts of your friends didn’t bother you as much during the day, where you could overwhelm yourself with unpacking and work. But when night hit, you felt yourself drowning in emotions.

You weren’t usually an emotional person, having been through the rigorous army training. Soldiers died everyday and you moved on like it was nothing, leaving a small gap in your mind to grieve for them. But this was different. This was your team, your family.

This was about Price who always assisted you when you needed something, who fixed your broken window when Soap accidentally hit it with a rugby ball. Who acted like an overprotective dad when you brought back a boy.

Soap who brought you snacks without the need to ask while you occupied yourself with paperwork, who somehow taped every concert of your favourite artist and showed you it with a bright smile.

Ghost who knew exactly how you liked your tea and bought you new cups to drink out of when your favourite wore down. Who secretly hated horror movies yet watched each and every one with you.

And Gaz who always returned with a new product to ease you into a more peaceful slumber and who didn’t mind staying up to comfort you from your late night terrors.

They were your closest friends and you missed them terribly to the point where your chest ached. You always hated when Soap raided the snack stash in your room but you’d do anything now to yell at him again.

You collapsed in your bed, exhausted and your body painfully throbbing. You closed your eyes in hopes of drifting off but your attempts were fruitless. You needed your teammates. You needed to sit on that damn couch in the living room with a blanket pulled up to your chin.

The hallway was pitch black as you walked into the lounge, peering through the darkness. It felt odd not to see Price reading his newspaper; your heart clenched at the short reminder that you would never see him again.

You tried to pretend the colorful pillows were your friends as you lay on the couch, that the smell of Gaz’s cologne wafting from one of the pillows was Gaz himself.

It tricked your mind into thinking they were beside you and you fell into an empty slumber.

As the last remaining member of Task Force 141, Laswell originally wanted to add new recruits with you as their leader. You would have gladly taken up the position if it weren’t for your circumstances. Replacing your former teammates would have pained you beyond repair.

As a result, Laswell moved you to a new squad and as thankful as you were when they understood your hesitation, you still refused when they offered you a place in their apartment.

You needed the couch that sat in the living room, collecting dust, in order to fall asleep. You needed Gaz’s cologne, Price’s strange collection of newspaper, Ghost’s spare masks, and Soap’s stupid rugs to calm your horrible thoughts.

You needed the apartment to stay the same, like your teammates had never left, to ignore the images of their bloodied faces engraved in your head.

“L/N, have you completed the paper work?” Your captain asked as he paused by your desk. It felt odd to look up and not be greeted with a beard.

“Yes, sir. Here it is.” You handed him the file with a tight-lipped smile.

“As efficient as ever, L/N.” He complimented you.

“Thank you, sir.” You nodded your head in appreciation.

“How are you doing with your…” He trailed off, not knowing how to word his question in a way that didn’t sound rude.

He meant your trauma, your nightmares, your grieving pain.

“I’m fine.” You say a little too quickly for him to believe you. Nevertheless, he doesn’t question the crack in your voice or the way your eyes dart around. He simply tilts his head.

“Take a break, L/N. I’ll deal with your paperwork for a day.” He places a business card on your desk, tapping on it. “If you need additional support, don’t hesitate to ask.”

You glanced down at the card as your captain exited your office. Your cheeks heated up in embarrassment as you realised he had given you a therapist’s card. Was your grief you had been trying to strategically hide that obvious? Well, at least he cared enough to offer you help.

Your short run to the grocery store was lonely to say the least. You dropped the bags the moment you walked into the apartment, staring at the cold kitchen and living room.

The tea bags that you hated but Ghost loved fell to the ground, scattering over the tiled floor. You promised yourself you would unpack the groceries later but as the sun set and the sky darkened, the plastic bags still sat by the door. It was usually Gaz’s job to deal with the groceries.

You knew any attempt to sleep in your own bed would be useless so you gathered your blankets and pillows without any thought, pacing towards the living room.

You let out a loud scream when you came face to face with Ghost.

“Aye, what yer yelling ‘bout, Bonnie? It’s just us.” Soap uttered. You peeked around Ghost, spotting Gaz and Price already on the couch.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Price asked.

You knew this was only your mind feeding you delusions, messing with you, but you were too tired to care. All you needed was them and if it took talking to your imagination, you’d take it.

[onceinablueberrymoon]

one final game: nocturne no. 2 | husband!salesman x mom!reader

scenario: it’s time. gi-hun and the salesman play russian roulette. unbeknownst to them, you’re listening in. setting: during season 2, episode 1; directly after stick to the plan (please read this first!) warnings: character death; major deception/betrayal; mentions of pregnancy; sex is heavily implied, but nothing graphic; major fluff; fem!reader; second person POV; if you like gi-hun, i’m sorry; spoilers for season 2, episode 1! word count: 2.7k  notes: the end is finally here! thank you for all the love you’ve given this series. both this ending and swan lake start the same way and diverge at around halfway through the russian roulette scene. i would love to know what you thought of this ending! please enjoy! this is one of two endings to the intentionally by chance series. you can find the other here: swan lake. borders by @enchanthings-a!

Thump. Thump thump.

Your heart was racing.

Soon after your husband left the room, you tried to distract yourself by caring for your son. Thankfully, he was calm, his eyes heavy with sleep as you rocked him in your arms. Even though he was resting against your chest, he didn’t seem to notice your pounding heartbeat, which you were grateful for. The last thing you needed was a crying baby.

Your thoughts wandered to Gi-hun, who didn’t know what he was about to walk into. 

Or maybe he did, you wondered. 

While unlikely, it was possible that he figured out that the salesman’s baby was Min-seok. But then you reminded yourself that this was Gi-hun. He wasn’t exactly the most observant person. Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that grew in your chest.

As the minutes ticked by, Min-seok had finally fallen asleep. You gazed at his face, pure and innocent. A stark difference from his parents, who were instrumental in the deaths of thousands of people. Would he grow up to be the same? To harm with no mercy, to act purely for his own gain? Or would he reject his family’s past and fight to help others, including those who no longer deserved a chance?

Like Gi-hun, you thought. 

You had to keep reminding yourself that, although well-intentioned, Gi-hun was foolish. He had won the Games and gotten his money. Why was he so obsessed with stopping them now? Even though he had told you his plan to catch the salesman, he never revealed how he would stop the Games themselves. 

Perhaps that’s what drew him to you after your first meeting. His blind faith. 

Even after the Games, where he had seen his childhood friend die in his arms, he had faith that things would work out. As time went on, he eventually placed his trust in you. 

In return, you had betrayed him. Used his intel to manipulate him effortlessly, to play him like a fiddle. His faith in you had made him none the wiser.

When you had first devised this plan to help your husband, you had no intention of meeting Gi-hun regularly. You had one goal: to learn about his plans. But then, you met Seong Gi-hun. Even though you were a complete stranger, he showed you nothing but kindness. He had somehow wormed his way into your heart, and it had made everything so difficult. 

You hated to admit it, but a part of you actually cared for Gi-hun. Over the past year and a half, you thought nothing of it, that meeting with him was just your job. That you didn’t actually care if anything happened to him. 

But now? Knowing that this would be the end?

You were terrified. 

Terrified for him, but also for your husband.

Gi-hun had been searching for him for almost two years by now, and even though you knew your husband could protect himself, your heart ached at the thought of losing him. 

You let out a deep sigh. Now that Min-seok had fallen asleep, you settled him into his bassinet. 

Gi-hun should be arriving any minute, you thought. You were drawn to the front door, so you walked over.

Opening it slowly, you checked for any noises. 

Silence.

Looking back at the bassinet, you took a deep breath. Min-seok will be fine for a few minutes. 

The anxiety of the whole situation was eating at you. Closing the door with a soft click, you quietly climbed the rear stairs of the motel.

Room 410.

You tiptoed up to Gi-hun’s room, freezing when you heard voices. Gi-hun had arrived.

Pressing your ear against the door, you listened intently.

“Seong Gi-hun-ssi. Do you think you’re special because you won the game?” You heard your husband say, his voice hostile. 

A pause.

“Someone like you could never know or understand how I made it out of there alive.” Gi-hun’s words were quiet, but sent chills down your spine.

You heard the faint click of a gun, but no gunshot. 

Then, in his usual recruiter tone, your husband said, 

“Let’s play a game.”

The muffled melody of Time to Say Goodbye caused your body to tense. As your husband explained the rules of Russian Roulette, you felt your breathing quicken.

“But I’d like to make this game a little more serious. Because you’re special, Seong Gi-hun-ssi.”

Your mind raced. You knew he was tasked with killing Gi-hun, but why did he choose this game again?

“We’ll take turns pulling the trigger without spinning the cylinder again. The bullet will be fired within six attempts, and the game will be over.”

Your breath hitched, your vision blurred. 

Was he insane? You screamed internally. There was such a high chance of death – 1 in 6. You felt dizzy. How could he do this to himself? To you? To your family?

Shuffling could be heard behind the door. Who was going first?

Click.

Your heart stopped. No gunshot. 

But no talking either. You were in the dark.

Click.

Nothing but music in the background.

Then, a voice. Your husband’s.

“My wife and I always wondered how you made it out of there alive,” he chuckled. “For one thing, you were even terrible at ddakji.” 

Your heart caught in your throat.

“A monster like you has a wife?” Gi-hun’s raspy voice was laced with confusion.

You heard a scoff. 

“You might know her… ” Your husband said coolly. “Unfortunately, she’s preoccupied with our son.”

Another chuckle.

“You might know him too.”

You didn’t need to be in the room to feel the sheer weight of your husband’s words. You heard Gi-hun’s soft gasp, the pressure of it crushed your heart. 

Now, Gi-hun knew. 

Knew of your betrayal, of the lies, and of the coincidences that hadn’t really been coincidences at all. 

This wasn’t how you expected to feel.

Click.

For a brief moment, you had forgotten about their game, that they could die at any moment.

There had been three clicks so far, if you recalled correctly.

A clatter of what you presumed to be the gun falling on a table shook you from your thoughts. 

Seconds passed. Again, no talking. Only the sound of music.

Click.

Still, no gunshots. You were surprised. Usually, the gun would have gone off by now. 

Your husband’s voice chimed in again. 

“What’s the matter? Is your mind starting to race?” He teased. “Now your odds of death are 1 in 2. That’s pretty high indeed.”

You guessed it was Gi-hun’s turn to shoot.

Your husband continued, “I’m sure you’re afraid. Lots going through your mind.” 

Gi-hun didn’t respond.

“Let me guess what you’re thinking right now. ‘The gun is in my hand. Screw the rules. Pull the trigger once or twice, and I can blow this guy’s face off.’” He paused. “Isn’t that ri-”

Click.

No gunshot. 

Your eyes widened. Did he just..?

You heard the clatter of the gun falling on the table. Your husband made a tutting sound. 

“It seems your luck has finally run out, Seong Gi-hun-ssi.” 

Gi-hun must have shot at your husband, but the gun didn’t go off. The bullet was in the last chamber.

A 1 in 2 chance.

“I never understood what my wife saw in you,” your husband remarked. “To me, you were simply a piece of trash, just like everyone else. A piece of trash who got lucky and made it out of the dumpster.” 

You heard the shuffle of clothing. 

“Even so, she kept meeting with you. Every day, she had something to say about you. Your friendships, your stories, your plans…” He sighed. “I could never understand why, until now.” 

You started to feel dizzy, your hand grasping the doorknob to steady yourself. You silently turned the knob to open the door. 

From your obscured view, you saw your husband standing in the far corner of the room. He was facing the window, the loaded gun in his hand. Gi-hun was seated at a table, his posture rigid as he took in your husband’s words.

“Your naivety. Your blind trust in everyone. Your foolishness.” He let out a chuckle. “She found it so endearing. So easy to manipulate. You trusted her in a heartbeat.” 

He shrugged. 

“I was skeptical at first. But then I realized that you wouldn’t have been able to hurt her even if you wanted to. She had you wrapped around her finger.”

Gi-hun’s silence spoke volumes. 

“You say that I’m an underling, that I’m just a dog who wags my tail for my superiors.” Your husband tilted his head slightly, still facing the wall. “I’d say you’re in no position for such remarks.”

Your husband’s tone was eerily calm. Too composed for the situation at hand.

“You told her everything she needed to know, everything I needed to know.” 

He huffed a laugh. 

“If she asked, you gave. And you were so willing. Willing to please her.” 

A pause.

“To please me.” 

Your husband whirled around, pointing the gun straight at Gi-hun’s head. His expression was smug, an eyebrow quirked.

“Who’s the dog now?”

Bang!

Gi-hun’s head drooped to the side, his body lifeless. You were in shock, unable to move after witnessing the murder in front of you. 

It was only when your husband spoke that you snapped out of your trance.

“Did you enjoy the show?” He asked, an amused lilt to his voice. 

You didn’t know what to say, so you said nothing. Words couldn’t express the swirl of emotions inside your mind.

Your husband came to your side, gun still in hand. Even though it was no longer loaded, you flinched at the sight of it so close to you.

He used his unoccupied hand to lift your chin slightly to force you to make eye contact. 

“It had to be done. For our jobs, and for our family.” His voice was steady, unflinching.

You nodded, but felt tears form in your eyes. 

He was right, you reasoned with yourself. If Gi-hun found a way to interfere with the Games, who knows what would have happened? Your involvement would have likely been discovered, and you and your husband would have been thrown in jail. Min-seok would have been left all alone.

Min-seok.

Your thoughts flitted to your precious baby boy, sleeping soundly in his bassinet and unaware of everything that had just transpired. He was your top priority. All of this was for his safety. For his future. 

You couldn’t bear the thought of him navigating this world without you.

Snapping out of your thoughts, you kissed your husband’s cheek. A bit of blood stained your lips, the metallic taste a sharp reminder of his transgressions. 

You had to keep moving forward. 

“We should get going before anyone sees us,” you murmured. Your husband nodded, a soft smile gracing his lips. 

“We shouldn’t keep Captain Park waiting.”

Four months later.

The sun rays filtered through the blinds, their soft glow bathing you and your husband in light. Even though it was early in the morning, you had been up for some time. 

“Ah,” you gasped when he lightly nipped at your collarbone, his head buried in the crook of your shoulder. You were perched on his lap, your back against his bare chest. A groan escaped your lips as he trailed kisses up along your neck. You leaned into his touch, his warmth enveloping your entire body. 

In an effort to ground yourself, you gripped the bedsheets with one hand and placed the other on your stomach. The slight swell was barely noticeable, but its presence unmistakable. 

You craned your neck to kiss your husband on the lips. He smiled, placing his hands on top of yours on your stomach. The two of you stayed like that for a while, basking in the afterglow of your love.

A cry from another room shook you from your dreamy haze.

Min-seok must have woken up, you thought as you started to untangle yourself from your husband. But he was quicker.

“I’ll get him,” he said, slipping into a pair of sweatpants that rode low on his hips. He was gone before you could protest.

Min-seok’s cries soon quieted, only to be replaced by the gentle sound of waves outside.

You got out of bed, tying your robe around you before walking out to the balcony. The fresh, salty air of the sea always cleared your mind. 

Shortly after your brief stay on the island where the Games took place, you and your husband were relocated to Busan. The investigation into Gi-hun and Mr. Kim’s deaths was still ongoing. With Woo-seok alive, the Frontman didn’t want to take any chances, so you had been assigned to work in Busan for the time being. 

You welcomed the change in lifestyle. The city was more laidback than Seoul, and your husband didn’t seem as stressed in his job as a recruiter. You loved living by the sea and waking up to the calming lull of the waves. 

Gazing out at the seascape, your fingers danced along your small bump. You were only a few months along. Thinking back, you believed you had conceived the night you escaped Seoul. The night Gi-hun was killed. 

The pure adrenaline of murdering Gi-hun and Mr. Kim had flipped a switch in your husband. As soon as you had settled into your room on the island, he had pounced on you immediately, unable to hold back after hours of build-up. It was no wonder you had gotten pregnant. 

You brought your hands up to caress your belly. You were happy now, despite all the horrible events that had occurred. Even though you had made your peace with Gi-hun’s death, you secretly wished that he didn't have to die. That there might have been some way for him to live. 

Looking down at your stomach, you sighed. It was thanks to him that your husband had lived and that you were expecting your second child. 

The sound of footsteps made you turn around. Your husband was approaching you, a fussing Min-seok in his arms. 

“He’s hungry,” your husband said, passing your son to you. You scoffed as you loosened your robe to nurse. Impatient, your son latched on immediately. 

You adjusted your hold on him before looking at your husband. 

“You know he can eat some solids now, right? I’ve shown you how to prepare baby food before.”

Your husband smiled teasingly. “I think he just wanted you.” He kissed your head and rested his head on your shoulder. The two of you watched your son feed in comfortable silence.

Once Min-seok had finished feeding, he dozed off.

“I’ve been thinking about that night,” your husband mused. “If 456 followed the rules… I wouldn’t be here with you.” He brought a hand up to brush his fingers through Min-seok’s fluffy hair. 

“Our lives would have been very different,” you said thoughtfully. “Would you have followed through? If Gi-hun did follow the rules?”

Your husband didn’t respond. 

He just kissed your cheek and wrapped his arms around your waist, careful to mind your growing bump.

“He chose to break the rules, and that choice gave us a chance at a brand new life.” His hands tightened slightly around your stomach. You felt him lift his head to peer down at Min-seok, fast asleep on your chest. 

“You gave me the opportunity to be a father, something I had never dreamed of being. Now, I couldn’t imagine life without you and Min-seok.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “I could never thank you enough.”

You exhaled, your heart melting from your husband’s words. He wasn’t one to express his feelings so openly, so you were especially touched that he confided in you.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” you spoke softly, a blush forming on your cheeks. “I love you.”

He chuckled.

“I love you too.”

He returned his head to the crook of your shoulder, and gently kissed your neck. You let out a laugh, and felt him smile against your skin.

In that moment, you wished time could stand still, with your husband by your side, your son in your arms, and the swell of new life growing inside your womb. 

As you gazed out at the Busan seascape, you felt yourself let go of your worries. After everything you had been through, all the pain, all the suffering, one thing rang true. You wouldn’t change the world for anything. 

but maybe you’re a little curious? 👀 what if gi-hun had followed the rules? check out the other (canon-compliant) ending, swan lake!

tags: @muchwita @hkssfjsjs @ruby-the-scholar @beebeechaos @preppyfella @buckitostan @luvr4miya

[thecouchsofa]

It might be March, but better late than never!

While I posted more fic in 2024 (see my 2024 year in fic) than I ever have before, I also read an absolute shitload. Below the cut are some of my favourites that were published in 2024, arranged by word count.

As always, there is an absolute wealth of talent in this fandom and the amount of goodness we have here never ceases to amaze me. The fics below all really did it for me in a number of different ways. Though my opinion is subjective, I will happily vouch for all of them. Happy reading! 📚

❤️🩵💛💚

🌹Way to go, Tiger by @houndsinhades | G | 2k | 🌹

The time will arrive for the cruel and the mean You'll learn to bounce back just like your trampoline But now we'll curtail your curiosity In sweetness Way to go, Tiger Scorpius Malfoy's seventh birthday.

Read for: Scorpius at his best, Wholesome Parent/Child Relationship, Draco after the War

Note: This is technically a gen fic, but it gives major Drarry vibes so I’m putting it here anyway

🌺The game's the game by @hogwartsfirebolt | M | 3k | 🌺

Draco might be — definitely is — the world’s sorest loser, but he’s also the world’s biggest slut for Quidditch excellence, and he has it right here, holding him against his hotel room door.

Read for: Quidditch Rivals Harry and Draco, Friends with Benefits, a full story told expertly in a low word count

🌻 The sun between us by @eleadore | E | 7k | 🌻

Draco Malfoy, an omega. It was laughable until he was right in front of you, smelling like he was one shaky step from tripping into a heat.

Read for: Omegaverse, Snarky Banter, Good Characterisation (yes, I’m putting that on a PWP)

🌼 Apophenia by b6p592l11 | T | 12k |🌼

Out of the many things Sirius expected to happen after the war, having to deal with his godson dating a Death Eater was definitely not one of them.

Read for: Sirius Lives, Sirius POV, Draco/Regulus Parallels

🌷The Window by @hoko-onchi-writes | E | 15k |🌷

“I swear all you ever talk about is men.” Ron laughs and vanishes the last of the joint. “Sweet fucking Christ,” Harry says. “Remind me to never involve you in my life in any way, ever again.” He gives Harry a very handsome grin. “Padma said she saw him. At a Tesco’s.” “Who?” “Draco sodding Malfoy.” “At a Tesco’s,” Harry repeats. He’s very stoned, having an out-of-body experience imagining Draco Malfoy in a Tesco’s, holding a frozen dinner. He wonders, very briefly, what Malfoy’s been up to since the war. “I bet you wish you had a map of that Tesco’s. So you could track his name.” “Fuck off.” ~~ In which Harry grows up in darkness, falls in love, fucks up, learns some things, and falls in love again.

Note: this story also features Harry/Charlie, but it is endgame Drarry

Read for: Character Study (Harry), Adorable Scorpius, this line that I want tattooed on my prefrontal cortex: "There’s a very blond man with a laptop, and an equally blond toddler wearing a Wiggles t-shirt and brandishing a trashy romance novel like a weapon."

🪻Je te reverrai by @soliblomst and art by @kk1smet | E | 16k |🪻

When Beauxbatons visited Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament, Draco managed to control his attraction to fourteen-year-old Harry Potter. When Beauxbatons returns three years later for a cultural exchange, Draco's attraction to seventeen-year-old Harry Potter is impossible to curtail. In his defence, Harry's perfectly tailored blue robes, mixed signals, and French accent do not help.

Read for: Beauxbatons Harry, French Speaking Harry, Gorgeous Art

🌹Nine Days in Coventry by @sitaz | G | 16k |🌹

When a de-aged Draco Malfoy is discovered in Knockturn Alley, the Ministry appoints Family Liaison Officer Potter as his emergency guardian. Whisked away to a Muggle safehouse, Draco does not cope well, and Harry learns just how hard life can be when a five-year-old declares war on you.

Read for: De-aged Draco, Draco being a brat (but so cute), Harry taking care of Draco, Pre-Relationship

🌺 The most he’s ever said by @fastbrother | E | 16k |🌺

It takes them twenty years.

Read for: Down and Out to Redeemed and Competent Draco, Draco-centric, the Situationship of a Lifetime

Warning: Infidelity, but not between Drarry

🌻You And Me Against The World by @dracowillhearaboutthis | T | 17k |🌻

When Draco finally meets his soulmate, he doesn't want anything to do with Draco.

Read for: Soulmarks, Partial Canon Rewrite, Remus raises Harry, Draco and Theo friendship

🌼Equally Cursed and Blessed by @moonflower-rose | E | 18k |🌼

Harry's back at Hogwarts to attempt his final year, again. This time he's sure there'll be no shenanigans. Well. Maybe there'll be a few.

Read for: Draco’s artsy porn collection, Humour, Harry and Ron’s ride or die friendship

🌷Goodbye, Old You by harDeehar (dryrsheet) | E | 19k |🌷

As an alpha, Harry Potter should not have been an assistant for the newly minted Diversity department, and he definitely should not have been working under Draco. Draco seemed to be the only person who thought Harry was suspicious, but he was used to taking care of things on his own, anyway. Luckily, Draco was not as alone as he thought, and his understanding of Harry's intentions turned out to not be the only misjudgement Draco made.

Read for: Omegaverse, Coworkers, Mpreg

🪻Raising Hell! by @wolfpants | E | 21k |🪻

Harry and Draco are sent undercover as a married couple to investigate a dodgy Muggle love cult. Something evil is lurking in Glastonbury… but to get to it, the reluctant partners must be initiated first. And this is, after all, a love cult…

Read for: Case Fic, Competent Draco, Muggle Sex Cults, Good Smut

🌹The Superfluous Man by peu_a_peu | E | 24k |🌹

A child for Harry Potter is a miracle of magic. And it's the second act of Draco Malfoy's sorry little life.

Read for: Mpreg, snappy writing style, a pre-2015 feel

🌺On the divine agony of longing by @flimsi | E | 25k |🌺

Speaking to Draco is like poking a beehive - and Harry is a glutton for punishment. In which Harry makes some serious blunders and then tries to fix it. Somehow. Draco’s eyes narrow and his mouth purses, pretty and pink and wet from whatever he’s been drinking. “Any mediocre time is better than whatever you can you offer, Head Auror Potter. We’ve had this conversation. I thought I made myself clear.”

Read for: Magically Powerful Harry, Possessive Pining Harry, Competent Draco

🌻Antelucan Ruins by @rainjulyx | E | 29k |🌻

From the bloody Prophet, Draco discovers Harry Potter’s death splashed in grey ink printed on the front page. Potter is dead before Draco gets to see him again to fulfil a half-spoken promise. And yet, these days Draco has the power to bend the world to his heart’s desires, and that includes fucking Harry Potter even after he personally saw Potter’s pale, lifeless body lying in a coffin before it got buried under the soil. — "Do you realise that you're just as pathetic and insane? You're so hung up on the idea of me that you'd fuck a ghost, Malfoy. You risked your life for it." Draco puts an arm around Potter's body, "Whoever says I am sane? Certainly not me. It's calculated risk with more success rate than failure. And you are dead, Potter. You refuse to move on to the next realm because you crave for my cock."

Read for: BAMF Draco, Ghost Harry, a surprisingly hopeful tone considering one of them is pretty dead

🌼The only thing worse than heartbreak is Vermont by @jtimu | E | 31k |🌼

In the aftermath of a failed relationship, Draco Malfoy found himself with three things. His pride (tattered), Theo's luggage (stolen), and an all-inclusive couples' vacation package to Vermont (awful).

Read for: Lumberjack Harry, Banter, International Location

🌷Skipping Stones by @whimsibeee | M | 34k |🌷

Draco receives his very own prophecy. If Harry Potter could leave him alone, he might be able to figure out what it means.

Read for: Coming of Age vibes, Cosy Atmospheric writing, Complicated Family Dynamics

🪻Obscuro by @stratigraphywrites | E | 35k |🪻

Draco is grieving. His conversation partner is here against his will. It's a shameless rip-off of an insipid Muggle reality dating show. Hardly the occasion for true love, if you ask Draco. feat. a cat named Marmalade, a bird named Mumble, Lee Jordan's answer to Love is Blind, and two best friends who only want their dads to be happy.

Read For: Game Show Format, Hidden Identity, Good Smut, Epilogue Compliant

🌹Invito by PrinceMalice | E | 36k |🌹

Draco mused on the possible first use of the charm. What had the wizard been calling for? The text didn’t specify. As for the etymology— the meaning of the word itself was derived from I call, I summon— or the Hungarian variation of the incantation… To invite. Or, Harry keeps inviting Draco places. Draco keeps turning him down… until he doesn't.

Read for: Eighth Year, the sweetest unfolding of a relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Party Games

🌺Gemini in Retrograde by @citrusses | T | 38k |🌺

Draco Malfoy doesn’t understand his son. Scorpius Malfoy doesn’t understand his father. It’s going to take more than one disastrous, body-swapping curse to change that.

Read for: Body Swapping, Alternating Scorpius/Draco POV, Draco being a good dad, Soft Harry, DADA Professor Harry

🌻No Harm by Tessa Crowley | E | 46k |🌻

After a long, bloody war, Draco Malfoy just wants to do something good with his life for a change, and resolves to become a healer. But magical society refuses to make it easy for him, and an increasingly dramatic series of events—all of them instigated by Harry Potter—get him kicked out of med school, force him to live in exile, and threaten to destroy the new life he’s trying so desperately to build. But Harry isn’t instigating anything—at least not on purpose. He’s just trying to work up the nerve to ask him out. His efforts don’t appear to be going great.

Read for: Down and out Draco, Pining Harry, same scenes from different perspectives

🌼Truth to Materials by lately & @toomuchplor | E | 54k | 🌼

In which Harry learns to appreciate art and other pleasures of the flesh.

Read for: Artist Draco, Paris, Good Smut

🌷Pillar of Salt by @epitomereally | E | 62k | 🌷

From the lake in the Room of Hidden Things, Draco knows three things: 1. Mirror universes exist, and he’s going to find the best one—the one where he did the right thing. 2. Harry Potter and him are awfully cosy in some of these other universes, whereas Potter in real life is starting to act very odd around him indeed. 3. Draco’s reflection—the mirror version of him, the worst version of him—seems to be growing crueler. And stronger.

Read for: Eighth Year, Alternate Universes (sort of), Magical Theory

🪻Behind Closed Doors by @stratigraphywrites | E | 77k | 🪻

Twelve years after Harry Potter disappeared from the wizarding world and from Draco's life, his daughter starts at Hogwarts.

Read for: Secret Child, Angst with a Happy Ending, Nonlinear Narrative

🌹A Soft Place to Fall by @amomorii | E | 142k | 🌹

When Harry arrives for his first year teaching at Hogwarts and is struck with a bizarre malignance, how on earth is he supposed to react when Draco Malfoy suddenly cares? Or; A darkness crawls out of Harry, and there's only so long he can keep it to himself.

Read for: Unique Concept, Managing Childhood Trauma, Reluctant Magical Coparenting (but it’s not what you think)

🌺The Star Splitter by @oflights | E | 219k |🌺

On a routine time travel assignment to the past, Draco stumbles upon 7-year-old Harry Potter and witnesses his neglect and mistreatment by the Dursleys. In the moment, there is only one solution, even if it goes against all his training as a Time Agent: he has to bring Harry back to the future with him. In which Draco burns his life down for the sake of his former school rival.

Read for: Time Travel, Draco taking care of Harry, Kid Fic

I hope you enjoy these fics as much as I did! If you read any, don't forget to show the creators some love ❤️🩵💛💚

[carminechrollo]

THE COST OF DEVOTION | chrollo lucilfer x f!reader

SYNOPSIS: When Chrollo Lucilfer is assigned to go undercover and kill a billionaire's daughter, he finds himself breaking the most sacred rule of the underworld—that there should be no feelings involved. The consequences of his actions backs Chrollo into a corner where he has to choose between fulfilling the job or following his heart at a risky price.

CONTENT WARNING: undercover assassin!chrollo, bodyguard!chrollo, billionaire's daughter!reader, loosely follows some canon events (chrollo's past), reader is referred to as 'miss’, DARK CONTENT, DARK ROMANCE, heavy angst, hurt/no comfort (no happy ending), explicit smut, unprotected sex, p in v, creampie, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, SLOW BURN, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, touches on arranged marriage, cheating, killing, money laundering, human trafficking, kidnapping, sacrilege & blood (briefly), gun use, chrollo struggles with feelings, chrollo has scars, OCs mentioned, not beta read.

WORD COUNT: 18,853

NOTES: this is a repost from my previous account, chrollogy (now deactivated). i really really love this piece (its my baby :<) so i’m reposting it here !! divider: edensrose

Loud music, enough to make one’s chest thump, annoying bright strobe lights, and the sea of intoxicated bodies that passionately danced with one another without a care in the world, Chrollo wanted out.

He observed the luxury club with a subtle scowl, gaze sharp enough to tear one’s throat as he watched the spoiled, and rich carelessly sway to the beat of the music��you were one of them.

A privileged affluent businessman’s daughter who didn’t know how to handle one’s wealth so she resorts to spending nights swiping her card for overpriced drinks, and whatever expensive shit the club had to offer.

Meanwhile, the lower class had to work themselves to near death to be able to provide for their families.

One, two, three jobs just to make ends meet—just to pay rent, just to bring food to the table even if it meant working for the underworld.

That was where Chrollo fell into the spectrum; fortunate enough to live but unfortunate enough to live a cruel life in an equally cruel world. He grew up learning how to steal, fight, and kill while you grew up having maids cook every meal, a solid roof over your head, and generational wealth to spend.

It made Chrollo sick to his stomach how wealthy kids like you could just take, take, and take yet had the audacity to complain about their lives as if society didn’t favour them at all. He could go on, and on about this whole ordeal but at the end of the day, no one would even bat an eye, plus, Chrollo had a job to do—technically, two jobs.

At the heart of the sweaty, inebriated club, you stood there beneath the neon strobe lights, it bounced off the strands of your hair like a colourful aura mirroring your careless joy.

Body perfectly swaying to the beat of the music, a half-full glass of a sweet cocktail, and a blissful expression on your face; maybe if the circumstances were different Chrollo would have smiled at your blithe spirit but it wasn’t. Your eyes—a drunken haze—found his own to which you immediately acknowledged with a cheery wave of your free hand.

It only took a split second for Chrollo to mask the obvious scowl on his face with a sickly saccharine smile—one that made his gut twist with disgust—he returned the gesture with a dip of his chin paired with raising a glass of water in the air as if to make a toast.

Chrollo’s expression fell the minute you turned away, unceremoniously slouching back into the leathered booth you’ve booked beforehand, he let out a deep sigh, and rubbed at his temples.

Two weeks.

It had only been two weeks since your father—Chrollo’s employer—hired him as your personal bodyguard, and as expected, extensive pre-screening was a must before one could securely acquire said role which Chrollo found extremely bothersome despite its lack of difficulty.

Though this wasn’t a rare occurrence, it only made sense for the rich to hire a skilled bodyguard to protect oneself from unknown dangers.

Obviously, he didn’t apply to be your personal bodyguard for sincere reasons—far from it, actually; Chrollo was here for a task that would land him his heftiest pay yet, even just thinking about made his head spin with immeasurable happiness already but Chrollo figured he’d bask in filthy money after completing the job.

He always did.

If anything, this should be a walk in the park for him considering there was nothing more satisfying than seeing the demise of a wealthy brat. But for now, he’d take it slow, and earn your trust ‘til the right time comes; where his mask falls, and true motives come to light.

Where the last thing Chrollo would receive from you was a look of pure horror much like his previous targets. Would you beg for him to spare your life as others did? Or would you sit in complete shock, words lodged deep inside your throat?

These thoughts immediately dissipated at the call of his name; a few feet away, you stumbled your way towards the booth, the highball glass tucked in your hand was now empty with only half melted ice cubes remaining. Chrollo stood up, wrapping a firm arm around your back, helping you regain balance before guiding you to the leathered seat, the fabric cool against your feverish skin.

“Should I call the chauffeur, miss?” Chrollo feigned worry.

His stature loomed over your sitting figure, back lit with red neon strobe lights, giving him a deep crimson glow. You stared at him longer than necessary before responding with a small nod; the wild atmosphere, paired with your spinning vision seemed like a good enough hint to head home, and retire for the night.

At your agreement, Chrollo let out a big mental sigh of relief—he may be an adept assassin but sitting idly for hours while watching his asset drink the night away exhausted his patience more than one could imagine.

The ride back to the estate was all a drunken haze for you, though, you recalled a brief exchange of words between Chrollo, and your chauffeur as the latter helped you inside the vehicle before, they seemed to get along swimmingly despite the former only being a new addition to your personal staff.

Albeit, that description might be a bit too generous, maybe it was just your drunk self thinking but nonetheless, you appreciated the courteous manner between the two. 

“Lukas?”

You called out to the chauffeur, he donned a formal attire just like Chrollo—a black tailored suit—he was an old-timer who had been your father’s previous chauffeur before you were born. It was safe to say you’ve learned a lot from him growing up, and maybe even served more as a father figure than your biological one.

“Yes, miss?” Lukas glanced briefly at the rear-view mirror. “Chrollo . . He’s nice, isn’t he?”

The older man could only chuckle in response, letting your words soak into the darkness of the vehicle before nodding,

“He’s a promising young lad.”

He glanced at the mirror once again, this time letting his gaze linger on you, headlights from the vehicle Chrollo drove behind poured into the backseat, and illuminated your face; Lukas didn’t know if it was due to your drunken state or from pure sincerity but the subtle smile on your face somewhat warmed his heart.

He took a mental note that you seemed to be quite fond of your new bodyguard.

After safely reaching the estate, and escorting you inside, Chrollo made his way to the staff house.

Walking past the wooden double doors, he was stopped in his tracks by a familiar voice, “Off to bed, Chrollo?” It was Lukas, your chauffeur; he sat on one of the crimson couches, one hand nursing a cup of hot coffee.

Chrollo stared at the old man’s face behind the wisps of steam from the drink, the latter donned a rather pleased look on his face, he thought nothing of it, and nodded, “And yourself?”

Lukas returned the nod, “A little later for me.”

Silence occupied the living room for a moment.

Chrollo could’ve left the conversation at that but instead, he stood there, feet rooted on the wooden floor, sensing that Lukas had more to say but was debating on it.

Seeing as he didn’t want to waste any more time, Chrollo spoke up “Is there something else you’d like to say?” His voice cut through the quiet atmosphere, he had now angled his body towards the older man.

Lukas set the mug atop the coffee table before giving him his full attention,

“The young miss seems to have taken a liking to you.”

Chrollo didn’t know how to react to that—even if he did, he wouldn’t have let on.

At his silence, Lukas invited himself to speak further, “At times, she can be quite a handful . . but hearing her speak positively of you warms my heart. What I’m trying to say is, please take good care of the young miss, it means a lot for her to say such things about you.”

Trust? Good.

Chrollo’s rosy lips stretched into a genuine smile, “I will. Thank you.”

And with that, he excused himself before heading to his room, the soles of his obsidian shoes produced no noise with each step.

He wasn’t happy because you seemed to like your new bodyguard, no, Chrollo was happy because you trusted him so easily—probably the biggest mistake you’ve made. Though, nothing would really change if you didn’t trust him, either way, you’d meet your demise no matter what.

As the new week rolled around, it was no surprise that Chrollo had already memorised your weekly routine—without a doubt, you spent days in the office but he had noted other destinations you frequented.

On Mondays, you visited a cosy flower boutique in the morning, owned by a lovely old florist whose cheeks were as pink as the camellias neatly displayed on the counter next to her. You only bought one type of flower—white chrysanthemums, a dozen, to be exact; they were carefully wrapped in a simple brown paper, and topped off with an ivory satin ribbon.

On the way back to the car, Chrollo wondered why you chose these specific flowers, and upon asking, you simply replied with:

‘White chrysanthemums symbolise devoted love, and loyalty—something we need more of in this world, don’t you think?’ 

How ironic.

Chrollo had no knowledge about flowers but he always thought white chrysanthemums meant death, specifically a symbol of mourning, and grief—a flower fit for one’s grave yet you displayed them in a vase to bring life into your room.

If you were being completely honest, chrysanthemums didn’t hold any significance in your life; one day you decided to visit the flower boutique run by the old lady, and she had told you all about the flower.

Oddly enough, you started to grow fond of it.

Chrysanthemums were awfully common in his hometown—Meteor City—and not in a good way; inhabited by untraceable outcasts, it was the perfect hunting ground for illegal activities such as human trafficking, as well as an endless source of disposable hitmen, and assassins like Chrollo himself.

Due to mass abductions, and murders of the people, chrysanthemums were laid out at the church for each victim; he could clearly remember walking down the aisle, a smell so sweet, and minty filled the thick atmosphere.

For an aroma so pleasant, who would’ve thought it was associated with such sorrow?

On Tuesdays, you attended your private pilates lesson at 8 AM on the dot which lasted a little under an hour. As usual, Chrollo stayed idly by the entrance of the studio, just at the foyer as the muffled voice of your instructor seeped from under the closed door; this was usually paired with brunch at a local café after, as per your words, ‘a much needed caffeine break’ whatever that meant.

Chrollo couldn’t care less, he was too busy assessing the layout of the building for an escape route, and potential threats as though he wasn’t the biggest threat here.

The window seat offered a clear view of the street outside, vehicles driving by, people in their own little world as they headed to their destination; not to mention the ample morning sunlight that poured in, allowing you to study Chrollo’s reflection from the glass.

He stood behind you with his back facing the window, scanning the entire café; you watched as his head slowly moved from left to right, then right to left, giving you a peek of his side profile.

Your eyes traced every dip, and curve of Chrollo’s face, from the slope of his nose, all the way to the sharpness of his jawline. It was odd how this man—who barely talked to you unless necessary—had piqued your interest.

In what way? That was something you were still trying to figure out.

How Chrollo carried himself with silent confidence stood out from the rest of your security team; sure, he was vigilant of his surroundings but each action he displayed was calculated, and clean—too clean.

You’ve also noticed how his steps were much lighter than everyone else’s, it made almost no sound as though he was actively stalking a prey. And for a brief moment, you wondered who that prey was.

On Wednesdays, you were present at your father’s company for the whole day.

Though, the scowl on your face clearly screamed your opposition; it wasn’t a secret to anyone how uninterested you were in all the business talk—in fact, if anyone were to ask about it, you could probably go on, and on about how boring, and tedious it was, conversely, if asked what you wanted to do in life, you’d probably have a hard time answering.

Alas, as the sole heir, the company automatically fell to your hands whether you liked it or not.

Wednesdays were always a drag, having to make acquaintances with investors, and show face during monotonous meetings that rarely concerned you—you’d rather spend time elsewhere.

On Thursdays, you were also at the company but for a different reason. Chrollo only knew you reported straight to your father’s office, and he was often ordered to wait at the ground floor.

The meeting with your father always took approximately two hours, and each time, you came out looking like someone had pressed all your buttons.

Though today, for the sake of Chrollo’s own selfish curiosity, seeing as the hallway was deserted, he lingered outside the office for a bit but all he really got was pure silence—either you, and your father conversed in a hushed voice or the walls were soundproof.

Whatever the case was, Chrollo didn’t bother sticking around but he was quickly stopped in his tracks as voices from inside were suddenly raised—yours first, followed by your father.

Looking back at the office door, Chrollo heard you shout in opposition, it seemed like the conversation had somewhat turned into a heated argument.

Nonetheless, he continued down the hallway—it was none of Chrollo’s business, after all.

“No! I’ve already told you, I’m not doing that!” Loud voice sliced through the growing tension inside the room.

The older male—who sat behind his desk—leaned back into the seat, leather groaning beneath his weight as he rubbed his temples at your stubbornness, clearly displeased with how much you were blowing everything out of proportion.

You stayed rooted in your spot, just standing a metre away from your father.

“Look, darling, I’ve already agreed—”

“Agreed without my consent.”

Raising your hands in defeat, you paced around the room, each heavy step muffled by the crimson carpet beneath your soles.

“I’m the one getting married to someone I haven’t met! I never even wanted to be in an arranged marriage just because of what—a stupid business partnership?!”

This was the first time you’ve raised your voice at your father; all the years under his care, and guidance, you gladly accepted what was left upon your hands.

Continuing the legacy of your father’s company? Sure, no problem, you could deal the burden on your shoulders but marrying a complete stranger?

That was more than crossing a mere boundary.

Your father was a skilled business man, and you never doubted that once—he was excellent at negotiating, and closing deals so for him to stoop as low as agreeing with an arranged marriage for the sake of his company, it baffled you, a lot.

What more could he possibly want?

“I’m done with this conversation.”

Letting out a breath you’ve been holding, you turned around, and headed for the door but before reaching the silver handle, your father spoke up from behind,

“Next week. You’re attending the corporate event with Euan. That’s final.”

All you could do was nod.

Chrollo spotted your rather distressed figure exit the elevator, and head for the car park, not so much sparing a glance as you passed him; nonetheless, he quietly trailed you, steely gaze observing your figure up, and down—shoulders tight, and fists clenched at your side.

You felt defeated.

The thought of spending the rest of your life with a man you didn’t genuinely love, was that really your so-called future? A bond made for the sole purpose of expanding business?

Stepping into the underground car park, you stopped in your tracks, the automatic glass door silently humming as it closed behind you.

Naturally, Chrollo did the same but didn’t dare speak up.

Click clack.

Two clicks from the soles of your shoes as you turned to face your bodyguard with a deflated expression, he could only raise a brow in surprise before you sat on your haunches, and buried your face inside the hearts of your palms.

Oh.

One, two, three seconds—it took Chrollo exactly three seconds to register the sight before him, and he didn’t know what to do; awkwardness settled in the air between the two of you as you sobbed into your hands.

He moved closer—taking a few cautious steps as though he walked on eggshells—and squatted down to your level, “Miss?” He called out, his dulcet voice drowned by your soft whimpers, every muscle in Chrollo’s body was stiff, movements unsure.

What was he supposed to do? Reach out, and stroke your hair? Pull you close against his chest? Chrollo was more than sure that doing so was completely unprofessional on his end.

So, he was reduced to sitting next to you, silently watching your shoulders shake with each muffled sob until you finally decided to lift your head, “I apologise for acting this way. I’m certain you probably don’t care but—”

Correct. Chrollo did not care.

“My father has been pushing me in an arranged marriage. I kept saying ‘no’ until he went behind my back, and agreed to it. I found out today and I just—I lost it. The benefits of what comes after marriage are endless for the company; more investors, more money, more security but is that really worth sacrificing my shot at finding the one I truly love?”

Saying the words aloud made it sound so silly.

Finding your one true love, how naïve, that only worked in children’s fairy tales.

Upon learning the reason for your upset, Chrollo could only nod, he wasn’t the type to console anyone, let alone his employer’s daughter.

The last time he could remember doing so was almost a decade, and a half ago during the time his dear friend—Sarasa—went missing.

It was a rainy day in Meteor City, Chrollo remembered hugging his friends tightly, reassuring them that everything was going to be alright even though uncertainty gnawed at his skin. 

He was innocent and didn’t know better then.

But the incident with Sarasa was what fuelled his pure hatred for the wealthy. Chrollo was only a kid, full of limitless joy, and hope despite growing up in poverty.

It was during the height of abductions in Meteor City, and that was when he learned that not even his friends were immune from illegal activities after seeing it with his own eyes.

It was broad daylight, and Sarasa had been forced into a car by two large men—as if one wasn’t enough to take a helpless little girl.

The worst part was, Chrollo could only stand, and watch as his friend got taken away with nothing but helpless tears in his eyes, and a blazing anger that burned a thousand suns.

He could still recall the way his nails dug into the hearts of his palms, the temporary pain it felt. The incident haunted his coming days, hearing Sarasa’s screams at night, and how she begged for the men to spare her life.

Chrollo overheard from the Elders that the ones behind illegal abductions were the wealthy, and that night, he made a promise to avenge Sarasa—even if it meant taking lives.

It was clear the rich were parasites of the world, greedy for money, and power, leaving none behind for the unfortunate. 

Chrollo couldn’t bring himself to understand your situation, and emotions—he didn’t have to but some odd part made him want to.

From Fridays to Sundays, you usually spent the time out with friends but as the days came, you remained cooped up inside your room, and only came out unless necessary.

The thought of isolating yourself somewhat ate away at Chrollo, despite not being able to fully grasp your situation, he figured it must have been a breaking point for you, and deep down, for some weird reason, he was worried.

This was the first time you’ve shown him an emotion other than happiness—which he presumed was most likely out of professionalism—so seeing your distressed state had him rather curious.

Stationed just outside the doors to your room, Chrollo couldn’t do anything to quench the sparked interest inside him—guarding the entrance of your room was all there was to do which ended up with him drowning in his thoughts while standing idly.

Even though Chrollo didn’t understand your sentiment, he knew no one should marry a stranger for the sake of business.

Though, Chrollo didn’t have much time to ponder about your situation as his replacement came walking up the stairs meaning it was the end of his shift for the day. He entertained a brief exchange with his co-worker before heading out.

Walking down the stone path that led to the deserted flower garden, Chrollo dug into the inside pocket of his blazer, and took out a burner phone.

As the assassin dialled a number, he was greeted with a view of endless greenery decorated with bright hues from a variety of flowers; the floral aroma wrapped around his body like a fluffy blanket.

Somehow, the sweet scent reminded Chrollo of you.

The cheap phone rang once, twice ‘til a familiar voice spilled through its speakers,

“I’m guessing you’re here to update me?”

The male on the other side of the call questioned.

Chrollo agreed, and the line went silent, urging him to give the details.

As he gave a thorough update, Chrollo mindlessly walked down the stone path, various colours making its way to his line of vision.

Though, a particular flower caught his eye—a sea of yellow as bright as the morning rays decorated several bushes on the ground.

While speaking into the phone, Chrollo squatted down to its level, and examined the delicate flower,

Bird’s foot trefoil, the small ivory signage before it read.

Two months, that was the amount of time given to complete the job. It was reasonable enough with the amount of security you were surrounded with, and even though Chrollo was the only bodyguard you took whenever you left the house, Lukas remained by your side as well—he made sure not to underestimate the old timer.

Chrollo had never heard of this man before but from what he knew, he seemed to be about the same age. Why the man was seeking out revenge by targeting your life was also something that remained a mystery—after all, Chrollo was only there to kill, details weren’t necessary when it came to an assassin.

“‘M not gonna tell you how to do your job but remember, time is ticking, and I’m spending a whole lot of money on this, yeah?”

Voicing his agreement before ending the call, he took one last look at the flower, and stood up, heading for the staff house.

It was about time Chrollo hunted for his prey.

With the new week, everyone prepared for the corporate event in a few hours—even Chrollo himself, as well as the rest of the security team was busy scouting the venue, and looking for any potential threats around, and inside the building.

Tonight, he donned a sleek, all black look which was slightly different from the usual white button down, and black suit he wore.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, employees, and important investors began pouring in the building; the inside boasted a formal theme with a lavish teardrop crystal chandelier that mimicked the shine of a thousand diamonds, round tables were draped in ivory cloths which housed a bunch of butterfly pea flowers encased in sleek ceramic vases.

Silence was replaced with melodic laughter, and casual conversations between acquaintances, and co-workers as the vast room was slowly filled with more people.

Having arrived at the venue earlier, Chrollo stood by the entrance, waiting for your arrival. As the familiar vehicle rolled around, Lukas exited the vehicle, and opened the rear passenger door.

Expecting you to come out of the vehicle, Chrollo was caught slightly off-guard when a stranger clad in a navy blue tuxedo did so instead—he donned obsidian strands that carefully framed his handsome face, and piercing honeyed eyes that was sure to make any woman swoon.

The assassin watched as he turned to face the vehicle, and held out a hand to you. Taking up on the polite offer, you held his hand, and gracefully stepped out of the vehicle.

And there you were, in all your serene beauty, skin glowing beneath the warm streetlights that made Chrollo inhale a sharp breath for some odd reason.

“Thank you, Euan.” You gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Euan? Chrollo thought.

With how he lovingly kissed the back of your hand, and from the way you forced a smile, it wasn’t hard to piece together that this was the man you were forced to marry.

Somehow, Chrollo felt a tinge of annoyance spark within the depths of his chest—maybe because he was aware of the whole arranged marriage situation or maybe because he was yet in the presence of another stuck up, pompous spoiled person. 

Euan interlaced his fingers with yours before heading towards the entrance, Chrollo didn’t miss the way the diamond ring on your finger twinkled like stars in the night sky.

Surprisingly, Euan acknowledged Chrollo with a dip of his chin; you mirrored your date’s action, and only then did the assassin respond in the same way.

The event was boring as one would have expected, your father—the CEO—mostly talked about the company’s milestones up on the podium, he held a champagne flute in one hand filled with golden liquid while entertaining the room with uneventful accomplishments.

Though, what you didn’t expect tonight was for your father to openly reveal your arranged marriage with Euan in front of your subordinates, and investors,

“It’s my pleasure to announce that the COO of D&J—my daughter—is soon to be wed with Mr. Euan Heston from Heston Enterprises.”

As endless applause, and supportive smiles filled the venue, you sat frozen on your seat, unable to muster even the tiniest smile. From the corner of your vision, you could see Euan bashfully nodding his head, and shaking hands with those in neighbouring tables as they congratulated him.

You stared at your father in complete disdain which only prompted a forced smile from him. 

Unbelievable.

A shaky breath escaped your lips before swallowing the raging emotions, pushing them down, down, down to the depths of your core, and as though a switch inside you was flipped, a smile stretched across your face, throwing out thank you’s to those who offered their support.

With the end of the CEO’s speech, and certain formalities, all that’s left was to mix, and mingle with everyone else which—thankfully—Euan did while you quietly sneaked away to the open bar.

Although, visibly drowning yourself in more champagne only invited more guests to come, and gush about the weighted ring on your finger, not to mention how openly they adored Euan.

Hearing such high praise thrown his way, you caught yourself staring at your soon-to-be husband; you watched as he gracefully waltzed from table to table, engaging in polite conversations with not only the important people in the room but also with your subordinates.

Euan was well-mannered, kind, and respectful—he was everything your father wanted as your husband but he wasn’t made for you, and deep down, you knew that.

From the corner of the room, Chrollo watched it all unfold.

From the way you stiffened beneath everyone’s stares as your father revealed the marriage, all the way to your gaze finding Euan amongst the crowd.

He felt weird.

Albeit subtle, Chrollo sensed it was there—as though a foreign seed had been planted in his chest waiting for it to grow, and destroy him from inside out.

Whether it produced the fruit of anger, revenge or some other emotion in the dictionary, he couldn’t tell, all he knew was it took root inside his heart.

As Chrollo got lost in his thoughts for a bit, he was greeted with an empty barstool that was previously occupied by you; he scanned the vast room, stone cold eyes darting from left to right, and right to left trying to catch a glimpse of your familiar figure.

Slight panic didn’t settle in until Chrollo realised that you were nowhere to be seen—the feeling began to gnaw at his very bones as the attempts of finding your whereabouts led to a dead end, he even went as far as asking a woman standing just outside the bathroom if she’s seen you walk in but only shook her head.

Wide, panicked steps, Chrollo unceremoniously crossed the room in search of you while almost bumping into several guests in a nervous haze; he muttered out whispered apologies, gaze remaining ahead.

His heart thumped loudly against his ears, serving as a mere distraction to throw off his already breaking composure. God, your father would absolutely kill him if he were to find out that he’d lost sight of you.

But Chrollo wasn’t scared of that, not even an ounce of fear in his body at the thought of your father’s wrath, instead, he worried for your safety; the more minutes passed without a trace of you, the more frustration consumed every fibre of him.

The only option left was to check the balcony.

With a bated breath, he opened the sliding door, a gentle, cool breeze of the night greeted him like a welcome hug.

His gaze scanned the open area which—thankfully—landed on your familiar figure, you stood there, leaning against the metal railing while looking up at the obsidian skies. Relief briefly washed over Chrollo as he let out a sigh but this feeling was soon replaced with red, hot anger.

He stalked over to where you stood, each step heavy with annoyance,

“Where have you been? I was looking all over for you! Don’t run off like that.”

The ever calm, and collected bodyguard coming for your neck with such ferocity caught you off guard, not to mention the obvious bite in his tone.

With furrowed brows, you turned to face Chrollo, a look of disbelief painted on your face.

The audacity of this man.

Who the hell was he to boss you around as though you were his subordinate?

“That’s ‘miss’ for you—” You crossed your arms, head slightly tilted upwards as you looked down at him from your nose.

“And relax, Chrollo. I’m not harmed. I don’t see what the fuss is about.”

You were absolutely right, and Chrollo hated that you were because he didn’t know where else to channel his anger, if anything, your words doused the flame inside his chest with gasoline, allowing it to expand, and burn an azure fire.

Despite his better judgement, Chrollo let it consume him,

“Relax? I’m your bodyguard, it’s my duty to keep you safe, and out of danger! What if something happens to you, and I’m not around, hm?”

Chrollo felt the foreign seed inside his chest grow into uncertainty—an odd feeling he’s never felt before.

Speaking out like this, and losing his cool over a situation was out of character for him but somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to stop, as though words willingly flew out of his throat, and out into the open.

“Exactly, you’re only a bodyguard. You have no right to act this way towards me. Have you forgotten I’m not your equal?” You retorted, dishing out the same amount of ferocity he had given you.

Initially, you were going to let the whole thing slide, it was understandable where Chrollo was coming from—he was only doing his job—but it pissed you off seeing as how he had the audacity to act like that.

You looked up at the taller man, gaze not backing down from his steely ones; it took him a couple of seconds to hold your stare before breaking it, and looking off to the dark horizon.

Though, you swore you saw his eyes subtly dip down for a split second before doing so—you weren’t too sure, maybe it was the darkness playing tricks.

You were right.

Chrollo was only a bodyguard, so did he cross the line?

The unclear answer made him all the more furious but for now, he’d have to settle for the explanation that he’s your bodyguard, and he has the right to worry about your safety.

Even if Chrollo himself didn’t entirely believe this reason.

“You’re right. I apologise for crossing any boundaries, miss.”

Chrollo stationed himself near the sliding door, offering you space to enjoy the quiet night in peace.

Now, you felt kind of bad for raising your voice at him when he clearly showed nothing but concern; you chalked it up to the stress your father weighed upon you tonight—the decision to tell everyone about the marriage, Euan being your date for tonight, the engagement ring that wrapped around your finger.

It was clear that Chrollo was still bothered about the whole thing, you could see it from the way his jaw tightened, and the subtle crease between his brows. Whatever. You’ll deal with it later.

A petty argument.

That was it.

But why did it have Chrollo all worked up? Why was he extremely bothered about it? Hell, where was that useless fiancé of yours, and why wasn’t he looking after you?

Questions swirled in his mind, chaotic, and uncertain—now, Chrollo was really wondering why he was acting this way.

In his twenty-six years of living, never had he felt this feeling before, it stemmed from his chest, blooming across his body, and consuming him in an unpleasant, foreign way.

The feeling stayed rooted inside even until reaching the estate where he stood guarding the door to your room.

Chrollo rubbed his forefinger, and thumb together while staring at the marbled tiles beneath his feet, it was past midnight now, and the only sound heard was the thumping of his own heart—the rhythmic beat that somewhat got louder with each passing minute.

He was soon reeled back into reality at the sound of the door opening behind him.

Stepping out of your room, Chrollo watched as the darkness unclasped your body from its confines; he quickly averted his gaze at your vulnerable state—clad in a flimsy ivory nightgown that stopped just below the knees with satin ribbon straps comfortably sitting on your shoulders.

He felt it was rather inappropriate seeing you in such an attire.

“Ahem. Anything you need, miss?” Chrollo coughed into his fist, staring at the darkness behind you instead of holding the gaze thrown his way.

Letting out a sigh, you replied,

“I think I need to clear my head a bit . . Care to join me for a night drive? That way you’ll know my whereabouts.”

The end of your sentence had a tinge of bitterness laced with it but Chrollo shrugged it off, it’d be no use trying to pick up where the two of you left off earlier.

“I take it as a yes, then? Meet me at the garage.”

With that, you walked down the stairs, the thin fabric of your nightgown swaying with each step taken.

Chrollo quickly headed to the staff house to grab the keys to his assigned vehicle.

Making his way to the door, he immediately stopped in his tracks as a sudden idea popped into mind—the gun hidden beneath his pillows.

Chrollo stared at his bed before swiftly lifting the ivory pillow, revealing a pistol given to him upon acquiring the bodyguard role.

Without a word, he tucked it inside the holster beneath the obsidian blazer he donned, and walked out of the bedroom, heading for the garage.

Disappearing into the night, an odd feeling engulfed Chrollo—he wondered whether the gun on his hip portrayed him as your bodyguard or as your assassin.

Something he has never thought about before because it had always been the latter, regardless of the situation. Nonetheless, the weapon felt awfully heavy hanging onto him—as though it was a great burden that took an even greater effort to get rid of.

The drive was awkward, and there was no set destination; the only instruction you gave Chrollo was to keep driving, and he did, without questions asked.

The only sound that filled the vehicle was the low humming of the engine which lulled you further into your thoughts, warm streetlights would illuminate the inside which allowed Chrollo to sneak brief glances at you through the rearview mirror.

He didn’t want to pry but it was clear you were overwhelmed with a lot of things.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology caught Chrollo off guard, stone cold gaze looking through the mirror to meet your own for a split second.

“Miss?” He furrowed his brows.

“For earlier. I said some harsh words as well, and you were only doing your job. So, I apologise.”

Now, it was your turn to steal glances through the rearview mirror. Chrollo’s expression remained unchanged—most likely trying to find an appropriate answer. 

He shook his head, fully aware you peered at him through the mirror,

“It’s no big deal . . It wasn’t my place to raise my voice. As you said earlier, I’m just a bodyguard.”

Chrollo’s eyes remained on the road ahead, enveloped by the night, he didn’t know why it suddenly became hard to glance through the mirror—maybe it was the unmistakable knowledge that you’d be staring straight back.

Was he nervous?

Impossible. There was no such emotion in his dictionary.

“It’s just—the whole announcing the marriage with Euan in front of all the guests stressed me out. The marriage is set in stone without my permission, and I just feel so helpless . .”

You watched the outside view go by, dull colours of the night blending into a blurry haze.

“I know the arrangement has benefits. I know that.”

It was directed more to yourself than Chrollo, as though some part of you agreed with the marriage.

“Euan is . . He’s sweet—a kind soul but I cannot see myself loving him, spending the rest of my life with him.”

The assassin gripped the wheel a little tighter at the mention of your fiancé.

“I don’t think anyone should ever go through that.” He cleared his throat, stealing another glance at you.

“You mentioned a while ago—” Chrollo spoke up, deciding to deviate the topic from Euan.

“That the marriage would benefit the company ‘more security’ . .” He trailed off, realising how he’s prying but you didn’t seem to mind with how openly you replied.

“Long story short, my father had a very close friend—Mr. Driscoll—in the industry. It was later revealed that he was involved in money laundering so most of his assets came from illegal dealings. My father played a significant role in his arrest—basically, Driscoll was stupid enough to tell my father of his underground ties, urging him to do it as well. But my father had tipped the police instead. Naturally, his son, Ciaran Driscoll—who’s now the CEO of the company—saw us in a bad light, and it won’t take long until he makes my father pay for the damages done.”

“The arranged marriage with Euan would obviously combine our security team with theirs which would decrease the chances of Ciaran, and any other dangers from getting near my father, and I.”

Yet Chrollo was here—an assassin tasked to kill you—who easily took on the role of your personal bodyguard. How ironic. You really did need that extra security from the Hestons.

“Ciaran Driscoll?”

Chrollo muttered the name under his breath which you quickly caught onto.

“Yeah. Ciaran Driscoll from Driscoll Pharmaceuticals, you know him?” He wouldn’t necessarily say he knew him but Chrollo was awfully familiar with the name—familiar enough to conclude that Ciaran was the one who hired him to kill you.

Despite meeting at a deserted location back then—nowhere near that gave any hints of Ciaran’s real identity—one of his subordinates had addressed him by his last name which Chrollo immediately picked up.

The pieces fit flawlessly.

It made sense for Ciaran to get revenge for Mr. Driscoll’s arrest by targeting what your father held most dear in his life—you.

And for that to happen, Chrollo was the middle man, the one to fuel the chaos between two families.

If he got the job done.

“No.” Chrollo lied. “Just thought the last name rang a bell.”

“Understandable, they’re a household name. Well, it used to be.”

Short silence filled the vehicle yet again, both left to their own thoughts before you spoke up, albeit, it was more of thinking aloud,

“I truly don’t know what I want in life.”

Odd.

Chrollo always thought that if one was wealthy, they’d be able to wish for anything, and everything yet somehow, even with all the gold in your hands, you were still lost. Chrollo pitied you, and he didn’t know what to make of it.

Hell, he didn’t even know whether it was appropriate to reply. What did he know? He was someone born into poverty who didn’t have the luxury to question himself about what he wanted in life, just having to see another was already a blessing itself.

Well, it wasn’t like the outcasts of society were given a choice on how to lead one’s life anyway.

The car fell in another silence but this time it was much longer, long enough for Chrollo to glance at the rearview mirror to see your eyes closed, and head leaning against the window, the rhythmic rise, and fall of your chest indicating the slumber you were in.

It was almost laughable how Chrollo was able to prove his theory right—that the rich were greedy for an even greater amount of money, the obvious example was the ex-CEO of Driscoll Pharmaceuticals, Ciaran’s father. Chrollo’s grip on the wheel tightened, leather burning against his palms at the mere thought of dirty business.

Illegal dealings.

It was possible he had a hand in Sarasa's kidnapping. Mr. Driscoll didn’t belong in jail, no, he belonged before the barrel of Chrollo’s gun.

Taking another glance at your sleeping form, Chrollo quietly pulled over to the side of the road, putting the car in park before twisting his torso to face you.

Warm streetlights casted a gentle glow upon your features, piercing grey eyes carefully tracing each one as though you were a divine creature—otherworldly, and beautiful.

You looked so peaceful, and undisturbed.

Vulnerable.

While his eyes remained on you, Chrollo slowly slid a hand inside his blazer, reaching for the gun affixed by his hip.

The assassin pulled it out, pointing the barrel to your head, the weapon cool against the warmth of his hand. In, and out, he drew steady breaths, forefinger hovering over the trigger—one pull, and it’d be over.

The problem was, Chrollo couldn’t do it.

He has pulled the trigger countless times as though it was second nature, so why couldn’t he do it now?

He couldn’t even bring himself to let his digit touch it.

As you stirred in your sleep, Chrollo swiftly tucked the gun back in his holster, and faced forward.

Shaky, uneven breaths slipped past his parted lips, the sound of his heartbeat clouding his senses. Hands balling into fists, he wondered what had gotten into him, mind racing with a million thoughts as he drowned in pure uncertainty.

Chrollo stared at his hands—the same hands that have spilled blood countless times, the same hands that killed without a second thought, the same hands that were tasked to murder you.

Yet here he was, unable to do so as if it were his first time.

“Chrollo?” You mumbled aloud.

As you peeled your eyes open, you tried to register your surroundings.

“Why did we stop? Is there something wrong?”

He cleared his throat, taking a quick glance through the rearview mirror before shaking his head,

“No, miss. I just had to take a quick call, my apologies.”

With that, Chrollo pulled away from the side of the road, taking you back to the estate.

The ride home was silent. Fortunately for Chrollo, this gave him the opportunity to calm his thoughts, and steady his growing breaths.

Obviously this has never happened before, especially while out on a mission; it made sense for the assassin to lose his cool a bit after hesitating.

If anything, it was akin to a bird suddenly losing the ability to fly when flying was the only thing it knew. To make things worse, Chrollo had just broken the unspoken rule of the underworld—to never hesitate.

To the underworld, hesitating meant fragility, and fragility meant that the enemy had the upper hand.

He was confused, and conflicted, more so upset at himself for being such a coward—why was he a coward?

After returning to the estate, you softly called out to Chrollo who was heading to the staff house,

“Do you want to come inside?”

All it took was that foreign look in your face for him to fully understand what you meant.

He didn’t have to assume anything—you’ve never looked at Chrollo with such a burning gaze, full of intent, and vulnerability.

God, it was a brazen move to do so but you wished he agreed. All you needed was a little company at the moment.

Something in the air shifted.

Maybe it was because you were both stripped of your layers, baring your defenceless forms out in the open.

Maybe it was the way Chrollo’s rational thinking became compromised on the way home.

Or maybe it was how you oddly felt comfortable around his presence, as though he was a lifelong friend.

Nonetheless, Chrollo found himself inside your bedroom, and as expected, it was grand, spacious, fit for a billionaire’s daughter.

Sweet aroma of fresh chrysanthemums filled the air but it was nothing like he had remembered back in Meteor City which was laced with grief, and sorrow. 

Instead, it enveloped Chrollo in a warm welcoming hug, he could finally understand your interpretation of chrysanthemums—devoted love, and loyalty.

Moonlight spilled from the windows, illuminating the side of Chrollo’s face.

He was just standing there yet he mirrored the divinity of an angel as soft shadows contoured his handsome face, dark eyes gleaming beneath the dulcet glow; you’ve never been able to decipher the emotions behind his gaze but tonight was different, his stare was soft mixed with hint of uncertainty; Chrollo wore his heart on his sleeves.

“Help me escape even for a little while.” 

Like the obedient bodyguard he was, he nodded.

Chrollo took one step closer, reaching out a hand to gently undo one of the satin ribbon straps.

The flimsy fabric gracefully slid off your right shoulder, just enough to expose your pert nipple.

It hardened beneath the cool evening air which had Chrollo swallowing thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing with pure excitement, and hunger; oh, how he couldn’t wait to put his lips on your skin, and devour you.

Wasting no time to undo the other ribbon strap, your nightgown instantly fell to the carpeted floors, the fabric pooling around your feet, leaving you almost completely bare in front of Chrollo.

Your skin grew feverish beneath his observant stare as he traced every dip, and curve, dark eyes gleaming with anticipation.

After a heartbeat or two, Chrollo’s lips were on your skin, palms finding home just above your waist; he placed gentle kisses down the side of your neck as though on a mission to mark you, pulling dainty gasps in the process.

You tasted absolutely divine—like a hopeful prayer between his lips, and he craved for more. Soft smacks slowly filled your ears as he praised you with kisses.

Down, down, down Chrollo’s lips went before stopping at the junction of your neck, he gave the sensitive skin an experimental lick to which you responded with a heated gasp of his name.

Tilting your head to the side allowed more freedom for Chrollo to explore; hands coming up to tangle with his raven strands, and tug at it urged him to mark your skin with hues of dark purple, and red.

And he did. Gentle, wet kisses turned into rough, electric ones as Chrollo used both teeth, and tongue to nip, and suck at your skin.

“Chrollo—!” 

The assassin could only grunt in response as he carved himself onto your skin like a knife on wood—over and over again ‘til it left a lasting mark.

And when you stare at these sinful hues in the mirror, you’d be reminded of the feel of his lips, how his kisses turned your legs into a wobbly mess and mind into a lustful haze.

Embarrassing, warm wetness pooled on the fabric of your panties as Chrollo neared your breasts. Uou watched with a bated breath and keen eyes as he wrapped his lips around a mound—the sinful sight of Chrollo trying to take in as much of it as he could had your legs buckling, you were sure to have met the floor if it weren’t for his firm hold.

You let out a soft moan at the feel of his hot tongue swirling around your nipple, teeth gently grazing the sensitive spot which sent lightning down the length of your spine.

Eager hands tugged at the roots of his obsidian strands, nails raking across his scalp; it was beyond lewd how you readily pushed your bare body into Chrollo’s face—a man you’ve only known for less than a month yet here he was, wicked lips made of fire against your naked skin that melted like ice.

A large hand snaked its way up your front, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and pausing just beneath the other breast before cupping it wholly—the heart of his palm rubbing against your sensitive nipple as he massaged, and toyed with the fat.

Without an ounce of shame left in inside you, you wantonly moaned his name at the feel of his lips, and hand making love to your chest, it had Chrollo twitching in his slacks but he paid no mind to it because tonight was about ravishing your body until no one else could compare—not even Euan Heston.

Chrollo didn’t know what this meant for the both of you after but that was okay because once the night ends, your body would crave for none but him, and only him.

Chrollo let go of your swollen, wet breast with a soft pop, he looked up through his lashes before licking his lips, as though he just devoured the tastiest meal of his life.

Working his way down your torso, he placed chaste kisses down the valley of your breasts, steadily sinking to his knees as he descended further, each passing second growing closer to your heat—where you needed him the most. 

Before Chrollo could kiss the intimate spot just below your belly button, you cupped his face, making him look up at you with slight confusion,

“On the bed . .”

Three words was all he needed to understand before standing to his full height,

“Jump.” Chrollo ordered.

You didn’t need to be told twice before doing so, arms, and legs wrapping around him while he supported your weight.

As Chrollo sauntered over to the bed, you used the time to eagerly explore the spot beneath his ear, using teeth, and tongue to suck at it which pulled a few soft sighs from him.

His intoxicating scent filled your senses, the sweet minty aroma from chrysanthemums mixed with his musky perfume had you groaning into his skin.

Chrollo shuddered at the feeling, the tips of his fingers digging further into the fat of your ass.

Gently laying you down on the pillows beneath, he stared at the serene beauty before him, steely eyes drinking in your nakedness.

Chrollo’s stare felt like you were standing directly under the blazing sun on a summer day, igniting your skin to the core without anywhere to take cover but you liked it, you liked the feeling of his hungry stare, how he looked at you like fresh meat on a silver platter—a predator, and his prey.

As if to put on a show, Chrollo hastily shrugged off his blazer, mindlessly throwing it on the floor, leaving him with a white button down.

He caught a glimpse of your lust-clouded gaze staring at the gun affixed to his hip to which he immediately removed by unclasping the holster.

The weapon landed on the floor with a heavy thud, you paid no mind to it but for Chrollo, it served as a harsh reminder of his real motive and everything that would happen tonight was nothing but an insignificant moment in his life.

At least that's what he convinced himself this was.

The mattress groaned beneath Chrollo’s weight as he dipped down, wasting no time to connect his lips on your bare skin and picking up where he left off—right below your belly button.

He kissed at it before wickedly pulling the waistband of your panties using his teeth and letting go of it to snap against your skin.

A small gasp escaped your lips at the feel of the slight burning sensation which had you aching for more; it also didn’t help how his hot breath ghosted over the most intimate part of your body.

Though, before you could open your mouth and beg, Chrollo hooked a forefinger around the waistband and swiftly tugged it down the length of your legs, wet cunt squeezing at nothing as the cool air embraced its heat.  

Chrollo took his time to enjoy the bare sight before him by placing open-mouthed kisses dangerously near your sopping cunt—on your inner thighs, below your belly button and the spot just above your clit.

It had your eyes rolling to the back of your head, fingers digging into the sheets beneath. What a wicked, wicked man, he hasn’t even properly touched you yet here you were, legs shaking from all the teasing.

Pride bloomed across his chest at the sight of you—the fucked out expression you donned, the heavy rise, and fall of your chest, and the dainty whimpers that filled the air.

Hooking his hands behind your knees, Chrollo gently pushed them towards your chest ‘til you were folded in half, glistening cunt deliciously exposed for him to devour.

A wanton moan slipped past your lips as Chrollo traced his tongue around the outside of your clit before laying the wet muscle flat against it.

He expertly rubbed at the sensitive nub, lewd sounds mixed with your shameless moans engulfed his ears, encouraging him to further stimulate the spot.

Your hips bucked against his face, hands flying down to his hair as the electric sensation returned to your body, sending massive jolts of lightning down the curve of your spine.

“Chrollo, right there! Yes—haah!” You gasped as he switched to the tip of his tongue to lick at your clit. 

Chrollo placed his thumb, and forefinger on either side of your clit for better access before moving his tongue side-to-side, across the area beneath the clitoral hood, resulting in a broader stimulation that had you stiffening with pure pleasure.

Looking down at the sinful view between your legs, you let out a loud moan as Chrollo met your eyes through his hooded ones.

Without a doubt, ecstasy slowly consumed both his body, and mind with how he subtly rocked his hips against the mattress—cock aching for any kind of contact but Chrollo had to focus more on holding your hips down while you unceremoniously thrashed around, trying to slow your impending orgasm.

As Chrollo continued his torture, it didn’t take long for you to let pleasure consume your body as a whole, and cum on his tongue.

He drank in your pleasured state—lips parted, brows furrowed, and back arched off the mattress; the orgasm that hit you was intense, as though your whole body has been electrified, and the only way to respond was by moaning his name like a sacred prayer in hopes you keep you grounded to reality.

Chrollo relished the taste of your essence on his tongue by closing his eyes, humming against your sensitive nub in complete satisfaction which had your legs shaking, and hands attempting to push his head away.

He gave a few more gentle licks before pulling away, revealing his chin completely drenched in your filthy arousal—Chrollo paid no mind, simply bringing a hand up to his face to wipe at it.

You watched through a lustful haze as Chrollo finally worked on his shirt, each button undone growing closer, and closer to exposing the entirety of his torso.

As he shrugged the fabric off, you couldn’t help but reach out to touch his bare skin—it was pale, fascinatingly chiselled, and scarred; Chrollo’s torso was decorated with a few raised, discoloured patches here and there indicating the rough past he had.

He stared as you traced a scar with your forefinger—a ghostly touch that brought a shudder down his spine—but before you could move onto the next one, Chrollo gently grabbed your wrist, and brought it up to his face, placing a chaste kiss on the heart of your palm.

By no means was he insecure about those scars, in fact, he proudly wore them like a badge, to serve as a reminder that the rest of the world wasn’t his friend.

You’d be lying to yourself if you said your heart didn’t skip a beat or two.

The kiss from Chrollo was different—different from the one Euan had given you during the company event.

Yes, the latter was full of sincerity but it didn’t bring warmth to your face like Chrollo’s one had.

Or maybe it was just because of how lost you were in pure lust, unable to decipher even the simplest feelings.

“Tonight is all about you.”

Chrollo shouldn’t be doing this, it goes against his beliefs, and goals—against the very reason why he turned into the person who he was right now.

Mingling with the wealthy, even going to an extent as to have sex with you, if his younger self saw him right now, he wouldn’t be able to believe it.

But what was it about you that had Chrollo rewriting his rules? Why was he so willing to throw away the deep rooted anger inside his heart to pleasure you?

More so, what did he gain from all this?—not money, not power, definitely not the justice he sought.

Nonetheless, Chrollo threw those thoughts in the moonlit window—he’d grab them again later at the crack of dawn when guilt eats him alive.

Slowly, he dipped his hands below his torso, fumbling with the zipper of his slacks; Chrollo felt your heated stare on his crotch, how your short breaths quickened as he tantalisingly pulled the metal zip down, the sound echoed along with your breathing, allowing Chrollo to bask in your desperation.

You thanked the stars above as he bared himself without anymore teasing, articles of clothing that once hugged his body were now strewn across the floor of your room like unmended pieces of oneself.

Moonlight surrounded Chrollo like a serene aura, an angelic-like glow that had his skin radiating beneath the celestial gleam, turning his hair into the colour of the first starlight.

It was hard to focus on his heavenly appearance when sin was right between his legs.

“Do you want me to stop?” 

No, god, no, just the thought of Chrollo completely leaving you high, and dry brought tears to your eyes.

Shaking your head vigorously, he crawled atop your lust-fuelled body before placing a chaste kiss on your temple then onto your nose, trailing further down ‘til he reached the valley of your breasts.

You let out a shudder as Chrollo lapped his way down, not forgetting to tease at your pebbled nipples by giving them a light nip.

“Chrollo, please . .”

For once, this was different from what was usually thrown his way—most people begged for their lives as they stared down the barrel of his gun with pure horror in their eyes, lips disturbingly quivering as they pleaded during their last moments.

Wasting no time, Chrollo met your gaze once more, his face mere centimetres from yours.

You gasped as his cockhead gently prodded at your entrance as he reached down between your bodies, he rubbed it a few more times, the sinful contact earning low grunts, and moans from both of you.

Chrollo connected his forehead with yours, damp obsidian hair ghosting over your warmed cheeks, holding it in a gentle caress

Chrollo let out a shaky breath, cock slowly pushing your folds apart as he inched in.

Immediately, your legs curled around the dip of his bare waist, interlocking behind his lower back; your hasty movement jolted Chrollo forward which forced his cock further into the plush of your velvety walls.

He sighed, cursing the eye rolling pleasure sent his body into a pathetic tremble. Though, you were no better, clenching around Chrollo every time he pushed deeper—not only did it test his sanity but it also tested his patience.

He reminded himself a million times that simply fucking you like a mere cocksleeve was not his intention for tonight.

Or ever.

Rich or not, you were still a woman after all, one deserving of nothing but genuine pleasure.

As Chrollo bottomed out, he held your starry gaze, watching as your eyes glistened with tears—whether it was from the bliss his cock had you under or from sadness, Chrollo had no idea.

You felt so full, as though the gaping void inside you had been magically sealed—his cock sat there unmoving yet it hit all the right spots, the ones that had you trembling a little harder, and moaning a little louder.

Hot breaths mingled as the two of you let out heavy pants, he stilled inside your wet cunt, allowing both himself, and you to adjust to the feeling, “You’re so tight—fuck.” You gave your hips an experimental rut at his words which pulled a long hiss from him, brows furrowing together.

After a heartbeat or two, Chrollo slowly pulled out, the languid drag of his cock against the plush of your walls had you whining in the shape of his name.

It went straight to his cock, twitching at the pornographic sound you let out—if you noticed, you didn’t let on, you were too focused on the way he moved inside you.

With only the tip remaining, Chrollo pushed his hips using the same pace; all the way until he disappeared in your folds once again, heavy balls kissing the skin of your ass.

You could feel the entirety of his length—every dip, and curve which had your legs shaking, and toes curling a little harder.

Chrollo’s cock was slightly curved upward which allowed an easy reach to your sweet spot, and with every languid thrust he gave you, his cockhead kissed it repeatedly.

Hands that were pinned to the pillows were released as Chrollo brought a hand to caress your cheek while the other supported his weight.

You leaned into his fiery touch, as if doing so was going to ground you from cloud nine. 

Setting a deep, slow pace, Chrollo’s face remained a breath away from yours—he kept eye contact, nothing but an endless pit of alluring onyx that pulled you further into the ocean of bliss.

Every languid stroke pulled oxygen from your lungs, it had you desperately gasping for air, one which only Chrollo could quench by whispering sweet nothings mere inches from your parted lips.

Mixed with breathless sighs of pleasure was the soft creaking of the bed frame which sung in unison beneath the weight of your rocking bodies.

The air grew impossibly thick, and hot allowing the sheets to stick uncomfortably to your bare back but you didn’t care, not when Chrollo fucked you into the mattress as if the sun was going to burn out tomorrow.

You pulled him closer, arms instinctively wrapping around his torso to decorate his back with crimson streaks.

The sharp sting of your nails fuelled Chrollo’s drive—he picked up the pace but remained bottoming out with every powerful thrust, causing your body to jolt in response.

You clung to him tighter, legs painfully locked behind his back as he did his best to move in, and out of your sopping cunt.

You were close, and despite Chrollo taking you for the first time, he knew—he could feel your body stiffen with each passing second, the way your greedy cunt grew impossibly tighter, making it hard for him move, and not to mention your broken cries of his name so close to his ears that those were all he could hear.

“I’m so near—god, please don’t stop, Chrollo—!”

You sounded so vulnerable, so bare it made his cock twitch.

Greed consuming his pleasured state, Chrollo wrapped an arm around your shoulders, deftly snaking it between the mattress, and your back.

He pulled you closer, the weight of your limp torso straining against his curled limb while the other supported his own body.

Chrollo cradled your head with his palm, pushing your face closer to his ‘til the tip of his nose brushed your own.

Oh, how tempted he was to kiss the very lips that cried out his name as if he were your saving grace—an angel with his hand stretched out to you.

Barely a whisper above the heavy breaths you exchanged, your name smoothly rolled off his tongue.

It was the first time Chrollo did so, and god how addictive it sounded; you shuddered at it, his dulcet voice engulfing the entirety of your being right down to your very core.

“You’ve been so good, are you going to cum? To let go, for me?”

With the minute space left between the two of you, you vigorously nodded your head, too fucked to care about the desperation that seeped from your skin like sweat.

Chrollo moaned at your wordless response, fingers slightly curling at the back of your head, his nails dragging across your scalp,

“Haah—! That’s right, give in to it.”

And you did.

With a final drive of his hips, you came undone—the pressure that’s been slowly building up finally bursting inside you.

A broken moan escaped your lips, body arching closer to his as you let your orgasm take you beyond cloud nine.

As if you weren’t already breathless from panting like a whore, Chrollo greedily pressed his lips against your quivering ones to capture them in a passionate kiss.

His lips were soft, and sensual, like it was sculpted by the goddess of love herself.

He greedily drank in every moan, and whimper you had to offer, claiming them as his own prized possession to keep.

Chrollo’s pace faltered at the feel of your cum coating his cock in a warm embrace—a feeling he’s been deprived off, a feeling he didn’t know he needed.

Pulling away from the kiss, he spoke, breathless,

“I’m close—fuck. Where do y—”

“Inside.”

Chrollo swallowed thickly with your legs tightening around him. It dizzied him, the thought of you so willing to let your insides be marked by him without a second thought.

A small gasp escaped you as he gently set you down onto the mattress, his cockhead brushing your sensitive spot.

With his orgasm near, Chrollo dropped his body on top of your own, torsos flush against each other as he trapped you with his weight.

With his own pleasure in mind, Chrollo gave short, hasty thrusts, desperately rutting his hips to chase the growing bliss.

The only option for you was to lay there, and moan his name from overstimulation; with his weight on yours, you couldn’t squirm your way out of the immense pleasure.

“I’m here—ngh! ‘M close.” Chrollo whispered into your ear, a hint of apology laced his tone, most likely from how overstimulated you were.

After a few more desperate thrusts, Chrollo stilled, sheathing his cock all the way inside your cunt, you felt him twitch before releasing his load with a low moan. 

Feeling his hot cum paint your walls white, you mirrored the sound he made.

Loud, wet squelches filled the room as Chrollo rode out his high, effectively fucking his cum deeper.

The two of you stayed still for a moment, letting your bodies bathe in serene moonlight. You laid beneath him, listening to his rhythmic heartbeat pound away against his ribcage, it effectively lulled you to the borders of sleep, your heavy eyelids slowly closing in exhaustion.

Though, before you could fully close them, Chrollo rolled off your body with a soft grunt, his cock slipping out in the process.

The loss of contact had you clenching around nothing at the feel of his cum slowly seeping out of your cunt. Before you could speak up, Chrollo beat you to it,

“I should go.”

He cleared his throat, voice low, a hint of sadness laced in his tone.

Though, you didn’t catch on.

Chrollo quietly gathered his clothes, putting them on layer by layer until he was fully clothed.

An indiscernible emotion washed over you as he made his way to the door, each quiet step taken tugging at an invisible string tangled in your heart. Oddly enough, it stung.

“Yeah . .” You nodded in a daze.

The lack of response from your end tore at Chrollo’s insides—it made sense, after all, he was nothing but a quick fuck, what did he expect?

For you to convince him to stay the night? That was beyond delusional.

As Chrollo reached for the handle, you called his name out of instinct. His heart skipped a beat.

“Yes, miss . . ?” He spoke your title in a small voice, unsure which name was appropriate in this situation.

“Thank you.”

That was all you could reply with. What else was there anyway?

Chrollo wasn’t a person you were supposed to be sleeping with in the first place, nor was he your lover who you could be intimate with after sex. Chrollo was nothing but a bodyguard, and will remain your bodyguard.

Whatever happened in this room was to be forgotten.

The sound of the door clicking reached your ears, and in the blink of an eye, he was gone. His scent lingered in the air, becoming one with the sweet aroma of chrysanthemums.

Within the next coming days, you were right, and wrong.

Right because in the face of others, the professional relationship between you, and Chrollo remained—a bodyguard, and his principal.

Wrong because stupidly enough, the both of you had not forgotten what happened a couple of nights back.

The days were filled with stolen glances, and stuttering heartbeats, you couldn’t stand by idly while your heart yearned for your bodyguard.

At first, you convinced yourself that this feeling was purely lust-driven, it was only natural to seek out Chrollo’s presence after a night with him.

You believed it for a week.

One whole week until you felt your heart clenching at the sight of your bodyguard exchanging a conversation with one of the maids.

Chrollo was all smiles, the kind that reached his eyes; the maid wasn’t any better, an obvious blush extending from her cheeks to her ears said it all.

He never smiled at you like that.

Why was he treating you—his boss—any different? Chrollo was always nonchalant with you, barely any words spoken yet here he was animatedly cracking jokes left, and right like he had some kind of alter ego.

It pissed you off. 

More so, being angry at the fact that Chrollo treated you differently upset you even more. At best, this was a trivial matter, something you shouldn’t even think about. 

But you couldn’t let go of it, not when he gazed at you the same way he had done so that night.

Within the next week, you’d realise that merely having Chrollo by your side wasn’t enough.

On Monday, you did your best to converse with him while buying chrysanthemums at the boutique, even going as far as giving him a flower from your bouquet, hoping that he’d think of you whenever he looked at it.

On Wednesday, instead of asking your personal assistant to grab your lunch, you took Chrollo instead, and headed out the office which gave you more alone time with him. 

And by Friday, you couldn’t take it anymore. You called Chrollo into your bedroom late at night after finding the courage to do so.

Naturally, he stood inside as if he didn’t have you filling the room with your own moans two weeks ago.

The familiar sweet scent of chrysanthemums filled his lungs, taking him back to the pleasure-filled night with you. Chrollo pushed the thought down, deeming it extremely inappropriate, especially being alone with you like this, again.

He swallowed as you pat the empty spot next to you, your vulnerable state beckoning him to devour you. Who was he to deny himself of acting on his predatory instincts? 

“This is . . rather unprofessional, miss.”

That was the last thing he said before he found himself sitting on the edge of your bed, kissing you like he loved you.

Did he?

Large hands cupped your jaw, eagerly pulling you closer to his face.

Even though Chrollo didn’t bare his heart, the zeal behind his kisses revealed the truth hidden in his chest.

Both lips fell into a unison, slotting into each other like they were made for one another. Before getting carried away, Chrollo pulled back, brows lifting in amusement as he watched the way your face leaned in, searching for his lips.

“What—What about Mr. Euan?”

He asked, breathless, onyx strands dishevelled, courtesy of your wandering hands. 

You both knew you didn’t have feelings for Euan but saying it aloud wasn’t going to change the fact that a ring sat on your finger, it was far more complicated than that.

Lowering your gaze, you shrugged. Guilt picked at your skin, the thought of disrespecting Euan had you freezing in place.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be prying.”

Chrollo whispered, hot breath fanning across your face. He tucked a strand behind your ear before sliding his digit down to your chin, lifting your face.

“Kiss me?”

You didn’t have to be told twice.

What the two of you had wasn’t exactly a relationship—beyond a professional relationship but less than a romantic one.

But Chrollo cared for you all the same, even if it meant watching in the sidelines as Euan made his polite advances—kiss on your cheek, a hand on the small of your back, his fingers tucking stray hairs aside, Chrollo endured it all. Whether or not it affected him, he didn’t let on.

Instead, he returned affection tenfold in comparison to what Euan gave you.

Your room had turned into a rendezvous—every night, behind its closed doors, Chrollo took you in his arms, and whisked you away from reality, from all the inhibitions you felt.

And amidst all the meaningful conversations, the shared pleasure, the tears shed, a bond deeper than one could comprehend blossomed within these walls.

Chrollo became a rock you could lean on—a significant person you could be vulnerable with, and bare your heart on the table, unguarded.

He listened to your problems, and silly thoughts with open arms, and ears, stroking your hair beneath the moonlight as the two of you lay underneath the ivory sheets.

With you, he was a completely different person, a person who he deserved to become.

One that could relate to the little joys in life—whether it be chasing sunsets, dipping salty fries in vanilla ice cream or looking up at the night sky without any remorse in one's heart.

With you, Chrollo had a fleeting glimpse of the life he was robbed of because all he knew was how to survive for another day—how to kill swiftly, and effectively.

And he’d be reminded of all these when returned to his own quarters in the dead of the night.

That the sole purpose of his arrangement in this estate was to take you out—not to nurture a bond with you, not to have sex with you, not to listen to all your thoughts, no. Chrollo was here as your assassin.

To hold you so gently in his hands knowing they would be the same ones covered in your blood.

It was almost laughable, it surprised Chrollo how he—a person conditioned to destroy—was able to touch you with the utmost gentleness as if he’s never once tasted violence on his tongue.

Clearly, you both felt something for one another but acting on it was easier said than done—not to mention how this mission wasn’t supposed to end up like this, all tangled up in a web known as you. 

Did Chrollo love you?

Truth be told, he didn’t know.

He never had the privilege of experiencing what romantic love was. Wanting to be by your side was the only thing he was certain of.

Lying in bed, Chrollo looked over at his nightstand, it housed a singular piece of chrysanthemum soaked in a glass of water—one that you had given him earlier this week.

Now, his room smelled just like yours, the flower’s sweet aroma lingering in the air. It helped Chrollo sleep a little better; smelling its familiar scent tricked his mind into thinking he slept in your presence.

A little over a week.

That was how much time Chrollo had left to get the job done assigned by Ciaran. It wasn’t long, and he knew he had to make the decision soon but not before taking a gamble.

As Saturday arrived, you stuck to your routine as usual, the only difference was, the late night was spent driving around with Chrollo.

The atmosphere inside the vehicle grew thicker by the minute, he could tell something weighed your mind from the way you pursed your lips, and fidgeted with the hem of your shirt.

But of course, the ever polite man he was, he waited ‘til you opened up to him—Chrollo knew you like the back of his hand, whenever things bothered you to an extent, it didn’t take long for you to break.

“Can I tell you something?”

You murmured above the hum of the engine.

Staring to the side, you watched as Chrollo wordlessly nodded his head, stealing a brief glance your way before focusing on the wheel. He took notice of how you sat on the front passenger seat instead of your usual spot.

Looking out the window, you spoke up, “I . . don’t know how to deal with all this.”

Chrollo remained silent, urging you to continue.

“I’m going to be married to a man I don’t love, and I’ll be running a company I don’t want. And us. I want you, Chrollo, I really do but I . .”

Chrollo’s grip tightened around the wheel.

“Why don’t we just run away, and leave all this behind? We can build a new life together and—” 

“Is that what you want? To run away with me?” Chrollo cut you off. Coming to a full stop at the red lights, he turned to you, the seriousness in his expression made you somewhat nervous.

Would it be foolish of him to comfort you with words he partially meant?—words that would only hurt you in the end?

“I can give you that.”

At this point, Chrollo was lying to himself. To be so brazen, and accept running away with you knowing well enough his neck was chained to the underground—loyal to his roots.

Weighing the options, it was crystal clear that the odds were against the both of you.

Of course, you didn’t know that, you had absolutely no idea Chrollo had underground ties nor was he assigned to kill you by none other than Ciaran.

Considering the latter’s involvement in underground business, you wouldn’t be the only one with a target on their back; it only made sense for Ciaran to put a hit on Chrollo as well for disobeying his orders if he were to consider running away.

It would elicit a whole lot of enemies, and he couldn’t put you in a situation where he was willing to risk you dying in someone else’s hands. 

Living a life hiding from dangers of the world—that’s what you would have to go through if you, and Chrollo were to run away. Did you really deserve to live that way? Did you deserve to live in the conditions Chrollo tried to run away from?

The answer was more than obvious.

Obviously, a life with Euan benefitted you more—you’d have more stability, and security. Who was he to take away all those things from you?

Having never tasted something as sweet as this feeling with you, Chrollo found himself holding tighter rather than letting go, he fed on greed, and delusion. 

Truth be told, it tore him apart. A part of him cursed, and yelled at him for being so naïve, and easily moved by a woman he had only known for a month and a half—not to mention how he despised your kind.

The other part urged him to reach for the unthinkable, and build a new life he deserved, with you. Chrollo was ready to lay his weapon down if it meant being by your side ‘til the end of time.

Maybe in another life.

He knew he had to make a decision. Soon. Ciaran had been making calls to his burner more often than not, and he could sense the former’s patience growing thinner, and thinner as each day turned into night.

Whatever Chrollo’s decision was, he just hoped you’d still love him all the same—forgive him.

There was one crucial piece of information Chrollo had remembered.

On Sundays, you dismissed all security staff that accompanied you, including the chauffeur, Lukas.

This meant that for one day, you were completely unguarded, and alone. Chrollo was unaware of the reason but it was obvious you wanted to experience a sense of independence one way or another.

Nonetheless, he managed to keep an eye on you by using an ample amount of distance—it was a piece of cake, after all, he tracked his targets in stealth mode for a living; akin to a predator sizing up its prey before sinking its canines.

Sundays weren’t particularly eventful, you spent the day alone running around swiping your credit card left, and right until it made you feel a tad better.

So when Chrollo had ‘accidentally’ bumped into you at the parking lot, hidden from public cameras, he was aware of how effortless it was to whisk you away from the public.

“Chrollo? What brings you here?”

The bodyguard was dressed in his usual attire, a white button down neatly tucked beneath his black slacks, and this time, he didn’t wear a blazer.

“I figured you’d be here, miss. Something came up at the estate—you’re needed back home.”

A lie.

Chrollo observed as the sparkle in your eyes drained at his words, genuine concern rolling in like grey clouds looming above on a stormy night.

His heart clenched.

Not in a good way.

“Don’t worry, no one is hurt.”

With his reassurance, your shoulders dropped with ease, the breath you’ve been holding slipped past your lips in a relieved sigh.

It pained the assassin how trusting you were, how easily one could play you into the palm of their hand the same way he did right now.

Why?—why didn’t you question how effortlessly Chrollo pinpointed your exact location?

The city was expansive, no normal person would be able to trace your steps unless they followed right from when you left the estate.

The vehicle was quiet, leaving room for Chrollo to notice the faint scent of chrysanthemums inside—it was your personal car, not the one Lukas used to drive you around hence the flowery aroma.

For some odd reason, the smell no longer comforted him the same way it did whenever he frequented your room.

It made him nauseous.

If Chrollo was to put it in words, the aroma smelled of sweet death, and it reminded him of the church back in Meteor City.

Consumed by concern, and lost in your own thoughts, you paid no attention to your surroundings outside, how it grew less, and less familiar with each kilometre driven by your bodyguard.

You also didn’t notice Chrollo repeatedly stealing glances through the rearview mirror every now, and then, missing the way his steely gaze housed a hint of nervousness—an emotion he didn’t normally harbour.

Though, as you finally came to, you gazed out the window, eyes carefully scanning the fleeting hues outside as the car drove by.

Soft colours of pinks, and oranges seeped through the glass which casted an ethereal glow inside, it hinted at the setting sun, and the darkness that loomed just around the corner.

As your brain registered the foreign roads, confusion settled in, “Are we taking a detour, Chrollo?”

He wordlessly nodded.

You mirrored his action in acknowledgement but the feeling of unease was oddly difficult to dismiss, especially with how deserted these roads were.

The streets were decorated with construction sites, abandoned buildings, and old houses that were decorated with wooden planks to seal off windows, and entrances.

A weird feeling settled in the pit of your stomach.

You caught the way Chrollo’s stone cold gaze locked with yours for a split second but didn’t dare speak up.

Just as your heart started to race, the vehicle came to a halt, Chrollo had parked in front of an abandoned building—an old chapel, based on its architecture.

Its unmistakable pointed roof aiming at the skies above, and stained glass windows marked with angels, and other holy beings said it all.

The building was surrounded by overgrown greenery, and wrecked furniture dumped on the side which hinted at years of apparent neglect.

Its dressed stone walls were the epitome of sacrilege itself, littered with colourful vandalism from top to bottom; even just seeing it with your own eyes felt like a grave sin.

A forbidden image.

“What—”

“Get out.” Chrollo cut you off.

For a tone so cold you could’ve swore a subtle shudder ran down the length of your spine. His stare met your own through the mirror for a second time and your heart sank all the way down to your stomach at how serious he was, dread slowly engulfing your body.

What the hell was happening!? Why was Chrollo acting strangely?

“No.”

Chrollo turned to face you, still wearing that stoic expression.

You felt small under his gaze, it almost felt predatory—no—not almost, it did; you didn’t want to admit but you caught a glimpse of the way his eyes sparkled with sharp, murderous intent.

Swallowing thickly, you crossed your arms, trying to appear nonchalant, albeit, it was more for yourself than for the man before you.

“Not until I get an answer. You mentioned something had come up at the estate, so why aren’t we—”

“I lied.”

Before you could question his motives, Chrollo swiftly got out, the resounding thud as he shut the door closed had your body flinching a bit.

You watched as he rounded the car, and made his way just before your door.

Opening it, a hand reached in for your wrist; gentle fingers curled around your skin as if you were a delicate flower—a daring contrast from the way his piercing gaze stabbed shards of unease throughout your body.

You pulled away, easily slipping off Chrollo’s placid grasp before helping yourself out of the vehicle. His hand curled into a loose fist as he watched you exit the car with an evident scowl on your face; funnily enough, Chrollo had the audacity to feel upset at the rejection.

Never once have you denied his touch.

Crossing the narrow clearing that led to the unsealed church entrance, chunks of loose stone, and dirt moved beneath your steps; you stared at your feet as they navigated through the unstable terrain.

It was odd.

Calm, and composed were the last two things you should be feeling in this situation, given the sudden shift in Chrollo’s demeanour, you were supposed to be fearing for your life right this instance despite your blindness to the hidden danger that lay ahead.

Chrollo . . He would never do that to you, right?

Upon taking the job, he swore to protect you. But your better judgement screamed at all the glaring crimson coloured flags—an abandoned church in a deserted neighbourhood?

It was the perfect set up for heinous crimes.

Out of instinct, you scanned the layout of the building from where you stood, if it came down to it, there was only one viable escape route which was through the main entrance of the church, the one Chrollo pulled open.

By now, the sun had fully disappeared below the horizon, and the colourful remnants the burning star left in its wake slowly faded into deep hues of night azure.

Strangely, this end of the town harboured harsher winds with a freezing bite that had you rubbing your arms over the sleeves of your top.

A heavy groan sounded from the mahogany doors, it cut through the wind’s endless howl as it danced with the leaves, and through the sharp branches, interlocking trees in a soft sway.

A chill ran down your spine at the loudness of it.

The doors parted revealing a view you’d expect in an old abandoned church—disorganised pews to create a spacing in the middle, antique chandeliers affixed to the high ceiling covered in thick layers of dust and cobwebs, and trash scattered across its marbled floors; by the state of the inside, squatters most likely frequented the building due to its unsealed entrance.

The inside was dimly lit from street lights outside, it poured through the stained glass windows which allowed a deep scarlet glow to illuminate the building.

Chrollo stepped inside, the soles of his obsidian dress shoes quietly clicked with every calculated step further into the church.

Foolishly enough, you followed as though a crimson string bound yourself to his—he was acting strangely, and the most appropriate approach as of now was to question his behaviour, and the bizarreness of the situation.

Walking away would only prove useless with how far he has driven, and he had your car keys; at best, you could only cooperate.

“Chrollo, will you please tell me what’s going on?” You navigated inside the old building, the scent of mildew, and rotten wood lingered in the damp air, it captured your senses in a tight hold.

Ruby bounced off Chrollo’s inky strands as he stood at the heart of the church, right beneath the stained windows with divine beings. It turned his pale skin into an angry red, and you wondered if that’s what he felt right this very moment; clearly you weren’t far off with how he pierced your soul earlier.

He turned to face you, “I’m doing this for your sake.” For the first time today, emotion seeped through the cracks of his nonchalance. 

Chrollo looked almost sad, you weren’t entirely sure given the lack of lighting but the unmistakable glint behind those obsidian eyes was anything but foreign.

For a split second, it was the same Chrollo that spent countless nights in your bedroom; not as your bodyguard, not as anyone else but simply as Chrollo—your Chrollo.

“For my sake? What the hell are you talking about, Chrollo?”

Like the vermillion glow that bounced off your skin as you stepped closer, anger slowly bubbled in the pit of your stomach.

Chrollo was nothing but cryptic with his responses, and you couldn’t wrap your head around any of them!

He had always been a straightforward person, sometimes blunt, so why was he holding back now?

Standing beneath the scarlet light softly illuminated your features, Chrollo thought you looked exquisite bathed in the brilliance of red.

Even with a tinge of doubt, and anger in your eyes, you were filled with love the same way the colour kissed every part of your skin.

“An escape from all this . . That’s what you want, right?” With his right hand, Chrollo reached inside his pocket, it took you a few seconds to identify the item in his hand—a gun.

With the way it’s unmistakable silver glistened beneath the dim lighting, you could tell it was a weapon of his own; not the ones registered under your father’s name.

You stiffened, and your body ran cold, gaze met with the barrel of his gun.

“Chrollo?”

Barely a whisper, you called out his name above the thick atmosphere, each second spent inside it had you desperately gasping for air; whether it be from nervousness or confusion, you didn’t care to find out.

He swallowed thickly, fingers curling tighter around the handle of his gun, trying to ignore the way your desperate plea violently struck a chord in his heart.

“Chrollo please put the gun down! You’re out of your mind!”

Panic surged from head to toe, it came in vicious waves, scratching, and gnawing at your bare skin like a vehement beast.

Chrollo tried to ignore the apparent tremble in your voice, he couldn’t afford to mess this up.

“Yes, I want to escape—with you. Why are you doing this to me, Chrollo? Why do you want me dead?!”

The third time his name rolled off your tongue, he was ready to throw the gun across the room, and cradle you in his arms while whispering apologetic nothings in your ear.

But he didn’t.

Chrollo stayed rooted in his spot, gun aimed at you, “Remember Ciaran Driscoll?—”

You furrowed your brows. Ciaran?

“He paid me to kill you.” A shaky breath, that was all you could muster, your mind was too busy trying to piece everything together.

Ciaran. Chrollo. Kill. Your blood ran cold.

But Chrollo didn’t give you time to breathe, steady clicks of his shoes echoed throughout the church as he paced back, and forth,

“I was elated when I agreed to his proposal. Why? Because a pompous soul dying by my hands is what I’m made for—”

He was calm, and collected, a faint smile displayed on his face as he slowly walked towards you.

“Did you know what your people did? To my home? To my friend?”

Stopping just before you, Chrollo leaned in, obsidian gaze piercing right through you.

“A lot of you treated Meteor City like some kind of hunting ground at your disposal. As if—as if its inhabitants were nothing but mere animals. For what? The sake of illegal dealings? For more money? Power?”

Chrollo caressed the side of your face with the back of his left hand—the other remained motionless by his side—his ghostly touch trembled against your skin, afraid that if he pressed down any further, you’d crack.

The situation baffled you.

Not only was Chrollo blaming you for the atrocities caused by other people, you still couldn’t wrap your mind around the fact that he was in cahoots with Ciaran Driscoll to orchestrate your demise.

Is that why Chrollo applied to become your bodyguard? To get close before finally killing you off? You felt another wave of dread wash over you.

Everything felt numb, your limbs, your torso, your heart.

Shaking your head, you finally broke the silence with a trembling voice, tears threatening to spill out,

“I’m not involved in any of those, Chrollo. Do you even hear yourself right now?”

He did.

God.

He fucking did and he felt absolutely foolish for blaming you.

After you had bared your soul to him every night, Chrollo stopped seeing you in the same light as he did before.

Yes, his deep-rooted disdain never left but that didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of loving you; it was a battle between desire and duty, and he already knew the victor.

Chrollo could see the determination in your eyes, you were set on running away from the current life you had, and as tempting as that was, he didn’t have the courage to lead you into a new life full of nothing but danger.

Chrollo would rather have you dying by his own bloodied hands—for him to live each day filled with regret—than have someone else basking in the glory of killing you. At least that way, he’d be tainted by you.

“You’re all the same. Ciaran’s father is proof enough! You said it yourself that he was involved in illegal business—”

“So those nights we spent together . . were they just all part of the act? You never cared for me.” Chrollo barely caught the last part of your sentence as you muttered it under your breath; he watched as your gaze lowered, a wave of sadness engulfing you for a split second before finding his eyes once again.

This time, you wore a glare.

You straightened up, “Tell me, Chrollo. Was it all just an act? A show you put on just to get close to me?”

Questions lingered in the air the same way dust did, it sat heavy on Chrollo’s shoulders but he remained stubborn—silent.

Would his answer change the circumstances?

No.

After all, nothing good came out of trivial matters. At his stillness, you grabbed his right hand, trembling fingers curling around the shaft of his wrist as you brought it up to your face, pressing the barrel of his gun to your forehead.

It felt icy against your feverish skin, like the kiss of a grim reaper.

Ever so slightly, Chrollo’s brows rose in shock, breath hitching at your brazenness.

“Did you ever love me?”

A broken whisper spoken into the crimson-lit night, so dainty, so weak yet it pierced his heart without a second thought.

It left a gaping hole, as ugly as sin, and no amount of repentance could heal.

Love.

How would one define love? Was it the act of sacrificing someone dear to oneself? Chrollo didn’t know. But more importantly, how did you define love?

“Did you?”

Digging deeper into the subject would only lead to the grave of his heart but Chrollo couldn’t care less, it was already six feet under since the day he sought revenge for his friend.

With a heavy sigh, your eyes finally softened, “Of course. I still do.”

You felt his hand twitch in your hold, as if he briefly tried to pull the gun away.

Glimmering like the first starlight were tears staining your cheeks, one by one they fell down as a surge of emotions drowned your body; your brows were furrowed yet your eyes looked at Chrollo like he held the cosmos in his hands.

Is this what was meant when they said love and anger were painted in the same shade of red?

In his line of work, Chrollo has never seen anything as haunting as your gaze.

It was natural for his targets to look up at him in complete horror, tears welled up in their eyes as they begged him to spare their lives but you—your eyes were full of nothing but love, and adoration despite his gun pointed at you.

That look alone was enough to torment his coming days.

“Do you, Chrollo? Do you love me?”

His chest tightened at the hopeful glint in your eye.

Nothing good ever came out of trivial matters because at the end of the day, Chrollo was nothing but a man chained to his sinful revenge—blindly devoted to the hatred planted in his heart, and it came with a great price.

A sudden wave of red washed over his body, resulting in an ear splitting bang that resounded within the church’s bricked walls.

Chrollo flinched at the sound—he’s never done that before—followed by a heavy thud against the marbled floors.

It took the assassin one, two, three seconds to register the situation, the violent sensation of the gun’s recoil still fresh on his trembling hand.

The faint scent of iron hung in the air.

Chrollo looked down at the grisly sight before him, gun in his hand weighing heavy before it finally slipped from his absent grip.

The weapon fell beside his right foot.

For the first time, Chrollo Lucilfer—the bringer of death—weeped and mourned the demise of his target.

He wailed into the darkness as warm crimson slowly pooled around your head, it resembled a faux halo, a tainted fallen angel.

Broken sobs, and ugly cries filled the damp building—this was the first in a long time that he had heard the sounds of his own grief.

Guilt, and sorrow consumed Chrollo the same way the shadows of the night did but no amount of tears would bring you back to life, no amount of whispered I love you’s would reciprocate his words, no amount of cracks in his heart would turn back time.

You were dead, and it was all because of the man you loved so blindly.

‘Til your dying breath, you were shielded from the secrets of his true identity and feelings—ones he swore he would take to the very grave he dug.

Chrollo fell to his knees, his fingers dug into his palms hard enough to draw blood.

The vile pungence of your blood suffocated his senses, despite something so familiar to him. Chrollo heaved and curled over himself, quivering like an autumn leaf in the wind—he looked pathetic—hot tears and snot covered his reddened face as he cried out into darkness.

Every bit of air left his lungs and each breath felt like a chase he couldn’t win. Truth be told, he didn’t have the courage to reach out to your body, no, he didn’t feel like he deserved to do so.

To taint you more than he already had.

So, Chrollo didn’t, instead, he weeped until the moon decorated the obsidian skies, until his tears tried, until your body ran cold, and every bit of colour you wore was gone. 

And when the assassin finally pieced himself together, he did three things.

One, let Ciaran Driscoll know that the job had been done using a burner phone.

Two, with the same device, Chrollo called the police, brazenly letting them know he murdered someone, and the exact location of the crime scene.

Three, he covered your car in flames, and fed the burner phone into it; he watched as bright hues of oranges and yellows devoured the vehicle before doing what he did best: disappearing into the night, and becoming one with the shadows to never be found again.

The night before, he had quietly handed in his resignation to Lukas who gave him an appreciative pat on the back, the old timer parted with words that Chrollo knew would remain ingrained in his mind,

‘I’m quite sure the young miss appreciated your service. Thank you for taking care of her.’ 

His heart shouldn’t have clenched at that but it did, and painfully so.

The coming days blended into nights with Chrollo sitting inside his hideout—a dingy, rundown motel with paper thin walls that housed interesting individuals.

Completely unaware of the time, his only company was the ticking ivory wall clock above the cramped dining space.

The hefty payment from Ciaran lay untouched on the bed, concealed within a briefcase.

He didn’t eat nor drink, not even having the energy to step outside for occasional sunlight, and every time he closed his eyes, he remembered the look you gave him during your final moments, he remembered the metallic tang in the air.

The old chunky television situated atop a rusty console table was what kept Chrollo’s sanity intact.

Day to night, it blasted morning, afternoon, and evening news—to the point of fellow motel goers knocking at his door to complain about the noise—just to keep up with information about you.

As much as Chrollo yearned to bask in the memory of you, seeing your face plastered on television followed by a variety of words such as ‘rest in peace’, ‘murdered’, ‘assassinated’, and ‘dead’ didn’t help his mind at all.

At least what kept him entertained were the updates on potential suspects that may be tied to the crime scene; the murder weapon was an unregistered gun loaded with an unregistered bullet, and the footprints left at the scene had no unique tread.

So at best, there were no concrete leads in the case.

Not that it mattered to Chrollo.

Atop the cheap wooden table on which he sat were two things, the murder weapon and a singular stem of a white chrysanthemum.

The one you had given him from your bouquet. Chrollo let the flower sit there for days on end until its ivory petals shrivelled into a brown hue—its sweet aroma turning pungent.

Until it withered. 

Until the scent of death choked him the same way his cries did that night—a mockery of what was lost, of what he willingly destroyed.

One month. It took Chrollo a month to finally step into the day, and out of the drab motel room.

Brightness engulfed his vision, the sun’s afternoon rays shone as brightly as ever, enveloping him in a warm, gentle hug as if to welcome him back to reality.

He was certain he didn’t deserve kindness from this world, not even the permission to step foot in the very earth that held your body dearly in its grasp as though you were its prized possession.

Oddly enough, Chrollo found himself standing before a familiar flower boutique.

With his gaze locked onto the floor-to-ceiling windows, he looked around the inside, as if doing so was going to have you magically pop out of nowhere, and buy a dozen of white chrysanthemums like before.

But you didn’t.

Pulled from his thoughts, a recognizable voice filled his ears, it was the owner,

“Are you here to buy flowers for a lover, perhaps? I can recommend a few—”

She stopped halfway through her sentence, realising the familiar face that stood before her.

Chrollo watched as her face morphed into a sad smile, the cheery glint in her eyes disappearing beneath the thickness of her lashes,

“If I’m not mistaken, you’re her bodyguard, right?”

He inhaled a sharp breath at the mention of you, heart violently thumping against the confines of his chest.

Chrollo could only nod, anything more than that would have him breaking.

The old lady reached out her plump hand, and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, “I’m so sorry for your loss. She was lovely—”

Don’t say that.

Don’t say it to me like I’m not the cause of her death. Don’t say it to me like I should be mourning for someone who died by my hands.

Chrollo gritted his teeth, jaw clenching at the sympathy thrown his way.

He felt sick and disgusted with himself—as if he were a vile being trapped beneath human skin.

All of a sudden the sun rays that gently enveloped his body didn’t feel like a warm hug anymore, sharp, hot prickles spread throughout his clothed skin, leaving a painful itch.

“—and the only customer who bought chrysanthemums frequently. Others usually bought the flowers once or twice for funerals and death anniversaries; she was the only one who truly saw chrysanthemums in a different light.”

A symbol of devoted love and loyalty, that’s how you saw them.

How ironic that the flowers you once adored would be laid upon your grave, holding a completely different message; mourning and grief. That didn’t sit well with Chrollo, you loved white chrysanthemums but not for that reason.

“Apologies, I ramble too much.” The owner let out a polite chuckle before continuing. “Well, can I at least interest you in some flowers? What would it be for you?”

“Can I get a dozen of those?” Chrollo pointed at the lively bunch soaked in water, situated just beside the boutique’s entrance. Following his finger, she looked behind her and smiled,

“Right away.”

Its petals resembled rays of the first sunshine, the golden hue it wore promised eternal warmth even after death.

As day turned into night with the crescent moon high above the obsidian skies, Chrollo made his way to your perpetual resting place—it didn’t take much effort to do some digging around to find out where your body had been buried.

The chilly wind howled as it danced with the dark, trees and leaves swaying to accompany it with a silent song.

He walked down the moonlit path of the cemetery, land that outstretched before him was decorated with tombstones, and in his left hand was the bouquet he bought earlier.

Moonlight shone over your grave as if the moon herself knew the secrets shared between you and Chrollo on cloudless nights.

Bouquets of white chrysanthemums decorated the space around your grave, candles that were once lit rested atop the marbled tombstone that housed your full name.

Oddly enough, this felt like déjà vu.

Maybe it was due to the fact that you and Chrollo rendezvoused in your room the same way he visited your grave—under a lonely moonlit night where soft whispers, and beating hearts were heard.

Bending down, Chrollo lightly caressed your carved name, cleaning out stray pieces of grass and dirt blown by the wind.

He gently placed the bouquet amongst the sea of white, its colourful hue greedily taking all the limelight from the sombre flowers,

“I know these aren’t your favourite but I figured you’d like them too . .”

He paused for a moment, foolishly waiting for you to reply.

“. . Yellow chrysanthemums just like the white ones but—”

Who was he kidding? Chrollo felt stupid. Talking to your grave as if you were alive—as if he wasn’t the one who brought you to your demise.

The audacity he had.

Truth be told, every fibre inside his body screamed at him to turn back, and never show his disgusting self but Chrollo was as greedy as the darkness that drank the moonlight each night.

He envied the ground like sin, how it held you in its arms, cradling your rotting body in its eternal embrace. That should be him. Now, he’d have to remember you longer than he had known you.

Instead, Chrollo was six feet above—alive; tied to, and haunted by the shackles of foolish regret.

The memory of that night replayed in his mind over and over again like a cursed broken record, the disgusting thump as your lifeless body hit the floor, blood pooling around your head.

Most nights he’d find himself calling your name in his sleep—he always dreamt of the same dream: you, running away from him in a field of flowers, no matter how hard he worked his legs, he never seemed to reach your body. 

Chrollo sat before your grave and sobbed, letting creatures of the night feel his vulnerability; as the wind howled, the breeze carried the sounds of his cries to the trees, where it promised him to keep it a secret—a story only reserved for the dead.

Hot tears rolled down his frost-bitten cheeks, pooling on the tip of his chin before it fell on the damp grass beneath.

In antique texts, yellow chrysanthemums represented one’s heart left to desolation—neglected love.

It was only befitting for he has killed the very person who grew to love his blood-stained soul because in the end, he was nothing but a man only adept at destroying.

He let out shaky exhale, and whispered into the night the answer you sought, 

“I love you.”

[aangelinakii]

COOKING WITH THE JUSTICE LEAGUE.

characters written about in this piece : bruce wayne, clark kent, diana prince, barry allen, hal jordan

note : omgomg this idea is so frraking cute 😭😭 and sorry some are longer than others !!! <3

requested !

BRUCE WAYNE.

it's not that bruce can't bake, because he can, but the whole "baking" thing doesn't really fit the agenda he's going for 💀 so it would take a lot of convincing to get bruce to try make some meringues, or even cupcakes. but after living with alfred for the majority of his life, he's definitely learned how to cook.

i mean, he's still a guy with a butler, so it's not like he does everything or knows how to make everything. if you want to make something he's never made before, he'll definitely let you take the lead, and something inside him will be a little nervous about messing anything up, so even if you ask him to stir something he'll keep asking if he's doing everything right

but when it comes to dishes he does know how to make bruce will want you to sit back and watch, and periodically taste test his food to "make sure it's not poisonous." he loves cooking for you, but i can see him feeling a bit out of place when it becomes a duo task — he doesn't want to mess anything up, and part of him feels a bit like that young bruce again, in the early years after his parents' deaths, sitting on the counter whilst alfred cooks them dinner.

CLARK KENT.

clark absolutely looooveeeesss cooking, i'd say it's definitely a love language of his, making food for the people he loves. he's probably learnt it from ma kent, cooking for people. clark definitely has a long list of recipes stored up there, and probably has a separate tab on his phone for recipes he thought were interesting

differently to bruce, i think clark may have a talent for baking specifically, as opposed to cooking proper dinner meals. if you cook a meal together i could see you focusing on the dinner, and clark preparing dessert, which he can put in the oven whilst you're eating. and yes, even on a normal evening (usually a friday night or weekend) he insists on having a dessert. even if what you've made is some instant ramen or ten-minute rice dish, clark is up at the counter stewing some blueberries and apple slices for a crumble

DIANA PRINCE.

diana has so many handed-down recipes that she would love to share,, and on days where she hasn't got anything going on she loves spending the entire day making huge servings of greek dishes that you can keep in the fridge and eat every night for a month. she's not one to hog the counter or the oven, she wants to teach you everything she knows !!!

and she's super super open to learning your recipes, or being your little guinea pig if you want to experiment with recipes, like hello she's amazonian she could survive anything !! but if you're in the kitchen, she'll ask if there's anything she can do to help you out and even if you say no she'll find something to do, like fill up a glass of water so you don't get too dehydrated whilst making her some amazing food.

BARRY ALLEN.

love love loves sharing the kitchen with you, and he loves cooking for you just as much as you love cooking for him. i even made a whole fic about it (shameless promo) where you alternate dinner making duties round each other's apartment each week

he thinks you're amazing really,, even if you cook something that tastes a little bit.. you know.. barry will still gobble it down because you ?? thought of him ?? and wanted to make him food ?? probably has food as a love language, but in a different way to clark,, the way clark sees it, making food is how he expressed love, but barry feels like eating someone's food that way made for him is a way of showing love ? do you know what i mean ?

obviously he loves cooking for and with you, but yeah he really appreciates you cooking for him more

HAL JORDAN.

definitely takes charge in the kitchen, but will give you jobs here and there. it could be tasting, it could be mixing spices into a sauce, it could be stirring. i think he prefers the creative aspect to cooking, so if he's got a recipe in mind be prepared to get a little bossed around. he likes adding seasoning and making little sauces. sometimes if you're lounging around at home he'll spring out of nowhere with a snack for you to eat, "something he's working on" and it always tastes buss

might get a little nervy if you want to take charge, but that's just a him issue, and he'll calm down once you get the food sitting right in front of him and it tastes just as good as it smells (and also as long as the fire alarm hasn't gone off once !!!!)

[accidentcache]

the five stages of grief

feat: slightly canon adjacent ! shigaraki tomura / tenko shimura

warnings: angst. language. violence and mentions of injuries, major character death, implications to suicide, close to canon events as i could remember, 3.9k read!

cache notes: uhhhhhh this my offer for tomura's bday fic. IM SORRY

m.list

you thought you were experiencing the stages of grief out of order after the war. come to find out, your subconscious knew tenko died long before he physically left you.

DENIAL

— the action of declaring something to be untrue.

"tomura's being weird," spinner sounds upset, but when you look up from your gaming console, his face betrays no emotion. almost like he didn't say anything at all. his fingers push at buttons and he looks immersed in whatever mission that has his attention at the moment.

you want to say i know or something along that line— you can't help it. it's something that runs deep in your psyche to be an asshole back to him. he's never been too cordial with you, but spinner's respectful enough. if tomura likes you, there must be some reason he's keeping you around. the two of you have been toeing the line of being at each other's throats since you joined the group.

instead, you choose to grunt in response. "you're overthinking things," is what you choose to say. because for some god damn reason you can't bring yourself to even think to agree with spinner.

you end up running around in circles in your game, now distracted. what would spinner know about tomura that you don't already know? spinner might be his closest friend— he might believe that he knows tomura fairly well. but you know him on a more intimate level. sure, tomura doesn't tell you everything— you could thank all for one for that.

but what's said in the dark of night, on top of cheap pillows and underneath thin blankets is something you know for sure spinner doesn't.

tomura lies next to you, an arm slung over your waist lazily. he's knocked out cold, his nose twitches with every inhale of a snore. the bed sags underneath the both of you, the sheet is warm with shared body heat.

you can't help but watch his features as he sleeps. if he were conscious, he would've called you out for it. being weird— staring at him while he slept like some sort of creep.

but he also knows that you like to look at him. he'll never know why, but you're quiet when you do it and you keep comments to yourself. so he lets you. only speaking when you need to, or when he needs you to.

tomura stirs slightly, bringing his arm around your waist tighter. the weight and warmth of his skin against yours brings comfort, like always— but a slight twinge of unease.

you have to blink to clear your head. spinner's words are not getting to you. he doesn't know what he's talking about. tomura still looks the same to you, he still acts the same. the tension was subconscious.

"you're thinking' about something," tomura's voice is low and still extremely heavy with sleep. it startles you, but his grip around you tightens when you jump. your cheek warms with the push of his voice. "what are you thinking about?"

your teeth pull at the seam of your lip. normally, the silence would mean you're simply just thinking about what to say— and to be honest, you are. but there's hesitation in this silence, which causes him to open his eyes ever so slightly. he can barely make out your silhouette in the darkness, but he knows you're still looking at him.

"you'd tell me if something was changing, wouldn't you?"

it's tomura's turn to hesitate.

you try to ignore it. "you'd tell me if something was different, right?"

tomura's eyes finally adjust to the darkness and he can make out your expression more clearly. the furrow of your brow and the heaviness set in your eyes. it's such a vulnerable look on you, it's not a look he sees very often.

he forces himself to swallow. "nothing's changing, promise."

"promise?"

in the darkness, tomura doesn't see you lift your hand until he feels your fingertip graze along his cheek. the pressure is gentle, feather-light; reverent almost. you trace the grooves that the scars have made on his features like they are a road map. the destination changes every time, but you follow it with such enthusiasm every single time. tomura's come to accept it, and over time has learned to lean more and more into it.

your touch seems to soften, and in return tomura softens as well.

"i promise."

ANGER

— can sometimes function as a coping mechanism, providing a sense of control or a way to express frustration in the face of helplessness or disbelief.

"this is fucking stupid, tomura," you hiss out while taking an aggressive seat beside him. the motion kicks some dirt up, tomura ignores how some of it lands on his shoes. he keeps his eyes trained on gigantomachia as the behemoth sleeps. in another hour and a half, the two will start fighting again and you will force yourself to follow.

"don't say that," he mutters back. his fingers are carefully bending and twisting a twig into odd shapes, challenging it to break even though it's a fairly young clipping. there's plenty of twigs to choose from littered along the ground around the two of you. when this one finally breaks, tomura will just move onto the next one.

"well, it is," you counter. "you've barely made a dent in the progress. he's not weakening. ujiko is just stringing you along."

tomura's head tilts to stare at you out of his peripheral. he really doesn't want to fight with you on this. you were there when the group got warped to the lab, you heard the entire deal. you know his entire stance on the situation. he doesn't know if this is the lack of sleep talking or the lack of eating— but he's explained it how many times?

"ujiko is not stringing us along, [y/n]. how many times do i have to tell you this?" tomura says. his fingers finally snap the twig between his fingers and he tosses it a couple feet away in front of him before reaching for another at his feet. this one breaks much easier when he bends it. "it's going to work out in the end."

your elbows dig into your thighs as you lean forward. chewing on the inside of your lip, you mutter a bitter sounding "doubtful" and keep your gaze off of him.

there's tension between the two of you. there are inches in between the two of you but you've never felt more far apart.

when's the last time you've touched him? since tomura's held you in his arms? when was the last time the two of you lied face to face in bed together and just giggled about silly things you've seen online. you want to reach out and touch him but something inside of you refuses to. would he even feel like the tomura you were used to?

muscles and scars aside, would he feel like tenko?

you don't realize just how heavy your shoulders feel until his eyes finally meet yours fully, and he looks you up and down. your eyes burn and you realize you've been glaring at his side profile for the past couple of minutes of terse silence. something bitter and harsh has been simmering low in your gut for a while.

"this is more than machia, isn't it?" tomura asks in a low tone. there's a warning laced in between each syllable, you'd be dumb if you didn't notice the tone shift. but when do you not challenge tomura? he will deny it until the day he dies that it's one of his favorite things about you.

however, it is AFO's least favorite thing about you.

tomura still continues to fight with enabling this kind of behavior, or just not engaging at all. AFO tells him that you're a problem. a hindrance. you can't be trusted. you're going to do something big and take him away from his goal and everything is going to go to shit because of you.

tomura's known you for how long? he's seen you change in so many ways. you've burned through so many costumes, you've cut your hair in so many gas station bathrooms. there's a certain twinkle in your eye whenever you look at him that's never changed.

tomura hasn't seen that sparkle in months.

tomura hasn't seen so much aggression behind your eyes since the day you two met. you clearly don't audibly make it known, but you're upset with him. why else would you glare at him like that? why else would you look at him like he's not the same person at the moment?

it it because he's not?

maybe somewhere deep inside of you, you've already figured it all out. you just haven't pieced together all the parts yet. tomura isn't sure that your denseness is a blessing, or a curse in disguise.

tomura is still silent in front of you. the longer your gaze is deliberately met by his, the stronger the feeling of hate bubbles in your gut. your hands clench and unclench at your sides and your knuckles ache with tension. is this tomura you're feeling hate towards? surely it's not. you've been mad and angry at tomura before, yes.

but you've never hated him.

"this better be worth it," you manage to hiss out. your teeth grit so hard you can hear them squeak when they grind against each other. you force yourself to stand and move— away from him, away from him. white hot tears are beginning to well up, your eyes are burning and you'll be damned if you let him see you cry.

somewhere inside of you tells you tomura would comfort you if you did start crying; but a larger part of you tells you that you're wrong. why would he comfort you if he were the source of the tears? why would he apologize for the pain he had caused when that was the plan from the start?

BARGAINING

— attempt to negotiate or make compromises.

you had a violent realization when the tides had turned in the final war. aside from being aggressively pinned into the dirt, the fact that you were so easily overwhelmed in a matter of moments had your head spinning in ways that the concussion you were given didn't.

you smelled and tasted iron. there was blood pouring from your nose and mouth contributing to the taste and and scent, and the blood loss was starting to make you delirious. you were seeing double. there was a knee pushed between your shoulder blades and your wrists were being sliced open practically with how tight the cuffs were.

spinner's voice crackled in your ear. "[y/n], shigaraki needs help—"

he's cut off and racked with coughs and sputters. you try to ignore the stabbing pain in your spine, your cheek pressed into the gravel. the rocks are being pushed so hard into your skin that you know there will be indents. "what's wrong with tomura?"

when spinner doesn't answer, your heart practically throws itself against your rib cage. there's ringing in your ears, drowning out the rest of the screams and shouts of other villains and heroes fighting around you. drowning out the voice of the hero above you that only shoves his kneecap further into your back once he feels you squirming underneath him.

you didn't want to admit that you were right when the heroes split everyone up that something would go wrong. you no longer had eyes on tomura; and he to you. though you were sure he wasn't thinking in the same sense that you were when it all happened. was that part of their plan? to separate tomura from you?

you don't care that the last interaction with him was a screaming match. you don't care about the selfish words that came out of your mouth, or the cold tone he had used on you. or that tomura didn't look like tomura at all. didn't even resemble tenko either.

"spinner!" you practically scream into the dirt. the tears fall freely from your eyes but you don't have it in you to acknowledge them. they feel like fire when they fall, mixing with the blood and dirt already embedded in your skin into some grotesque mess around your mouth. "iguchi!"

your mind races. not a single thought connects properly, your body buzzes with new motivation to get out. the scream that leaves your mouth is raw and so painful that even the hero above you pauses with the force of his restraints. you can feel your quirk starting to overload your senses, clogging the sensors in your body with power and strength that it cannot handle.

"shuichi," your voice does not sound like your own. your forehead meets the dirt because you think you can reach him with your voice through the ground. "where is tenko?"

you want to believe that spinner had just run into a little problem and was just letting you know that tomura needed backup to finish the plan. you want to believe that he just needed help for a big finish. tomura would reach out to you personally if things went wrong, wouldn't he? he still cared about you like that, didn't he?

tomura had AFO's strength now. he was more than capable of holding his own; there's no way he needed actual help. there's no way, right? there's no way.

how would you even get there in time to help him? what higher being do you need to plea to in order to get you to tomura's side before something worse happens? would that supreme being even listen to you? were you so beyond saving that not even god would help you save the one you loved? or was that privilege only reserved for heroes?

your quirk was draining your stamina. you were feeling weaker and weaker; the idea of begging to god was sounding more and more like a good idea.

anything to get to tomura.

even with your vision gaining the vignette— darkening more and more as the seconds passed. you could not feel the oxygen going in through your mouth or leaving through your nose in short, harsh puffs. you'd do anything.

you'd do anything to see tenko again.

DEPRESSION

— a common mental health condition characterized by persistent sadness, loss of interest, and other symptoms that can significantly impact a person's ability to function.

the next time you see spinner, he is dressed in orange. it matches yours, your numbers are far apart but you are treated the same. it's mid spring in the courtyard, the sunlight feels like it should burn your skin the longer you stand out in it.

this time outside is mandatory. you'd rather still be in your cell— away from the cherry blossom scent, away from the petals that fall so delicately onto the asphalt.

away from the harshness of spinner's gaze the moment his eyes find yours.

your hair had been trimmed short. you tried to wrap it around your throat at one point so the orderlies buzzed it all off a week after you had been thrown into prison. the bags under your eyes have darkened over the months. you've been to solitary more than once after your night terrors had turned violent and you tried to attack your cell mate.

spinner doesn't look any better than you do. his actions are fueled by rage as he crosses the courtyard to stand in front of you.

"he's gone," his voice is full of hurt and pain. as if your shoulders weren't heavy enough, the weight of his tone adds more pounds that you decide to selflessly take on. "everything he fought for, [y/n]."

you're far past feeling anything at this point. you know what the media is painting tenko as. what they're painting the league as a whole as. what could you do about it? there was only so much that you could attempt with eyes on you at all times and a trigger itching to be pulled if you moved too fast.

"he didn't sign up for this."

"i know," your voice is dull and almost lifeless. you don't have the balls in you to meet his eyes at this point anymore. you've admitted to yourself that spinner was right all those months ago when he first noticed something was off with tenko.

"he died a hero, [y/n]!" his voice raises.

you don't know if he was talking more to you, or himself.

"i know," your voice repeats like a broken record. it breaks on the last syllable and both you and spinner cringe at the sound of it.

"we could've— should have done something," he forces out. you can audibly hear him swallow and your own throat mirrors the noise as you swallow a painful sound of your own. "to save him. he should've destroyed society. he could've changed the world."

your voice is barely audible when you speak next. you blink back tears, but they end up falling anyway. "i know."

ACCEPTANCE

— learning to live with the loss and finding a way to move forward, even though the pain may still linger.

the tip of your boot meets a tuft of grass. the grave in front of you has not been taken care of, there's moss and weeds that line the cement. you can still see the faint outline carving of his name, however.

tenko shimura.

even though there's no remains underneath the gravestone, this isn't his official burial spot— but this is your spot for him.

only a select amount of people know about this spot. your parole officer, mr compress— spinner. the three remaining league members still alive. they don't question the location. they come, give their moment of silence and leave.

"i feel like i should leaves flowers or something this time," you say to the empty air around you. your hands clench around nothing in the pocket of your hoodie. you kick at the tuft of grass again and sigh to yourself. "you hated flowers."

there's a tree that offers some shade a little off to the side. you're surprised that it's still standing, surprised that the gnarled old bark still tells stories to people who won't appreciate them. the roots are as old as time. the branch you fell off of when you were younger still hangs low and off kilter from it snapping under your weight.

it's been years since the war. you were lucky enough to finally get put on house arrest after a good couple of years. your parole officer sits in a car just a couple yards away— waiting. watching. though he knows you won't make a run for it. you've been on a streak of good behavior since gaining the privilege of visiting your makeshift grave for tenko.

"i uh…" your hand rises and rubs at the back of your neck in an awkward fashion. your hair had been kept short— a turning point. a way of admitting that you've changed; that times have changed. "i apologized to iguchi. finally."

that he was right. he saw the signs before you did.

"i miss you," your teeth pull at the corner of your mouth. you know you won't cry. you feel like you should— for the past few times you've visited you've ended your visits early due to the sobs that have racked through your body. "iguchi's right. you were a hero to us."

as soon as the words leave your mouth you hate how they sound.

"you are a hero, i mean. you're my hero. our hero."

yeah, it sounds cringe. awkward and unfamiliar in your throat. it's the truth, you've known it for years now. you realize you don't say those words out loud enough— that's why they feel so… weird. coming out of your mouth.

you make a promise to say it out loud more often.

the tip of your boot meets the concrete gravestone in front of you again in a lingering touch. you offer a final sniffle, the only sign you give that you're about to let go of your emotions. "until next time, yeah? promise it won't be months from now."

you turn on your heel and shove your hands further into the pocket of your hoodie.

"promise."

© accidentcache do not repost, translate or alter my work without permission. all rights reserved.

[mononijikayu]

would you fall in love with me again? — ryomen sukuna.

“I don’t want to go either, you know.” you admitted, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on your chest. “How can I just leave everything behind?” For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, without warning, Sukuna grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but not harsh. You gasped, as he pulled you close. Your faces were a few meters apart, your breath ragged as you were confronted by the emotions blurring in his eyes. “Then don’t leave.” he said, his voice fierce. “Stay.”

GENRE: alternate universe - historical ;

WARNING/S: not safe for work (nsfw), major character death, graphic violence, non-con/dub con, heavy themes, historical fiction, tragedy, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, romance, childhood friends to lovers, first love, forbidden love, slow burn, falling in love, unresolved romantic tension, bittersweet, separation, mutual pining, domestic, reunion, feelings, arranged marriage, forced marriage, family pressure, political conflict, war, star-crossed lovers, betrayal, unspoken feelings, emotional baggage, emotional manipulation, period typical sexism, depiction of self-exit, depiction of war, depiction of heavy themes, depiction of graphic violence, mention of graphic violence, mention of self-exit, depiction of war, depiction of heavy themes, reincarnated! sukuna, reincarnated! reader;

WORD COUNT: 32k words

NOTE: this took the longest to do and really, it was so hard to just make. sukuna has this ability to challenge me when i write things and it just makes it even more fun to write. this is a heavy read and i wrote it as a reincarnated life of sukuna and concubine reader from the other woman series.

this was supposed to be a different story, but it changed in the process of writing to something different. i think various forms of love, even twisted one, can be something we can read.

unfortunately, tumblr is not letting me post the main post here, due to the format not being under 1k blocks. which is odd since i have done this before and it hasn't ended up happening before. so i posted it on kofi!!!

you can click on this link:

in any case, please come back here afterwards and post your reactions about the fic!!! i'd like for you to interact with me!!! i love you all so much and i hope you enjoy it!!! happy valentines day~ i'll see you in 2.5k followers event!!! <3

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buono san valentino, 2025;

[tarnishedtwill]

Nevarran Culture

Nevarran Surnames – It is remarked briefly in a codex that most Nevarran surnames are three syllables. This seems to be true with the majority we are exposed to in game: Pentaghast, Van Markham, Hezenkoss, Volkarin, Anaxas & Tanhausen to name a few examples. However we do see an exception with the Blackthorne’s and Forsythia families. Blackthorne’s notably adopted their surname from the land that was gifted to them, and Forsythia which [has four syllables] doesn’t seem to have any information alluding to them not being originally from Nevarra. 

Nevarran Features – From looking at a handful of known Nevarran characters [Emmrich, Cassandra, Myrna, & Tessa] It seems that generally speaking, most Nevarrans tend to have dark hair, often black, as well as brown to green eyes. [Hazel seems quite recurring.]  This of course is not always the case, but it seems to be quite prevalent. Likewise it seems that olive complexions seem to be quite common in the region.

[Death Watch] Beetles –The imagery of beetles can be found amidst Nevarran motifs. Fitting in amongst the geometric shapes well. Perhaps thats where the fascination first rose. Hard in Hightown mentions the use of encrusted wings being used decoratively by the Nevarrans. Boxes of Beetles can be found in the Black Emporium [DAII] with the following Codex [Crate of Live Death Watch Beetles] The Death Watch Beetle is thought to fortell death, and thusly has become prized. Sometimes families go as far as keeping one caged in their homes as good luck. Insect symbols are also used throughout the Grand Necropolis, necromancers state they, “Honor the work of the humblest creatures in our funerary rites.”  While this may be true looking at longstanding traditions in Nevarra including oftentimes vegetarianism, the codex goes on to provide a more clear idea on beetles. It states that Nevarran found a kind of beetle that consumes flesh of the dead [i.e. a carrion beetle] This leaves behind only the skeleton, insects like this are probably valuable in the grand necropolis to expedite decay processes and keep things ‘cleanly’. Emmrich notes [codex: ‘on beetles’] that the Watchers have bred ‘fascinating variations’ of the beetles, I find it so interesting that they rely on nature for this process instead of using magic as part of ritual. It’s unclear if these are specifically the death watch beetles mentioned in Hard in Hightown, but it is interesting to see the beetle motif surface in so many ways within Nevarran culture. [I also personally find several of the Mourn Watch insignias to look like stylized beetles.]

Hexagons– Alright, so I would adore anyone who may have additional insight, but now with the nearly completely decoded Nevarran script I feel comfortable to make this assertion, but the Hexagon has some type of cultural significance to Nevarran culture, it features not only in things like architecture and clothing [even the chains on Emmrich's outfit are hexagonal links] but also things like, every mourn watch symbol I have run across fits into a hexagonal outer silhouette not to mention the script of the Nevarran language’s alphabet fits neatly into a hex-base as well. I am trying to dig for design notes on this, but I don’t have access to the artbook. If anyone knows more I’d love the insight.

Cuisine – With the evidence provided by a menu in Rivain, referring to ordering a dish meatless as Nevarran, and several dialogue and text mentions of Emmrich not eating meat [though cheese seems fine]. It can be assumed its pretty common practice in Nevarra to be vegetarian. This makes sense if you look at their cultural reverence for dead and the importance of the body in their burial rites, probably paints eating the bodies of creatures in a different light. To us what is simply meat, is probably seen as mild desicration. Emmrich even goes as far to state: each Watcher must decide what they wll and won't take a life for. Though it is probably common for Nevarrans to think this way and partake in vegitarian based diets, I also would argue this could be in part class based as well. We know that Emmrich grew up in a poor family, and his father was a butcher. A butcher in Nevarra. This implies that despite the pervasiveness of things like no meat options being referred to as 'Nevarran', and there being cultural significance to how they percieve meat and death, people in Nevarra are still in fact eating meat with enough demand that a butcher was a feasable occupation. This also could imply perhaps meat is seen as a lower-class consumable, and being able to sustain a vegitarian diet with more diverse ingredients a privilege. Known dishes include: Blood Orange Salad, Flatbread [similar to a pita], and Hazlenut Torte. Nevarrans also take great pride in aesthetic presentation and plating of food, often displaying it quite beautifully and with care.

Grave Mist– With the appearance of a churning cloud within a bottle, Grave Mist is magically infused vapors. It is captured near tombs where spirits dwell, and has some type of intoxicating nature to it. We don’t know if its more along the lines of inebriation or hallucination, but Emmrich notes that while he personally doesn’t partake, he hears it’s effects are quite invigorating.

Duchess's Games- Held at the Anaxas estate in the Summertime, in which scholars from Cumberland test their wit against those of the Free Marches in debates. [often times over philosophy and rhetoric], usually taking place over tea with the Duchess Ravria Anaxas. 

Hunt Balls- Nevarran high society awakens each Winter, while other areas of Thedas brace for the cold. Winter is historically speaking one of the best times to conduct dragon hunts, as the cold weather causes them to be sluggish and stick closer to their hordes. As a society that celebrates the hunt of these magnificent beasts ‘Hunt Balls’ gained prominence quite early in their history. A chance for these nobles and ‘heroes’ to show off their mighty kills. Traditionally the great halls would be decorated with rather gruesome displays of the slain dragon, perhaps is heart or head the focal point. Now, with the scarcity of dragons to hunt, the balls have become more of a cultural metaphor. A display of passion amidst the cold winter, symbolizing the thrill of the chase, couples dress in armor and flowing red cloth and dance with fervor and passion to symbolize the hunt.

Additional note on Winter in Nevarra, the Minanter river is known to completely freeze over. It is a common site to see people skating along its surface, with vendors set up along the banks selling hot spiced teas, and roasted nuts.

Wintersend – A wide spread Andrastian holiday, originally called “Urthalis” [named after the draconic Old God of beauty Urthemiel], and since has been transformed in to a celebration of the Maker. It signifies for most throughout Thedas, the end of Winter and beginning of Spring. In Nevarra it begins a series of contexts and tournaments primarily focused on archery and tests of arms. Also note, Emmrich’s mom apparently made a Hazlenut Torte every Windersend.

Nevarran Statues/ Ancestral Pageants – While the finest statues and displays of pageantry happen in the Castrum Draconis, it is said that Nevarran statues honoring it’s heroes and ancestors extend out from the city, to the streets of even the meanest villages and even in to the gilded streets of Cumberland. Each autumn, residents of Nevarra city hold lavish pageants to honor these ancestors. Families are known to drape statues in colorful cloths often in their house colors, and lanterns are lit along the streets to illuminate them. Actors [paid in copper coins, which is specifically noted and an odd detail] are hired to recreate and perform stories and exploits of the heroes. The nobility are often known to compete over the best displays, notably the Pentaghasts and Van Markhams. It is to be noted that the Mortalitasi of the Grand Necropolis are also known to perform autumn rites at this time, ‘according to rumor’, it’s unknown if theirs are open to the public. I unfortunately have not run across a name for this festival/pageant.

Nevarran Spirit Philosophy- This is one of the main reasons that the Nevarran people choose to entomb and mummify their dead versus cremation, which is the more common form of ritual throughout Thedas. The idea is that once dead, a persons soul passes into the fade. This causes a spirit to then be displaced into the world, if mummified remains are nearby this gives the spirit a safe place to reside without risk of corrupting/turning. It’s a concept of balance, some scholars argue wether or not death is a 1:1 transaction across the fade. Emmrich states [codex: The Great Passage] that spirits have difficulty grasping the concept of quantities let alone numbers. Also that, no one knows a way to effectively tally both spirits in the fade, and people in the world, to ever entirel prove or disprove this theory. Nevertheless this is the concept at the heart of most Mortalitasi ideology, it is woven into the very folklore of Nevarra. The higher dead may be a melding of a spirit with the memories of the soul who came before– or even able to retain their souls.

Grave Dowry- It’s mentioned when asked why Emmrich wears so much gold that it is considered a custom called grave dowry. This is reinforced by the fact that if Mourn Watch Rook selects gold as their favourite color (conditional), the dialogue continues as Emmrich asks them if they have started their collection of grave gold yet. To which Rook responds they ‘have to decide which pieces are good enough for eternity’. If Rook is not a watcher and chooses gold, Emmrich replies by saying, ‘The Watchers wear grave gold in acknowledgement of our own deaths.’ [This implies that gold and opulence worn by members of the Mortalitasi is ritual. Its seen as something with foresight to have in death. This is very much so akin to grave good practices seen throughout the ancient world: think Mycenae, Egypt, or even Bulgaria <see Varna Necropolis>] Another codex [Aurum Profundis] mentions a passage from Prelate Vestalus Pentaghast remarking, “Gold is the eternal metal, and the sun beneath our vaults. It was first worked by our ancestors in tribute to the dead, and only Nevarra appriciates it’s sacred nner nature. Silver will tarnish, copper corrode and iron rust. Gold endures as our dead endure, and will ever adorn the inhabitants of the Necropolis.” I find that this quote perfectly captures the ideology and watcher sensibilities towards gold and the concept of dowry. It however is unclear if this is an ideology throughout Nevarra or just a tithe within the Mortalitasi.

This is my first post of several. I have been taking close notes deep diving Nevarra, the Mortalitasi, and the Grand Necropolis. I will be organizing them on my page under the tag Nevarran lore, If missed any key details or got anything wrong please by all means let me know, I want to make this as good as possible and would be happy to correct. Both for a resource for fic writers but also knowledge for my fellow lore nerds. More will be posted soon as feel sections become complete or mostly complete.

Update Edits:

Added information about Hexagons & the Nevarran Language.

Removed a section of lore on Recruitment as I found the citation to be unbacked and probably fanon.

Insight on why Butchers would be in Nevarra.

[yuechihua]

send me off to sleep (by your side).

summary: You've made an unofficial deal with Harumasa: you'll stay by his side, and help him sleep peacefully every night. You'll always make good on your promise, even if he takes on a form you no longer recognize.

notes: 4.9k words, author's notes, spoilers for harumasa's backstory, sleeping side by side, ambiguous relationship/feelings, major character death, fluff at the beginning, hurt/no comfort at the end

It’s the sunlight that first pulls you from sleep: unfamiliar, buttery light falling across your face through half-opened blinds, coloring an apartment that isn’t yours. 

You blink, struggling to orient yourself in this unknown location: simple, spartan furniture with clean edges and neat lines which is in direct contrast to the wrinkled clothing and scattered papers and books littering every possible surface. There’s medicine bottles scattered across the nightstand next to you, fallen ones rolling on the floor and hiding, half-shadowed, under the bed.

You struggle to sit up in a bed with several different blankets and pillows tossed about like lost sailors in a storm. An arm slung across your torso, casual and possessive fingers gripping your hip, tightens. 

With the arm preventing you from fully rising, you have no option but to slump back into bed, following the curve of the arm and a pale neck to Asaba Harumasa’s face, inky hair falling across his forehead, his eyes still closed.

Your mouth parts in shock at seeing your coworker fast asleep next to you, holding onto you with an unconsciously tight grip, before the pieces of last night click in. 

Sometimes, and only sometimes, when you get off work late and you’ve missed the late night train back to your apartment, you crash at Harumasa’s place. He lives closer than you do to HSO’s head building, and sometimes you’re not in the mood to deal with sleeping on spare couches, shitty corporate coffee, and lukewarm shower stalls.

“You really can’t get enough of me,” he teased the first time you agreed to stay at his place. “Coming over like this so easily… what am I supposed to think?”

In response, you gritted your teeth, sleep deprivation and a library of paperwork waiting for you tomorrow causing your patience to wane, and say, “Not another word, Harumasa, if you want to live to see tomorrow.”

You’d started off simply with crashing on the couch, but you could never catch a single wink of sleep, not when the slightest noise would startle you, and Harumasa was prone to nightmares and shuffling around in the early hours of the morning in his kitchen or bathroom to clear his head.

At first, to help him rest easier, you only settled with chatting with him throughout the night, brewing him floral tea that was supposed to aid with sleep and trying not to fall asleep at his kitchen counter. Later, you’d tried calming music, or holding his hand until he could ease into a more peaceful rest. After that, though, you’d settled on a different compromise, because you were starting to fall asleep at your desk during work: you’d sleep in his bed with him instead, if only because a warm body seemed to ease him more than anything else.

“This is purely for… medical reasons,” you told him crisply. “Nothing else. All right?”

“Of course,” he said, but you couldn’t trust the grin creeping across his face, which you couldn’t describe as anything but “goofy” and “untrustworthy.”

And that leads you to your current predicament. Of course his apartment looks unfamiliar in the daylight; you’ve only ever stumbled in during the late nights, and left before the sun rose in order to get to work early (that, and to avoid any rumors if the two of you arrived at the office at the same time). You should be used to waking up next to Harumasa, but it still startles you every time to see him so close. 

However, the color and depth of the sunlight, and the fact your alarm isn’t the reason you woke up causes unease trickles through your veins.

“Harumasa,” you hiss. “Harumasa!”

He still doesn’t stir, and you shake his shoulder until he blearily blinks his eyes. “Hm… Wha…”

It’s at this point you can shake off his relentless grip, lunging for the night stand to pick up your phone and to see, with growing horror, the bright “11:24 AM” on your screen, along with several texts and a missed call from Yanagi.

“We’re late. Oh my god. We’re late!” you say, finally leaping out of Harumasa’s bed. Where are your clothes? Scattered on the floor alongside Harumasa’s. You’re in nothing but a tank top and athletic shorts, and you pick up your white dress shirt, now unbearably creased. You’ll need to get it ironed later, but you have more pressing issues to worry about as you slip one arm through the sleeve.

“Oh. Is that all?” Harumasa says lazily.

“Is that all? Come on! We’re three hours late for work!”

“It’s fine. It’s not the end of the world.”

“Come on, get up!” you say, swiftly buttoning your shirt closed, reaching over to his supine body and giving his shoulder a light smack. “Yanagi’s going to give you overtime if you keep sleeping.”

At your words, Harumasa finally sits bolt upright in bed, eyes widening. “My pants are over there! Throw them over, quick!”

You reach down and toss him a pair of wrinkled black slacks. The two of you rush to get ready in the next ten minutes, taking turns running in and out of the bathroom and throwing together some bland, packaged food for breakfast from Harumasa’s kitchen cabinets. 

You pull on your coat, teal and crisp and a mandatory part of the official HSO uniform, but it’s wrinklier than you remember. But there’s no time to worry about your outfit, so you pin your ID to the front and slip on your loafers, tapping the front of each toe lightly on the floor.

Harumasa pauses, leaning against the doorway of his bedroom as he watches you. There’s an expression that’s strangely tender on his face.

“What?” you ask. “Something on my face?”

“No. I just think you look nice,” he says. You wait for a joke to follow his words, but nothing does.

“Thanks. You look nice, too,” you add. Might as well pay him his compliment back. “Now, let’s go!”

There’s no time to deal with the caprices of public transport, the afternoon rush or the inefficient wait times, so you take off at a brisk jog down the streets instead, Harumasa following at his own lackadaisical pace.

“I can’t believe I slept past my alarms,” you lament. 

“That might have been my fault,” Harumasa says. “I think I pressed snooze on all of them.”

“What? Why?”

“I wanted to sleep in,” he says.

You purse your lips. “Well, I didn’t!”

“I also thought you looked cute so I didn’t want you to wake up,” he says conversationally. “Sorry.”

The image of Harumasa, propped up on one elbow, watching you sleep with a smile playing on his mouth, rises to mind, unbidden. You push it away; there’s no point in letting yourself wander down that path. 

Harumasa is a smooth-talker, carefree and light, like a dandelion puff that’ll blow whichever way the wind will carry it. He’s your coworker, someone who you trust and tease in equal measure. You care about him, more than is safe, but despite the fact you sleep in his bed, there’s so much you don’t know about him.

Where do his nightmares come from? What condition requires him to take so many pills? Why does he let you in his arms, but not his heart? He never explains, so you never ask.

If he had tried to touch you any of those nights together, you wouldn’t have pushed him away. But there’s a line he never crosses with you. He holds you tightly, desperately, as if he doesn’t want you to leave, but he never reaches out first.

His desires are contradictory and confusing, and so hard for you to piece together. Harumasa is like a skittish animal, keeping inches away from your outstretched hands, yet unable to keep his hungry gaze away from you.

“Oh, please. You’ve seen me sleep a hundred times before,” you say, tone teasing. “I don’t know why today is so different. You’ll see it a hundred times in the future, too.”

You no longer hear Harumasa’s footsteps behind you, so you turn. He’s stopped in the middle of the sea of people rushing by, like water around rocks. You’re suddenly displaced from the stream of crowds around you, all with their lives, their goals, their dreams, so unknown and alien to you.

What does Harumasa want to say to you? There’s something trapped in his gaze, his throat, the way he worries at the edge of his lip with his teeth, as if biting back some ugly truth. The same things he’s always hidden from you, from Section Six, from the rest of the world.

“I haven’t had any nightmares lately. I haven’t properly thanked you for that,” Harumasa says. He’s only a few feet away, but it feels like there’s miles between the two of you, oceans and canyons that you can’t traverse to reach wherever he’s speaking from.

“You can thank me after work,” you say. “Take me out to eat, if you feel bad.”

“Sure. We’ll go somewhere nice. You can choose.”

“Maybe we can bring the others along,” you add. “Soukaku will feel left out if we get something tasty without her, and Miyabi and Yanagi have been working hard these past few weeks.”

“Now you’re adding people without asking me? Do you want me to go bankrupt?”

He’s the same as he always is, with his carefree attitude and casual jokes, the way he keeps the mood light. Why, then, do you still feel so distant from Harumasa? Like he’ll be swept off into this crowd of people and you’ll never see him again?

“Harumasa.” You stride forward and circle his wrist with your hand, an anchor to keep him moored to your side. “I’ll be here for you, you know that, right? I’ll stay with you every night for as long as you need. I want to support you. You can tell me anything.”

Harumasa smiles ruthfully. “You’re too good to me. What if I take advantage of that?”

“I’ll let you,” you say quietly.

His breath hitches, his eyes dropping, as if searching for the right answer on the pavement beneath him. “The only thing I’ll ask you to do is to keep staying with me every night. Just help me sleep.”

“All right.”

He wiggles his hand free from your grasp until he can ghost his fingers along your palm, slowly intertwining your fingers together. His touch is as tentative as a butterfly’s kiss. You’re afraid to move, as if he’ll vanish if you do. “And I trust you. I know there’s a lot you’re curious about, but I need some time. There’s some unfinished business I need to deal with, first.”

“Take your time,” you say. “I’ll be waiting.”

Harumasa squeezes your hand briefly before letting go. “Also, this doesn’t bother me, but you do realize we’re still late to work, right?”

Shit. You glance at your phone, and the bright number makes you want to faint. “Let’s hurry! We’ll talk after work, all right? You still owe me that meal!”

The two of you race down the street (well, you run and Harumasa languidly follows a step behind), and you swear you can hear Harumasa’s quiet laughter all the way to the office. 

You don’t stop your frantic pace even as you check into the Hollow Special Operatives building, scanning your ID and bursting into the elevator, riding it all the way to your floor, where the doors pop open to a scowling Yanagi. 

“I’m so sorry!” you cry, explanations and apologies bubbling from your mouth. “Yanagi, this was extremely unprofessional of me, and I promise I’ll never be this late without prior notice again. If—”

“It’s okay,” Yanagi says, cutting in with a sigh. “You’re not normally this late. I was worried something happened to you.” 

“Tsukishiro, you’re so kind to us,” Harumasa says, grinning. 

“Asaba! This is your sixth time arriving late–” Abruptly, Yanagi stops her scolding, looking at Harumasa with a confused expression, before her eyes drift back to you. You can see something click in her thoughts as a mixture of recognition, shock, and weary acceptance play across her face in rapid measure. “I hope the two of you remember HR protocol for office relationships,” she says finally. “I have no feelings on your personal relationship outside of work, as long as… you don’t let it affect your performance.”

“What?” you say. Yanagi’s lips are pursed, and Harumasa’s expression is smugly pleased, like a cat with a particularly juicy piece of fish. Your eyes naturally drift from Harumasa, whose jacket isn’t as baggy and oversized as usual and instead looks strangely familiar, all the way to your own body, where you see that it’s not your jacket, but Harumasa’s jacket, hanging off your shoulders.

Shit. In the morning rush, you’d probably grabbed the wrong coat off the floor. That’s most likely why Harumasa had looked at you so oddly, too. 

Harumasa must notice the dawning horror on your face, because he adds, in a voice that makes you want to kick him, “Don’t worry, Tsukishiro. We’d never act so unprofessional in the workplace.”

“Yanagi, this isn’t… We’re not… There’s a perfectly good explanation for…” Any excuses that come to mind fall flat. What could you say without making the situation worse? Throw Harumasa under the bus and explain that you sleep with him to help with his nightmares? Or that you stay at his apartment when you’re too exhausted to return to your own? Both of those sounded like a professional nightmare in their own right.

“Yes?” Yanagi says patiently.

“I’ll… be careful,” you finally say.

“All right. If you need anything, let me know,” she says, patting you on the shoulder.

“Tsukishiro, this is obvious favoritism!” Harumasa protests lightly.

“Favoritism? I’ve been fighting to get all of your sick leave requests approved, even though you’ve exceeded your limit for the month.”

“Point taken.”

“Now, since the two of you are here… If you’re ready to head out, I need one of you to head out to Hollow Zero,” Yanagi says. “Section Four has requested back-up, and since Soukaku and Chief Miyabi are checking out a different disturbance, I haven’t been able to go since I’m handling business here.”

“When did they request help?” you say. “If we’ve been keeping them waiting…”

“Don’t worry,” Yanagi says. “The request only came a few minutes ago. I was considering leaving to handle it, but then the two of you showed up.”

“Of course. Then I’ll–”

“I’ll go,” Harumasa announces, interrupting you with a cheeky wave of his hand. “I owe it to my, ah, coworker, don’t I, for causing so much trouble?”

“You want to volunteer for additional work?” you ask dubiously.

“Well, consider this a repayment for everything you’ve done for me. Would that suffice? Oh, and not to worry–I’ll still treat you to a good meal after, even if I have to drag my poor, bruised body to the restaurant.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” you say. 

“I’m sure.” Harumasa raises his hand, as if he means to touch you in some way, but it simply hovers in the air before he gives you a quick pat on the shoulder, the same as Yanagi had done. It’s both relieving and disappointing. “So start thinking about what you want to eat. Oh, Tsukishiro, you and the rest are invited, too.”

“You’re treating us to dinner? Are you going to pull something ridiculous later?” Yanagi asks, with the same disbelief you had.

“Not at all! Think of it as some good old gratitude. I owe everyone here a lot. So look forward to it.” He spins on his heel to press the elevator button again. “All right, time to head out!”

There’s so much you want to say to Harumasa, and so much you can’t. But he has promised you the truth, eventually, so you won’t push him further. You can only take this quiet snapshot of him in your head, his loose posture, his rumpled clothes, the way your jacket is tied low on his waist.

It comforts you that he’ll have this piece of you with him, like a lucky charm. If he won’t ask for his jacket back, then you won’t ask for yours.

“Come back soon,” you say. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

“I’ll be back.” Harumasa smiles briefly before the doors slide shut and separate the two of you.

The majority of the day passes in a blur of menial office tasks, paperwork and reports, with cheap, filtered coffee carrying you through it all. You drink yours bitterly black, and think of Harumasa. A few hours later, Soukaku and Miyabi return, covered in light scrapes and bruises that will fade within the day. 

“Welcome back,” you tell them, standing to greet them near the entrance.

Soukaku bounds up to wrap her arms around your waist in a tight hug, and you ruffle her hair. “Where’s Harumasa?” she asks.

“Out providing support to Section Four,” you say. “He’ll probably be back before the end of the day. How was your mission?”

“Fine. There wasn’t much trouble,” Miyabi says. 

“By the way, Harumasa is going to treat us to dinner tonight,” you add, fiddling with the ends of Harumasa’s jacket sleeve.

“Yay!” Soukaku says. “Let’s get meat!”

“Grilled meat,” you supply. “The best kind.”

“Premium cut…” Miyabi muses.

“Don’t ask too much from him,” Yanagi adds, looking up briefly from her desk to address the three of you. 

“You don’t want premium grade meat, Yanagi?”

“Well…”

“Take the time to think about it,” you tease.

The rest of the time pours away in a sluggish trickle. As the sky reddens to a color like pooling blood, Harumasa still hasn’t returned. It’s taking more time than you expected. All you can do is tug at the ends of Harumasa’s jacket sleeves in nervous habit, watching the teal fabric fall over your hands. It hasn’t lost his scent yet. 

Perhaps the others have sensed your unease, because the mood is more sombre than usual. Even Soukaku is quietly fidgeting at her desk, the entire office enveloped in a fragile, waiting silence.

Harumasa likes to act lackadaisical, but you know from firsthand experience that he��s competent. Besides, he’s promised to come back and tell you the things he’s been hiding. And he still has to take you and the rest of Section Six to dinner. 

This is a simple back-up mission, you remind yourself. Yanagi hadn’t mentioned any complications. It would be fine. Harumasa would come back late with some excuse, you would tease him, the entire office would have dinner together, and then you would go to his apartment and curl up in his bed, and maybe hold him a little tighter than usual tonight. It would almost be as if you and Harumasa are the lovers Yanagi thought you two were. 

The elevator dings, and you hear rapid footsteps on the carpet. Your head whips up as someone stumbles into the office—it’s not Harumasa, and your heart tightens with disappointment. Instead, it’s a person with tattered clothing whose Section Four ID is, oddly enough, still pinned to their chest, caked in a layer of blood, dust, and sweat, familiar bow in their hands, dry mouth gasping as if they’ve run all the way over without stopping, “There’s been an accident. The operative you’ve sent… Asaba Harumasa… turned into an Ethereal.”

Blood roars in your ears, a sudden, swelling ocean overtaking you. Harumasa? An Ethereal? It’s not a very funny joke, but the Section Four officer is blinking away tears. You’re standing–when did you get up?–and Yanagi and Miyabi are urgently pelting the person with questions. 

All you can see is the dulled blades of Harumasa’s weapon, glinting coolly in the person’s hands. There’s a coating of grime over the metal, and the handles have been dirtied. It needs to be cleaned and returned to Harumasa. You want nothing more than to yank it out of the person’s hands. 

The operative sees your expression, and holds out the weapon. Their voice is still hoarse and shaking as they say, “It’s all we could retrieve. I’m sorry.”

You grip the bow in your hands. The weight of it is comfortable if heavier than you expected, like holding a piece of Harumasa himself. Pieces of the conversation drift to you, but you can’t quite make out what they mean. Something about the Hollow fluctuating and their carrot being useless, getting lost and overwhelmed by Ethereals, and Harumasa using himself as a distraction. Doubling back when someone was separated from the team. Staying behind, finally, to ensure everyone could get out safely, until his own body betrayed him and he changed into an Ethereal, so rapidly no one could do anything.

There are other words, too, but they don’t make sense. You don’t want to hear them from a stranger, and not from Harumasa himself. Ether Aptitude Regression Syndrome. High likelihood of mutation in a Hollow. A fatally terminal illness.

It’s wrong, you want to say. Harumasa has promised to take you to dinner. He likes to mess around, but he’s a good person. He’s not cruel. He wouldn’t lie to you. He wouldn’t leave you behind like this.

Something cool touches your numb body. It’s Miyabi, and she’s put a hand on the back of your neck, guiding you to look at her. It’s a clear, gentle cold, somehow comforting, as she watches you intently. 

“We have to go,” she says quietly. “The Ethereal has been designated a high-level threat. We’ve been assigned to dispatch it.”

“It’s Harumasa,” you tell her, your voice clumsy and whiny, even to your own ears.

Her expression doesn’t change. “I know. But these people need us. And he needs you.”

You want to cry. You want to laugh. You want to run away. But all you can think about is Harumasa. His golden eyes luminous in the late night as he whispers to you. The way blue dawn light cradles his face, peaceful and unguarded in sleep. His smile, always so teasing, always so gentle, always shining down on you like the sun.

There’s so much you still don’t understand. About him. About your relationship. Why he keeps a certain distance from you, but never draws away when you approach him. Why he opens his arms to you every night, like it’s the only place you belong. Why you count the beat of his heart and the rhythm of his breaths when he slumbers, reassuring yourself that he’s still there. Now, the only one who can answer these questions is gone.

And you know. Miyabi is right. You must go. There is no other choice but this.

On the way there, you move like you’re in a dream. Your preparations are swift, and you’re out the door and driving to Hollow Zero before you can make sense of it. During the car ride, you clutch Harumasa’s bow like a lifeline. Soukaku sniffles, and Yanagi puts an arm around her. Miyabi is only looking at the Hollow stretching out in front of you. Once you step out of the car, with one gesture from her, the four of you venture in. 

It’s a painfully quiet trek amidst crumbling debris and corrupted growth. The four of you move swiftly, in sync as always, but there’s something missing: Harumasa, his absence like a black hole in your formation. There’s no jokes, no quips, no teasing. Only grim silence as you approach the location in your carrot.

You hear Harumasa before you see him: the scrape of blade against the resisting ground, an endless, dull roaring, like the distant echo of the ocean. He lurks beautifully in the distance, a core like the night sky nestled against twisted neon yellow and white flesh. He circles around in a tight, restless loop, as if, even in this form, he can’t be bothered to venture far. 

For a second, the four of you can only watch him quietly, hidden by a pile of stacked, blocky concrete that shields you from his notice. A flicker of teal catches your eye, buried in the rubble near Harumasa. It’s your jacket. You look away.

“I’ll draw his attention,” Yanagi begins. “Then, the rest of you can–”

“Let me do it,” you interrupt her. 

“You want to be the distraction?”

“No,” you say levelly. “There’s only one thing I can do for him right now.”

Yanagi’s eyes widen as your meaning sinks in. “It’s dangerous,” she protests. “It’s safer if we approach this as a team.”

“Will you be able to deal the blow?” Miyabi says. She’s watching you intently again, and there’s something sad in her gaze. 

You’ve watched Harumasa assemble his weapon countless times, but you don’t have his practiced ease as you unsheathe his blades and clumsily combine them into a bow. It’s not your preferred weapon choice, even if you’ve been trained in it, but it’s his, so you can use nothing else.

“I have to,” you say.

Miyabi nods. “Then I leave you with this decision.”

“If you’re sure,” Yanagi says softly. “It’ll be difficult, but I believe in you.”

“Harumasa sounds sad. You’ve gotta help him,” Soukaku says. It’s one of the first things she’s said during the mission, and you can see the drying tears on her face. It makes your heart ache.

“I’ll be there for him,” you tell her. “Don’t worry.”

With one final breath and a last glance at Section Six, you step out into the open, exposing yourself to Harumasa. An unknown bow can be finicky, but Harumasa’s weapon responds easily to your demands, bending with a grace and swiftness as you notch an arrow. You remember his movements, the assured, flowing gestures of his fighting style. You spread your feet apart, as he would have done, searching for the perfect location to strike.

You need to hit him before he notices you, but Harumasa turns. You tense, bracing to enter combat, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he stills, as if he’s finally found what he’s been looking for. 

There’s no way he knows it’s you. There’s not even a face anymore for him to watch you, not a single part of him that’s familiar. The curve of his back, the dip of his shoulders, the hollow of his throat: it’s all gone. So why isn’t he moving?

Your fingers shake as you draw the string back, careful not to take your eyes off of him.

It’s the most ridiculous moment for it, but you still remember the first time you started sleeping by his side. You’d both been sitting on the edge of his bed, draped in velvet shadows, unsure of the time. Neither of you were able to sleep. You could have, but you didn’t feel comfortable snoring away on Harumasa’s couch while he stared aimlessly at his own ceiling.

“How about this? I’ll sleep next to you,” you finally said. 

He lets out a small, surprised laugh. “Why?”

“Because I want you to sleep well,” you said. “I’ll stay by your side until you can.”

And it’s just like you once promised Harumasa. You would stay by his side until the end so he wouldn’t be alone, even if this time you can’t follow him where he’s going. After all, you want him to sleep peacefully. 

Harumasa—No. It’s no longer him. The Ethereal is still watching you, as if it’s waiting for your decision. It raises its arms, slowly, but no blow comes. They only hover in the air, outstretched like a supplication.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice ragged with tears. You fire. Your arrow strikes swift and true.

What happens next is a blur. The Ethereal crumples in one blow, melting away like a sigh. Yanagi, Soukaku, and Miyabi appear, hugging you and whispering reassurances that fall on you like warm rain. You’re led out of the Hollow, still gripping Harumasa’s bow like you’ll fall to pieces without it.

It’s confusing to be back at the office. Yanagi disappears to file reports, bringing Soukaku with her. Tomorrow, you’ll need to clear Harumasa’s desk, and prepare for his funeral. But it all feels so distant, so unreal. As if he could still walk through the door, and protest at your hasty decisions.

Miyabi hands you a tattered pile of dirty rags—Harumasa’s clothing, or what’s left of it. There’s his (your) jacket, barely clinging together, his headband, grimy at the ends, and his choker, the metal dented.

“It’s what I could find for now,” she says quietly. “I’ll give you the rest tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” you say in a hoarse voice, not trusting yourself to say any more. 

After that, Yanagi calls you a taxi, and when the driver asks where you’re headed, you give them Harumasa’s address.

His apartment is just as you left it. Still warm with the lingering scent of sunshine, the blinds open and the city lights glittering like stars. Empty dishes and glasses in the sink. A full trash can, which needs to be taken out. His blankets askew, unmade, left with nothing but a cool indent of where he once slept by your side.

You curl up on his bed, snuggling into his blankets, still wearing his jacket, too exhausted to do much more than hug his tattered clothes to you. You can still smell his scent, refreshing and slightly bitter, sunk into the pillows.

There will be no body to bury. There will be no answers. There will be no one to return to anymore.

You close your eyes. You dream. And if you hug his clothes tightly enough, you can pretend that it’s Harumasa by your side, arm around your waist. In the morning, you’ll see the light spill across his face, and smile.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Weird Fiction

Weird fiction - a subgenre of speculative fiction that combines supernatural, horror, magical realist, and fantasy elements.

Speculative fiction focuses on stories containing speculative elements that do not exist in the real world.

Weird fiction’s roots lie in Gothic fiction, horror, fantasy, and science fiction.

It subverts the traditional conventions of these genres, creating a whole new crop of unsettling and sophisticated short stories, anthologies, and novels.

Weird fiction plays to an audience’s discomfort and fascination with the unknown, digging deep into the spiritual, emotional, and existential conflicts of the human condition in ways that traditional horror stories may not. Weird fiction stories may feature bizarre creatures, haunting mythos, or mental disturbances caused by unknown forces.

How to Write Weird Fiction

Weird fiction stories often contain a variety of macabre elements and supernatural components. Follow these steps to write your work of weird fiction:

Start with a mood. In the short essay “Notes on Writing Weird Fiction,” H.P. Lovecraft directs weird fiction writers to begin with a mood when they start building the world of their story. Brainstorm all of the concrete imagery, landscapes, and words that would best embody that particular feeling. Keep these pictures in mind as you assemble the elements of your narrative, like setting, characters, or conflicts.

Build your narrative. Before you start writing your weird fiction piece, outline all of the elements of your story. What is the plot? Who are the characters? Where do they live? What does their world look like, and how is it different from yours? Weird fiction involves blending tropes and crossing genre boundaries, but you don’t want to overload your story with too many fantastical components because it might overwhelm the reader. Structure your story and build the atmosphere first before adding action and lore. Outline all of the major events in your story—first in the chronological order they happen, and then in the narrative order.

Eschew the tropes. Weird fiction subverts the traditional stories of vampires, werewolves, zombies, ghosts, or other supernatural creatures. This genre is about finding new and refreshing ways to shake up the classic arcs and tropes. Avoid clichés that don’t bring anything new to the table.

Find a deeper, darker meaning. Weird fiction dives deep into the darker and more troubling components of human emotion and experience. In these stories, magical or mystical forces are always tethered to some truth about the human condition—like a fear of the unknown. If you incorporate supernatural or symbolic elements into your story, give them a message that goes beyond the surface level. Give your fantastical elements a deeper meaning that speaks to the overall theme of your narrative.

Write and revise. Write out your narrative, making room for dramatic suspense, twists, and other compelling events. If the writing feels cliché, take the story in an even weirder direction. Weird fiction is all about breaking convention, so feel free to switch and swap elements, so it feels fresh and thrilling to you.

A Brief History of Weird Fiction

Beginnings: As the 19th century brought about the golden age of ghost stories, another branch of literature found inspiration in the supernatural, which fell outside of the expected Gothic tale that blended elements of romance, horror, and death. These weird stories were examples of paranormal fiction containing twists or subversions of expectations, branching out from the traditional tale of the age to add a sense of dread and mystique.

Poe: In the mid-19th century, Edgar Allan Poe was one of the first authors to write in a dark style different from the common fiction styles of the era.

Pulp magazines: The popularity of weird fiction hit its initial peak in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, as new horror authors found inspiration in earlier works. The American pulp magazine Weird Tales published many of these types of stories between the 1920s and 1950s.

Lovecraft: In 1937, H.P. Lovecraft popularized the term “weird fiction” in a series of essays, categorizing the work of himself and others (notably Poe) within this specific subgenre. Bolstered by a growing platform, the weird fiction movement continued to gain favor with other writers.

The New Weird: By the 1990s, the weird fiction movement experienced a shift, giving birth to the ‘the new weird’ literary subgenre. ‘The new weird’ is a more recent speculative fiction branch with a more realistic and complex fantasy tone.

Notable Weird Fiction Authors & Books

From the 19th century to today, there have been many “weird writers” whose works have impacted the literary world. Here are some of the most influential weird authors and some of their best weird fiction books and stories:

Algernon Blackwood: Blackwood was a master weird storyteller who delved into various worlds filled with unsettling horror, wonder, and spiritual forces. His 1907 novel The Willows depicts two men as they travel down a river. They experience several unsettling occurrences, and the narrator suspects the surrounding sentient willow trees are instigating these events.

Robert W. Chambers: The first four stories of Chambers’s anthology The King in Yellow (1895) deal with a malevolent, mysterious presence in yellow (as well as a yellow sign). This motif was an inspiration for HBO’s True Detective series.

Lord Dunsany: Lord Dunsany (whose real name was Edward Plunkett) was an Anglo-Irish writer of dark, fantastical fiction. The Gods of Pegāna (1905) is a series of short stories depicting deities in their narratives, featuring illustrations by English artist Sidney Sime.

Franz Kafka: Kafka’s famous short story "The Metamorphosis” (1918) features a salesman who awakes one day to find that he has turned into a monstrous insect. The narrative follows the protagonist as he deals with his new condition and the consequences of his transformation.

H.P. Lovecraft: American writer Howard Phillips Lovecraft is one of the most famous weird fiction authors. “Lovecraftian,” a term named after Lovecraft, refers to conditions that defy the laws of nature and embody weird, cosmic horror. His short story “The Call of Cthulhu” features the abomination known as Cthulhu, a horrifyingly destructive monster with tentacles and a squid face. The story originally appeared in the science fiction and horror periodical Weird Tales in 1928.

Edgar Allan Poe: Many historians consider Poe the first weird fiction writer. Poe’s short story “The Fall of the House of Usher” (1839) features an unidentified narrator—a childhood friend of the main character—who visits the main character at his seemingly sentient home. As the narrator learns more about his old friend’s family and state of mind, he discovers that the house is alive and threatening to collapse.

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