#everything— smiling— for a price. he could be your family butcher and you’d never be any the wiser unless you looked him in the eye

[previousloversandmuses]

Slow Burn - Prologue

Part I | masterlist

A/N: This is a “must read” precursor to the whole series. Please read it to know what the origin story is. 

Pairing: Y/N x Obi Wan Kenobi

Words: 2048

Warnings: None. Brief mentions of violence. Low self esteem.

I am always one to experience emotions at a heightened frequency. Dangerous for a Jedi in training I know, but the council never took it as a sign of caution, just a minor set back. Happiness is bright, and beaming, even painful. My cheeks hurt for days after, smile lines sculpting my skin too early in life. Anger is powerful, my skin becoming vicious, and hot. Ripping through me like a silver bullet, and tearing my already unrelenting gut apart. I am loud, I am violent, and most of all, passionate. I would later become grateful of this curse, turning it into a blessing. Sadness is so deep. Tears crash like an ocean, and my heart would ache in my chest. The physical symptoms of my despair become overwhelming, and make me sick.

A fresh eighteen myself, my graduation is only a year or so away. Compared to other padawans, ones that don’t deal with the same struggles as myself, have already been graced with knighthood. They make their masters proud, and have already completed more missions at sixteen than I think I ever will in my entire career. 

I had the choice to become independent, to take my morals by the throat, and shove them deep down inside me, never to be seen again- but it really just isn’t that easy. See, I’m taking this time for meditation, or even a “behavioral therapy” of sorts. I have meetings with other council members, more powerful, and more prominent than my own master, who is often off tending to matters elsewhere. A mighty general he is, but they see me as someone who would cause more of a distraction, so I stay here at the temple left to my own devices. Sometimes I think it may be because I’m a woman, and other times I just take a good look in the mirror and recall the outburst that has stained my face only minutes before. 

Today was like any other; wake up, meditate, exercise, study, combat training, study, try and find time to eat something, and study. I walked down the main hallway with Master Yoda. He spoke to me about how he once struggled with his emotions as well, but with enough meditation, learned how to keep them at bay. Looking down at him and his vacant expression, I was surprised he had ever even felt an emotion a day in his life. That was until seconds later…

Stopping in my tracks, my hand flew over my heart. I recalled feeling out of breath, like my heart had physically stopped beating in my chest, or at least was trying to catch up with the rest of my body. I was shaky, yet somehow managed to take a knee. Something was off, that feeling in my chest grew and grew until I was faced with the blackest black I had ever felt. The darkest emotion to ever run through my body, as cold as ice, and heart stopping. It was deep, I felt it within the darkest abyss in my soul. It wrapped around my insides and nestled itself a home deep within the most shielded corners of my subconscious. That’s when Master Yoda felt it too. His hand flying over his heart, and steadying himself on my own shoulder. His face morphed into a snarl, gasping at the sudden pain that now infected his unwavering calm aura. 

...

After a painstakingly slow recovery, I sat on the edge of my bed. My quarters were neat and tidy. My bed, usually made up in the morning, because I have always been one for a routine. My walls weren’t bare, in fact they were almost completely covered in photographs I have taken from my travels as a Padawan. I'd go to the library, and butcher borrowed books, clipping photos of different words, and alien fauna. But today, those bright colors capable of producing fantasies for hours and hours, seemed black and white. 

I had been staring at the floor for sometime, desperate in trying to heal the ache in my chest. It felt as if I had a cold, like the burn after a deep cough. I felt so tight, so tense, an actual living embodiment of rigor mortis. Yet, at the same time, I hardly felt all there. It was as if my existence was floating all around me, and my shell was sitting vacant on an uncomfortable mattress. The knock on my door was enough for me to engulf myself again. 

“Y/N, are you decent?” The voice asks. 

“Yes,” I reply, rolling my shoulders back. 

“The council has requested an audience. Please report downstairs within the next few minutes.”

I nod my head, as if whoever was behind the door could see me. 

“An audience,”  I think. “Let’s add another year to that training plan, shall we?”

...

Walking downstairs to the council room, I can’t help but feel that all eyes are on me. They cut through me like a hot knife, slicing me thin. I feel so vulnerable. Like everyone around me can feel what I feel, and if I’m being honest, they probably do. A good Jedi who is in tune with the force, and especially in tune with others, can sense an intense emotion from a mile away. I’m sure at this moment I pretty much equate to an open book. No reason to try and hide it, force knows I struggle with concealing even an inkling of agitation. 

Seeing the council room in sight, I take a deep breath. This is it. I’m done for. This reaction was way too over the top. I’ve scared people, I’ve scared Master Yoda. Might as well just turn in my saber now and call it a day.

I walk into the door. Only a few masters sit scattered around. Master Yoda of course perched dead center, Master Windu waiting patiently to his right. But my master was nowhere in sight. You’d think if they were going to terminate me, that maybe my own mentor would be among them? Shaking his head, sending me glares that one could only compare to fucking daggers. He was tough on me for sure, maybe he was too ashamed of what I’d done to even bear to see me in this moment. 

“Coming here so quickly you did,” Starts Master Yoda. “Grateful we all are.”

I smile and bow my head. 

“Y/N,” Master Windu starts. “We’re here to discuss the events that happened earlier.” 

Oh god here it comes. This is it. I’m totally done for. I can’t even keep myself calm now. My face, getting hotter and more red by the second, is going to be the biggest tell. At least let me go out with some dignity. 

“Your reaction, what you felt at least, was not just brought on out of the blue. Master Yoda had the same experience, as did all of us on the council, and most Jedi and padawans in the temple.”

“I don’t understand.” I say. 

“At around 1 Coruscant time, an enemy bomb was detonated on Nal Hutta.”

Then it hit me. My heart sinking, I began to shake my head. 

“Unfortunately, Unit 505, and Master Cato were all killed on impact.”

My ears ring. Slowly, I move over to a chair, bracing myself. 

“That’s,” I start, trying to find the words to say. “He would’ve felt it, all of them would, I don’t understand.”

“We have a feeling it was planted by a Sith. That’s the only way it would’ve clouded any judgement.”

I slump into it, my vision going black, my head spinning. 

Master Cato has been with me since I was a very little girl. Although rough, tough, and brutally honest, he has done nothing but be a father to me time and time again. Everything I do is a reflection of him. He had been so busy at war, fighting day in and day out, I caught myself missing the commands, and demands I once so passionately despised. I took our whole relationship for granted, and now, is this the price I have to pay? The last time we spoke he told me how disappointed he was in my outburst in my Alien Fauna lab. I was being stubborn, I was bratty, and rolled my eyes. We had argued that entire call. He didn’t even attempt to say goodbye. Now, for an eternity, I will have to face the catastrophic guilt of my actions. Live with the fact that I never, ever told him how much I appreciated him. And even, how much I loved him so. The closest thing to family in my life, gone, in the snap of a finger. 

Both Master Yoda and Master Windu continued to talk but it all felt like empty words. I couldn’t hear them anyway. 

“Although this situation isn't ideal, we and the rest of the council applaud you for being able to feel something most of us haven’t been able to experience yet.” Claimed Master Windu.

I don’t listen. I stand up again. 

“What am I going to do? I don’t feel comfortable with being knighted yet. I had- we were working on so many things I-,” I stumbled on my words. 

“You’ll get placed with a new master.”

“There are no new masters. And even if I had been trained a certain way, I don’t know how to learn otherwise.” 

There is silence. 

“The force works in mysterious ways. Meant to happen, I feel.” 

I scoff. “Meant to happen,” what an evil thing to say.

I begin to walk off, stopping of course, only to get in the last word. 

“Not only have you told me that my master has been killed, but you lack any empathy. There is no emotion in your eyes. Nothing.”

“We mourn your master y/n, just as much as you do. You know what we stand for. You know our view on attachments.”

“He's like-,” I choke. “He was like my father.”

I can’t even begin to explain the pain I feel. Disgust in myself, I should’ve been better. I could’ve been better. The last few years of our relationship I’ve just been behaving poorly and rebelling, and then getting angry at him when he made me face the consequences. Like I wasn’t aware of the job I was made to do. I should’ve been nicer, I could’ve been nicer. It’s all going in a circle, all the things I should’ve done just morphed into things I couldn’t do. Maybe I was too emotional. Maybe my tears that fell leading up to this moment was all part of the plan, the final kicker to show that I wasn’t apathetic enough for this job. My empathy, my burning passion will always be my biggest flaw. This hole that gapes inside of me will never be filled, and now it grows bigger. It’s like a disease. Am I enough? Will I ever be enough?

“Put you with Master Kenobi, we will.” States Master Yoda. 

Master Windu is quick in turning his head. He glares at him. 

“Master Yoda, General Kenobi has just finished his training with Anakin. It is far too early to give him a new Padawan, if at all.”

Yoda nods, almost giggling. 

“Yet so freshly knighted, a Padawan Anakin already has. Obi Wan will have no problem with taking on a student. Graduates soon, she will.”

“But General Kenobi and I have two completely different methods of combat, let alone ideals.” I scoff. 

“All Jedi have the same ideals.” Adds Windu. 

“He is a Jedi guardian, I am a Jedi sentinel-“

“Train with General Kenobi you will. Not long ago he also lost his master too soon.”

Master Yoda nods to me. He stands up and walks over to the large windows behind him. Looking out over Coruscant, he takes a deep sigh of relief. 

“Master Windu,” says Yoda. “Get in contact with the 212th battalion.” 

I watch on as my fate now rests in a stranger's hands.

[igotbulletproof-insomnia]

Adopting Bangtan 08

01 previous

Supermarket Sweep

You were never going grocery shopping with seven kids ever again in your life.

The chaos. The absolute chaos was something that you somehow never expected. You actually thought that shopping with all seven kids would be the most efficient way to accomplish the task. Sit Kookie in the cart and let him “help” you by picking out the area to shop and hold the bags while you pick the vegetables. Send Yoongi and Namjoon to buy the snacks because they were the most sensible of all of the children and wouldn't have you spending way more money than necessary. Let Taehyung and Jimin retrieve the bread and the milk. Let Seokjin pick the meat because he was surprisingly talented at the job. And then everyone was supposed to meet you back at the shopping cart, still located in produce, so that you could pay and you all could go home. It should have taken thirty minutes, tops.

Instead, you found yourself chasing Taehyung around the store while Jimin kept an eye on Jungkook and you really, really hoped that he didn’t grab the most expensive apples on display, but you have the feeling that he would — because of course, he would. Prices didn’t seem to exist to any of the younger kids.

Instead, Jin was throwing a fit because all of the meats on display were apparently complete rubbish and he refused to let you spend money on anything but the most expensive cuts of beef so you “just have to” make another stop at the actual butcher’s shop. Granted, if Jimin spent all of your money on asparagus, your family would be eating vegetarian this week.

Instead, as soon as you managed to grab Taehyung, who apparently just wanted to replace Jungkook as your shopping partner, Namjoon appeared with a reasonable request for more variety in tea for the house. Which opened up a whole new can of worms as Taehyung realized he can ask for things too. This had him running back to Jimin and the shopping cart with a grin on his face, demanding that they find the snack aisle because you were going to buy them extra snacks if they asked, and Jimin’s face lit up with a smile so bright that dammit, it was going to be hard to explain what a budget was and why it wasn’t a good idea to exceed it.

(and yeah, you checked. Jimin grabbed the most expensive radish and lettuce he could find, and you were going to have to break out the vegetarian cookbook.)

(except for the bananas. It seemed Jungkook picked up the bananas)

Thankfully, Yoongi — lovely, beautiful, blessed Yoongi — had been returning to the shopping cart with his arms full of a variety of snacks, all low in price but high in popularity at home. He took one look at the chaos of whining and fussing children, rolled his eyes heavenwards, and took control.

“You get one.”

His tone left no room for argument; even you stood straight and stopped making a scene. Yoongi led the group back to the snack aisle and replaced everything he picked and let the others run wild. Together, you watched the others pick out snacks and place them, one by one, into the shopping cart.

“... They’re going to blow the snack budget like this,” you commented idly.

“I know.”

“That’s why you put the rest back, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And these snacks aren’t going to last as long as they usually do, will they?”

“Not at all.”

“Thank goodness you’re so smart,” you ruffled his hair. “This is why I keep you around.”

“You keep me around because you don’t want me living by myself and I save you from going broke.” Yoongi’s tone was as matter of fact as ever and you couldn’t help but grin.

“Like I said, smart kid.”

Yoongi grinned back. You liked the fact that these kids didn’t take you too seriously. You had a good balance of deference, respect, and playfulness with all of them, even if you weren’t sure who actually ran the household most of the time. “Go pick you something, Yoon. You don’t have anything for yourself.”

“You can’t afford what I want.”

“I probably can’t afford what anyone wants, they aren’t paying attention to the prices.” And indeed, Taehyung and Jimin, your babies with the most expensive tastes, were debating the merits of two snacks that were way outside of the price range you would normally consider. But again, Jimin’s smile was so broad that you were reluctant to tell him no and watch that fearful, nervous look fall back into place. You would talk to him about budgets and restrictions another time. “I’ll make it work, don’t worry about it right now.”

With a grateful smile, Yoongi asked you to grab the snack he wanted, placed just out of his reach on a top shelf. It wasn’t priced too far out of budget, but it was different from the things he normally selected for your busy household of eight. You made a mental note to pay attention to how much Yoongi enjoyed the snack and check the stores for similar ones. The kid did so much and asked for so little, it would be nice to do this one thing for him.

“Wait a moment…” you frowned, counting off. “Where’s Hoseok?” Immediately all of the children quieted down, looking to each other as if to confirm that yes, someone was missing.

“Wasn’t he supposed to go with Jin-hyung?” asked Namjoon.

“No, I thought he was keeping Jimin and Taetae company?”

“Oh my God, you lost Hoseok.” That accusing tone came from Taehyung, and you watched Jimin’s face go from lightweight confused to completely devastated. You hated it, had suspicion that he was wondering if you would eventually do the same thing to him, if you would get bored or disappointed or angry and cast him off, lose him in a store or at a park like Hoseok explained happened to him, like all of Jimin’s previous parents did to him.

“Okay, boys,” you shouted, uncaring of the stares you attracted. The boys startled, but gave you their full attention, which was one hundred percent more than you’d had the entire grocery trip. You continued to speak firmly, and could tell the show of authority did more to calm their panic than the shouting. You decided that they needed to focus on something other than their lost brother. “This is what we’re going to do: Namjoon, you’re going to take Taetae and Jimin and get the bread, milk, and all the dairy stuff like I told you before, okay? Add eggs to that list. Yoongi, go get the paper products. Get the brands we used to get, not the ones we used last time, they’re cheaper and sturdier. Seokjin, we’ll go to the butcher’s if we have the budget when we finish here, but I promised we could have meat for dinner, so take Kookie and find something, okay?” All of the boys nodded at their assignment. “Good. Yoongi, Joonie, find Jin when you’ve got your things. Seokjin, when you’ve finished, wait for me in produce. You all understand? I’m going to go find Hoseok. He probably got distracted and can’t find us.” Hoseok had a habit of doing that. He often got lost among the chaos, because while everyone was being loud and boisterous, Hoseok was often quiet and did the things that went unnoticed. If you assigned dairy, meat, and snacks, then Hoseok probably went off to grab paper towels or rice or something you needed at home but forgot about. You wouldn’t be surprised if he came to the store with the list Yoongi and Jin never felt the need to write.

So the kids separated, worried and mumbling to each other, but occupied with their tasks. They were trusting in your ability, in your promise to locate their missing brother before you all went home. Whether these kids were abandoned by their parents (or maybe ran away from home, Seokjin never discussed why he chose to stay with his former teacher) , you found them and chose to take care of them. It was understandable that they would be worried. Up until now you had probably seemed like some sort of savior to them. Maybe not infallible, and definitely not… whatever it was that made other adults seem parental, but you had taken care of them, kept track of them, and protected them. Losing one of them had probably shaken their hearts.

It didn’t take long before you Hoseok as you predicted, standing in the frozen section, a piece of paper and pen in his hands. He bit his tongue as he read through it, humming to himself and ticking off items. A hand basket sat at his feet, overfilled with supplies.

“I’m pretty sure you should have an actual shopping cart for that,” you told him. Hoseok startled, jumping nearly a foot in the air and shouting in surprise. The petty, upset parent part of you feels satisfied for it, like Hoseok got what he deserved for scaring you the way he did. The more rational part of your brain is just glad that you were right and he hadn’t been kidnapped. Casually, you looked over the basket. “I didn’t even think about checking the spice cabinet. You’re a clever kid.”

“I just wanted to be helpful,” Hoseok replied with a shrug.

“It would have been helpful if you told me where you were going.”

“... I didn’t do that?” Hoseok’s eyes went big and wandered left and right. He seemed to be making himself smaller, pulling his arms close and leaning away from you.

“No, you didn’t.”

“I… oh.”

“We got very scared,” you explained. “We thought you got lost. The other boys were panicking.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you, I just… everyone else got an assignment and I didn’t, so…”

“So you thought I wouldn’t notice if you disappeared for a bit.” You nodded and ignored Hoseok’s flinch when you crouched down to his level. He wasn’t terribly short, he was actually almost as tall as your shoulder, but it was always easier to have these sorts of talks when you weren’t looming over him. “It’s okay, I’m not mad about you shopping on your own. I’m actually really glad that you took initiative to do something helpful. But you did scare me. I didn’t know what happened to you. I didn’t know if you got lost or ran away or if someone stole you from me. I’m glad I know you well enough to assume you brought your own list, but I was still afraid of being wrong. I really, really don’t know what I would do if you went missing, Hoseok. I haven’t had you for long, but my heart would hurt. I care about you that much, okay? So please, communicate. Tell me when you’re going to wander away, and tell me where you’re going so that I know you are safe.” Hoseok nodded fervently, most likely an effort to convince you he was sincere and wouldn’t disappear on you again. You opened your arms for a hug, You opened your arms for a hug, partially to comfort yourself, but mostly to soothe Hoseok. He looked like he might burst into tears and needed the comfort.

“Okay, good.” You squeezed the kid tight, your hold unrelenting until you felt the kid push away. “Alright, let me see that list of yours.” Together, you and Hoseok went through his list, and you were amazed that he was so thorough. Apparently the kid started taking stock as soon as you mentioned the intent to go to the grocery store earlier in the week. Hoseok noticed that you had a habit of leaving something out and he thought that making a list would be helpful. When you decided that you were going to take all of the kids with you, he decided to just hold on to the list himself.

“From now on, you’re making grocery lists,” you decided as you made your way back to Jin. “Maybe even all of the lists if you’re this organized. What do you think of that?”

Hoseok grinned, obviously proud of himself. “I think that sounds awesome!” He cheered. “Is this like how Yoongi gets to be in charge of the budget and Jin is in charge of the kitchen and Joonie is in charge of all of us?”

“Kind of yes, something like that,” you said. “Because obviously I’ll lose my head otherwise.”

“I’m sure we’ll keep track of your head too if you want.”

“Ah, why are all of my kids so snarky? I don’t deserve this,” you cried, hugging Hoseok more tightly to your waist. “All I do is give them love and a home, and they pay me back in sass.”

“But you love us, right?” Hoseok asked. His voice was a little softer than before, and you saw it for the genuine question that it was, not the joke that it would have been had it come from Jin, Joon, or Yoon.

“Of course,” you told him. “Don’t you doubt that for a second.”

When you went searching for the rest of the kids, you found them standing by Jin with the shopping cart, all lined up on the side of the aisle and eerily quiet. Even Jungkook in the shopping cart was holding his hands in his lap, eyes down cast.

“Do I want to know what happened here?”

“No,” was the resounding answer.

“Okay, good.” You shake off your curiosity. Whether that was because you trusted Seokjin or because you were afraid of the answer, you were undecided. “Hoseok, do you want to delegate tasks? We have a few more things on your list, right?” Hoseok noded, and set about sending his brothers off in pairs to retrieve the remaining items on his checklist. After the two sets had wandered off, Hoseok looked up again.

“Could you…?”

“Seokjinnie, you good by yourself?”

“I’ll have Kookie with me, it will be great.” Jin shrugged and you rolled your eyes.

“We’ll still meet over in produce when you’re finished, okay?”

Jin huffed his frustration at the meat selection. “I think we’re just having fish tonight. Is that fine with you?”

“If it’s okay with your brothers, it’s okay with me.”

“They’ll be fine with it,” Seokjin declared. His tone said he was still very irritated with whatever happened while you were gone.

“Get some cheaper produce when you’re finished, please.”

“Sure thing,” Seokjin agreed absently, wandering further up the aisle.

“Holler if you need me,”

“I will.”

“Just don’t scare everyone when you do.”

“Now you’re just taking away my fun.”

After all of that, you spent another fifteen minutes in the store. The trip to the butcher’s shop was put off for the following night, and you all made the unanimous decision to eat ramen and kimchi for dinner. You were also very loud about never bringing seven kids grocery shopping ever again.

That was, until two weeks later when Jimin’s adorable pout convinced you that they would be on their absolute bestest behavior (spoiler alert: they weren’t).

To find more of my child-bangtan fics, select the "Collecting Strays" tag at the bottom of this page ^_^

[ladyideal]

The Faceless Shadow: I

Word Count: 2073

Warnings: spoilers of s1 finale, mention of rape, mention of murder, Billy Butcher, language, alcohol

Summary: Five years later, you enjoy life after years of hardwork bringing NYC under one rule.

A/n: yeah... let's just yeah.

Five Years Later

$1.50

You frowned at the prices of the last stack of newspaper in front of the glass window. Billy Butcher's face smirking up at you from the front cover aggravated you. Sure it'd been some time since the Mallory incident, but you'd lost men to Lamplighter when Frenchie left his post. Begrudgingly, you threw in the needed money and snatched the old, wrinkly paper out of its casing.

Using people was what he enjoyed doing, and what he would continue doing in his quest for vengeance. Losing an associate was pitiful, but to one of your made men? There wasn't going to be a second chance. Zero wasn't happy, and you certainly were ticked off at the past still. Tucking the newspaper clip into your jacket, you headed back to the club. 

Ten fronts. All ranging from clubs to restaurants. Mostly legitimate, in terms of paying taxes. New York City was divided into Staten Island, Queens, Manhattan, Bronx, and Brooklyn. Zero headed Queens, and your third took over Staten Island. Although your main headquarters was situated in Brooklyn, you enjoyed the sights and the skyscrapers of Manhattan.

Including Vought Tower.

Vought. The head of supes and all things capitalism. The main reason why you kept all business on the very down low, despite the very club that even some of The Seven visited regularly. Blackmail: A very old fashioned, but reliable form of silence. 

Rounding a few corners, you slowed to a halt in front of the vip line. The DJ was in by now, and the lines outside grew by the minute as the sun dipped below the horizon. Two bouncers in black stood outside, flanking both sides of the entrance and refusing bribes for those wanting to enter early. The Vortex was a popular club, and business was booming. Noticing you, the two bouncers stepped aside. And with a polite nod, you entered the club, much to the dismay and protests from behind.

Music pulsate as lights from the dance floor shined and glittered within the dark. The DJ was in, and every body cheered. Rounded tables littered around the edges with plenty of people of all ages, drinking, grinding on one another, and flirting with the multitude of waitresses and sex workers. Smoking was prohibited within, but all was allowed on the outdoor spaces filled with recliners, a pool, and a jacuzzi. 

Ignoring the cat calls thrown your way from those relaxing in the lounges, you headed deeper within the nightclub. Taking a few turns into a less populated section and nodding again at the bouncers standing guard at the bottom of the VIP stairs, you headed up. At the landing, all eyes nervously turned to you.

And rightly so. 

Most knew you were high up in the family. You've made it that way for a reason. The less people knew, the better. Very few people knew who you truly were. With a quick wave, a smile, and a polite hello, you ducked onto another flight of stairs towards your office. 

"Oi, dick face, what are you looking at them for?" Came from behind. Last you knew before you closed the door, was the sound of a brawl. Sighing, you plopped into your office chair and-

"Boss, I've got the year's expenses on your desk." Grace spoke from the speakerphone, effectively shattering your peace. 

"Thanks Grace," You mumbled, pushing the stack of documents to the side. All you wanted was to grab a drink, keep an eye on the offshore accounts, and call it a night. Definitely didn't want a headache with the financial advisor on how to keep your fronts legit. Taxes could go fuck themselves, if you had a say in it. "I'll take a look at them later. Just log it in for next year's tax season."

"Oh and one more thing."

"Yeah?" You reached down into your mini fridge for a beer.

"Well- it's." A nervous pause. "There's someone on the line asking for you." Another pause. 

"Who is it?" You asked, popping the cap off and leaning back into your chair.

"Butcher."

There was a long pause of silence as you tumbled the name on your lips. It had been years since you last saw him, much less even contacted. Ever since the Mallory incident, you immediately cut ties with the former SAS Special Force. Two of your men were burned by Lamplighter, and you haven't quite forgiven him.

"No. Tell him I'm busy. I don't want to speak with him. He can go find help elsewhere."

"He insisted."

Unfurling the newspaper from within your jacket, you laid it out on your desk, frowning down at the same man that wanted to speak with you. The small picture of Butcher himself scowled up at you on the front page, making headlines for brutally murdering Vought's VP. You sighed.

"I'm sorry, I tried. But he's a-" A nervous chuckle. "He's a weasel."

You waved the apology away. "Put him through. We'll talk about this later."

An audible gulp. "He's on line 2 whenever you're ready."

Green light above Line 2 flashed steadily on your landline. Rather reluctantly, you leaned forward and plucked the landline phone up, already regretting giving Butcher your office number. Leaning back once more, you dimmed the lights down and closed your eyes. "We agreed to never contact again."

"Hello love." A familiar voice spoke loudly against the backdrop of New York traffic. 

"No. Whatever the hell you have planned, I don't want part of it. Things are finally looking up, and I'm not going to fuck up this chance. Vought's stocks are booming. I'm making money, don't have to worry constantly on anyone placing a hit on me. Zero is having the time of their life. I'm out of that mercenary life, found a different calling. "

An annoyed sigh. "How is Zero?"

"Married with their husband. Life is good," You shrugged. "If you've got nothing else to say, then I'm heading off to finish this fucking beer. Goodbye Butcher."

"Give me one fucking minute, love. I'll explain everything."

Got nothing to lose. "Forty five seconds and counting."

"Becca. I found Becca. Me wife has a son, Homelander's son. The cunt fucking raped my wife, fucking hid her away for so long. I was there. I saw her. Green lawn. White picket. I can find her with your help. You, mate, as a person of your skills." A pause. "Sitting behind a desk. Wasted."

"Look what Lamplighter did. Burned two of my men. Burned Mallory's grandchildren. Nothing to bring back home, not even their teeths," You hissed, slamming the beer onto the office table. Bubbles sloshed down the bottle, pooled, and dripped down onto the carpet. "It has always been about Becca with you. Becca this, Becca that. No, Butcher. Screwed up that one chance. I'm not doing it. You just don't care. You use your friends, then throw them to the side like fucking garbage when you're done."

"It'll be different this go. None of that "secrets and lies" bollocks. And that Mallory shit ain't gonna happen this time. I swear to God."

Drip. Drip.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, hating every syllable the man on the other line breathed out. With a shake of your head, you sighed, reigning in your anger and pulling out a cabinet for paper towels. "Alright, motherfucker. What did you do? The cameras at the club picked you up."

"We just dusted a supe." Butcher smugly spoke, confidence oozing through the line. 

"Bullshit."

"Translucent." 

That cheeky bastard. "How the fuck did you do it?"

"Well. Big lump of C-4, packed right up his fudger. Boom," He was excited. "Boom. Claret everywhere. Fucking diabolical."

"But…?" You cut into his amazement. 

"He coughed up a solid lead. Spilled the beans in a big way. Now, we play this right, we could shake up the whole hornets' nest, bring down Seven and Vought at the same time. Y/N, you are the only one I can trust."

You raised an eyebrow at the mention of your name, dance so delicately on his tongue. It was as if the man was putting you on a pedestal. "Names are powerful, Butcher. You know this. However, since when have you ever trusted anybody?"

There was a sly pause on the other end. 

Fights were less often nowadays. Since the fall of the fifth family of New York, there was no need for the heightened anxiety to be on the lookout. Nowadays with your tight grip, it was just petty gangsters that riddle the streets, pretending to be big and bad. Some killed, robbed, or graffitied, all in the name of trying to impress you. No action, no thrilling action that needed your every second of attention. 

And if you were going to be honest with yourself, you missed the action, the absolute adrenaline pumping thrill of physically working towards a common goal. There was a camaraderie in that sense, where no place else could ever replicate, but neck deep in shit.

"Oh, fuck me," You mumbled in defeat. 

Eats Everything: @asraime @aspiring-ginger @mournthewicked @bluesclues-1234 @ladylizzieofdarbyshire @groovyfluxie @keijibum @also-fangirlinsweden @mysoulshideaway @fandom-imagination-ss @your-sparklywinnercollection @yakuzussian-2nd @supergeekfangirl @mayday1284 @sayanythingcreations

Karl Urban: @fandomsfeelsandfamily @justa-traaash @yueci @writerdee1701 @hlabounty96 @lacychick

The Boys: @space-cowboy2227

[slasherfilth]

You Are What You Eat - Chapter Two (Thomas Hewitt x Reader)

It has become quite a common occurrence to see Luda Mae sitting at the tablet closest to the window and door in your little bakery. Sometimes with Kathy and Henrietta, and other times just sitting and chatting with you as you baked. And frankly, you enjoyed the company, she never demanded that you speak at all times, and seemed quite content when you fell into your quiet episodes, choosing silence after a long day or a calm humming tune. You had once voiced your concern for the price of her tea break, offering to forfeit the charge if it was too much. Frankly, the place had been doing much better than you thought it would, and the loss of a couple dollars every other day wasn’t going to hurt it. You’d rather her company and didn’t want her to stop showing up because it was financially incompatible. But she had tossed your concerns away with a flip of her hand.

“With the extra food you give to us dear, a few bucks a week is nothing. If Charlie wants to chuck a spat over it, he can go back to buying groceries every week.” You’d giggled and nodded, happy that your contributions were going to good use. You had been trying out different recipes and trying to gauge what locals liked best, and some things were much more favoured over others. You had discovered the town enjoyed classic pastries but also didn’t mind some otherworldly influences like Croissants and Cannoli. But sometimes that had left you with ingredients you just wouldn’t use on your own. Then you had begun making small baskets of food that were about to expire for Luda Mae, sometimes even for Kathy or Henrietta, if you had enough leftovers. That way, you didn’t feel terrible for throwing away food, and some other deserving people received some help.

As you had begun to offer more food, Luda Mae had started making small baskets for you. Little jars of jam made from the fruits you would give them and new family recipes to try. They were always fantastic and it had become quite a joy to exchange them. However, during your months of growing closer, despite how much Luda had spoken about her little family, you hadn’t met any of the men in her life. And frankly the more she talked about them, the more curious you grew. She spoke of how hardworking her dear old Tommy was, about how he would round up the cattle every other day and was always in the basement, butchering. You’d learnt he used to work in the meat factory but was laid off when it shut down. Initially, you had assumed he was a teenager. Still, now you figured he may be a bit older, but then again it wasn’t uncommon for people to start work young here. Make he was only an apprentice when he worked at the meatworks.

But for all your wondering, you never received a real answer. Not that you had asked of course. As motherly and welcoming as Luda was, you had realised the family was a big deal to her, and she could be quite secretive about them. You had chalked it down to wanting to keep them safe in her own way, given how the town seemed to react to them. You hadn’t missed the odd looks and sneers that Luda would receive from the other folk that frequented your bakery. Quiet mumbles to their companions and quick leaving were common when Luda was around. You had noticed she would come an hour before you closed, fewer people would come around that time. And you didn’t blame her at all. However, you had refrained from saying anything because you still needed the business and Luda understood. That didn’t stop you from giving those people the day-old bread and the nearing sour milk. You had no time for their ridiculously childish behaviour. It was part of the reason you had left the city. People always felt the need to judge when they were never really better off themselves.

You hummed along to your thoughts, eye’s darting every now and again towards the entrance, hoping to see the kind woman walk through the doors. It had been a week without any real sight of her, and you were becoming worried. You had a basket of food awaiting her arrival or the past couple of days, and you were afraid it would go off before you ever managed to give it to her. With a frown you pulled the last tray of muffins from the oven, ready for cooling overnight. Your eyes flickered to the note sitting on your wall, Luda Mae’s cursive phone number written, calling out to you. Maybe you should just give her a quick call to make sure everything was okay and to tell her you had some things to give her. She wouldn’t mind. And with that thought, you washed your hands clean of filth and reached for the phone, anxiously awaiting as you listened to the dial-up tone.

“Hewitt’s, what you want?” demanded a gruff-voiced from the opposite end of the phone. You panicked. Was it the wrong number? No. It couldn’t be, he said Hewitt.

“Er…um. Y-yes.” You stammered, trying to find the words to speak. However, your mind seemed torturously blank at the moment, forgetting why it is you even decided to call in the first place.

“Out with it, would ya? I haven’t got the time to stand over the damn phone.” You almost hung up immediately, opting to never call anyone ever again. You always preferred face to face conversation anyways. However, you faintly heard the sound of a familiar woman’s voice over the end of the phone, and your eyes darted to the little basket of goodies you’d organised.

“Luda Mae! I would like to speak to Luda Mae, it’s (Y/N) from the bakery.” You smiled wide, far too proud at being able to answer a simple question over the phone. You listened as the man mumbled and yelled out to Luda. With some shuffling and complaining from the man, you finally heard Luda answer.

“Oh! Luda! It’s (Y/N)! How have you been? I was getting worried something had happened.” You bit your lip, wondering if maybe that sounded bad. You were just concerned thought, wasn’t that a good thing?

“Oh, dearie! Hello. I’m quite alright. Sorry about Charlie, the old grump. I’ve been fine darling, just very busy with livestock, I’m sorry I haven’t been out to visit this week. I should be back by next.” A wider smile curled on your lips, shoulders finally relaxing. However, you were not sure when they had hunched in concern originally.

“That’s alright, I just wanted to make sure. I also have some things for you I was gonna give to you on your next visit, but I’m not sure they will last much longer in this heat, sorry.” You frown slightly but heard a chuckle over the phone.

“Oh, ever the generous girl you are. I’m not sure who sent you to us, dear, but you’re surely an angel. I’ll send Thomas down to grab it before the day’s out, okay? Now as I’ve said he is mute, but you’ll know it’s him.” You quirked an eyebrow at her statement. Unsure of what she meant. You had never met the boy; how could you possibly know? But you didn’t have time to question as you suddenly heard faint yelling and cursing from the man on the phone earlier, and a quick goodbye from Luda before they hung up on you.

Pulling your eyebrows together, you looked oddly at your phone before putting it down. What an odd family. You shrugged and decided to get back to work, your mind absentmindedly pondering what the Hewitt boy would be like.

 _______________________________________________________________

You had almost forgotten your arrangement as you were handing out coffee and cakes left and right. Around 5pm every day, it would suddenly get busy for an hour. Everyone leaving their jobs or heading to families houses for dinner, eager to grab a small treat to share on the way. You smiled and thanked each person, unable to see the end of the line before you head another jiggle form the bells on the door.

“Welcome, I won’t be one moment.” You called out, just as you did with everyone. But suddenly there didn’t seem to be as much background noise. Chattering and laughter stopped abruptly as you continued to serve. Confusion ran through you, wondering if you just imagined it all. But you turned to the next customer, and the faint sounds of chatter began to pick up again. Only this time it was whispered with hushed giggles filling the room. You shook your head, slightly confused still but looked towards the door before freezing momentarily. And there he stood. A tall, broad man, he seemed enormous compared to the people around him. Who seemed to all step back as far as they could? You didn’t really blame them, as you continued to look, you realised he had a leather mask strapped to his face, rough stitching revealed his lips that seemed oddly full for a man, but obviously chapped and peeling in some places. The skin around them that wasn’t hidden behind the mask was red and blotchy. You wondered if it was the sun. He was incredibly tanned, dirt-covered his clothes and skin, obvious he was a man who worked hard in a field somewhere. You bit your lip. Eyes travelling higher as you took in the furrow of his brows, blue eyes glaring down at the ground in an oddly shy manner, his greasy hair still wavy and hiding his face as much as he could. He was huge and could easily be the most intimidating man in the room, however, his demeanour was that of a scared, shy teenager, merely wanting to be ignored rather than the centre of attention.

You imagined with a frame like that though, he was hard to miss. And suddenly everything clicked. The silence, the hushed whispers, the giggles. And the demeanour. A frown curled on your lips once more as you started to tune into the conversations more, clearly, no one actually cared about being heard. Especially the man you had initially been serving.

“What a freak. Hard to imagine he even had the balls to walk into a place like this. Lowers the value a bit.” His friend behind him snorting. You frowned harder.

“Yeah, not like that family could afford anything from here. His mothers always around, but I’m sure she probably just rummages the bins for everyone’s scraps.” The two men laughed boisterously at that. And it hit a nerve in you. You hadn’t met the poor man before. You had the opinion that he was used to the chatter. Still, hearing Luda mentioned in such a foul way had you clutching the paper cup harder than expected, eyes glaring up at the men before you. IN your haze you noticed the other man seemed to stiffen as well, hearing the two idiots talk. But before anyone could retaliate, you grabbed the two orders. You flipped off their lids, whistling low to get everyone’s attention, including the two men before you threw the contents of hot coffee into their faces. Listening as they yelped and tried to wipe off the burning liquid quickly. Gasps were heard from everyone in the shop.  

“What the fuck, Lady?” They turned to you, still trying to cool down their bright red faces. You sneered at them before they had a chance to say anymore.

“Let me make it very clear to each and every one of you in this building. It is mine. I own it. And you will all abide by my rules when you walk into this shop, so help me. And that means if you ever feel the need to pick on another human being, you will be banned and reported, do you hear me? Hot coffee will be the least of your worries when I am through with you. You will treat everyone with respect, especially the Hewitt’s in this store.” You growled out, sounding far more confident than you felt. You were angry, but you had never threatened people before. But your message seemed to get across as the murmuring stopped and people ordered their coffee and food in silence before leaving in a hurry. Eventually, everyone ran out of the door, and you sighed heavily, leaning back against the counter.

Before you could make your way back to your cooking, you heard a huff from behind you. You turned around quickly, bright red as you took in the sight of the man before you. Somehow amongst all of the people leaving you hadn’t realised he stayed. It wouldn’t have been that you were pointedly ignoring him, the embarrassment of your outburst being too much to handle. Never.

“O- Oh… Thomas?” You had assumed this was the “boy” Luda had been referring to all the time. Although boy was the furthest thing from your mind as you craned your neck up to look at him before you. He nodded, shaggy hair following the moment. You liked it. Heat began to pool on your cheeks once more. You released a shaky breath.

“U-Um. Sorry about t-that. I just… didn’t like what they were saying, y’ know? Sorry if I overstepped, I didn’t mean-“ You were cut short as you felt a very large, very hot, hand rest on top of your head. You were stunned as you looked up at him. He didn’t seem to be smiling, but something in you said he was happy you had done it. You smiled up at him. For a bit too long, you looked into his eyes, wanting to know precisely what he was wondering behind those pretty blue irises. You shook your head suddenly, feeling his hand retract suddenly. You felt bad, you hadn’t meant to make him react. You liked the feeling. But you bit your lip instead of trying to gather your thoughts.

“U-Um, I have some things for you and your mother. I hope you like them. I was worried they would go off before I got to give them to you guys. But I’ve also added some fresh bread and some chocolate chip cookies… Luda said she had a son and I thought….” It dawned on you that you were talking to that son right now, and he certainly wasn’t the teenager you had been assuming. You wanted to smack yourself in the forehead. What grown man wanted cookies. You winced as you handed him the basket. He tilted his head, and you tried not to press your thighs together too obviously. He lifted the basket full of ingredients with seemingly no difficulty, pulling back the checker drape before snatching one of the cookies you’d mentioned. He broke off a small piece and slipped it through the slit of the mask, he made a little approving noise and nodded. Which was more than enough to make you break out into a broad grin, clasping your hands together in front of you in delight.

“Oh! I’ve so glad you like them! I’ll make you some more next time.” He stared at you for a moment, you stood stark still, once again wondering what he was thinking as he looked down on you. Before he nodded once more and made to leave for the door.

“Goodbye, Thomas! I’d love to see you again!” You waved him away with a bright smile, watching him freeze before continuing on his path home. You had meant it too. Your mind wandered back to your dreams of wanting a man who could hold you with one arm and work with the other, and by god, every bit of you believed that muscle of man could be very well that. You placed your hands on your cheeks, trying to cool them down as you flushed bright red. Suddenly talking to Luda about her son wasn’t going to be so easy anymore.

________________________________________________________________

Hi! Thank you all for the beautiful words and support! I hope this was enough Thomas to last you until the next update. I originally planned for more to happen, but it was already getting a bit wordy. Feel free to message me if you have questions or even theories for the story! I’d love to talk about it! Did you guys like your response to Tommy? I want this to be a bit of a slow burn, but I’m a sucky for love at first sight. <3

[ilguna]

Tacenda - Chapter Fifteen (f.o)

Summary: you’ll never truly be free from the Capitol.

Word Count; 2.4k

Warnings; swearing, DEATH MENTION, torture

NOTES: i give reader a last name to fit the world.

–

Before both of your parents had died, back in District Four, your family would have been considered ‘middle-class’ to a very thin extent. You guys weren’t at the bottom of the food chain by any means, and neither were you guys on top, but you were afloat enough to be considered middle.

You guys owned a nice two-story house with three bedrooms and two bathrooms. The house came with a very small yard that had that tree that you used to climb. You guys were always one of the first to receive electricity when it would have to be turned on, etc.

You guys never had to eat the food from the square. It’s not a bad thing to eat the food that’s provided there, it’s actually very helpful if you’re trying to go extremely cheap on some days. But eating food from the black market is taking a gamble, because there’s no telling what’s in the soup, or what had been mashed up. And it’s not like the people at the tables would tell you either.

It’s their ‘secret recipe’ and they didn’t want you to go around and tell everyone in the vicinity for a number of reasons. The food could have been made up of something that would be seen as ‘unfavorable’. If you go and tell everyone what’s in it, then that person running the table could lose the business entirely.

After your parents had died, you guys obviously weren’t able to afford super nice things anymore. You guys would be so caught up in trying to keep the essentials stocked, that Reed and Mox would run out of the money. So, with the very bare scraps that you would be able to get, you would head right to the square for those cheap meals.

They weren’t enjoyable sometimes, and you would voice that to the people you would buy from. But other times, they would end up making something particularly enjoyable, and you would let them know that too. You basically became their test monkey for new foods, and you told them how it was every single time.

Eventually, Reed and Mox had gotten ahead of their spending habits, which means that you guys wouldn’t have to eat from the market anymore, but you definitely had a lasting impact. Even though you didn’t have to, you would eat there sometimes and let them know. There was a hell of an increase in quality, people noticed it almost immediately.

They might have been making soups from bones and grass and dandelions from the fields, but it was good fucking soup either way. You absolutely loved their creativity, and you know for a fact that both you, and them had gotten a kick from being a critic and getting critiqued like that.

Even after winning the games, you had still gone to eat their food sometimes. It wasn’t because you wanted to humble yourself or some dumb shit like that. You would genuinely go to eat their food, because there wasn’t anything else to do. You didn’t want to be drowning in riches, and eating from the top quality bakers and the best butchers in the district.

You wanted some of their old fashioned soup, and you went there constantly. It was weird, being stared at like how you were. Watching the people that would have previously disregarded you, suddenly notice you like that. It was watching the sea part when you would walk inside of the building. Sometimes you even saw fear, since they were afraid you’d buy out the whole goddamn building with one months worth of savings.

Then they would notice that you would stop in front of the fucking stall, with the mashed up potatoes and meat. With vegetables that should be a crime to sell, with dandelion, grass and bones soup. And you would buy enough for one, and then sit around on the nearest stool just talking to the owners of the place, asking if they had come up with anything new.

Fuck, they even named a goddamn soup after you. They named one of your favorite creations that they had ever made, after you. Not because you had won the games, or you were a consistent customer, it’s because they genuinely enjoyed you. They were absolutely blown away by the fact that the fifteen year old with more money than she knew what to do with, would come by and eat there anyway.

You would take hours of your day just to sit there and talk, because it was overwhelming in the newly furnished victor house. Every now and then you’d pitch in and pay for someone if you were feeling particularly generous, because you had money to burn.

You miss it. You miss every aspect of that god awful building. You hated the smell of rotting fish before, but now it’s the only thing you can think about. The fact that it was almost always packed to the limit with people just trying to haggle and get their usual stuff but at a cheaper price.

You don’t know what you would trade to go back now. To go back and spend just a few more hours, sitting around in there and watching people go about their days. You would probably go around and buy things for people, because all the money in your account would go to waste when you die.

What you’re saying is, is that the food from the square is astronomically better than the shit that they feed the people in District Thirteen. Forget the ‘secret recipes’ that the old ladies used to protect with their lives, this shit is on a whole new level of a secret recipe. It’s downright inhumane to feed this to anyone.

“You’re picking at your food.” Finnick points out.

“Thanks, I didn’t know.” you give him a look, “You want it?”

“You know you need to eat, (Y/n).” he tells you, “It’s not going to get any better tomorrow, so stop messing with it before it gets cold.”

You roll your eyes, “Okay, dad.”

Finnick’s face scrunches up, almost like he’s disgusted with it. And then, he tilts his head, making a whole new face. Like he doesn’t mind it after all.

“Oh great, did I just find a new kink of yours?” you laugh slightly, ignoring the glances you get from the people around you.

He holds up his finger, placing his fork back onto the tray. Finnick doesn’t know what to think of this whole thing, “Hold on, I’m trying to imagine–”

You punch his arm, shaking your head at him as you go back to your food. Suddenly, you’re interested in it again! Who knew that it would be a valid form of escape?

Finnick is laughing, suddenly enjoying this. He goes back to eating too.

The sound of the Capitol’s anthem makes your head shoot up and the fork freeze in your hands. Your eyes search the room, looking for the source, and you end up finding it pretty quickly, the television sets that are on the wall. The logo for the Capitol comes in and it says ‘Capitol TV’ beneath it.

“Dinner and a show?” Finnick asks.

“I have a feeling this isn’t common.” you say, placing down your fork entirely, pushing the food tray back as you prop your head up against the table, “But I will enjoy it either way.”

Caesar fades in, and you do a little laugh, “Hello, good evening, and a big welcome to all of Panem. I’m Caesar Flickerman, and wherever you are, whatever it is you’re doing, if you’re working, put down your work. If you’re having dinner, stop having dinner. Because you are going to want to witness this tonight.”

You fake a yawn, and Finnick does it right back.

“There has been rapid speculation about what really happened in the Quarter Quell. And here, to shed a little light on the subject for us, is a very special guest. Please welcome, mister Peeta Mellark.” Caesar says.

Your mouth drops open slightly, and you can feel all the fun run out of your body at once. Suddenly, you’re no longer smiling, and you’re staring at the tv screen as if you’ve received the news that your mom just died again. You take in a shaky breath, and that’s when Finnick wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his body.

Peeta may not be your fiance, but he’s somewhat directly related to your siblings. Because they’re both in the same place right now. Lucky for you, Peeta looks healthy, like they haven’t touched a hair on his head. He’s wearing a white suit, and almost like he hasn’t been treated badly at all.

It raises hope, but along with hope, comes disappointment.

Caesar continues, “Peeta, a lot of people feel as though they are in the dark.”

You feel so horribly bad for Katniss right now.

“Yeah, I know how they feel.” Peeta says, Caesar laughs a little bit.

“Now, so set the stage for us. Talk us through, what really happened on that final, and controversial night.”

“Well first off, you have to–you have to understand that when you’re in the games, you only get one wish. It’s very costly.” Peeta says, he sounds calm.

“It costs your life.” Caesar says.

“I think it costs more than your life.” Peeta disagrees.

“How do you mean? What’s more than your life?”

Your laugh is hollow, “It costs other people’s lives. It costs your dignity and you’re sacrificing your entire personality.”

Finnick nods, “Because there’s no way you come out of the arena the same, no matter what.”

“Well, I mean to–to murder innocent people. That costs everything that you are.” Peeta says, and briefly raises his hand, “So you hold on to that one wish. That night, my wish was; to save Katniss. I should have just run off with her earlier in the day like she wanted.”

You look at Finnick, trying to recall any conversation like that between them. Like overhearing or something, but you come up with nothing. But it seems like Finnick has an answer for it, “Before we had gone to the tree, when they were sitting alone.”

And it clicks, because that would have been the perfect time to say it. Since it was the first time they had truly been alone like that in a while.

“But you didn’t!” Caesar says, “Why? Were you caught up in Beetee’s plan?”

“No, I was caught up trying to play allies. And then they seperated us and–” he pauses, “That’s when I lost her.”

“It’s so fucking hard not to be mad at him right now.” you cross your arms.

Finnick shrugs, “I mean, they could have been telling him to say this.”

“It’s raw emotion.” you lean forward a bit, out of Finnick’s arm to get a closer look, “He’s perfectly healthy, there’s no reason for him to lie. Playing allies my fucking asshole, what a joke.”

“And then the lightning hit and uh–the whole forcefield around the arena just blew out.” Peeta finishes.

“Yes, but Peeta, Katniss is the one that blew it out.”

“No–”

Caesar cuts him off, “You saw the footage.”

“No–she didn’t know what she was doing. Neither of us, knew there was a bigger plan going on, we had no idea.”

“You had no idea?” Caesar asks.

“No.”

“Alright, well Peeta, there are many who find this suspicious, to say the least. It seems as though she was part of a rebel plan.” Caesar proposes, and you watch as he does the basic, classic hand motions of ��just saying’.

“What, do you think it was part of her plan to almost be killed by Johanna and (Y/n)?” Peeta looks tired of it, “Or to be paralyzed by lightning? No, we were not part of any rebel plan, we had no idea what was going on.”

“Alright.” Caesar does the motion again, “I believe you, Peeta Mellark. Thank you. Now, I was going to ask you to speak about the unrest but I think you might be too upset.”

“They’re patronizing him.” you laugh, “God, they’re treating him like a child.”

“No, no I can.”

“Are you sure?” Caesar asks.

“Yeah, absolutely.” Peeta turns towards the camera, actually staring into it now, “I want everyone who’s watching, to stop, and think about what a civil war could mean. We almost went extinct once before, and now our numbers are even fewer. Is this really what we want to do?”

The people around you aren’t so happy at this, and they’re looking at each other, almost appalled that he’s saying this.

“Now this could be rehearsed.” you tell Finnick, tilting your head.

“Kill ourselves off? Killing is not the answer. Everyone needs to lay down their weapons immediately.” That sentence doesn’t go over well with the people around you. You can’t hear the next couple of words because of how loud the shouting has gotten.

“Peeta,” Caesar leans forward, “Are you calling for a ceasefire?”

“Yeah, I am.” It gets louder, Finnick is beginning to slide off of the table’s seats, and you have a pretty good idea why, “I want everyone to stop, let’s end this violence. This is not the path–”

You’re out of your seat soon after, Finnick grabs your hand, and he begins to pull you away and out of the room. You watch as the room basically gets rowdier and angrier from what he’s saying.

Finnick wants to leave because he’s worried about your guys’ safety. It’s a safety hazard being around them, since you two had associated with him, and even halfway considered him a friend. It was a precaution, and almost a matter of time before they turned on you guys next.

“I don’t know about you.” you begin, “But I could really go for some peace and quiet right now.”

He looks at you, “Peace and quiet how?”

You smile a little bit, “A good fuckin’ nap.”

Finnick laughs, taking your hand and beginning to lead the way to your guys’ dorm–for a lack of a better word, “Sounds good to me.”

[elibeeline]

Good Natured, a Geralt of Rivia x Original Character fic - Part 1

(Oh boy please don't hate this!) (Although constructive criticism is great and I'll work on any issues someone has!)

I'm Esmeralda, a bower and a blacksmith. My father was a weapon maker, my mother… I'm not sure. Father never explained, but if I ever get particularly emotional, well… it wasn't pretty. It's a form of supernatural, or at least a mutation, so my father made sure it was kept a secret.

Since my father died and I took over his store, I take to the pub most nights. The beer is warm and the music is more of a comedy act than a jig, but I met my apprentice there, so it wasn't entirely awful.

Fenrin is a young soul. He's barely eighteen, but the barman lets him drink under my surveillance. These people trust me, my weaponry makes them feel safe.

Sometimes, my good work even earns me and Fen a beer at the end of the night. Or him a water and me a wine, in this instance, since the person ordering is being presumptuous. Fen rolls his eyes but I make him drink it anyway. "You can't work with a hangover." I tell him.

"You drink mercilessly and yet you're always awake before me." He points out. "How come you don't get a hangover?"

Because my body heals itself before I wake up. "A simple method, really. A skill."

He stares with wide eyes. His enthusiasm towards achieving new skills is charming, and it's why I picked him as my apprentice. "A skill?"

"Easy to gain and yet not many people have it." I sigh.

"What's the skill? I can get it!"

"It's the skill of not complaining."

He pouts and huffs, then nods. "I'll work on it."

I grin and clink my wine against his water and the bard starts singing again.

"You'd be wise to beware,

The pike with a spike,

That lurks in your drawers,

Or the flying drake,

That will fill you with horror!

Need old Nan the Hag,

To stir up a potion,

So that your lady may get an abortion!"

"Abort yourself!" The bearded man sat by the fire barks out, and I snort as people start throwing their food at him.

The bard's eyes lock onto something apparently more interesting than free food, and I follow his gaze to a lone man in the corner. While the bard seems more focused on how brooding he is and the apparent factual inaccuracies in his song, I can't take my eyes off the bag next to him.

"Look at that sword, Fen." I nudge him to pull his attention to it too.

"As close as we are, Ez, I don't want to know that all you see in men is the stick between their-" he cuts himself off with a wheeze after I punch his gut.

"Get your mind out of the stream, Fenrin. The swords next to him. I thought my swords were good, but those are…" I wipe my drool. "Angel's work."

"I know who you are." The bard announces like it's a secret, and I stiffen until I realise he's not talking to me. The brooding loner gets up to leave. "You're the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia!"

I feel a tingle down my back. Witchers take great care with their swords, getting from the best smiths on the continent. But word about Geralt in particular hasn't been positive. The Butcher of Blaviken.

"Ez, I know that look. Please don't." Fen sighs, but I completely ignore him and get up anyway.

I stand in front of the witcher and open my mouth to speak, but he just pushes me aside and leaves.

"Yeah, he doesn't seem to like conversation. He came to drink alone." The bard says, mimicking the Witcher's deep, gravelly voice. "Y'know, I see you and that boy here all the time and yet I've never heard your names."

"I'm Esmeralda Fletcher, and 'that boy' is my apprentice, Fenrin Glenn."

"Oh! You're Kentin's daughter, right? He used to tip me every night."

I smile. Dad was charitable. "You sing every night and you've never introduced yourself."

He smiles too. "I'm Julian Alfred Pankratz-" he frowns. "It's a long name. Just call me Jaskier."

I nod. "Did you see his swords?"

"Yes, no wonder no one sat near him! Scary things."

"Do you think he'd let me get a closer look?"

"Only when he's pressing it against your throat." Fen hisses and drags me back to our seats. "Have you drank more than I've seen?"

"Are you suggesting I'm drunk, Fen?"

"You've definitely had enough for tonight. Let's go home."

I sigh. It appeared that Geralt was able to push me away easier than it should have been, and we have been here a few hours now. "Okay."

"Good." He leads me out with a hand on my back and we walk back to the shop.

Until I spot the Witcher again. Fen tightens his grip on my shoulder, but I still shove him away and make a beeline to the pair of swords. "Excuse me, good sir, I can't help but notice those two magnificent swords you own." I tell him as he ties his horse to a post.

"Don't touch them." He replies.

"Please? I can sharpen them first thing in the morning. I would do it tonight, but I was in the bar for a while and I don't want to ruin them."

He hums, but that's the only response I get.

"I'll even lower my prices for you. Quarter off. Pretty please? You'd be doing me a huge favour just letting me hold-"

I'm cut off by Fen clasping his hand on my mouth once he's caught up. "I'm sorry about her." He pulls me back. "She doesn't tend to get this drunk, it's the wine, you see."

Geralt hums again. "My swords do need sharpening."

I almost burst with excitement. "Thank you! I'll do the best job, I promise!"

"Don't forget the quarter off." He mumbles, then goes inside the inn and that's that.

I turn and hug Fen with a squeal. "I get to touch the swords, Fenny! This is the best day of my life!" I can't control the grin until Fen stares at me in horror.

"You're um…" he gestures to his face.

I feel sharp teeth poking my lip and notice that my hair has turned a dusty green. I don't need a mirror to know that my eyes are plain white and surrounded by thick turquoise veins.

The panic is enough to make it all disappear and I look human once more. I guess I got a little too excited. I breathe a silent sigh of relief and he frowns. "Maybe I've drank too much too. Nevermind. Let's carry on."

"Yeah, let's get you to bed. Don't worry about work in the morning. If it's bad enough to make you hallucinate, you should sleep off as much as you can."

He should sleep so I'll be able to remove his memory. Dad explained how mom used to do it, but it's an exhausting process so I use it as sparingly as possible.

If Fen remembers, and if he tells anyone, I could be killed. At the very least, I'll be forced out of town. Out of my shop, my home, away from everything I have of my family. I can't let that happen.

I keep my hand on his shoulder and we go back home. He goes straight to bed and drops to sleep quickly, and I press my fingertips to his forehead. I mumble the Elder under my breath and imagine untying a knot. A space for memory now free to tie again, to be adapted.

I take my fingers away and feel a new, heavy wave of tiredness overcome me. I would fall asleep just there if it wasn't for a knock at the door, so I trudge down and see Jaskier with a bag over his shoulder.

"Sorry to disturb you at such a late hour I um… the barman kicked me out. Apparently my singing wasn't good enough for him to let me stay any more." He mumbles. "Is the blacksmith's daughter as charitable as the man himself?"

"I don't have a spare bed, but there's a sofa in the back room and a blanket." I shrug.

"I would be happy to sleep on the rug." He replies. "I cannot thank you enough." He steps in and sees the wide array of swords, daggers, knives, and arrows on display. "I won't be a problem, I promise."

I smile and lead him to the back. "Make yourself comfortable. I'm gonna go straight to bed."

-------

Ho boy there it is, thank you so much for reading! I'm working on part 2 atm and it'll come up when I'm happy with it!

Also if anyone knows how to add a 'keep reading' button on mobile I would greatly appreciate it, I'm not smart 😭😭

[darling-archeron]

Beneath the Dark: Chapter Two

What would have happened if Feyre had come to Prythian much earlier? Feyre Archeron has left her mortal life behind, and accepted being demi-fae. She has found her place in the Night Court's Inner Circle. But when her and Rhys attend a ball hosted by Amarantha Under the Mountain, they are in for much for then they bargained for.

Masterlist

Feyre 

I needn't have worried about talking with her immediately. Amarantha completely ignored me, turning to Rhysand. I was grateful for it. Let him set the pace while I got a feel for the dance.

“Why, High Lord Rhysand. It’s a pleasure to meet you again.” Her words were silken as she held out a hand. It was an effort not to frown at the eyeball encased on her ring, its erratic movements. “How have things fared in Night?”

It had been thirty years since she had arrived at the Night Court, eager to see what horrors she would behold in Hewn City.

Rhys kissed her hand, his face unfortunately close to that damn ring. Even though I knew it was all a pretense, I had to shove down that unnamed feeling in the pit of my stomach. “The pleasure is mine, General. The Night Court continues to thrive. What of Hybern?” There was no true smile, no humor or sensuous flirtation behind his words. Only the cool Lord of Nightmares remained, a small razorblade smile at the corner of his mouth.

Amarantha smiled again, her attention completely on Rhysand. Perhaps I could have walked away with her none the wiser. But I took the moment to “Hybern is doing quite well. But you and Tamlin are the only ones who haven’t set up alliances with us. What can I say that will get you to change your mind?”

“Must we talk politics so early in the evening? This is a night of revelry.” Cool, calm words.

“Ah, but the evening will only get merrier as we go along.” Her cadence was calm, at ease. If I hadn’t known how she had butchered mortals during the war, how her legion had captured Rhys….how she had tried to woo Tamlin, I likely would have been convinced by her acting.

“In that case, I can only tell you that I will consider it.” Rhys replied.

Her eyes narrowed for only a moment. “The same thing you said last time. And what of Lord Tamlin?”

Rhys shrugged. “I don’t speak for the Lord of Spring. Ask him when he arrives.”

The general raised her eyebrows. “Oh, are things tense between your courts? A pity – though I suppose it makes sense, given the wings pinned in his study. Rather obtrusive things, even the smaller ones take up so much space.”

A sharp lash of rage flew down the bond – the anger Rhys couldn’t hide. Not directed at me. I wanted to strangle her – for what she had done to humans years ago, for what she said now. My hands stiffened at my sides as I struggled to keep them from balling into fists.

Rhys was a more skilled actor, and didn’t even give her a slight frown. “The do-gooders in Spring have always been dull – I rarely associate with them. But I’m on agreeable terms at the moment.” An absolute lie. Tamlin likely wanted to kill Rhys for his supposed kidnapping of me. Rhys likely wanted the same for the atrocities committed to him.

Rhys continued, unbothered. “As for his choice in décor – I don’t particularly concern myself with the design of Tamlin’s manor.”

I brushed a mental hand down the bond, waiting for Rhys to open his shields a crack for me. “There were no wings in the study or any of the rooms I was in, Rhys.”

I could feel his anger lessen, a feeling of thanks traveling down the bond as he closed off his shields again.

Amarantha only raised her eyebrows. “Does Tamlin find himself as forgiving towards you? It was your father who murdered his.”

There it was. The reason Amarantha allegedly held a grudge against Night and had wanted Tamlin so badly. She said it so flippantly, as though Tamlin’s family hadn’t killed Rhys’s mother, father, and sister.

Rhys shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t speak with Tamlin. You’d have to talk to him yourself, General.”

She at last nodded, apparently appeased. Then, she turned her attention to me. “And here I thought I had met all of your court. Who is this?” With her black eyes…. predator’s eyes on me, I felt the shell of fear in my bones again. You are a wolf.

I made my words smooth and rich, the way I had seem Rhysand do so many times. “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you, General Amarantha. I’m Feyre, Rhysand’s emissary.” I dipped into a bob of a curtsy, loathing that I had to submit to this vulture.

“The pleasure is mine, darling.” She cooed. “And where are you an emissary to?”

“Wherever Night decides to raise hell, of course.”

Amarantha threw her head back and laughed - no. Not a laugh. It was a raven’s caw that flew from her lips. “I think I like you, Feyre – what family do you belong to?”

“You will find I belong to nobody but myself, General.” I felt Rhys’s amusement down the bond, and if my answer irritated her, she didn’t show it.

“Valspian.” I offered, making it up on the spot. As pleasing as it would have been to give a sarcastic answer, it wasn’t worth the risk of finding about the Archerons. Unless she knew all of Prythian’s surnames, I would be safe.

She smiled slightly. “I’m not familiar with that family. But since you are Rhysand’s emissary, I have no doubt we will be seeing more of each other in the future.”

I mirrored her expression. “Certainly.”

With that, Amarantha turned her attention back to Rhys, not deigning to give me a response. Message clear, I was dismissed. I chose to use it to my advantage rather than letting the slight get to me. Better for her to underestimate me, to think I was merely another official to be forgotten.

I spent the next hour flitting between politicians, throwing meaningless phrases out as they tried to coax information out of me. Most wanted to know about Rhys, but some…. some wanted to know just what had transpired between me and Tamlin. At one point I was cornered by a fuming Winter Lord. He demanded to know why we had turned down his requests for trade, what we were hiding.

Everything. I thought.

I resisted the urge to curse and tell them off, instead laughing and spouting some coy phrase.

Eventually, the Day Court arrived, bringing a sizable entourage led by Lord Julius. Prythian’s oldest High Lord, known for his solemn disposition and wisdom. A man of the people who frequently shunned the benefits of a life of wealth. Indeed, he was dressed in a robe the color of parchment that reminded me of ones worn by scholars. The gold embroidery on its sleeves and collar was the only sign of its lavish make.

Julius wasn’t one of excess, and it seemed that a majority of the court attempted to replicate that look. Either because of their own beliefs or to follow him, I couldn’t tell. His couriers seemed to revolve around him in a way. Nothing was done without his approval. The master they respected and answered to.

Though the Day entourage was surprisingly somber, it didn’t put a damper on the rest of the celebrations. Members from all courts mingled, and the Court of Nightmares had been behaving all evening. As the night wore on, the music grew louder – and then the seventh Court arrived.

It looked as though Tamlin had brought the manor’s entire staff, along with all the nobility. Indeed, as I ran through the list of nobles I knew in my head, I found every face in the crowd, recognizable even with the masks.

I avoided looking directly at Tamlin, instead focusing on Lucien, who stood by his right side. He wore a fox mask that covered most of his face, including the majoring of the puckered, red scarring. The price he had paid for delivering Tamlin’s refusal. But I could see that he still had two eyes – though one was different, with almost unnatural movements. Interesting. I couldn’t read Lucien’s face – cool, disinterested, perhaps. And on Tamlin’s left side….

Ianthe.

Unlike everyone else, her face was bare, though shadowed by her raised hood. It was an effort not to snort. I had spent enough time listening to her self-praising, sanctimonious spiels enough times to guess what sort of excuse she had concocted to avoid covering her face.

My eyes finally drifted to him.

Unlike the other denizens of Spring, his mouth was a grim line. He wore a golden mask – one that was the same color and Amarantha’s. It was an effort to stay where I was as the court dispersed, Amarantha greeting him. Yet somehow, I couldn’t turn away as I watched the two embrace, Tamlin stiff the whole time. It stirred up a feeling in me I couldn’t name. Not anger, certainly not jealousy, but….

He was the male I had loved for so long, so desperately, until that love turned sour. I didn’t love him anymore, didn’t feel any kind of passion at all after what he had done to me. He had been good, been Tamlin until…. until he wasn’t.

I finally let myself turn away from him, engage myself in conversation with a young lady from Dawn who wore a fawn mask. One of the few people I had spoken with who didn’t have an ulterior motive. No, she seemed content to idly chatter away.

She frowned at my pause. “What’s the matter?” She asked.

I nodded, angling myself away from the Spring delegation. “Nothing. I only recognized someone in the crowd. You were saying?”

Eventually, I excused myself, wending through the crowd and dodging a couple passionately kissing against the wall, their breathing heavy. I made my way to a waiter who carried flutes of bubbling champagne on a tray. Unlike mortal drinks, they sparkled a thousand different colors, the rainbow contained in a drop. Though I had earlier promised myself I would stay sober…. drinking would help me blend in anyway. But a few feet before I reached my goal, my path was blocked by a burly figure.

My breath caught as I met his eyes. I had forgotten so many things about Tamlin. The shine of his eyes in the light, the exact color of the hair I would never again try to paint. Though his ever-present bandolier of knives still gleamed. Leave it to him to come to a ball armed – he didn’t know there were far deadlier weapons in the room.

Perhaps he had forgotten parts of me too, or maybe he was shocked at how I had changed. I was no longer the weak girl banging on the manor’s windows, begging to get out. I saw him look me up and down, taking me in. My newfound strength, and the tattoo on my arm I no longer wore gloves to hide. “What has he done to you, Feyre?” He hissed.

I furrowed my brow. “He hasn’t done anything, Tamlin. Did you expect me to remain the same after you locked me up, left me to drown? You killed the mortal-raised girl you knew, and this – “I gestured to myself. “Is what remains.”

I forced myself to shut out the memory of him walking away as I screamed behind him, begging to get out. How I had pushed myself into darkness until Mor had carried me away.

“Feyre. Come home with me tonight. I know I did some things I shouldn’t have – we both did. I can take you to the Day Court, get them to break whatever curse Rhys is holding over your head. I am willing to call in any debt, make any bargain. I will kill Rhys for that he’s – “His coaxing turned dark in a way I was all too familiar with.

I shook my head, cutting him off. “I told you once, Tamlin. I am grateful for everything you’ve done for me. But I am not that person anymore, and if you threaten the Night Court again, I won’t hesitate to return your threats and deliver.”

He narrowed his eyes, opening his mouth to say something, only to be interrupted by Amarantha’s smooth voice.

“I would like to take a moment to thank all you for being here tonight.” She stood on a raised platform in the center of the room, holding a flute of champagne. A small, tipsy titter escaped through her lips. Around the room, everyone quieted down, the music coming to a sharp halt.

It was time for the toast. I needed to find Rhys. Turning away from Tamlin, I started to step away – only for his hand to close around my wrist.

I whirled back around, every muscle tense. His grip was tight and unyielding, and my hands had balled to fists at my sides. I would not let myself shake.

“This isn’t over, Feyre.” He said softly, hand tightening. A few fae nearby glanced at us, gazes ranging from concerned to amused. They still saw me as his pet, in need of coddling.

“Yes, it is.” I hissed, voice even. I open my fisted hand, palm open, and wrenched my arm away from him. The simplest of the self-defense moves Cassian had taught me.

I turned away before he could try anything else, not letting myself breath until I knew the crowd had swallowed him up. I pushed my way through the crowd, trying not to look too hurried. Finally, my eyes landed on Rhys. He was a spot of darkness against the vivid extravagance of the evening, standing by one of the huge, carved pillars.

Snatching a glass of wine from one of the bored-looking waiters, I sauntered through the crowd and made my way over to him.

“These last fifty years have passed in the blink of an eye thanks to the hospitality of everyone in the room. It is my greatest hope that Prythian and Hybern will be able to begin a new chapter in harmony.” Her eyes gleamed.

Rhys held a glass as well, appearing to be entirely focused on Amarantha’s words. I reached out to his mind, slipping in through the crack left open for me.

Amarantha continued. “My hope, and the king’s as well. He sends his finest wines for us to feast on tonight, to delight in the bounties of his lands. More shipments will arrive in the following weeks, and it is my understanding that Prythian will send off theirs as well.”

Rhys reached out to me. “I’m working on getting through her shields.” His voice was strained, distracted. “She’s placed more shielding on herself than I anticipated, especially considering she isn’t a daemati. If she looks suspicious, find some way to distract her.”

“We have made such progress, and I am so thankful you have given me a chance to make amends for my actions.”

Though her words were light, her hand drifted up to stroke the bone necklace she wore. Perhaps not so tipsy after all. Had she noticed Rhys’s maneuverings?

But she only continued on with her speech. ““It has been my pleasure to meet so many of you, and I hope we all get to know each other even better in the years to come.”

“Rhys, are you making any progress?”

“These shields …. it’s like tunneling through sand. When I think I’ve broken through them, more await. Hybern’s likely spelled her with something from his book.” His voice was quieter than before.

“Rhys, do not lose yourself to her mind.”

“I can tell I’m making progress.” Softer yet, fading.

“RHYS.” I shouted his name, pulled on that mental bond to bring him back. “I don’t need you getting lost trying to get through her shields. It’s not worth it.”

Physically, his hand twitched as he came back to his senses.

Around us, the air seemed to grow heavy, something hanging over us all that I couldn’t decipher.

“I was getting close, Feyre. I’m not wasting the opportunity.” Words sharp, stilted.

I could tell that he was going to go in again, make another attempt. My instinct screamed at me to help him but – it was a risk.

Amarantha looked around. “I’d like to offer a toast. To beginning a new chapter.” She raised her glass, and at that moment seemed to glow with some sort of ungodly power.

Rhys inhaled sharply, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Casting my mind, my power across the room. I reached for Amarantha’s shields.

Externally, everyone raised their glasses, champagne sparkling under the bobbing faelight. “To beginning a new chapter.” Rhys and I both spoke the words, somehow of a volition that didn’t quite seem our own.

I the glass to my lips, tasting the alcohol as it went down.

I reached out to touch her shields –

Then – a flash of light and I was yanked out of her mind.

Rhysand

It was as if something inside of me had shattered, that thing that kept I could feel something pulling at my power, ripping the magic away.

Shit. Shit. There had been some dark magic at work, some curse to entrap us here.

I stumbled forward a bit as I was pushed out of Amarantha’s shields. She was taking our power.

The flute slipped through my fingers, and I could distantly feel the champagne splash onto my pants as the glass blossomed into a thousand pieces onto the floor.

I fought to bring my concentration back to the surface. My magic was slipping away like water down the drain, leaving me feeling light-headed. I fought back against that unstoppable pull, trying to halt it, but the power slipped through my fingers as though I had no control over it at all. Shouts of confusion and horror rang out, six other High Lords experiencing the same thing.

“Rhys?” Feyre spoke out loud, words frantic. “What’s going on?”

I couldn’t answer her, too distracted. She was taking our power. The power that would protect Velaris, keep my people safe.

I cast my magic out like a spear as far as I could, and it hurt in a way it never had before, the pain like flames licking at my bones, but it reached back to Velaris. Even as my magic was tearing away from me, I reinforced the wards, fortifying them so no evil could breach those walls. Magic of this strength needed a tether, so I reached for the four souls I trusted more than anyone else, save the one beside me.

“Amarantha had cursed us and taken our power. Protect Velaris and do not leave the city. I love all of you.”

It had only been a few seconds, but I could feel it breaking away, tearing something vital inside of me. My voice, my very soul, joined the symphony of screams that begged for it to stop but –

All at once, the fire raging through me burned out. Leaving a husk of the mighty magic that had once resided in my veins. I might as well have been an Illyrian youth, powers bound for the Blood Rite.

I was heaving deep breaths, my arms braced on a table. As the world around me came back into focus, I heard Feyre calling my name. Nearby, Thesan stood with his fingers bracing his forehead, reaching for his missing power.

Above it all, that wicked caw of a deceiver’s laugh.

[eidetective]

(wip preview of something based on this.)

“How many confessions so far?”

“Twelve dozen, last I checked,” Crawford said, shifting papers on his desk in that sort of way people do things when they want something to do with their hands but can’t think of anything productive. “None of them had any details. Until this morning. Then they all had details.”

“Freddie Lounds?” Dr. Graham said—hissed, more like it—and didn’t turn away from the wall of photos. He hadn’t since he’d come into the office; Chiyoh had heard stories of him, of that thing he did, whispered like an urban legend among trainees and faculty alike. She wondered what she saw in the eight eerily similar faces of dead girls a scant ten years her junior. She wondered what he would have seen had he been there in Elise Nichols’ bedroom, Crawford at his shoulder and real FBI making cracks about spooking easily.

Crawford nodded. “Some genius in Duluth P.D.—took photos of Elise Nichols’ body with his cell phone, showed it to his friends. This morning it was front page news on Tattlecrime.com.”

“Tasteless,” Graham muttered, as though Freddie Lounds’ mere existence was a personal slight against him. Chiyoh had heard that name as well, plenty. Not a legend but a cautionary tale. An unscrupulous, ambulance-chasing tabloid reporter who spelled trouble for anyone she set her sights on.

“I agree.” She had read a few articles once, and felt they’d made her stupider. Graham glanced at her over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. At once she felt pinned like a moth to cardstock, awkward in her ill-fitting polo, though his eyes, intense behind his glasses, focused slightly off to the side of her face. “—I have trouble with taste.”

“We have that in common,” Graham said, trailing a finger along one of the strings pinned to the corkboard. Then, in a sudden motion, he was sitting at Crawford’s desk, holding out a thermos Chiyoh only just realized was his in offer. “My thoughts aren’t often tasty.”

Chiyoh considered that.

“We have that in common.”

“No effective barriers.” He poured out a cup of what turned out to be very strong coffee, and Chiyoh took it gratefully. The coffee wasn’t very good, a little too watery and slightly burnt. Aunt Murasaki would have considered it unworthy of the word. Chiyoh would have preferred tea, but the taste was an acceptable sacrifice to have the caffeine and a hot cup in her hands. “But we build forts, don’t we? Or what we see colors everything else we know.”

“Are you talking about me or about yourself, Dr. Graham?”

Graham stared down into his own cup of coffee and smiled. He was undoubtedly handsome, but something about the expression didn’t suit him, made him less attractive.

“You tell me. Associations come quickly, don’t they, Fujiwara?”

He pronounced her name well, almost the same as she had when she introduced herself. Not the way Crawford did, too long on the “wa” with a hard R.

“As you say.” She smiled thinly. “We build forts.”

Graham looked up at her and blinked several times. Chiyoh had the peculiar feeling he was looking through her, past her.

“You have to,” he said. His voice had changed, but she couldn’t put her finger on how. “You’d never last in the FBI without them. You walk into a crime scene and it speaks to you with noise and clarity, whispering those associations that are an affront to the values and sense of morality you pride yourself in. But it didn’t start with the Academy, did it? You heard those whispers long before you found your way to the FBI. No amount of forts can protect you from that. On some level you know that, but you’ve been building them for so long you’ve forgotten how to stop.”

Chiyoh put down her cup far more forcefully than she meant to, nearly spilling the coffee. Crawford was staring at Graham like he’d grown a second head; Chiyoh suspected she was looking at him much the same way.

“Who are you meant to be psychoanalyzing?” The words came out in a near whisper, though in the moment she’d thought before she’d spoken, she’d pictured herself shouting. Graham met her eyes properly for the first time at that, naked curiosity on his face, and Chiyoh turned away, looking to Crawford for backup. “Agent Crawford, this is—”

“That wasn’t psychoanalysis,” Graham interrupted. “That was empathy. You didn’t tell her very much about me, did you, Jack?”

“Get back to class, Fujiwara,” Crawford said, grim gaze still fixed firmly on Graham. He didn’t have to tell her twice; at once Chiyoh collected her bag, and though she would never call it such, she fled the room.

———

Chiyoh was woken up before six the following Monday morning by a call on her cell and the nagging beginnings of a migraine.

“Number nine,” Crawford said the moment she picked up, and he gave her the gate number for a seven AM flight. Chiyoh took two Aspirin and emailed her professors her excuses; at least the understanding that they could take their concerns to the head of Behavioral Science if they had an issue with her absences had kept her marks intact.

She knew it must be different before she even got to the airport. There was a certain amount of vindication in knowing she was right, that the pattern would change—he had taken the next girl soon, after all—but there was more to it than that. It had changed too much. It was too soon. Her instincts told her that the killer would have escalated gradually, that he wouldn’t have been able to bear replacing Elise until he felt secure, until he’d assuaged whatever guilt he felt over his failure.

What was waiting for her in the field was more than different. It was surreal.

She stared at the mounted body in mute shock, watching crime scene techs chasing away crows from the dead girl’s pale form, draped elegantly over the trophy stag whose antlers were piercing her mutilated torso in a near-identical pattern to the holes in Elise Nichols’ chest and stomach.

The girl had dark auburn hair, and blue eyes stared fish-like and lifeless from her pale, freckled face.

The scene was appalling in both its beauty and its cruelty. A scene born from nightmares. Chiyoh shivered through her heavy coat.

“Minneapolis PD’s already put out a statement,” Crawford said. “They’re calling him the Minnesota Shrike.”

“The butcher bird,” Chiyoh heard herself say.

“Impales its prey on branches or barbed wire,” Agent Price explained; Chiyoh saw he knew it was for the others’ benefit rather than hers. “Rips their organs right out of their bodies. Keeps them in a little birdy pantry and eats them later.”

Mozu no hayanie. Chiyoh moved closer to look at the horrible incision down the middle of the girl’s chest. Agent Zeller was doing the same, a penlight in his gloved hand.

“She was still alive when he put her here,” he said, hoarsely. “And he took her heart.”

At once she could see it. Prying open the girl’s ribs. A knife under the sternum, blade pointed up. Familiarity with butchering animals, but she knew how to butcher animals too, and that—she’d never do that to an animal.

Zeller must have seen something on her face, because he forced a smile.

“I thought you said you didn’t spook easily.” It would have had more bite to it if he didn’t sound so nauseated.

“Is this what you consider easily, Agent Zeller?” Chiyoh replied, and turned to see Crawford watching her, arms crossed over his chest.

“I’m not sure if it’s sloppy or shrewd,” he said.

“He wanted her to be found.” There was no other reason for it. This was so obvious it was almost petulant. “As if he’s mocking her. Or perhaps he’s mocking us.”

Crawford leaned over the body, eyes dark and face drawn.

“Where did all his love go?”

Love. That struck her, then—pieces fitting together all too easily now that what she was witnessing could fill in the blanks. There was no love here, there was—art. Performance. This girl’s killer had had little sympathy for her and certainly had no love. He had taken her heart as if to drive the point home, as if he were standing here telling them as much. She was little more than material to him.

“The man who tucked Elise Nichols into bed couldn’t have done this,” Chiyoh said. “He loves these women. He shows them what he thinks is kindness, and he consumes them so he can keep part of them inside himself after their deaths. This would offend him. He would never have disgraced her like this.”

“You think this is a copycat?” Crawford was incredulous.

“This is indifferent,” Chiyoh insisted. “This girl’s killer didn’t care about her. Her death would have been slow and painful. He didn’t torture her, but he paid no consideration to how much she suffered. He had so little love for her that he cut her heart out of her chest as soon as it stopped beating. Our cannibal is not so unfeeling, and he would never leave a body to the scavengers like this. He’d have no reason to. He took Elise Nichols home to her family, and every other girl has vanished completely. He has somewhere to do his work, somewhere with an antler room.”

Crawford exchanged looks with his fellow agents, but at least seemed curious to hear what she had to say. Chiyoh turned back to the body, looking at the once-pretty face with renewed interest.

“The intended target must be someone close to him. I think it would have to be a daughter or—maybe a sister who fits the same profile. He has a protectiveness toward them, all of them—whoever she is, he’s terrified to lose her.”

“What about the copycat?”

Chiyoh shook her head.

“Perhaps you should ask Dr. Graham,” she said. “Isn’t he supposed to have a knack for the monsters?”

———

She dreamed of a black stag that night, the animal that had borne the burden of the body that had been identified as Cassie Boyle given new life cloaked in the feathers of the crows that had perched upon that scene of horror.

Her dreams were not often so esoteric, but nor were the cases she’d ever studied in a classroom. It still frustrated her to wake in a cold sweat like a child having nightmares, a sharp pain hammering behind her right eyebrow. She needed to be sharp—Crawford wanted her doing some legwork today, investigating the lead from the shred of metal Agent Katz had turned up. It was going to be a long day and she was off to a poor start.

She took a couple Aspirin and as long a shower as she could justify to herself, as though she could wash away the anxiety that clung to her like the dead, glassy eyes of the crow-stag were still watching her.

There was a knock at the door while she was still half-dressed and toweling off her hair. Mood blackening further, she hastily pulled on a cardigan and pajama pants, expecting Crawford ready to chastise her for being unprepared.

Instead she was met with Will Graham, dressed in a sharp gray overcoat for the brisk October morning and carrying a plastic shopping bag and his thermos.

“Good morning,” he said. He wasn’t wearing the thick-framed glasses he was in Crawford’s office, giving her an unobstructed view of his eyes, and he looked entirely too awake for anyone to be before eight in the morning.

“Good morning,” propriety demanded she reply. “Where’s Agent Crawford?”

“Deposed in court.” Dr. Graham still wasn’t meeting her eyes, but the simple absence of the glasses made his face seem much more open to her. “It’s been years since I worked for the FBI, but this isn’t my first rodeo. He asked me to escort you.”

“I see.”

The moment dragged. The chill in the air was thoroughly uncomfortable, underdressed for it with her hair still damp, but Chiyoh knew it would be rude to close the door on him without pretense, and he clearly hadn’t come here just to tell her that. Graham caught on quickly, opened the shopping bag enough that she could see a few Tupperware inside.

“I brought breakfast,” he said. “Would you mind if I came in?”

“A bit,” Chiyoh said, but stepped out of the way to let him inside anyway. “You cook?”

“Here and there.” The contents of the Tupperware turned out to be cornbread pancakes and thick, slightly overcooked breakfast sausages, which Graham doled out onto a couple of plates, pouring out what Chiyoh was surprised to see was green tea from the thermos, as though he had somehow divined what she was thinking the last time they shared a drink. The food was still warm, the tea was hot, and Graham had, vaguely endearingly, brought a few plastic packets of maple syrup that Chiyoh suspected must have been pilfered from a diner. “I used to only cook for my dogs, but I had more free time once I opened my own practice. Picked up the habit.”

He was humanizing himself to her, she recognized that. Offering personal information as an invitation for her to engage with him, ask him about himself. Informing her he has pets to present a more sympathetic personality.

She simply nodded and took a bite of sausage, taken off guard at how delicious it was. It was clearly homemade, which she hadn’t been expecting—juicy, well-seasoned, a bit spicy. Even the slight char didn’t detract from the flavor, though the texture was a bit tougher than she’d have expected. The pancakes, too, turned out to be well-made, if slightly soggy from the time spent steaming in the Tupperware. The sickly-sweet syrup was balanced out by the bitterness of the tea. Mismatched as the flavors were, she found herself enjoying it immensely.

“This is very good,” she said, and Graham, who had been watching her eat with the slightly unsettling intensity Chiyoh had realized was his resting expression, brightened.

“Thank you.” He speared a piece of sausage with his fork. “I would say I owe you an apology for ambushing you, but if I’m apologizing to you constantly it’s going to get tedious. I can’t exactly turn it off.”

“The—ambushing?”

“The observing. I imagine you can’t, either.”

Chiyoh nodded, thoughtful. “I noticed you avoid eye contact.”

“Eyes are distracting,” Graham said, and immediately met Chiyoh’s eyes, holding her gaze, not fleetingly, but with every bit of that intensity. Making a point. “You see too much. You don’t see enough. And it’s hard to focus, thinking—those whites are really white, or he must have hepatitis, or is that a burst vein?”

Chiyoh smiled around a bite of pancake, and she was the one to look away first. To her embarrassment, Graham seemed to find that amusing, but he didn’t press it.

“I would think your patients would consider that rude.”

“Some of them do.” Graham shrugged one shoulder. “Some of them find it comforting that their psychiatrist doesn’t quite think like everybody else, either. Albeit something more in line with Asperger’s and autism than narcissists and antisocials.”

“But you can think like narcissists and antisocials,” Chiyoh said. Graham raised an eyebrow. “There’s quite a bit of talk about you at the Bureau. About—”

“About the specific way I think.”

Chiyoh nodded.

“I can think like anybody. Call it an active imagination.” He took a long sip of his tea. “What about you? Top five percent in your class, a Master’s in criminal justice, Bachelor’s in Psychology…”

“It sounds like you’ve been investigating me.”

“Not at all. But I’m curious.” Graham set down his cup and looked at her frankly. “Jack lost a trainee in the field before. Another young woman, in fact. I’m curious what it is about you that inspired him to take you out of your classroom when the last time he did that, his trainee was—most likely—killed.”

He had a remarkable ability to turn conversations on their head, leaving her feeling defensive and off balance. She tapped her fork against her plate, taking a few seconds to breathe.

“I believe this qualifies as another ambush, Dr. Graham.”

“That’s exactly what I meant about apologies getting tedious.”

“One would be nice.”

Graham leaned back in his chair.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and despite all odds, it actually sounded genuine. Chiyoh sighed, dabbing up the last of the syrup off her plate with one final bite of pancake.

“Perhaps Agent Crawford has more faith in me than you do,” she said.

“I doubt that,” Graham replied. “I doubt that very much.”

Before Chiyoh could process if that was a compliment or an insult, Graham pushed on.

“Jack tells me you think the girl in the field was killed by a copycat,” he said. “The devil is in the details?”

“Exactly so.”

“What gave it away?”

“Everything.” Chiyoh shook her head. “It was a perfect negative. Almost as if it were deliberate—as if he wanted to show me the inverse so I could see the Shrike in its reflection. There couldn’t have been a more perfect crime scene if I had asked for it.”

Graham seemed to consider this as he sipped his tea.

“Different pathology, same design?”

“Perhaps. Did Agent Crawford ask you to profile the copycat?”

“He asked me to profile the Minnesota Shrike,” Graham replied. “To supervise you profiling the Minnesota Shrike. So—yes, he did, insofar as the existence of this copycat is relevant to the profile of our cannibal.”

“And does your role as supervisor allow you to tell me whether you agree with my profile?”

“I do.” Graham nodded. “You have excellent insight. You’ll be an asset to the FBI when you graduate.”

It was franker than Chiyoh was expecting.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

She paused for a moment, watching him sip his tea, looking satisfied with himself at catching her off guard with a simple compliment.

“Have you been reconstructing the copycat’s thinking?”

“Yes,” Graham said; he sounded unconcerned by it. “His and the Shrike’s. The Shrike is an interesting one, there’s no doubt about that, but the copycat—an intelligent psychopath, a sadist, is very hard to catch. There’ll be no traceable motive, no patterns. He may never kill this way again.”

“Hmm.” Chiyoh leaned forward in her seat, seeking Graham’s eyes. “I don’t think the copycat is a sadist.”

Graham raised his eyebrows. “What do you make of him, then? The mutilation, removal of organs? Cannibalism itself is considered by most to be particularly sadistic.”

“I believe he’s killed before, and causing unnecessary suffering isn’t what excites him. He wanted it to be obvious he wasn’t the Minnesota Shrike.” A message. A killer’s methods turned into an unparalleled means of expression. It sounded vaguely paranoid, but everything about the scene had been so targeted. “He may not be a cannibal, either. He’d have no reason; cutting her heart out of her chest painted a clear picture already.”

One corner of Graham’s mouth tugged upward.

“Interesting. I’ll recommend Jack takes your insights into account, Chiyoh.” Graham stood, gathering up the Tupperware and dishes to leave them to soak in the kitchenette’s small sink. “You should get ready. This is going to be a long day.”

Chiyoh blinked. She had expected him to say something—do you mind if I call you Chiyoh, something to that effect. He didn’t; he seemed to take it as a given that they were on acceptable terms for him to address her by her given name now.

And, more peculiarly, she realized that that didn’t bother her.

[maplesamurai]

The Witch’s Apprentice Ch 4

The Butcher family farmhouse went silent just after the Witch of the Woods emerged from Arthur’s shadow, her slender, statuesque form towering over them all and her long onyx hair fanning out behind her like a cape in the wind, seemingly under its own power. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on the Witch, faces white with shock.

“Now that your question has been answered,” the Witch asked Summer Butcher with hooded eyes closed and a gentle smile on her lips, “may you be so kind as to show me to the patient?”

Pulling in her son into her embrace even more tightly, Summer snarled at the Witch, “Don’t come any closer,” shuddering in fear even as she bared her teeth, her worn, tear-stained face contorted into a scowl of rage. “Leave this house now.”

The Witch cocked her head to the side, seemingly perplexed by the demand, before saying, “Well, I can hardly heal what ails your daughter if I’m not here, can I?”

“And we’re supposed to believe you’ll just help us without a price?” Harold snapped back, the burly, spectacled patriarch of the family still keeping his distance from this uninvited guest.

“Of course you shouldn’t. Luckily for you and your daughter, your son has been so kind as to provide sufficient payment.”

Harold turned to his son, still held tight in Summer’s embrace, and asked, “And what payment would that be?”

With a teary-eyed sigh, Arthur softly said, “Nothing we can’t afford to lose.”

“What do you mean, Arthur?” Harold inquired further, only to feel Melion’s meaty hand on his shoulder.

“S’ a bit late to grill th’ lad ‘bout it now,” the scarred, bearded warrior said solemnly. “Arty told me everythin’. An’ trust me when ah tell ye he couldn’ renege on this deal if he wanted tae. An’ ah’d know.”

“You’d know? You mean this is the same witch that you-“

“Aye. Ah didn’ want tae let Arty know ‘bout me history with her, so I thought ah could talk ‘im out of it without bringin’ it up, but… wot’s done is done.”

“Melion,” the Witch interrupted, “is it not impolite to speak of present company as if they were not here?”

“Yeah, well ah’ve never bin one fer courtesy,” Melion spat, his black, mane-like beard bristling with contempt. “’Sides, ye wanna talk ‘bout impolite? Try hidin’ in someone’s shadow to git in their house uninvited.”

“At least when I enter a place uninvited, I don’t break down any doors. Besides, I needed to know where Arthur’s house was so I could administer treatment, and you two left in such a hurry I could not ask, so I unfortunately had to tag along discreetly.”

“Sure, an’ ah I suppose th’ prospect of seein’ th’ looks on everyone’s faces had none tae do with it.”

The Witch momentarily paused just as she seemed about to make a retort, only to say, “I shall neither confirm nor deny that.”

Turning back towards Summer, the Witch asked her, “So, will you allow me to see to your daughter? I’m afraid your son and I have a contract, so I cannot back out of my end of the deal any more than he can his.”

Breaking her embrace with her son, Summer grilled the Witch further, “You swear to us you will do no harm to anyone in this house?”

“Of course I do. What reason would I have to inflict harm on any one of you? But if it puts you at ease for me to say it, then you have my word that once I have left, you and your entire family shall remain healthy and unharmed.”

Running her fingers through her fading blonde hair, Summer turned to Melion and asked the old huntsman, “Can she be trusted?”

“I wouldn’ go that far,” Melion sighed, “but ah I can tell ye that when she gives her word, she means it.”

Even as Melion vouched for the Witch, Summer stepped out of her way only begrudgingly, and sighed, “It’s right this way,” before walking towards the hallway with the Witch, and soon after, the rest of Arthur’s family, closely following behind.

When they reached the door to Morgan’s room, Summer opened the door and cautiously stepped aside. The Witch approached the open door, but before the walked in, stopped to assure Arthur’s parents with a smile, “Worry not. When I next exit this room, your daughter will be following me, as healthy as she was before the White Plague came to her.”

As Arthur and the rest of the family listened from outside the open door, the Witch of the Woods stepped inside Morgan’s room, slowly approaching the bed under a shuttered window at the far end of the room where her patient was sleeping. Still bundled under layers of extra blankets and her head resting on a pile of spare pillows, Morgan Butcher lay in bed fast asleep, her skin as sickly pale as it had been when Arthur left and her dishevelled brown locks splayed all over the top pillow she rested on. The moment the Witch stood above her patient, she stopped and spoke, “Hello, Morgan Butcher.”

Morgan opened her sky blue eyes, still bordered with dark circles, and the first thing she saw was the Witch of the Woods looming over her. Without so much as a hint of surprise, she sighed and asked, “Are you Death?”

“Sometimes I am,” the Witch replied as she looked her patient up and down. “But today, my child, I am the opposite.”

Morgan nodded in understanding. “So you’re that Witch Arthur ran off to find, then? You’re easier on the eyes than I would of thought.”

“Oh?” the Witch asked, raising an eyebrow in curiosity. “You knew, then?”

“Of course I knew. I might pass out a lot these days, but I still have ears, you know. And my family hasn’t exactly been keeping their voices down when talking about it.”

Stepping out from behind the doorframe and into Morgan’s view, Arthur sighed guiltily, “How long have you known?”

“I guessed something was up when you guys’ arguing woke me yesterday and you pretended everything was fine. Since then, I’ve been keeping quiet every time you guys woke me up. Especially during the freak out that happened once Ma and Pa noticed you were missing. Were you even going to tell me you were thinking of bringing a witch here to help me?”

“Well,” Arthur began defensively, “I kind of did tell you…”

Flashing Arthur a rather unimpressed glare, Morgan asked, “You said it while I was still sleeping, didn’t you?”

Even the Witch paused from examining Morgan to look back at Arthur disapprovingly as the young man looked down guiltily, making not even a token attempt to justify himself.

“Far from the commendable way to go about such a thing,” she said coolly.

“That’s… true,” Arthur sighed.

“You’re a coward,” Morgan continued.

“Running into a forest crawling with monsters is cowardly?” Arthur said defensively.

“There are many forms of both courage and cowardice, Arthur,” the Witch sternly told him as she went back to examining Morgan. “And not all of them are mutually exclusive between the two categories.”

Arthur was about to raise a finger in protest, only to lower it and sigh, “Yeah, I guess.”

“But commenting on your how your brother’s actions reflect on him is not why I am here,” the Witch continued. “Curing what ails you, however, is. Would you like me to proceed, Morgan Butcher?”

“Well, it’s got to be better than lying here sick all day,” Morgan replied between coughs. “But before you do it, I have one more question.”

“Ask, my child, and I will answer.”

“What will this cost us?”

The Witch simply looked down at Morgan and smiled reassuringly as she said, “The cost has already been paid.”

Morgan simply struck an apprehensive glare back in Arthur’s direction and asked, “Why am I not surprised?”

“There will be plenty of time for explanations when we are done here,” the Witch reassured Morgan.

“There’d better be,” Morgan coughed, clearly directing her comment more at Arthur then the Witch herself. “Please get this other with.”

“If that is what you wish, my child.”

Upon saying such, the Witch raised one hand over Morgan and began to chant under her breath. Arthur was too far away to make out much of what she was saying, only catching a few sentences that sounded like ‘spirits of the air’ and ‘water of this child’s breath.’  But what then happened before his eyes was clear as day.

At first all Arthur could see were several undefined shapes shimmering in the air. But just as he was about to squint to try and make out what exactly they were, he began to see them clearly. They were not shapes in the air as Arthur had thought at first; it was more like the air itself was taking shape in those areas, forming into tiny human-like figures dancing high and low about the room, not dissimilar in appearance to storybook pictures of sprites and pixies.

From the doorway where Arthur was still standing and the rest of his family were peering in from the corner, he wondered aloud, “What are those things?”

“What things?” Harold asked curiously. “Isn’t she just waving her hand around and chanting?”

It was then that Arthur recalled how the Witch had been surprised that he could see the green flames that accompanied the sealing of their pact. Between that and these air spirits’ apparent invisibility to his father’s eyes, did that mean most people could not see the Witch’s magic other than its most obvious effects? Arthur pondered exactly how to explain this to his father, only for Melion to place his massive hand on Arthur’s shoulder, and when Arthur looked up, his Uncle was giving him an understanding smile.

“It’s none too important,” Melion said, turning back to Harold. “Ah’ll be sure tae explain after all this is over.”

With his father seemingly satisfied for now by Melion’s answer, Arthur turned his attention back to Morgan’s room. As the Witch continued to chant, these strange spirits of air began to form a circle above Morgan’s head, the flow of their dancing seeming to be directed upwards towards the ceiling. The purpose behind this soon become clear, as the normally imperceptible droplets expelled by each of Morgan’s coughs began to join together at the centre of the circle of dancers and condense into a single globule of moisture.

As Morgan continued to cough out more droplets that joined this single mass, her sickly pallid skin slowly but surely return to the rosy complexion Arthur remembered, and the space between each cough began to lengthen. Eventually, even the circles under Morgan’s eyes began to disappear, as she coughed one final time, and the last droplets of sickness merged with the single glob floating above her face, now the size of an orange. It was then that the Witch ceased her chanting, and dismissed the dancing air spirits with a wave of her hand.

“How do you now feel, Morgan Butcher?” the Witch asked her patient as she swirled her hand around, drawing in the diseased globe of liquid to float above the palm of her hand.

Morgan opened her eyes and said in surprise, “I feel… well,” her voice clear and uninterrupted for the first time in weeks. It was then that she noticed the orb of slimy liquid floating above the Witch’s hand and began to ask, “Is that-“

“…the remnants of the plague that ailed you? Why yes, it is. Or rather…” the Witch paused as she pressed her thumb and index finger together, and the globule shrunk down into nothing, “it was.”

Morgan took a deep breath without so much as the slightest cough and sighed, “It’s over, then.”

“Indeed it is, my child. Do you have the strength to stand up?”

Morgan shot the Witch a slight smirk and said, “Time to find out.”

Without the slightest hesitation, Morgan threw off the sheets covering her, and swung her legs around to the side of her bed, lowered her feet to the floor, pushed herself up, before carefully taking her first step forward in weeks.

Not displaying so much as a weakness in the legs, Morgan walked over the Witch herself, and looked up at her to simply say, “Thank you, Miss.”

“It was my pleasure, Morgan Butcher,” the Witch said with a smile, before looking to Arthur and saying, “but I am not the one you should thank for me coming here.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Morgan said sternly as she turned towards her brother in the doorway, “I haven’t forgotten about brother dearest one bit.”

Arthur tensed up as he saw his fully recovered sister run right towards him, but rather than the deck to the face he was expecting, he received instead a tighter bear hug than even he would normally receive from Melion.

“Thanks, Arthur,” Morgan said to her brother sincerely. “Don’t know how much longer I’d be here if you didn’t do what you did. Just don’t go behind my back next time, yeah?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” Arthur said softly as he returned his sister’s embrace just as strongly, only to sigh, “And I don’t think I’ll have many more opportunities to do so anyway.”

Morgan then backed out of the hug and gave her brother a concerned look as she began to ask, “What do you mean by-“, only to be blindsided by her mother with another hug.

“Oh, Morgan!” Summer sobbed in relief, “I’m so glad you’re all better!”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Harold tearfully said as he joined in the embrace, even he failing to hold back the tears any further.

“And don’ forget ‘bout me!” Melion roared as he joined in as well, his massive frame nearly blocking the hallway for the rest of the family.

Arthur joined back in on the family group hug as well, and Morgan seemed to have forgotten the worrying thing that Arthur had just said to her, or at least at put the thought on hold, until they were interrupted by the Witch clearing her throat from back in Morgan’s room.

“I am sorry to interrupt this moment for you,” she said sincerely, “but I believe that it is pertinent that we discuss the terms of Arthur and I’s agreement sooner than later.”

“I suppose we should,” Summer said distrustfully as the family broke their embrace with Morgan.

Arthur took a deep breath as everyone walked to the house’s hearth to take a seat at the family’s round dinner table. He was certainly not looking forward to the coming discussion.

Arthur’s unease was not helped when Morgan gave him a nudge in the ribs as he was sitting down in front of the fireplace and asked, “Wait, the terms of what agreement, exactly?”

“You’ll learn that soon enough,” Arthur sighed. “But long story short, it turns out this woman doesn’t work for free…”

“Ye can say that again,” Melion growled.

Looking up at her uncle just as she had found herself a seat next to Arthur, Morgan asked, “Wait, you know this witch too, Uncle? How?”

Seemingly just realising that his niece was not yet in the know, Melion gave Morgan an uneasy smile and began to stammer, “W-well, it’s nuttin’ all that interesting, Morgan…”

Throwing caution into the wind, Arthur simply said, “She turned him into a werewolf a long time ago.”

Melion and Arthur’s parents gave their two children a panicked look as Morgan asked, “I’m sorry, what?”

“Also, Ma and Pa have known the whole time and never told us.”

“Seriously?” Morgan asked incredulously as she shot an astonished glance towards the three.

Melion’s jaw dropped open as Harold asked, “Damn it boy, why would you tell her that now of all times?!”

“Because I’ve already been yelled at by this family for doing something stupid behind everyone’s backs and will probably be yelled at more once this conversation gets going, so it’s only fair I not be the only one who has to come clean today.”

“My, your family seems to have quite a bit of difficulty staying on the same page,” the Witch mused as she took a seat next to Arthur.

“Oh come off it, it’s technically yer fault!” Melion snapped back.

“Perhaps it is. But it was still your decision to leave these children in the dark, wasn’t it?”

Before either Melion or Arthur’s parents could open their mouths in protest, Morgan took a seat herself and said, “Sooooo… about this werewolf thing…”

“Technically, the proper term is ‘skinchanger,’” the Witch interjected, “but I suppose if you insist on differentiating such beings by their specific animal forms, ‘werewolf’ is as apt a description as any.”

“Do ye really think this is the right time tae talk about this?” Melion groaned as he slumped down in his seat across from Arthur.

“Well, I’m not going to stop thinking about it now that you’ve brought it up! Like what, is she also the werewolf that bit you, or something?”

“That is mere superstition, child. A bite from a skinchanger is no different from any beast of their size. Such beings are either born with their dual forms, or they gain such abilities from a magical boon or curse.”

“That’s enough about that for now,” Harold said sternly, he and Summer now seated between Morgan and Melion. “We have more pressing matters at hand, don’t we, Miss?”

“Indeed,” the Witch replied. “But since all of you will no doubt be unhappy with what I have to say, perhaps I can provide refreshments while we talk. It is the least I can do, given the circumstances.”

Before anyone could ponder exactly what the Witch meant by that, cups of hot tea suddenly appeared on the table.

Arthur’s family uneasily looked down at the teacups that the Witch had just conjured. The Witch herself seemed to notice this, and reassured them, “Don’t worry, as I told Arthur earlier, it won’t turn you into frogs.”

Morgan had just begun to cautiously lift up her cup when she stopped to ask, “Why would that even need clarification?”

“I would hope it wouldn’t, but Arthur needed it clarified earlier anyway, so I thought maybe it was a common concern around here.”

“Well, it isn’t.”

“Well, then. And here I thought your brother’s earlier concerns would make greater sense when I met his family.”

“Well in my defense,” Arthur began sheepishly, “I didn’t know that much about witches other than from a lot of unflattering stories, and it was just shortly after I saw her casually disintegrating a giant monster.”

Summer turned towards Arthur, looking very concerned and asked, “I’m sorry, but what giant monster?”

“The one that had just swallowed him,” the Witch casually replied.

Burying her head in her hands, Summer deeply sighed, “See Arthur, this is why we didn’t want you going into that forest.”

“But nevertheless,” the Witch continued, “I can assure you that my tea is completely safe to drink, as I am sure both Arthur and Melion can attest.”

“Actually, ah’d attest tae the opposite,” Melion muttered.

“Oh come now Melion, my tea brewing may have involved a bit of trial and error, but my first brews weren’t that bad!”

“Tell that tae me poor stomach right after we met.”

Arthur turned to his uncle and let him know, “Don’t worry Uncle, I had her tea earlier, and it is actually quite good.”

“Well, ah guess if Arty vouches fer it, ah’ll be the canary in the coal mine fer the rest of ye,” Melion sighed as he cautiously took a sip, visibly preparing for the worst, only to look pleasantly surprised as he swallowed.

“Well ah’ll be damned, ye old hag. It only took ye over thirty years tae do it, but ye finally managed to brew somethin’ edible.”

“Well, I suppose that’s the closest thing to a compliment I shall expect to hear from you,” the Witch said with a slight chuckle.

“Damn straight it is,” Melion said before continuing to drink his tea.

Slowly but surely, the rest of Arthur’s family cautiously tasted the Witch’s tea, and all seemed to enjoy it to varying extents.

“Well,” the Witch began, tenting her fingers and assuming a very businesslike posture, “now that we have finished this strangely long tangent regarding my tea’s lack of transformative properties, I believe we should get down to business. As you all have no doubt gathered by now, I did not heal your daughter out of pity. I require payment for my services, but luckily for all of you, your son has graciously agreed to pay my price on your behalf.” 

“And exactly what kind of ‘payment’ did Arthur promise you, then?” Summer worriedly inquired. “Will you take his soul?”

“Of course not!” the Witch scoffed as she shot Summer a look of absolute bewilderment. “What use would I have for such a thing? I have yet to even work out what my own soul is for, much less what I’d do with anyone else’s.”

“Well… there are a lot of tales about devils taking the souls of those mortals they forge pacts with.”

“Then I am certainly glad to not be a devil.”

Sighing heavily, Arthur spoke up.

“I have to be her servant.”

The whole room went silent. Arthur’s parents and sister stared at him in shock. Melion grimly sighed as he shook his head. The Witch, however, maintained a neutral expression as she patiently waited for them to inquire on the matter further.

“She told me the only payment she would accept to save a life was another life in return,” Arthur explained further, tears beginning to well up in his eyes. “So to get her to heal Morgan, I had to promise to work for her forever.”

Summer buried her face in her hands as she shed more tears. Harold looked away to hide his expression as he cursed under his breath. It was Morgan that moved the discussion forward.

“So he’ll be your slave?” she asked the Witch in an accusatory tone, cutting her a sideways glance.

“Not one to mince words, are you?” the Witch asked before continuing, “If we are to consider technical definitions of such terminology, that isn’t quite the case without any formal documentation of ownership from this kingdom’s government. However, I will admit it is functionally similar.”

“Is that supposed to make us feel any better?” scoffed, clearly unimpressed.

“Feel about it as you will. I was simply stating a fact.”

“All in the name of ‘equal trade,’” Melion scoffed. “Ye always did have a strange idea of what makes a fair trade.”

“I don’t see what’s so strange about it. Your nephew asked me to save a life, so I asked for him to pledge his life in return. How is that an unfair exchange? Perhaps you are still unhappy with the terms of your own bargain with me?” The Witch briefly paused to survey everyone present before continuing, “Although it would seem that you did get exactly what you asked for, so why complain?”

“Don’ push yer luck,” Melion growled.

“So is this the same trade you made with that beggar?” Harold inquired bluntly.

“I beg your pardon?” the Witch asked back.

“The doctor who told us about you said that, twenty years ago, you healed a penniless leper outside the town walls of Greenwood. He also said that soon afterward he saw that same vagrant heading towards your forest, never to return. I take he became a servant of yours, as well?”

This caught Arthur’s attention. It was the first time he’d heard of the Witch’s power, but he had not thought to ask about the specifics himself when he was making his own bargain in the Witch’s cottage.

Placing a finger on her chin, the Witch recalled out loud, “Twenty years ago… healing leprosy… oh, you must mean Lawrence! Why yes, he did agree to become my servant as payment for my services. He said that he had no family of his own, so he was less conflicted about my terms, but tragically, as an older gentleman, my end of the bargain could only prolong his life by only half a decade before old age claimed him.”

“Oh,” Harold said. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It is quite alright. Having lived longer than most mortals can count, I’ve since accepted that those I encounter will die, no matter how fond I grow of them. It is a fact of nature that not even I can change.”

There was a brief silence after that, but it was only a matter of time before it was broken by Harold.

“Sorry to hear that Miss, but we should get back to the subject at hand. Namely, what will Arthur’s service to you entail, exactly? Anything we should be worried about?”

“Ah, but of course!” the Witch said, perking back up. “As I told your son earlier, I shouldn’t need him to do any tasks all that different from what he is familiar with. Most of what I will need his assistance for will be things such as helping with cooking, gardening, cleaning and tending to the animals in the stables.”

“Will he have to do anything directly related to your… um, line of work?” Summer asked uncomfortably.

“Not quite as often as you would fear,” the Witch reassured her. “Of course, I will need him to go out do errands for me when I am otherwise occupied, as well as accompany me to provide an extra pair of hands when my business brings me out of the forest. Occasionally I may call on his assistance to help me brew potions for clients, but nothing that should endanger him any more than the farm work that he is familiar with.”

“Well… that’s a relief, I suppose,” Summer said cautiously.

It was Morgan who asked the most pressing question of the meeting.

“Will we ever see my brother again?”

Arthur’s parents tensed up and began to take deep breaths. Clearly they were not looking forward to having to hear the answer to this particular question.

The Witch smiled warmly at Morgan and told her, “My child, of course you will. I am not averse to giving your brother a day off on occasion, and even if we pass through this area as part of my business I am not so cruel that I would deny him the opportunity to drop by this farm for a visit. But before you get your hopes up, I should fully disclose that such occasions will not come very often.”

“Oh, I see,” Morgan sighed, seemingly both relieved and disappointed in equal measure. “Then, could we at least write to him once in a while, to check that he’s okay?”

“Hmm,” the Witch pondered, placing a finger on her chin in contemplation. “I’m afraid that I don’t know of any mail service that would deliver to my house that you would have access to, but I’m sure I can arrange a way for you all to keep in touch with Arthur, if you would like.”

“Thanks, Miss. That means a lot to me.”

“And besides, there should have plenty of time to work out such an arrangement, since I won’t need Arthur’s assistance until the coming winter.”

Arthur’s family perked up in relief upon hearing that news.

“Arthur, is that true?” Morgan asked her brother, visibly eager to have her hopes confirmed.

Arthur nodded. “That’s what she told me before we made the deal.”

“Were you really under the impression that I would just give these explanations and then immediately take you brother away without ample time to say his goodbyes?” the Witch asked curiously. “Perish the thought! I will admit to being harsh, but I do make an attempt to not be unnecessarily cruel.”

“With varyin’ degrees of success,” Melion muttered as he finished his tea.

“That’s enough, Mel,” Harold sternly told his brother.

“No need to tell him off now,” the Witch said with a smile. “That should be the end of all I need to tell you about the terms of Arthur and I’s agreement, so I will soon be on my way if there are no further questions.”

As the Witch said that, Summer stood up and asked her, “Before you leave, Miss, perhaps we could share a word in private?”

The whole family stared at Summer in surprise. Throughout this whole affair Summer had been the most adamant about the family having nothing to do with witches, and here she was requesting a word alone with one. The Witch herself, for her part, appeared intrigued by the request.

“If you insist,” the Witch said as she rose from her seat and followed Summer into Morgan’s now vacant bedroom. Summer stepped aside to allow the Witch to enter first, before closing the door behind her.

O – O – O

“All right, Mrs. Butcher,” the Witch began, “What is it you wished to discuss that you would rather your family not be privy to?”

Summer grimly sighed in preparation for what she was about to say.

“Look, Miss. Despite my earlier misgivings, I appreciate you healing my daughter, and while I don’t quite approve of Arthur leaving to become your servant, I admit it’s something that I will have to live with.”

“That is wise of you. There is not much point in protesting that which cannot be changed.”

“However, there is one thing you must know in no uncertain terms. While I will have to live with the fact that my son will be leaving the nest earlier than I hoped he would, I want to make one thing clear to you.”

“Oh?” the Witch asked curiously. “And what would that be?”

Summer’s eyes then focused into a fiery glare as she answered, “Now that Arthur become involved in your world, I worry he will have to face all of the dangers that such a thing entails, so I’m going to tell you one thing: you will keep my son safe. I don’t care what kind of witch you are, or how much power you wield. If anything happens to my boy under your care, I will make sure you regret it.”

After a few seconds of wide-eyed surprise at Summer, the Witch’s face broke into an impressed smile as she chuckled, “You impress me, Summer Butcher. Ever since I arrived, you have shown little but fear of me and my kind, and here you are threatening me? I see where the boy gets his drive from. But as amusing as it may be to see you try to make good on your promise, you needn’t worry.”

Placing a hand on Summer’s shoulder, the Witch assured Summer, “I have no intention of allowing your son to come to harm under my care, and you have my word that I shall do everything in my power to ensure his safety. After all, the boy pledged his life to me, and I would rather he not renege on that part of our deal.”

“That isn’t exactly the reason I was hoping to hear,” Summer sighed, “But you’re still promising to protect my boy, so I suppose I can’t be picky.”

“I understand your concern, Summer Butcher. It is only natural for a mother to care for the well-being of her offspring. And I, of all beings, know that feeling all too well…”

Summer raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“You have children of your own?” she asked.

“Yes, of a sort,” the Witch replied with a shrug as she headed back towards the door. “But does my family life concern you?”

“Well, not particularly…”

“Then why ask?”

And as Summer took a moment to drink in the most polite way of telling someone “none of your gods-damned business” that she had ever heard, the Witch had already turned opened the door and was walking back to the hearth, and Summer soon followed.

O – O – O

It had barely even been a minute since Summer and the Witch had gone inside Morgan’s room to have their private conversation when the two emerged from the hallway.

“Well, Summer?” Harold asked his wife. “Did you say what you needed to?”

“Yes,” Summer sighed. “I think we’ve come to an understanding at the very least.”

“And again, I shall do all in my power to keep to that understanding,” the Witch assured her. “But if none of you have any more business with me, I shall take my leave.”

“An’ not a moment too soon,” Melion muttered as he opened the door for her to leave. “After ye, hag.”

“As you wish,” the Witch chuckled as she headed out the door.

Arthur and the rest of the family followed the Witch as she walked off of the Butchers’ front step and onto the grassy field where the modestly sized brick farmhouse lay, and behind it the tall wooden barn and vast field of failed crop that dominated the view to the east. To the west, the green inclined down into the valley below where the rest of the village lay with its markets and smithies just now wakening to the morning sun. A dirt path extended from the farmhouse’s front step down into the village below, and further still into the distance where it split into many other roads leading to the various towns and villages beyond the valley, but the most direct of which continued straight ahead into the vast Dark Forest where the Witch made her home.

“Just don’ expect me tae let ye hitch a ride in me shadow,” Melion scoffed as the Witch looked upon the valley bathed in the morning rays.

“I have no need,” the Witch replied curtly, dismissing him with a wave of her hand, Arthur briefly noticing a swirl of grass green mist. “I know my way back, so I shall take the scenic route.”

But before she left, the Witch turned back to Arthur and gently told him, “Remember child; your service to me begins on the eve of the Winter Solstice. Cherish these remaining months you have left with your family. Not even your gods may know when you will have another chance afterward.”

“I know,” Arthur sighed. “I guess I’ll see you then, Miss.”

“Indeed. But before I go, I just should inform you that you should check your fields out back for a parting gift I just left out there.”

“And what will this cost us?”

“Nothing at all. I just felt like doing something nice before I went, free of charge. I hope you will enjoy it.”

Just as the Witch finished saying that, her long, black hair began to swirl about her without so much as a breeze in the air, until it enveloped her entire form, becoming a single pillar of pure darkness in the morning sun.

“Until we meet again, my servant.” 

Then, the swirling darkness that had replaced the Witch’s form rose into the air and shrunk as it began to take a defined shape, until the Witch was but a jet black raven flying high into the sky towards the Dark Forest.

There the Butcher family stood, still in awe of their impromptu guest’s spectacular exit, looking at the ebon bird now flying for the distant forest, until it was but a speck on the morning horizon. No one had any words until Morgan broke the silence.

“Wow,” she said, looking to Melion. “Your ex sure knows how to make an exit, huh, Uncle?”

“WOT?!” Melion roared, completely flustered. “W-wot makes ye think I have THAT kind of history wit’ her?!”

“Well, it’s kind of obvious, isn’t it?”

“Well, ye’re wrong! Any problem I had wit’ her even before today is strictly business!”

“If you say so, Uncle,” Morgan shrugged, looking not at all convinced.

“Never mind that,” Harold told his daughter, before looking to his son. “Arthur, what do you think she meant by a ‘parting gift?’”

“No idea,” Arthur shrugged. “But we know where to look to find out.”

Everyone nodded and they all cautiously circled around the farmhouse and past the barn, all the way to the wheat fields at the back of the property. None of them knew what to expect, but none of them came close to imagining exactly what the Witch had left for them.

Where there once laid failed crop dead from the summer drought now stood half a field of fully grown, perfectly healthy stalks of wheat, yellow as the midday sun and ripe for harvesting.

“I can’t believe it” Harold gasped, mouth totally agape at the sight. “All that wheat was dead as winter yesterday! How did she do it?”

“How did she literally pull a deadly plague out my lungs?” Morgan snidely retorted.

“Fair point,” Harold conceded. “Maybe a better question is why? Didn’t she say that she doesn’t work her magic for free?”

“She doesn’t when someone asks her fer help,” Melion clarified. “But ah’ve seen her pull out all the stops wit’ her magic just ‘cause she felt like it, an’ this looks no different. But who knows fer sure? Ah spent two years livin’ wit’ that woman before ah met ye, an’ I’m no closer tae understandin’ her now than I was back then.”

Never one to pass up an opportunity to tease her loved ones, Morgan snidely remarked, “You lived with her for two years just for ‘business,’ eh?”

“Would ye please drop it?” Melion groaned. “Surely there should be somethin’ else ye want tae talk ‘bout now that ye’re all better…”

“If you insist,” Morgan conceded. “So how does the wolf thing work, anyway? Do you ever get fleas or anything?”

“Ah was hopin’ ye’d forgotten that bit…”

“Not a chance.”

“That’s enough, young lady,” Summer warned her daughter. “Maybe you’ll want to get some rest now? You did only stop dying less than an hour ago.”

“Forget it, Ma. I’ve been stuck in bed in weeks, and it looks like you all could use all the help you can get with this.”

“Indeed we do,” Harold laughed. “This gift won’t exactly help with our money troubles until we’ve got it harvested, so we better hop to it! You two head inside to put on your work clothes; Arthur and I can head into the shed to see if we’ve got any tools left that won’t snap in half from rust after one swing.”

“And don’ count me out,” Melion interjected. “Ah might be more used tae usin’ a different kind of blade, but ye can count on me to help any way ah can.”

“Melion, you know I can’t ask you to-“

“Ask me or not, I’m helpin’ ye here! Say ah’m a guest in yer house all ye want Harry, but ye’re my family, an’ I intend to do my part. ‘Sides, wot kind of wolf doesn’t look after th’ pack?”

“Well, I guess I can’t argue with that,” Harold chuckled. “Come on then, let’s get started.”

The whole family headed back towards the house, parting ways as they reached the back of the house; Morgan and Summer going through the back door to get changed, and the men in the family veering left towards the nearby tool shed. But as the three of them walked into the tool shed, expecting to have to sort through them all to find the least rusted among the heap, they were shocked again to see that it was not just the family’s grain that the Witch had restored: all of the aged tools that remained in the shed were too restored to perfect condition; formerly rotting wooden handles looking as pristine as they had never suffered so much as a woodlouse nibbling on them, and the steel of sickle and plow blades gleaming as though they had just been forged.

“I can’t believe it,” Harold said, still amazed even after all that had transpired that morning. “She did all of this… as a parting gift?”

“The old hag did love leavin’ an impression on people,” Melion said with a shrug. “Though ah’m still curious tae know how she knew this was exactly what ye all needed.”

“I may have mentioned our family’s financial situation back when I asked for her help,” Arthur admitted. “I just didn’t expect she would take it to heart the way she did.”

“Well, I guess that’s two things she’s done today that we can thank you for,” Harold said, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder. Turning his head towards Melion, he asked his brother, “Mel, you know your way around horses from your travels, right?”

“Aye, ah’ve ridden me fair share. Wot do ye need done?”

“Then you can go down to the barn and get a horse and cart ready for us.”

“Ye’ve got it,” Melion told his brother as he turned back and exited the shed.

Taking a bit of time before he spoke, seemingly until he was sure Melion couldn’t hear him, and his hand still on Arthur’s shoulder, Harold turned back to his son and told him, “Arthur, I might wish that you’d have used a bit more caution in trying to help this family, and I’m certainly still not happy about the price you paid to do it, but… if you hadn’t have done it, then your sister wouldn’t have been with us much longer.”

“Yeah well, she would have done the same for any of us. Any one of us would.”

“I don’t even know about that. At the end of the day, you were the only one who was really willing to do something to help your sister, and… I guess I sort of feel that I should have been the one to do it.”

“Pa, don’t say that…”

“Don’t give me that, lad. I’m the parent here, and I’m the one that should have been looking out for you kids! And now I know I’m going to lose you because you went and did what I should have!”

Harold briefly removed his glasses to wipe away his tears, and took a few deep breaths to calm himself down before he spoke again.

“I guess what I’m trying to say Arthur,” he continued as he put his glasses back on, “is thanks for helping this family when I couldn’t.”

Before Arthur could say anything, his father drew him in for a tight hug and sobbed, “I’m going to miss you, my boy!”

“Thanks, Pa,” Arthur said sadly. “I’ll miss all of you, too. But we don’t need to say goodbye just yet. We’ve still got a few months before the Solstice.”

“Indeed we do,” Harold said as he broke his embrace with his son, a smile returning to his face. “So, are you ready to help out your old man with the harvest one last time?”

Arthur felt a twinge of regret as it sunk in farther than ever what he had given up for his family’s sake. But he buried that feeling, knowing he had been asked to do the one opportunity he would never give up.

“Nothing would make me happier, Pa.”

O – O – O

Nearly two hours since they had begun, Arthur cut yet more stalks of grain loose from the ground with one sweep of a scythe. Pausing a moment to catch his breath, Arthur put down the tool to pick up the piles of wheat he had harvested this past minute and put it in a woven basket at his feet, which he then picked up and carried out of the field, passing by his father, who was hard at work cutting at a patch of his own.

Halfway between the wheat fields and the farmhouse, Arthur found Morgan and their mother were bent down next to a large pile of harvested wheat tying them up into bundles, with quite a few bundles already tied up between them.

“Hey bro,” Morgan said as she tied up another bundle, looking up to see his basket full of harvested wheat. “Just dump it on the pile there; we’ll get to it soon enough.”

“All right,” Arthur said as he did so. “Looks like you two have been working really fast with this job.”

“Yeah, well I like to make up for lost time,” Morgan said casually as she grasped another bunch of wheat from the pile in one hand, and wound some twine in the other to start tying it up.

“You’re being careful not to overexert yourself, right?”

“Oh come off it, Arthur, I feel perfectly fine!”

“Sorry, but you can’t blame me for worrying. You were dying a few hours ago.”

“And now I’m not. You’ve done more than enough for me today.”

Before Arthur could so much as open his mouth in protest, their mother told him, “It’s alright Arthur, you don’t need to worry,” as she tied another bundle herself. “I’ll be right here keeping an eye on your sister in case she exhausts herself.”

It was then that Melion drove up in a horse and cart from the direction of the barn for another trip back, the bed of the cart bare of wheat except for a few loose straws from the last few trips.

“Alright, ladies,” Melion announced as he brought the horse and cart next to the three. “Just pile ‘em on there!”

“Why even bother with the horses?” Morgan joked as she threw another bundle of wheat onto Melion’s cart. “Why not just wolf out and pull it yourself?”

“That’s cute,” Melion scoffed with a roll of his eyes. “Just keep pilin’ ‘em on there.”

“Oh, you’re no fun,” Morgan pouted as she kept throwing more tied wheat onto the cart.

Turning his head towards Arthur, Melion grumbled, “Ye know this be all yer fault, Arty.

“So it would seem,” Arthur chuckled as he picked his basket back up and headed back into the field to return to harvesting.

But even as he returned to cutting the magically regrown wheat from the soil like clockwork as he had done every year past for as long as he could remember, Arthur could not help but bitterly reflect on the scant three months he had to spend with his family before the Winter Solstice. Before today, he had thought he would be working this farm for his whole life.

And now, he thought that even that would not be enough.

[noonachronicles]

Angels and Demons Final

Choi Seunghyun/ TOP X Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Genre: Mafia AU

Warning: Language, Violence, Drugs

Authors Note: I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know. I hope you like it.

Moodboard by @memoiresofaneternaldreamer

When he was thirteen Kwon Jiyong watched Scarface for the first time. He wanted to be Tony Montana more than anything else in the world. That night he stole brandy from his father’s bar and one of the cigars from his office. He didn’t smoke it, he just sat in the oversized leather chair his father had and let it hang from his mouth. He kept a poster of Al Pacino sitting behind his desk full of cocaine over his bed until college for motivation.

That was his dream, and he just knew he could do it. He could run drugs through the family business and be good at it. It was his calling, he just needed someone to believe in him. Of course, his father never believed in him. His father was loyal under Seunghyun’s father’s leadership and consequently Seunghyun’s. He hated the way his father talked about Seunghyun. He was always so proud of him, of how well he took care of his family. How his serious he took the business. To Jiyong it felt like Seunghyun was his son and he was no one to him.

“Jiyong, can’t you be more mature? Look at Seunghyun.” his father would say, “Always dressing nicely, always professional. All you do is go out and drink with your friends. You’ll watch Seunghyun rule the world one day while you waste your life.”

It was when Seungri and Jiyong had been to prison together that Jiyong found his support. It wasn’t that Seungri truly believed in Jiyong’s idea but he was tired of fighting and stealing. When he was younger and his father explained the business he thought it would be cooler, but being in the clan felt more like having  an office job than he’d expected. Tracking shipments and payments and being the muscle when one of the two didn’t add up. What Jiyong offered him sounded just like the kind of exhilaration he’d wanted out of life, but Jiyong didn’t need to know that’s all it was.

With Seungri by his side, Jiyong felt ready to take over. A week after he was released from prison he sat at Sunday dinner with his family and watched his father drink from his personal brandy bottle. A wide grin spread over his face and five minutes later his father was dead on the ground. The room was screaming and in chaos as he finished his meal as head of his family.

Now with Seunghyun gone, he was on top of the world. He felt, more or less, that he was now the head of the clan. There would, of course, be a vote by the heads but he felt confident. He’d shown what he was capable over and over. He could not be denied now. Not with Youngbae under his thumb. Now the rest would fall in line as well.

He rubbed his hands excitedly as he waited in the dimly lit warehouse. He was with his twelve best men, they watched as crates were moved around on forklifts. Two men with guns holstered at their sides came out from behind a stack of crates and brought Jiyong to a  small office towards the back of the warehouse.

“Sorry for the wait. It’s been a long day.” said the man behind the desk, “Would you like to see the merchandise?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

The man behind the desk nodded to one of his men who left the room for the briefest moment before coming back in with a bag of rice flour. He laid the bag on the desk and pulled a sharp bladed knife from his back pocket. Jiyong watched as he dug the blade into the plastic bag, rice flour slipping all over the desk. He reached his hand inside and pulled out a smaller package. Silently, he cut that package open as well, this one more delicately than the last. He covered the tip of his knife in the white substance inside and offered it to Jiyong.

Jiyong dipped his finger into the powder and ran it across his gums. After a moment he nodded happily and waved over one of his men, who placed a black briefcase on the desk and opened it to stacks of cash.

“Quality shit you have here and at a bargain price. I’m excited to be in business with you.”

“We’ll get the shipment to the location you provided within the hour. It’s been a pleasure.” The man behind the desk said as they shook hands.

“I’m taking this.” Jiyong said grabbing the small package off the desk before making his way with his men out of the small office.

He walked out of the office and through the warehouse with such a pep in his step that he didn’t even notice that the men that had been manning the forklifts were gone. That everyone in the warehouse was gone. It wasn’t until he stepped outside into the dark early morning and was blinded by police floodlights that he realized what was happening.

They’d kept him in the back of an unmoved police car for what felt like hours. He overheard one of the officers say that an anonymous tip had been called in. The sun was rising, starting to turn the sky from indigo to navy, by the time the car started rolling away. Jiyong watched, only slightly disappointed that he’d failed, at the scenery that passed by. He’d be fine in prison, he had been just fine before. He would come back and try again. He was young and had plenty of time. His gaze shot forward as the car jerked.

“What the hell?” The driving officer said as he seemed to be losing control of the car. The car came to a screeching halt as the driver hit the breaks.

A second set of tires was screeching as well and Jiyong turned in his seat to watch as a black van stopped just behind them. Three masked men jumped out of the back.

“Well that’s interesting.” He said quietly, The policemen in the front seat were too focused on the car to notice what was happening behind them. In no time at all two of the masked men opened fire on the police officers while the third popped open the backseat and dragged Jiyong out into the street.

“If you’d only asked nicely, I would have gotten out on my own.” Jiyong said annoyed as he was pulled to his feet and shoved over to the van. “Is this a rescue or a kidnapping?”

“Shut him up please.” The driver hissed as the van took off in a flurry.

One of the shooters looked over at Jiyong, a twinkle of a smile in his eyes, “Gladly.”

The last thing he saw before black was the butt of a gun headed towards his face.

When Jiyong came to he found himself tied to a wooden chair. Hands behind his back, ankles tied to the legs. He was shivering, shirtless, sitting in the center of a meat cooler. As his eyes adjusted he noticed the corpses of swine that had surrounded him. Just in front of him was the large limp body of a pig swimming in what he assumed was its own blood. He scoffed nervously at the large hunting knife that was standing up right, the blade digging deep into the pig’s belly flesh.

“Hey!” he shouted, “Either let me out or come in here and kill me already!”

A few seconds passed before the shutter of the door could be heard. A man stepped into the cooler with him. Jiyong laughed. The man’s mouth was covered with a face mask. His hair drooping down into this eyes. Just a gray tank top and a black rubber apron covered his torso. He also wore black jeans and rubber boots with matching rubber gloves that covered his entire forearms.

“Who are you supposed to be? Do they call you the butcher? I don’t know what you expect to get out of me.”

The man bent down and pulled the knife from the blood soaked swine, and then stepped over it towards Jiyong.

“Everything.” the man said and Jiyong’s eyes shot up in surprise, “I expect to get everything out of you. Your heart, your lungs, your stomach…”

“Who...who are you?” Jiyong asked, a hint of fear finally reaching his voice.

“You can call me death.” The man said pulling the mouth mask from his face.

Jiyong’s heart nearly stopped in his chest. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

-

The museum was always quiet on Tuesday nights. They were her favorite night to go. At first she felt vain doing it. Going to the museum and sitting in the dark room that they had kept her sculpture. Watching the way the lights flickered and reflected against the walls. It made her think of her first time with Seunghyun. The way the lights danced across his face, half red and half white. Her angel and her demon wrapped up in one beautiful man.

Her love for him had been planted deep and grew fast. She felt like she had barely gotten a taste of life with him before she was forced to go back to life without him. Life without Seunghyun was nowhere near life with him. It was scarier and lonelier and she hated it. There was relief in that almost a month had passed and while she still cried often she finally could find the joy in her memories of him as well. The laughter that he had saved just for her. Mornings hidden under the sheets. The way he made her smile so hard her cheeks ached.  

She was used to the exhibit being empty. Not many people even knew it was there. People rarely dared to enter rooms with closed doors. Sometimes when she came in she would find teenagers in a liplock or an elderly person that had been dropped off while their family walked the rest of the museum. However, usually it was just her. She went to her usual bench and put her bag down. She jolted upright when she heard the clearing of a throat and turned around to see just the silhouette of someone on the other side of the sculpture. She grabbed her chest and as she chuckled at herself.

“Just as jumpy as ever I see.” his voice resounded through the room. Tears instantly brimmed her eyes. “...I missed you, angel.”

“Seunghyun?” Her lips trembled. Her hands trembled. Her whole body was a leaf in a windstorm, hanging on by a stem.

“You have someone else calling you angel now?” He asked stepping around the sculpture with a smirk.

Her breath shortened as her lungs grew tight in her chest. It was him, standing there looking just like before. He was wearing his dress pants with his blazer and a white button down shirt. She could see the tan skin of his chest from where the shirt was open. It was him.  He was there and she could no longer breath. Her head and her heart unable to make sense of the sight in front of her.

“Hey...hey…” with just a few of his long strides she was in his arms. She let out the gasp of someone who had been drowning. Seunghyun was the surface.

“It-it’s you.” She gasped between sobs. “You came back.”

“I promised I would.” He whispered against her hair.

“You were dead.” she clung to him, afraid that he might disappear again. “You were dead, and it hurt so much.”

He held her in his arms as she cried. She wasn’t sure if she would ever stop. She didn’t understand how this could be real but she didn’t need to at this moment. In this moment he was back and his arms held her tighter than before to make up for lost time. They stood there until his shirt was practically soaked through. His grip never loosened and he let his tears fall freely as well. Only for her, only in their private moment would he cry.

She refused to remove her arms from him as they left the museum and practically sat in his lap on the drive home. She kissed his neck and his chest, and sighed deeply when he pulled her mouth to his. Tears threatened her eyes again just from the feel of his hands on her body. She peeked beneath his shirt to view his unharmed torso. His hand massaged her back and she fell asleep on his shoulder. 

When they arrived home he carried her upstairs and laid her in bed. With a permanent smile across his lips he took off her shoes and her jeans. He pulled a blanket up over her shoulders and laid down beside her. He watched her sleep, running his fingers over her cheek and through her hair, leaving kisses here and there. There was plenty of business to take care of. There were people to see and explanations to be made but he would take care of it all later. He had taken care of the most pressing issues and everything else could wait. Seunghyun wrapped his arms around his girl and fell asleep almost immediately. He was home and that’s all that mattered to either of them.