#i made a post very similar to this like a month ago but the point still stands

[yuri-is-online]

Jade desperately googling and reading threads about mer x human pregnancies before he even dates yuu.

It differs from species to species, usually fem mer x male human results in viable pregnancies, there are a two articles about eels and humans, but none about morays.

His hope is dwindling, and the general consensus about deep sea folk relationships with humans isn't very good.

I HC that male mer x female human pregnancies don't last very long. After the sperm makes contact with an egg, it'll need a few months of growth before it's expelled from the body and put into the sea. Those kinds of couples usually have one child at a time, it depends on the number of available eggs.

Modern day people in twst have aquariums that are made to hold the clutches in a safe environment away from predators. The aquariums can be used both underwater and on land. After 'hatching' the babies are translucent, they are kept in the aquariums until they gain colour. Once they have enough colour they are let out.

The smallest aquariums need to hold at least one human adult, so that a parent can interact and communicate with their clutch during the growing process.

I think I read a post/fic with a similar headcannon to this? Long long ago, perhaps even before I even downloaded Twisted Wonderland. I don't fully remember... but it is something I have been thinking about a decent bit ever since you sent this ask because it raises so many questions.

I think it makes the most sense in human x mer relationships for one or the other to take a transformation potion and move onto the land/into the sea. In these cases pregnancy/egg laying would go as it would "normally" but what you're suggesting made me think about what would happen if a couple got it on raw in their normal forms and not transformed. Would that result in a viable pregnancy? If it did would it produce the sorts of offspring you are suggesting or would it result in some sort of hybrid child, barely held together by their own magic?

The aquariums are a good idea, the story seems to suggest that Jade and Floyd had other siblings once but they didn't make it. Their mother's obsession with checking up on them and teaching self defense makes a lot of sense if you think of that... she lost most of her babies, she wants the two she has to remain safe (i bet she's going feral rn, let Mama Leech into the enclosure S.T.Y.X. she'll put Malleus in his place ٩(๑`^´๑)۶) My question is whether or not that would interfere with the development of the eggs, especially on land. The deep ocean is very cold, recreating that on land could be problematic. With how few merfolk seem to bother with land (Azul mentions not many people bother with the free program in Book 6) there likely wouldn't be much of anyone thinking up a solution to this problem so few people have.

But Jade has that problem. Or will, he's sure of it but that's a minor detail- point is this is a problem he's actively thinking about. It keeps him awake at night, Jade strikes me as someone who would do a lot of research about this. It's part of how he loves, pouring through a pile of scientific articles that was slim to begin with but feel irrelevant now. None of these help him understand his chances because he is from the deep sea, Jade might be hardened towards the death of his siblings but he thinks of his own children and a rage unlike any he's ever known begins to stir in the pit of his stomach. Later, much later when he is explaining this all to you he will brush it off as him considering your human sensibilities, but the truth is written plain on his face. This little aquarium he has made was a solution painstakingly crafted with help from his own obsessions. It's the most important terrarium he has ever made because it will contain the most precious of all life forms, ones he watches grow in awe as he coos softly. These children were wanted long before they were ever born, their parents loved them to the point of invention and every second up until they hatch and forever after.

[mymp3]

P3R happening has me hyped but it also makes me a little crazy like. You do not know him you WILL NEVER KNOW HIM. STAY AWAY FROM HIM STAY AWAY FROM MINATO.

[amomentsescape]

Hey a while ago I requested a oneshot of the reader giving jason voorhees a shirt that said "thot destroyer 9000" but what if you did that with other slashers? Like giving bubba a shirt that says "everything is bigger in Texas" and freddy in a basic "dream guy/boat etc" shirt or one of the nightmare before Christmas shirts that say "what a wonderful nightmare"? And maybe other slashers if ya can think of shirts that'll fit em? (Shirt quotes not mine and merry post Christmas)

Slashers React to Custom Made T-Shirts

Slashers x Reader (Separate)

A/N: I think this would be absolutely hilarious to see! Thank you so much, and Merry (Very Late) Christmas and Happy New Year!

Freddy Krueger

He lets out his notorious laugh the moment he sees it

"I am pretty dreamy, aren't I?"

Puts it on over his sweater

Will pretty much always have it on, especially when he sees you

He ends up wearing it during his future killings, even asking them if they like the shirt or not

If any of them answer no, he makes their deaths a lot more painful

Will also want you to get a similar shirt so you both can match

He'll probably end up asking for a sweater version a few months later

Michael Myers

He just kind of gives you that disappointed parent look

"Barely even looks like me"

Will refuse to wear it unless you beg him repeatedly over the course of a few days

Finally gives in and puts it on underneath his overalls

He is honestly kind of embarrassed to wear it, but you no longer bothering him about it makes up for the embarrassment

After wearing it a few times, it gets to the point that he doesn't even think about it anymore

It's pretty much all he wears now

But only because he's grown used to it, not because he likes it

Or so he tells you

Jason Voorhees

(I couldn't quite find a shirt that fit the description, so I went with the closest I could find)

He tilts his head at you in confusion

Poor boy doesn't even know what a "thot" is

When you explain it to him, you can tell he finds it kind of funny

Will put it on jokingly for you, only to realize it's pretty comfortable

Will wear it under his jacket

Even if he doesn't have it on, he'll carry it around with him

He insists it helps his killing ability and is a good luck charm

But he pretty much just cherishes ANYTHING you give him

Thomas Hewitt

He lets out a few chuckles at this

Will pull you into a big hug as his way of thanking you

He'll only wear the shirt on special occasions

He's worried it'll get ruined if he wears it when he's working outside or tending to "dinner"

But he does love the shirt

Will probably show it off to the family and receive some laughs and head nods

Will make you wear it sometimes as a joke since you're practically drowning in the shirt

Bubba Sawyer

He loves receiving anything from you

So he happily takes the shirt and gives you some gleeful giggles and kisses as his thank you

But he honestly has no idea what it means

You have to make the connection of what his family eats and the shirt in order to get a true response out him

He'll laugh like crazy

He immediately puts it on

You'll have to quite literally fight him in order to wash it or take it off

If anyone accidentally stains it or causes a tear, he'll go into a frenzy

Brahms Heelshire

He immediately gets it and smiles

You've made a mistake though

Because he ends up putting it on his list of actual rules

Will make some dirty jokes about it

He quickly puts the shirt on and stands there, giving you a "well, go on" sort of look

Anytime he wears the shirt now, he expects you to follow what it says...

Good luck, because you've made Brahms just that much harder to handle

Norman Bates

Will give you a gentle smile and thank you for the shirt

He definitely thinks it's funny and will happily wear it around the house

It mostly becomes a pajama shirt, not that you mind

He doesn't fully understand the joke, but he likes that you think he's cute

Will hang it up in a special place in the closet so he'll always see it

He likes when you wear it too

"I-I think it may suit you better, dear"

"That's so sweet, Norman... wait a minute"

Billy Loomis

He rolls his eyes at it but with the widest smile on his face

It doesn't take much for him to give in and try it on

He secretly thinks the shirt is hilarious, but he doesn't want to inflate your ego and end up with 30 similar tees

Doesn't wear it in public though since he's worried people may become a little suspicious

He likes it better on you though

So you both sort of trade off the shirt every week or so

Stu Macher

Practically the opposite of Billy's reaction

Stu will hold it up and immediately exclaim on how much he loves it

Thinks it's hilarious and will immediately throw it on

Does a couple funny twirls to show off how it looks

Honestly doesn't care what people think

He'll happily skip around in public with the shirt on, you right by his side

If anyone points it out he just shrugs and says "it's pretty sick, right?"

Eric Draven

He breaks out into a big smile and even laughs a little bit

"I see what you did there"

Flashes the shirt to his crow

"They look just like you"

He gives you a sweet kiss as a thank you

Will wear it on dates and stay-at-home days with you

He doesn't want it to get all beat up while he's out taking down criminals

But even after months of owning it, he still smiles whenever he puts it on

[ineffable-suffering]

Why Aziraphale is an unreliable narrator

Part 1: The Story of Job

I'm absolutely not the first one to talk about this on here and I probably shan't be the last either. Alas, here's my take on why all of the minisodes in Season 2 should be enjoyed with great care – and taken with a grain of angelic salt.

I'm gonna split this into 3 parts, aka the three minisodes we are shown, since I tend to get a bit waffley in my posts and want to still be able to include all the little details. Once I've written them, I'll link Part 2 & Part 3 here as well!

Alright, let's get into it under the cut of doom.

Episode 2 opens with the Story of Job. Right off the bat, I noticed that it sort of looks like an old film playing. At first I didn't read that much into it, but once we see the cut-away to Aziraphale at the bookshop, currently reading that part of the Bible (presumably), I immediately thought: "Oh! It's because it's his memory. He's remembering how it went down and therefore it plays like a figurative film in his head."

This, I then came to realize, is a very crucial difference to all the flashbacks of S1, which were exclusively told and narrated by God. May her intensions be as ineffable as they are: She did tell us all of these stories from an objective outsider's point of view. Now, however, it's Aziraphale who's re-telling those stories to us from memory.

And if there's one thing that's for certain, it's that a memory is something entirely different to an objective narration of a story. Just think about how you yourself remember things. Especially things that happened years, maybe even decades (or, in an angel's case, millenia) ago. What is it, that you really remember? Can you know for sure, that a conversation was held with those exact words? Are you 100% certain that the clothes someone wore weren't different? Had it really been snowing or would that make very little sense given what you're remembering happened in May? And did it even happen in May? Or does that just happen to be your favourite month, the current weather, your preferred style of clothing and what it was that you would imagine someone would have said to you?

What I'm trying to say is: The further away it is that something happened, the more your brain has to fill in the gaps. This is why, for example, your parents will remember the family summer holiday entirely different when you ask them about it 20 years later.

"No, it was Sarah who puked on the car ride home!" "Nonsense, Sarah never puked as a child. Bobby had that gone-off pizza, he's the one that was sick the whole ride long!"

We've all been there. Bobby made it out alive. Don't buy gas station pizza.

Alright, back to the plot: Naturally, Aziraphale is not actually human, so it is a pure assumption on my part that the way his memory works is similar to ours. However, the whole topic of "memory" is actually quite a recurring one on Good Omens.

Crowley seems to have lost his in the Fall, yet somehow managed to get most of it back. Not all of it, though, he clearly has some major gaps ("You used to jump on me back, little monkey in the waistcoat!"). Beelzebub helps Gabriel store all his memories in their little fly container before they get wiped entirely too, by the Metatron and/or Saraqael. Crowley and Aziraphale (and possibly Jimbriel) perform a miracle together that makes everyone in Heaven and Hell forget who Garbiel is or what he looks like. And we know that the Book of Life apparently has the ability to completely erase someone from existence – ergo also erasing them from everyone's memory and making it is as though the person had never been in them at all.

So, clearly, angels and demons being able to remember, forget, reconstruct and, if you're the Metadork, wipe memories, is very much canon. Apart from that very last one, it does make them quite human-like in a way. We too can forget or (wrongfully and incompletely) reconstruct memories, due to things like trauma, illness or simply a lot of time having passed.

So, just like Crowley remembers going into battle but doesn't remember Furfur being there, or just like Jimbriel has entierly forgotten who he is but still remembers the tune and lyrics to Buddy Holly's song Everyday, and just like archangel Michael was miraculously made to forget Gabriel and yet says "Don't I know you?" when seeing him again – just like that, Aziraphale's memories of the story of Job, the story of wee Morag and the story of the magic show in 1941, might not actually be the whole truth.

So, time to look at where the furniture isn't.

Now, it could very well be that the costume designers of S2 thought: "Fuck it, let's go crazy" – but given that this show has a track record of meticulously making sure to stick to accurate and cohesive character design, doesn't it strike you as odd that Crowley would go from this look at the Flood in Mesopotamia, 3004 BC:

... to the (very iconic, don't get me wrong) Bildad the Shuhuite drip in 2500 BC:

... back to this at the crucifixion of Jesus Christ in 33 AD:

I mean ... I mean– come on, that seems like a bit of a far stretch, even for someone as enthusiastically experimental with fashion as Crowley.

And it's not just that: Where did the sunglasses come from, all of a sudden? And why do they look like some sort of obscure, ancient optometrist's device? It's a known historical fact that the Romans were the ones to have invented sunglasses, somewhere around 50-ish AD. Which actually matches perfectly with when Crowley and Aziraphale meet again in Rome 8 years after the crucifixion (51 AD).

So, where do the weird spectacles come from, over 2000 years too early? Maybe from Aziraphale's brain filling in some gaps? Hasn't Crowley always worn those ridiculous sunglasses? Was it Rome? Or Golgotha? Wessex? Oh, blimey, what does it matter!

And it's not just Crowley: Aziraphale's own clothes, as well as the other angels', seem to be very different from the rather plain linen we see him wear before and after the story of Job.

They're laced with golden embroidery along the neckline and sleeves. The remind almost of the clothes angels are depicted wearing in biblical and historical drawings. Ornate and decadent. Not at all like we see Aziraphale in the other flashbacks of S1.

Even Bildad the Shuhite's hair within the minisode keeps changing, going from all pouffy and voluminous to rather deflated and straight-looking:

The costume department either had to fix up two seperate wigs or manually straighten out the volume of the one again to give it a more sleek look. I'm not a professional in this field, but if there's anything I've learned from watching hours of behind-the-scenes material of movies and shows, it's that very little about costume, character, prop and set design is purely coincidental.

You know what it could be, though? An accurate representation of how memories aren't linear, historically correct and objective representations of a certain event, but rather an ever-changing, jumbled mess of impressions, emotions and exaggerations.

More specifically: Aziraphale's impression, emotions and exaggerations.

Like "remembering" Crowley with sunglasses because he's been wearing them for so long.

Like "remembering" himself wearing more luxurious, angelic clothes because that's how he thinks of the difference between Heaven and Hell.

Like "remembering" the permit as a ridiculously long scroll that folded out over an entire valley.

Like "remembering" Job's children to be weirdly sassy in an almost Aziraphale-esque way (Enon: "Don't be silly!") for the fact that Job would have probably taught them to be more humble and obedient in the presence of a literal angel.

Like "remembering" eating an entire fucking Ox after having just one bite of it while Crowley watched him lustfully, sipping on his wine.

Like "remembering" Crowley calling him 'angel', despite them having barely known each other back then.

There's a reason why the flashbacks in S2 seem so much more alive, quirky and, at many points, confusing and all over the place. Because they're not objective stories being told by a third party. They're Aziraphale's. So much of his own thoughts and feelings at the time get projected onto them because that's simply how memory works!

It's subjective. It's unrealiable.

It's not that I'm calling Aziraphale a liar. He's no more a liar than your parents are, mixing up Sarah and Bobby. Or you, remembering snow instead of sunshine. Memories aren't lies. They can simply be faulty, focus on things that you thought were more important and leaving out or changing things that weren't, to you.

The real challenge in all of this, is trying to filter through Aziraphale's stories to see what it actually is they're telling us. Where it is that the furniture isn't. And I think in this case, that's 6 main things (eff you, God, I know you like sevens, but I don't care):

God and Satan (still) talk to each other We see that Aziraphale is quite surprised when Muriel mentions that the whole Job thing is God's bet with Satan. But clearly, despite having made him and the rest fall, God still converses with Her number one traitor about whether or not the humans simply love Her because she gives them nice things or because they truly believe in Her.

God and Satan (and Heaven and Hell) can and do collaborate with each other when they feel like it So much for choosing sides, huh? Truthfully, this is not the first time this is shown to us, but still. It's another piece of evidence on the growing pile.

Aziraphale understands the World and humans way better than any of the other angels "Well, you see ... Citis is 58 ..."

Aziraphale, despite having troubles voicing it, absolutely disagrees and even condemns God's plan of destroying Job's children (and goats and camels and––)

Aziraphale is willing to lie and thwart the will of God Also not the first time we're being shown this but again, piiiile of evidence.

Angels don't automatically Fall simply by doing the above To me, this is one of the most important take aways. It's already hinted in S1 as well that 'Falling' seems to have been a one time even back when the first war broke out in Heaven. And I actually believe that ever since then, no other angels have Fallen again. Aziraphale is the best example for this. He has gone against God's plan numerous times and even lied to her very face (voice?) about it. And yet, nothing ever happened to him. Why exactly that is the case remains a topic for another meta (that I might or might not be working on already, teehee).

Alright, that concludes this first look at the Job minisode! If there's anything I missed, feel free to share it with me. I'll try and add Part 2 (the story of wee Morag) and Part 3 (the magic show of 1941) soon.

Update: Part 2 and Part 3 have officially been written, you can find it them right here:

Part 2: The Story of wee Morag

Part 3: The Story of the Magic Show in 1941

Hugs and kisses, (God)!

[bbyboybucket]

Okay besties, today I’m giving you the run down of Buckys finances and networth. Because as I’ve said multiple times, he’s obscenely wealthy despite the fact you’d never know by looking at him.

Now first off, MatPat (my fav YouTuber who I’m so sad is retiring, literally adore him) did a mini theory a few years ago, calculating Bucky’s compound interest in previously earned money from WWII in his frozen bank account while he was presumed dead. It totaled out to $51,143. This is just the money that he earned in the 30s/40s and has grown interest on. This is assuming the money wasn’t given to his family and for the purpose of this post, we’ll go with that it wasn’t. However, MatPat didn’t account back pay, for disability pay, and other military pay/benefits.

So as a starter point, we’ll use $51,143. Next, I’m going to calculate his back pay from being MIA/POW because he would have been considered active duty. A MIA/POW is given back pay of 50% of the average per diem rate, for each day held in captivity. The 2023 rate is $157 per day, and I assume that would be similar for him because TFATWS takes place in early 2024. So that means Bucky would get $78.50 per day. There is no time limit on how far back pay can date to, so the entire span of Bucky’s capture is accounted for. As per the Smithsonian memorial in CA:TWS, Bucky was captured in 1944, making it exactly 70 years of capture. So, the back pay for those 70 years, is $2,005,675.

Next, we’ll look at the different forms of disability pay he would receive. I’m only going to look at canonical, confirmed disabilities for this. Bucky would be classified under SMC-N 1/2, where one arm was amputated above the elbow and/or was amputated so close to the shoulder that a prosthetic cannot be worn. Now obviously, Bucky does have a prosthetic but it is implanted into his body, as a majority of his left shoulder seems to have been amputated. Since he is single and has no dependents, aka has no children and is not taking care of any family, and he is still able to work, he would be receiving $6,182 a month.

He also has PTSD, which he would most likely get a 70% percent disability rating for, as 100% is very rare to receive for mental and is considered to be extreme impairment in daily functioning. (He could recieve 80 or 90% but I’m being generous here and trying to give the most realistic assessment). All this means, his mental illness pay for PTSD would be $1716 a month.

It’s also canonical that he has brain damage via The Wakanda Files book. We know in that book, he’s described to have pretty severe TBI. However, we don’t know anything of his symptoms and the book only describes of the brain scan looks bad and that the serum is keeping him from being more impaired. The VA uses 10 areas of impairment as criteria to rate the severity of TBI disability. The only canonically confirmed area that we know Bucky deals with is memory. Since we know no other symptoms and we know he’s not extremely impaired, I’m going to estimate he’d be rated at 50%. Which would give him a compensation of $1075 a month.

Now, we can assume Bucky is retired from the military. From being a retired sergeant, we can assume his monthly pension is around $5,482.

Reminder, all VA pay is untaxed. All of these together, his monthly salary is $14,455. However, this is not including disability back pay. The VA sometimes will pay a lump sum from back from when the diagnosis was made. Assuming the Wakandans were involved in Bucky’s trial and pardon, I’d assume some of his medical records were brought in as well. Back dating to when he was being treated in Wakanda, that’s 7 years, however we don’t know if the blip would count so for that reason, I’ll say 2 years. So, his lump sum would be around $215,352.

Now, endgame was in October, six months before TFATWS, meaning it took place around March/April. Within, the span of October to March, Bucky woulda have accumulated $86,730. Because even if his pardon wasn’t official yet in October, he would still receive payment for that month.

Finally, in grand total, all of this is $2,358,900. His networth would be in a similar, slightly lower range. Meaning: yes, Bucky Barnes is a millionaire and nobody would ever guess.

[python333]

déjà vu — python333

— — — —

synopsis you and ghost are more similar than the two of you realized.

relationships platonic!ghost & gn!reader.

characters ghost.

word count 2.88k

warnings 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [call sign/code name], ghost's backstory [yes that is a warning within itself], kind of badly written.

note holy shitttttt i'm so sorry i haven't posted in two months. to everyone who is disappointed this isn't a req they submitted—i am very sorry but i have like. no motivation. please take this small fic as a peace offering after being silent for two months. also yes i said alej fic but i only had motivation to write for ghost LMAO

“So…” Ghost can hear Price next to him, creating an echo as he speaks through his earpiece, “Doesn’t it get hot, always wearing that mask?” 

“Not when it’s made of the right materials,” Your voice crackles through, the wind blowing by slightly distorting your voice, “It’s also winter, captain, so no, it doesn’t get hot.” 

The corners of Ghost’s lips twitch upwards when you answer, but he otherwise doesn’t say or do anything, simply leaning against the wall parallel to Price. For you, maybe your mask doesn’t get hot, but his certainly does—though, he doesn’t voice that, simply listening. 

“Oh really?” Price hums, looking around the corner of the wall he’s leaned up against, spotting a few enemy soldiers walking by without a clue of who they’re in the presence of, “What’s yours made of, then?” 

“Polyester,” You answer. 

From what Ghost understands, you wear a mask for the same reason as him—anonymity. As much as he can respect that and understand the want to remain anonymous, he can’t help but wonder why you would want that. Is it for reasons similar to why he wears his? Have you gone through things similar to what he’s gone through? Did a fellow SAS soldier also murder your entire family and attempt to pin it on you, to which you responded by killing him, stealing his dog tags, and burning your own house down? He had many questions, but didn’t ask any. 

He doesn’t think you’d answer them, anyway. He certainly wouldn’t. He’d maybe try to divert the conversation with a bad dad joke, or simply not dignify the question with a response, anything but an actual answer. He strangely expects the same of you. 

He vaguely remembers a conversation he had with Price when you first joined maybe two months ago, specifically a comment Price had made about your file; “I had the same conversation with Laswell about their file that I did when I first got yours. She said the same thing when she saw their file, too, word for word.”

It turned out that they had the exact same exchange that they did when they saw Ghost’s file, verbatim. Laswell had pointed out that you had no picture, and Price said, “Never.” Ever since then, Ghost has felt an inexplicable connection to you, despite not having talked to you that much. 

He’ll admit, he tried to initiate a conversation with you more often than he did with the others when he first met them. Maybe one or two times a day, he’d find you and make small talk, something that made his skin crawl with discomfort but something he still forced himself to do, just to try and make sense of the invisible line that seemed to tie you both together. 

This small talk started off as anything from a question about the weather—yes, Ghost asked about the weather, unfortunately for the both of you considering how awkward and stilted that short conversation was—to asking about training and skills. He didn’t normally initiate conversations with anyone else, he was typically the one that was walked up to and barely even had to carry any conversations he was in. 

Every conversation the two of you had always ended the same way, though; with you cutting it short the moment it got anywhere near your personal life, or even just your life outside of being a part of the 141, and walking off elsewhere. Ghost could see the tiniest bit of himself in you everytime you did that, and an annoying voice in the back of his mind always asked, Was I always that much of a hardass? … Am I that much of a hardass?

“Ghost,” Price’s voice snaps Ghost out of his train of thought and he grunts, looking over at Price. The man in question nods his head towards the now clear path to the building they needed to get into, and Ghost nodded back, taking his SMG out of the sling and moving out of the small alleyway they’d camped in, following after Price. 

They quickly rush over to the building, the doors thankfully unlocked and the soldiers guarding it stupid enough to not be right beside the front doors, and lock the doors behind them once they’re in. 

“Are you guys in?” You ask, the wind no longer distorting your voice, the background of your audio now relatively silent except for your faint breathing. 

“Yeah,” Price replies, the darkness of the building making him squint as he scans the walls for some sort of light switch, “Anyone notice we got in?”

“Not that I can see, no,” You answer, your sigh audible through the comms, “They’re pretty far from the building, actually.” 

“Perfect,” Price hums, patting his hand along the wall for a moment before finding a large lever. He hesitates to pull it, and ultimately decides against it, deeming it too risky. Instead, he searches his tactical vest and goes through a few large pockets that sit around his lower midriff before finding a relatively small flashlight. 

He presses the button on the end of the handle with a small click, and the flashlight flickers for a moment before the light becomes consistent and a small buzz begins to sound. Price looks around for a second, scanning the area for any immediate threats, and motions for Ghost to follow him. 

“See anything?” You ask curiously, some rustling heard on your end. Ghost looks around for a second, footsteps echoing eerily through the building. 

“Nothing important,” He replies, voice quiet, “Just dust and old furniture.” 

“His office is just down there,” Price interjects, nodding towards the hall to their left, making Ghost look in that same direction, “I’ll head down there, you stay here, let me know if anyone’s coming.” 

The echo from Price talking to Ghost both through comms and being right beside him, as well as the echo from being in such a large room, starts to irritate Ghost. He rolls his shoulders and puts his gun back in the sling, looking back at Price.

“Turn off your comms,” His suggestion sounds more like a command, but he’s sure Price understands it’s more of a request than anything else, “You’re echoing. If anything happens, I can just talk to you without them.” 

Price pauses before nodding, and pressing the small button on his earpiece to turn off his mic, and the piece entirely. He trusts Ghost wholeheartedly, and it shows. He takes one last look around before walking towards the office he pointed out. 

The office belonged to the man who had stolen vital intel from the 141—not intelligence on the task force itself, but rather a separate team that had recently allied themselves with the task force. They couldn’t risk that data being taken, as it would not only expose the other team, but several other similar teams and task forces. 

Ghost waits until Price is actually in the hall before speaking again, “You still there, [c/n]?” 

“Yeah,” You answer almost immediately, “Need something?” 

“No,” Ghost hums, leaning against the wall behind him, “Just wanted to talk.” 

“Please don’t ask me about the weather again,” You sigh, almost exasperated, “Or about how my training is going, or about how my CO is, or—” 

“I’m not,” Ghost interrupts you, not sure whether to laugh or cry at your examples of past conversations. 

“Promise?” 

“Promise,” He says, before asking, “How long were you apart of the army, before joining here?” 

“Before the 141?” You pause, thinking for a moment, “Sounds kind of personal.” 

“You don’t have to answer,” Ghost offers, voice almost reassuring, “Just curious.” 

“Aren’t you always,” You mutter, a comment Ghost promptly ignores, before you properly answer, “Just a year. Maybe a year and a half.” 

“American army, right?”

“Mhm,” You hum, “Would you believe me if I said we sang Yankee Doodle before going on any missions?”

“Oh, sure I would,” Ghost chuckles, before countering, “Would you believe me if I said that song was made to mock Americans?” 

“I’m not sure if I should be offended that you believe that,” You say, a lighter lilt to your voice as you do compared to a few moments ago, “But yes, I believe you. I think that almost every American has reclaimed it as one of the most patriotic songs, though.” 

“Almost every American?” Ghost questions, growing more amused as the conversation goes on. It confuses him, making him wonder why he’s so easily drawn into conversations with you, no matter how small or dry. 

“I’m sure there’s some here and there that don’t like it,” You elaborate, “But I haven’t met any. Not yet.” 

“Alright,” Ghost nods even though you can’t see him, before asking another question, “What branch?” 

“The Navy,” You answer, now without questioning Ghost which brings him a strange sense of relief, “I flew planes around and stuff. Didn’t really like it, though.” 

“Oh yeah?” Ghost sounds more interested now, “Why not?” 

“The soldiers there aren’t the best people to be around,” You hum, the sounds of you moving audible, “One mention of any sort of mental issues, even if it’s just something like feeling anxious or being sleep deprived, and suddenly everyone’s on your ass pressuring you to be better or just… being weird about it. It gets draining after a while.” 

“I bet,” Ghost murmurs, “Is that why you left?” 

“Partially,” You answer honestly, “Half of it was that, the other half was that I just didn’t like flying planes. I was also eighteen and couldn’t really control my impulsive thoughts, so a majority of the time I was fighting myself trying not to crash the plane on purpose.” 

“Makes sense,” Ghost considers what you said for a moment, before his eyebrows furrowed in confusion and he asks, “Isn’t the enlistment age for the Navy nineteen?” 

“It is,” You assure him, “I was an exception, ‘cause I was a month or two away from turning nineteen.” 

“Hm,” Ghost hums, “And you’re twenty now?” 

“Twenty, almost twenty-one,” You confirm. 

“Did you wear the mask back then?” Ghost asks, praying that the question isn’t too personal to the point where you stop responding. He’s been dying to ask the question, always worrying whether or not it was too personal—it was pretty personal, to be fair, but he wasn’t used to worrying this much over another soldier, much less one he only met two months ago. Sure, you both wore a mask and remained somewhat anonymous, but that didn’t mean you two were automatically best friends who braided each other’s hair. 

“...” You don’t respond for a moment, making Ghost’s worry increase, before you reply, “No.”

Your simple answer makes Ghost more curious, and he can’t tell if he should ask why or not. He stays silent for a few seconds, weighing his options, before he ultimately says, “Alright.” 

He tries to leave it up to you whether or not you want to tell him about your own story, of if you’re comfortable with that, which you probably aren’t, considering that—again—the two of you only met a couple months ago.

“Did you wear the mask?” You ask quietly a moment later, catching Ghost off-guard, “Before this?” 

“Before the 141?” He echoes your question from earlier, nodding to himself, “Yeah. For some time before this, I had a different mask, but it was still a mask.” 

“Was the skull always there?” 

“Mhm.” 

“… For just aesthetic purposes, or?” Ghost feels the corners of his lips tug up in amusement at your question, and at how genuinely curious you sound. 

“Eh. Not really,” He answers, taking a deep breath in and out through his nose. He doesn’t say any more than that, not being able to as his mind takes him back to a time a while ago, when he was being held hostage and was in the same room as some kids who heard him spill his entire background to the men holding him hostage. 

He remembers one kid in particular, a little girl with blonde hair, who had listened to every detail that he’d said. When he was telling the story of why he has the call sign Ghost, in hopes of distracting the men so that the 141 could rescue him and the kids, she had clung to every detail and later asked him if what he had said was true, her tone of voice eerily similar to yours. 

He remembers when he was carrying her out of that room, the questions she’d bombarded him with, and how he answered every one with as neutral of an answer he could muster. He debates doing that now with any questions you ask, but decides against it almost instantly—something that shocks him, even though it was his own thought—considering that he wanted to ask you those same questions. Not about your call sign, only about the mask. 

“It’s a long story,” He says after you’ve been silent for a while, your curiosity somehow palpable even through just the comms, “But it has to do with some family members.” 

“Yeah?” You hum, “I know a thing or two about that.” 

“Do you?” Ghost asks, slightly ashamed at the small jolt of excitement he feels at the opportunity of hearing more about you. 

“Mhm,” You pause, staying quiet for a moment, before continuing, “About family members. Dead ones.” 

“Ah,” Ghost nods, the discomfort he originally felt sharing some of his own story starting to melt away, “Dead ones. I understand.” 

“Can’t tell if I should be glad or not,” You snort, “Like, I’m glad you understand, but also sorry.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Ghost grins under his mask, “I was wondering the same thing.” 

“So… dead ones,” You think out loud, before asking, “That’s why you have that call sign and mask?” 

“Yeah,” Ghost looks around for a moment, reminding himself to keep watch while talking to you, before cautiously asking, “Are yours the reason for your mask?” 

“Not really,” You answer honestly, with a little less resistance behind your answer to Ghost’s relief, “Well… I mean, kind of. But they’re not the reason-reason. I didn’t really like them, so I’m not gonna give them all the credit, but I’ll give them… maybe twenty-five percent of it.” 

“A quarter’s still a lot,” Ghost points out, “What’d they do to earn that?” 

“They died, and…” You’re doing more pausing and hesitating now, making Ghost wonder if he’s going to personal every second that you stay quiet, before you finally answer in a more guarded tone, “I almost got blamed for it. Almost.” 

Ghost gets hit with a pang of mixed emotions, like a weird sort of uncomfortable nostalgia. They almost got blamed for it. He lets out a breath that’s slightly shaky, and thinks for a moment before saying, “Almost?” 

“Almost,” You confirm, tone a little less guarded, presumably at Ghost’s more calm reaction, “Then I handled it the best I could, and the guy who killed them got what he deserved.” 

“Which was?” Ghost feels more of that uncomfortable nostalgia bubble up, giving him an uneasy feeling in his gut, as if he knows where this conversation is going. 

“Death,” You answer softly, “And the nameplate on his uniform stolen, which I replaced with mine. I would’ve taken his dog tags, but we didn’t really wear them on missions ‘cause our drill sergeant didn’t care too much.” 

Ghost can put a name to the feeling now. Déjà vu. He takes a deep breath and considers your words for a moment. 

“And the body?” His lips move before he can think. 

“Burnt.” You answer simply, “The whole house. It was mainly drywall, so it took a moment to actually completely catch on fire, but it was quick enough. It also smelled disgusting.” 

“Yeah, I bet,” Ghost swallows, vividly remembering the smell of his own house, before continuing, “He was a soldier for the Navy, too?” 

“Mhm. He was… a Private, I think,” You reply, “I wasn’t too close with him. I wasn’t with anyone.” 

“And so the reason you wear the mask is…?” 

“I didn’t really exist anymore after that,” You hum, “At least, not to them. I was dead in a burned down house, my own house, and was far gone. I like wearing the mask; it keeps me as just another soldier, not as the person who died in that house.” 

“But you didn’t,” Ghost points out, trying to ignore the eerie feeling that only grows stronger the more you talk, “You’re here.” 

“… Yeah, I am,” You say after a moment of thinking, smile evident in your voice, “Doesn’t mean I can take that back, though. ‘s not the best feeling, doing something like that.” 

“Trust me, I know,” Ghost chuckles, “If anyone here, I’d be the person to know, kid.” 

“Really?” You ask, voice more curious like it was before, “Why’s that?” 

“I’ve… weirdly been through almost everything you said,” Ghost admits, “Word for word with the house burning down, actually.” 

“… Huh,” You huff out a small laugh before saying, “I’m wondering if I should feel happy or sad again.” 

“Me too, again,” Ghost smiles, eyes flickering up at Price’s footsteps sound through the hallway, his silhouette slowly coming into view, “One last question.” 

“Shoot.” 

“How’s the weather?” 

“I’m not answering that, fuck you.”

[intotheelliwoods]

❗️Angst potential ahead❗️(so don't read if like, you don't like potential bestie angst)

Okay so I've been thinking about how one got to witness sprout as like a kid, teen, whatever you want to call it while he's still in his bad boy era(how the heck do ppl put the tm) and then him as an adult, one barely having aged one bit. This got me thinking about the potential of the time differences between the 2al world and the slau world.

What if one day the besties stop seeing eachother and one goes through his entire redemption arc without poptart having seen it. What if one decides to finally see poptart again to tell him of all the crazy things that he went through and what had happened (and totaly not to try and apologize for being such a bad friend, nooooo, why on earth would one do that?(interpret this how you want))... Only to find out poptart is no longer around. And oh, what this... tears? Now it all makes sense to one. Oneion was so deadbent on trying to let poptart know he was an amazing friend not because the apocolaspe didn't allow him to see him anymore but because the time difference didn't allow him to. He stands infront of the hamto family's ofrenda conflicted. How should he feel, should he even feel? I mean he never really officially stated that poptart was a friend or someone close. So was it right to cry for someone he tried so hard to push away all those times ago... he didn't know the answer so he just stood there.

Though he was grateful he even got to have him in his life even if it was for so little time.

Anyways I hope that made sense, I feel I could add more but that would take way too much thinking...kay bye👋

-lime

WHAT IF THEY GOT TO GROW UP HAPPY TOGETHER INSTEAD! WHAT THEN!! 🥺

And for real, we are a huge fan of the besties angst <3 Dont look at the ideas that @dianagj-art and I have that currently only live on in old discord messages

It is so weird though because, yeah 2AL DOES move faster time wise than SLAU, and hell if I can get my motivation to work on the main comic series back up I would not be surprised if I finish the main series entirely by the end of the year (which includes a time skip!!!! (happy ending promise)) We just... sorta try to ignore that... and pretend that the besties timeline is its own whole separate thing aha

BUT, at some point he besties DO break up, right before Ones redemption/recovery arc. And similar to what you mentioned here, One does have a lot of regret for how he treated Poptart and for how he never acknowledged him as a true friend. Though unlike your idea, One is able to make that apology eventually after a few months, then the besties are stronger than ever with a post-redeemed One😌👊

Will that idea ever make it to drawing form? Ha no clue, though if you want more details I would recommending asking Diana since its a very One centered moment!

[persphonesorchid]

Connotations Of Sin - JHS (m)

Summary: At your lowest, you’ve been living on the streets for the past couple of months. When you decide to leave your only safe haven and find yourself lost in a mysterious fog, an angel stretches out a hand of mercy. Little do you know, black taints his once alabaster wings.

Genre: Fallen Angel Au | Angst, fluff, smut (mdni), horror (V lowkey, I swear)

Word Count: 30k

Masterlist

Please read these warnings carefully!!

Warnings: Homelessness, Kidnapping (? is it though??), Suicidal ideation, referenced and described abuse and murder of a child. Hoseok is his own warning. Mc gets drugged and then she gets sick... A bit of religious babble, mc has nightmares (one of which is actually kinda bad...), she almost dies at one point. Hoseok likes playing mind games, but they aren't serious (Honestly debatable...). Implied gang activity and violence. Hoseok contradicts himself a lot, he's really confusing. Smut: oral ( m and f receiving) soft dom Hoseok, i think Hoseok has an oral fixation (or is it ME, the author?????) unprotected sex.

Notes: Phew, welcome!! SO, it's finally here!!! I'm so excited to share this project with you alll! It was such a big project for me, and so much time and effort went into it. Believe it or not, this started out as a smut piece and it had nothing going for it at all. If you've been following me for a while, you'd remember that back in 2021 i posted a teaser for something similar. Tbh back then probably wasn't the right time to post such a thing lmao, i for certain wasn't ready to write it and it wouldn't have been written in the way it was meant to with my writing style back then. It's been a long journey of understanding the characters portrayed here, and a lot of work to get them right. Very big shoutout to @hwaslayer who's - as always - been there with me from the very beginning and has been the biggest help and motivator, please look out for her Ateez's Seonghwa fic that shares this universe!! I won't keep you any longer, but please be sure to leave feedback, a lot of effort went into this project and i'd love to hear what you think and answer any questions! Happy reading!!!

“You sure you don’t wanna stay here with me dearie? I know it ain’t much, but it’s better than being out in the elements.” Abigail takes your hands in hers, hands that – much like yours – are dirt stained and ruddy, but bring you comfort that you wouldn’t find elsewhere. Abigail – or Toothy as everyone else calls her – is a frail woman with wispy auburn hair and a gap tooth smile. Her hair had gone white in some places, the crows’ feet at her eyes can barely help you guess her age. Her eyes are blue and dull but still regard you warmly like she did when she’d found you wandering along the fourth avenue weeks or so ago.

The space where she stays isn’t much; a nook in an alleyway between two rundown buildings that people don’t bother to go into. She’d tried her best to make it into a space that’s comfortable enough, the roof made of termite bitten sheets of ply that’s at least a square and a half wide. An old, mildew ridden tarp thrown over it and held down by a couple pieces of rubble from the building across makes up the walls that offer shelter from cold wind and rain and as much privacy you could get out here. The floor made of giant trash bags Abigail had swindled from some place or another, covered with old sheets that’s definitely seen better days. Even though the sheets had long lost their softness and leave you itching, they kept your butt off the cold concrete.

You’re going to miss the stories she’d tell. You’d lay on the floor, the longest part of the tarp folded over the top, and stare up at the strip of night sky between the buildings, twinkling with the bit of stars you can see and listen.

She’d tell you of her life before she fell to rock bottom, how grand everything was. How, many years ago, she’d won the lottery by a stroke of luck, only to have it turn sour when her fiancé gambled it all away and she lost everything. She never did tell you what happened to him.

You’d miss walking the couple of miles to the river, armed with pieces of run-down bar soaps and plastic bags with the little clothes you owned in them bundled in your arms. Or the nights when it’s cold, you’d go down to the square with her and look around for things to burn and dump them into the steel barrel to keep warm.

There are days when there’s nothing, and Abigail would distract you from your stomach trying to eat at itself with another one of her stories and old cans filled with steaming boiled rain water. There are days when you’d sit with a full tummy, there’s usually one kind soul out there that takes pity on you both to offer as much as they could.

You’ll be forever grateful for Abigail, with her motherly affection and her warm hands. She never once asked how you ended up here too, she simply offered a hand when you needed it most.

You felt as though you lingered too long... this is the longest you’ve stayed in a place. The company was good, but you feel like there’s just so much you’re robbing Abigail of by staying with her. You know she would strongly disagree; she’d probably whack you with her busted up sneaker and send you to sit in a corner until you’ve apologized. It’s simply how you feel, if you’re not here, Abigail wouldn’t have to share the little of what she gets, you feel terrible enough that she gives you more than she keeps for herself.

“Don’t worry Abigail.” You smile, pulling one hand away to pat hers. Her fingers are bony and long, and lacking the warmth they did earlier in the day. “I don’t stay one place for too long.”

It’s a lie, obviously. You’d rather chew your leg off than go out there alone. Away from the safety this little nook had been for the past month, away from Abigail, who’s cared more about you than anyone has in a while. But you care about her too, enough that you’d leave to make sure that she eats well enough to survive and not give it all to you. She’d be better off.

Abigail narrows her eyes at you, the wrinkles of her face deepening as she frowns. She looks sad, you note, the blue of her eyes dark and stormy, but she says nothing, just squeezes your hands for a while before letting go.

You smile softly, and continue stuffing your clothes into an old backpack Abigail had given you a while back. You fold the dirty ones tight, setting them at the bottom, and the few clean ones you had that still smelled like your last bar soap at the top. You don’t have much, and you’ve gotten used to it – as hard as it was.

When you shouldered your bag and stepped out from under the tarp, Abigail follows, worry on her brow, saying that she’d walk you to the mouth of the alleyway.

“Oh!” She says, turning back to duck under the tarp. You hear the rummaging of her old pot wares, the clanking of the metal before she comes back and holds out a can to you. The label looks worn, peeling off in some places, but you make out the bright red ‘canned peach’ on the side. “I was savin’ this for when we go down to the river, but you’d better have it.”

“Abigail...” You sigh, guilt gnawing at your edges, “I can’t take this.”

Abigail purses her lips, smacking the can into your hand, “Yes, you can. It’ll hold you out for a little while.”

“Then what would you eat?” You outstretch your hand, offering the peaches back to her and she narrows her eyes at you.

“I can manage.” She says testily, and then sighs, softening, “Are you sure you’ll be okay out there?” She takes the can and tucks it into the outside pocket of your bag, “It’ll be rough ya know.”

“I’ll be fine,” You say, and then, you hug her. Truly, you’ll miss her. She pats your back gently, “Thank you for everything.”

“Don’t mention it, we gotta look out for each other out here.” Abigail smiles, pulling away. She stuffs her hands into the pockets of her baggy jeans, something she’d picked up at a donation shelter a couple of days ago. It’s got a few holes and it’s frayed at the ankles but she’d never complain. “If you fall into luck, don’t forget me.”

“Never.”

You both say your goodbyes and you try your best to not cry at the sadness that clings to Abigail’s form as she hobbles back to her little nook. You take a breath and pick a direction to walk in.

You think about going to the river first, to get a little cleaned up before you go looking for somewhere to sleep for the night. You’re already regretting leaving the comfort that Abigail provided. You know she wouldn’t blame you if you turned right around and dragged yourself back. You’ve already made your mind up, though – it’s better this way.

You don’t have a gauge on the time, but the sun’s getting quite low. It streaks the sky in orange and pink, hiding behind a fluffy white cloud as it makes its slow decent. You might be able to make it to the river and back before night falls completely if you hurry. So you walk, and walk, and it’s a long way past the street Abigail first found you, where the city meets a forest edge.

You once asked Abigail why she didn’t live closer to the river, you worry about her most days, taking her frail self through the streets for such a long walk just to get here. She’d told you that even though some of your street dwelling comrades are friendly, most aren’t, and would do the worst to get what they need. It’s too risky to be close to the river where all manner of folk pass to get to it.

You tuck your bag to your front and keep an ear out for anyone that may be in the area. You grimace as the twigs and stones of the forest floor poke at your feet. Your shoes were on their last, they kept your feet warm most days, but they’re biting holes into your last good pair of socks. The trees get sparse the further in you go, and over the tweeting and chittering of the forest critters, there’s the sound of rushing water.

You break out of the trees and stand on the little edge where the forest pauses and the soft wet dirt begins. The river is a bit wild today, rushing through the rocks as it makes its way from wherever it starts. You know there must be a spring somewhere deeper if you follow the river back, but you don’t have the time to as the setting sun makes the forest look darker already. You wouldn’t like to be out here at night.

You slip out of your shoes and socks, wanting to keep them dry and walk down to the bank. Abigail has a little spot between three large boulders where she hides things. The spot is covered with leaves and sticks, and you dig through it to find the old blue bucket. It’s missing it’s handle and turned over to keep things under it.

There’s a new pack of soap powder that’s already been opened, a little square plastic bowl that’s probably seen better days on a dish rack and half of a soap bar. You pull the bucket out of its hiding place, taking just a handful of the soap powder and tossing it into the bucket. You tuck the powder into a corner of the rock with the soap bar on top of it and carry the bucket over to the river.

You rummage through your bag to find the clothes that needed cleaning, and put them in the bucket with the soap. It takes a moment of scooping water from the river and pouring it into the bucket. All the while you’re wondering where Abigail scored the soap powder from. A lot of things are hard to come by, but some people make trades with the little they’ve got. You feel a little guilty as you watch the water and soap soak into your clothes, though you know she wouldn’t mind if its you – you’re the only two that know where she keeps her stuff hidden – but still.

The soap smells sweet, and fresh in a way you haven’t smelt in a while. With the sun long gone behind the trees but still lighting the sky a bit, you wash your clothes as quickly as you can. You throw the soapy water on the bank and not back in the river, and rinse your clothes out just as quick.

There’s no time to wait for them to dry, with the sun being as low as it is and the wind baring its teeth. So you wring them out and pull out the plastic handle bag you keep folded in one of your backpack pockets to stuff them into.

It’s completely dark out once you’ve put the bucket back and covered Abigail’s things again and made your way back out of the forest. You would’ve liked to take a quick wash, but it’s too dark and the water’s too cold now. You’ll come back tomorrow when the sun’s high and hot.

You walk in a different direction than the way you came, looking for the little park that Abigail mentioned once. Its completely dark by the time you get there, your feet aching from the long walk and your mind muddled with thoughts.

You would often remind yourself not to think too hard, as your thoughts would often lead you to a dark place you find difficult to crawl out of. You would often regret not having people close enough to call good friends, maybe then you wouldn’t be out here.

You didn’t have a difficult life; you grew up in a loving home with both parents making sure that you were happy and not too spoilt by the fruits of their labour. You know the value of things and you know well to act like your parents raised you with some sense. Your mother passed when you were ten, and your father remarried when you were sixteen. You couldn’t understand why, your father loved your mother so much and you thought it would just be you and him against the world. You understood that your mother wouldn’t want him to live the rest of his life overshadowed by her passing and forget to continue living. So when he introduced you to the woman he met on a business trip, looking happier than he had in six years, you didn’t have the heart to tell him that something was off.

Your mother had always taught you to see the good in people, to give them the benefit of a doubt. There was no mistaking the thinly veiled disgust in your step mother’s eyes when she would look at you. She was quite young, compared to your father, anyway, and as the years went by, he spoilt her. He gave her whatever she wanted when she wanted it as long as it made her happy and you could only watch from the sidelines.

Your father fell ill, and everything went downhill from there.

When he passed, your world shattered and crumbled, leaving you standing in the rubble grasping at the wisps of it slipping through your fingers. Things were okay, for a while, grieving the loss of your father and trying to move on and step without him. Then the news of his will came not long after he was buried.

Your father left everything for his wife, the house, his money, and as you’d found on the first night you were out here, the savings account your mother had set up for you.

You had nothing.

You’d always kept to yourself growing up, and never let anyone closer than you would allow. You were home-schooled – all the way up to your tertiary education – and had no friends to speak of. Your parents never spoke of their family, all you knew and had were your mother and father.

It’s been a while since then. A good long while. It was hard to adjust to having everything at the tip of your fingers to having it ripped away all at once.

The first week was hard. You’d worked odd jobs here and there to keep your head above the water. Sleeping in a motel every night wasn’t ideal, especially since you had to buy food and every thing else. The little money you had ran out quickly, even when you pawned the possessions you did own it wasn’t enough.

You’ve had time to adjust since then. You met Abigail and things were as okay as they could’ve been considering. You remember, she had been pestering you about why you were pacing around on that bridge when she found you.

The deep rushing water below it had looked inviting – an easy way out. No one would’ve missed you, anyway.

You take a breath in sharply, and it burns. Cold air fills your lungs with little pinpricks as night fully settles. You try not to think about anything more as you walk through the park.

It looks empty, large trees and neat grass fields and cobbled walkways. There are dark metal benches scattered about, a trickle of water you can’t pinpoint coming from somewhere.

You’d just stay here for tonight, and find somewhere you wouldn’t be in trouble to stay at in the morning. You’re pretty sure you’re breaking some law being who you are as you sit down on the bench. It’s uncomfortable, the metal cold and biting, but you’d just have to deal for the night.

You dig through your backpack, pulling out the plastic bag with your damp clothes, a jacket that’s still in good condition and the canned peach Abigail sent you off with.

You spread your clothes out on the back of the bench, and you’re hoping they dry properly even if the air feels a little damp.

With a soft sigh, you lift the circular pin on the lid of the can and pull. The peaches are cut into slices and swimming in a sweet juice, and with some guilt you pick a piece out. It’s sweeter than anything you’ve had in a while, and for a moment you feel like crying.

You feel tears burn your eyes and nose as you chew the fruit, washing it down with a sip of the juice that tastes slightly like the can. It wasn’t long before it was all gone, your fingers sticky with the juice and you stare into the empty can with a frown. You wonder about Abigail and if she’s okay right now.

Setting the can down near the foot of the bench that’s bolted into the cobblestone path, you lay back. The sky is fairly clear, with a little smattering of wispy clouds floating by and stars that twinkle in the distance.

Drifting off slowly, you try to find a comfortable position to sleep in – though there isn’t one with this metal bench. Your jacket thrown over you as a makeshift blanket.

You’re not certain how long you sleep for, but when you wake, its to a tapping on your shoulder. The air is thick with something as you breathe in, and a lot damper than it was when you’d settled.

“Ma’am.” A voice calls, prodding your shoulder again, “Hello, miss?”

You open your eyes and your blood runs cold at the sight of the man in uniform standing above you. You sit up, excuses dancing at the tip of your tongue before you realised you could barely see past your nose.

The officer is holding a flashlight, the beam directed somewhere off to your right. A thick fog had settled while you slept, swirling way past the officer’s head.

“I’m sorry, but you can’t sleep here. This is a private park.” His words aren’t unkind, they come out gentle and a little pitying, as though he regrets having to do his job of keeping the riffraff out. He lets you gather your things, stuffing your still damp clothes back into your bag.

He takes a step back when you stand, “If you need somewhere to stay, there’s a shelter not far from here. Couple blocks that way.” He waves his flashlight behind you, towards the park’s exit, “Can’t miss it.”

You could barely see the guy, much less which way exactly he’s directing you to. You turn, squinting at the way you think he pointed. “Thank you... I’m really sorry about –”

“Don’t worry about it...just keep walking straight and you’ll find it.”

He motions with his flashlight again and you take two steps away before stopping and turning back, “Sorry but...the fog...which way...”

The man is gone, no sign of him having been there in the first place. It’s quiet, not even insects are chirping, you don’t hear any retreating footsteps. You stare at the spot he was just in, but didn’t want to linger lest he comes back and he’s decidedly less kind.

You hike your bag up on your shoulder, squinting to see through the fog as you walk towards the exit. The roads are empty, there’s the soft clicking of the traffic lights and the glow of shop lights and street lamps that make it a little bit easier to see. You still look both ways before walking quickly across the street, keeping straight like the officer told you.

It’s quiet, and honestly, it freaks you out a bit. You don’t think it’s that late, and even so, there should be people out and about. You don’t even think you slept for that long, it couldn’t have been more than an hour. There’s no reason for no one to be around, then again, you don’t know this area very well.

You walk for some time, the sound of your footsteps and your steady breaths your only company. You’re keeping your eyes peeled for any sign of the shelter, staring up at the glowing signs and squinting to see through the fog. You passed a convenience store, a pharmacy and a pet shop, all closed and dark inside. You’ve crossed two roads so far; it shouldn’t be much more walking...unless a couple of blocks have two different meanings between you and the officer.

You stop for a moment, taking a breath that settles heavy and damp in your chest. You look back the way you came, look at the signs of the buildings across the street and the one you’re outside of. You can’t see much more than that unless you keep walking straight.

You’re beginning to wonder if he’d only said so to get you out of the park. You take a couple of steps forward and then stop, looking over your shoulder. Your brows furrow and the hairs on the back of your neck stands on end.

It’s said that the mind always knows when you’re being watched, a sixth sense to be aware when someone is staring at you.

You feel watched.

And it isn’t an ordinary feeling.

It feels off, like some primal switch just flicked up in your brain. Briefly, you think that this is how a bunny feels being cornered by a fox. Your heart suddenly kicks against your ribs and something in the back of your mind screams for you to move.

You press forward, the feeling lingers, and intensifies. You walk as quickly as you can, your once steady breaths loud and harsh in the quietness of the night. You try not to look behind you as your ears pick up on the sound of another pair of footsteps. They match yours, and you’re not too certain if it’s just really your own bouncing off the walls of the buildings. When you stop, they stop, and start back up again when you start.

There’s another sound below it. Something snarls like a dog somewhere in the distance behind you, but, like everything else about this moment in this fog, it sounds wrong. Like it’s coming from a creature that’s trying to mimic the sound of an animal.

You stop dead in your tracks, goosebumps rippling along your skin like a wave from the top of your head and downwards. You take a breath, and with one foot in front of the other – you sprint.

Your footfalls are loud in the quiet, and even through your panic you notice the change of the footsteps that mimicked yours. There’s two more with it that falls in rhythm, like a large beast running on all fours.

It’s running faster than you are, the pounding of its feet against the pavement is double the speed of your own. You feel like your lungs are about to burst, your legs burning, and the damp air becomes fire in your throat when you breathe.

Whatever it is snarls again, and it sounds way closer than it was before. You could almost feel the sound rumble through you, and something hot fans at the back of your neck. You nearly trip, stumbling over your own feet in an attempt to run faster. You round a corner blindly, hoping to throw whatever it is off your trail and smack right into someone.

With your momentum, you’d think that you would send yourself and the person sprawling to the hard concrete. The terrified scream you let out rings in your own ears, high pitched and shrill, as you bounce back, falling in a heap. There’s a sharp twinge in your wrist as you brace, and a stinging in your palm when you just barely managed to catch yourself.

“Shit!” the person exclaims – a man, if the deep timbre of his voice was anything to go by. “Are you okay?!”

The man crouches down and you scramble back, then remember that you crashed into him because you were running from something and the panic comes back.

“I—there’s ... Something’s following me! It chased me all the way here...It’s—”

“Hey, hey...it’s okay...you’re fine.” The man seems to look behind you. You could barely see his face, even with him being as close as he was; the fog just seems to get thicker. “It’s just us out here...”

His voice suddenly seems hesitant, and you wouldn’t blame him if he thought you were crazy.

You breathing is still erratic, heart still trying to pound its way out of your chest.

The man’s hands hover at your shoulders, and there’s worry in his tone when he speaks again. “It’s okay. You’re alright, nothing’s out here but us.”

He takes your hand – the one that’s not holding your weight – and presses it to his chest. You almost jump out of your skin at the contact, but his own heart is steady, beating a slow rhythm against his sternum. “Breathe with me.”

He takes a deep breath in, and you feel his chest expand as his lungs fill, you try your best. Your throat is burning, and every breath feels like fine glass is swirling at the back of your mouth. It takes a moment, but eventually, your breaths match his and the adrenaline seeps out with your every exhale.

Your brain finally registers the throbbing of your wrist and palm, and the ache in your sides.

“There you go.” You can faintly make out the smile that spreads across the man’s face, heart shaped and pretty white teeth. “Good now?”

You nod, just barely, and he releases your hand. There’s a shuffling and the sound of a zipper and then he’s holding a bottle of water out to you. You eye it with some suspicion, and he picks up on it.

“It’s just water, promise.” He says, wiggling the bottle a little. “The seal isn’t cracked or anything.”

You take your weight off your palm, wincing at the hot flash of pain from the movement. You right yourself a little, taking the water from him with your uninjured hand and a soft thanks.

“Oh...here...” he keeps the bottle steady in your hand with a palm under the bottom of it, and the other cracking the seal with a twist. He lifts the bottle to your lips and you take a sip, and then a gulp, “Easy, not too fast.”

The water is cool, and a blessing, you didn’t realise how thirsty you were. When you’ve drank at least half of the bottle, the man puts the cap back on and leaves it in your hold.

“Were you looking for something?” he asks gently, and you nod.

“The homeless shelter...I think I’m lost now, though.”

The man tilts his head, “There aren’t any shelters in this area...you’re on the wrong side of the city if that’s what you were looking for.”

You stare at him for a moment, “...Oh.” The officer really did just say it, then. You’re not sure what to say to the man and you glance around at the street that’s still teeming with the thick fog.

You’re not sure what to say to him, and instead, look around the street for any sign of the shelter even though he’d said there isn’t one.

“I think the fog’s lifting...” The man mumbles. The fog is clearing; it’s easier to see further down the street and the man in front of you. He presses his palms against his knees and stands, looking around for a moment before looking down at you. “There aren’t any shelters around...but...I can help you. If you want, I live a bit that way, and I’ve got an extra room...”

This is a bad idea.

He’s quite tall, on the lean side with long limbs. He’s wearing a long black coat, and his black, suede shoes look just as expensive as the watch that peeks from the end of his sleeve at his wrist. The white tee shirt he wears looks a little billowy, like it would swallow his frame once he takes the coat off. He turns a little and you get to admire the sharp cut of his jaw and the elegant slope of his nose.

“I won’t hurt you or anything. I just want to help.” He says, turning back to you. His eyes are dark, but kind as he offers a hand to help you off the concrete. “I’m Hoseok.”

You take his hand, and there’s nothing in the back of your mind telling you to get away. Nothing in his body language that shows ill intent, and you have to remind yourself that some people are simply kind.

He helps you to your feet and you thank him softly, giving him your name. His smile is soft as he nods, lips turned up slightly at the corners, eyes squinted just a bit.

“If you don’t want to, that’s okay. It’s a bit late, though, and you’d have to walk a long way to find the shelter...” Hoseok says softly.

You’re still holding his hand, and the warmth of it grounds you. You honestly shouldn’t, really, you’re smart enough to know you shouldn’t follow random men promising kindness. He really looks like a good person, quietly waiting for your answer as he gives you chance to change your mind should you wish.

He doesn’t rush you, and briefly you wonder if he doesn’t have anything else to do. He was clearly going about his business before you tackled him, though that word should be used lightly considering you’re the one who ended up on the ground.

“Okay...thank you.” When you finally speak his smile broadens, showing pretty teeth and still holding your hand, he leads you in the direction he was coming from before. You feel a bit bad, turning his night on its head and probably inconveniencing him.

The fog is lighter now, the air not as thick with it as you follow along. Hoseok didn’t talk much, not once mentioning your pitiful state of dress, or asking any questions. You’re grateful, not many people would go out of their way to open their homes to someone without one.

The place he leads you to looks expensive and you feel out of place. The road winds and twists into a residential area with houses and three storey apartments. There are cars parked in driveways, neatly trimmed grass and hedges, a fence around every tree. Lampposts dot the sidewalk every thirty or so steps, casting their orange glows across every surface.

Across from there, the road veers off into a more commercial area, with fancier housing and shops and a tall, looming hotel. The streets are quiet, shops already closed for the night and you wonder what time it is. There doesn’t seem to be anyone around, save for you and Hoseok making your way towards the hotel.

The doors slide open with a little mechanical whir, and you balk at the sheer size of the lobby alone. Light fixtures hang from the ceiling, bouncing their glows off of shiny surfaces. There are red and black lounge seats along a far wall, coffee tables of black tempered glass between them and the single seated chairs across. On the other side of the lobby is a little open cafe area, closed of course, with comfortable looking chairs tucked under tables.

There are two elevators, one of which you assume to be for staff. The reception area is a counter space of smooth looking white marble, though no one sits behind it.

Hoseok leads you to the elevator, pressing the button to call it down. You’ve let go of his hand now, as you take in the sight of the place. You wonder what anyone would think seeing someone like you in here. With your shabby clothes that’s seen better days, your dirty sneakers and backpack that looks like it’s moments away from just splitting apart.

There’s no one to see you, as the elevator comes down and opens with a ding. You catch sight of your reflection in the elevator walls, and grimace, regretting not bracing the cold river earlier. You definitely look homeless, your last bath was exactly two days ago, you look grubby standing just a little bit behind Hoseok. Anyone who would see you now would definitely turn their nose up at you and outright ask what you’re doing in their pristine hotel. Though, there isn’t much you can do to prevent that.

When the doors slide close you focus on the button panel, and next to it is a key card scanner and a button under it. The word penthouse is neatly labelled on the button in little black letters, and Hoseok fishes around his coat to pull out a key card. You blink, of course he lives in the penthouse.

The scanner beeps softly and Hoseok presses the button that glows a soft blue before the elevator lurches slight and ascends.

You fiddle nervously with your fingers in front of you, keeping your eyes on your shoes. There’s a shuffle and Hoseok turns to look at you, he’s smiling kindly again, something like pity woven into it and you feel a coil of shame twist in your chest.

“I’m sorry...” You say without much reason, glancing at him and then back down, “For the trouble.”

“No trouble.” Hoseok says softly, concern on his brow, his hand reaching out but stopping short, as though he’s not sure if he could touch you. You’re surprised he even want to. Heck, you’re surprised he’s doing any of this at all. “Really.”

“Do you usually take in random homeless people?” You ask, and his chuckle is light and teasing.

“Only the cute ones.” He says and then looks a little mortified, “Sorry. I’m kidding. It’s just...you looked like you really needed help...so I’m helping.”

“You’re very kind.” You murmur and offer a smile.

He smiles back, not as brightly as his other ones, it curls his mouth less, doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He nods, “I try to be.”

The elevator slows to a stop, doors sliding open to a little well-lit hallway. On the other end of the hall is a wide pane of glass that overlooks the city lights, twinkling in a dance of their own making, and an emergency exit sign jutting out of the wall. You follow Hoseok out of the elevator towards the door which he unlocks with a password — the beeps loud in the quiet — the door opens with a soft thunk and a beep and he lets you walk in first.

The lights are on, as though he’d only planned to be out for a moment. You’re not too sure what to do with yourself now that you’re here, staring at Hoseok’s back unsurely as he takes his shoes off and tucks them neatly on a shoe rack.

He turns to face you, “I don’t mean anything by this, so please don’t misunderstand...”

You nod, waiting for him to continue.

He seems to weigh his words carefully, “Do you want to take a bath?”

You flush, yeah, you surely look grubby enough for him to ask that. It’s warranted, so, you’re not upset that he asked. You’d actually love to, when was the last time you took a bath that wasn’t in the freezing river?

Still though, it’s embarrassing. So you nod silently, “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He says, looking genuinely relieved. “You can leave your stuff here and I’ll take care of everything.”

“Okay...” You step out of your shoes, nudging them in a corner before you take your bag off and set it down. The clothes you have are still damp, stuffed in a plastic bag somewhere in the depths of your tattered backpack and Hoseok doesn’t give you a moment before he’s leading you through his home.

The chill of the grey tiled floor runs up your legs through your thin, threadbare socks. You don’t have much time to look around, but you’re aware you’ve passed an open space kitchen and living room, splashes of white, reds and black in the corner of your vision.

He lets you into the bathroom, “Use whatever you need. The towels and things are in the cabinet.”

You turn to face him, “I really can’t thank you enough.” You say earnestly, and he waves you off, turning to leave and shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

“I’ll bring you some clothes that you could use.” He says through the door, his voice muffled. You thank him again and his footsteps trail away.

You turn and glance around the bathroom, floor to ceiling glass panes makes up the furthest wall. Before it is a porcelain bathtub that could easily fit three people, on a raised platform of white stained marble, and that platform on another, creating a single step up in order to get into the tub. The colour of the platforms compliments the dark reflective marble floor. The undersides of the platforms are lined with what you assume must be LED lights, glowing a pale white along the bottom.

The same LEDs line the back of the large wall mounted mirror, giving it an ominous glow. Below the mirror is a dark granite sink with a faucet you’re not even sure how to turn on. The cabinet below the sink house only cleaning supplies, and you look around for the towel space.

The shower takes up nearly the whole wall it’s connected to, frosted glass and jets embedded into the wall.  

You walk over to the shower and realise that was wall beside it sorts of curve and you let out a surprised sound when you walk the short way towards the back of it. The ‘cabinet’ is more of a little walk-in closet, there’s a few fluffy looking bathrobes sorted by length and colour, and towels and washcloths stacked on shelves that match.

Under those are neat little space savers filled with bath oils and shower gels, sweet scented candles tucked into corners. Bar soaps and toilet paper on their own shelves at the bottom, unopened toothbrushes and what have you.

There’s enough room to turn full circle without bumping into anything if you step into it. But you look at your hands and decide to not touch anything until they're clean.

So you walk back out to the sink, frowning at the faucet with no visible way to turn it on; it’s just a sleek piece of metal that curves back into the basin. You look at it to and fro and wave your hand under it, startling slightly when water sprays from the faucet. You hold your hand away and it turns off after a moment. Now, your parents had money but it wasn’t anything like this.

You can’t imagine the cost of this place.

You find hand soap after peeking into the cabinet below the sink again, taking your time to thoroughly wash your hands clean. It’s hard to see the dirt go down the drain against the dark granite, but you’re grateful. You inspect your hands once your done, and finally allow yourself to touch Hoseok’s things. You take a towel down from the shelf, the one that’s at the top of the pile. It’s a nice pale yellow, and near the bottom right corner is a little blue butterfly embroidered into the fabric. After a little debate with yourself, you pull the washcloth that matches from its pile.

You set the towel on the closed lid of the toilet, and strip out of your clothes. You fold them neatly and set them on the floor along with your socks, stuffing your underwear into the pocket of your jacket. You step into the shower and pull the door shut behind you.

You turn the knobs and adjust the water so that’s it not too hot, and for a moment, you simply stand there. The water flows over your skin in rivulets, washing away the sweat and grime of the past two days. You try not to take too long, but made sure that you’re thoroughly scrubbed clean. You try not to use too much of Hoseok’s things, even though he’d told you to use whatever you needed.

You’re not sure how long you were in there, how long you stood letting the water wash away your tears as well.

When you step out, steam billowing put behind you, you wiggle your toes into the fluffy cotton mat under you, wrapping the towel around your form. It feels nice to be clean, skin feeling a little raw from the hot water. You tiptoe to the door and ease it open, and it pushes lightly against a bundle of folded clothes on the ground. Next to it, a pair of warm looking house slippers that you shuffle into immediately after drying your feet.

The clothes: a dark grey long sleeve crew neck tee that hangs just a little off one shoulder, a pair of boxer shorts still in it’s wrapping, and long fleece lined sweatpants that you have to fold at your ankles.

Near the door is a towel rack where you hang the towel you used to dry, and after taking a breath, you step out of the bathroom.

You walk back the way Hoseok led you, and the air is prickled with the scent of freshly made food and it makes you wonder just how long you took in the bathroom.

The kitchen is a wide space, between the area that makes up the entrance hallway is a kitchen island, and much like everything else you’ve seen, is a long, polished slab of dark marble. There’s a sink in the middle, sleek and silver and soft white light comes from the fixings above it. Across from that is a large refrigerator, an electric stove and more counter space. There are a few scattered appliances, a coffee maker and a small espresso machine tucked under a cupboard over them, and a blender with something or the other in it.

Hoseok stands with his back to you, he turns slightly, looking over his shoulder and startles.

“Oh – shit.” He laughs softly, “Hey, was your bath okay?”

“Sorry...” You apologize for scaring him and he waves you off, turning to face you fully. He scans your form but there’s nothing odd in the action, and he nods to himself at whatever he was looking for. “Oh, yeah. My bath was okay, thank you.”

“Dinner’s ready if you...oh...” he glances to the side, back to you and then to whatever he’s got going on the stovetop. “...This might be too heavy for you right now...” He murmurs to himself, a hand scratching at the back of his neck. He looks sheepish, a little guilty about something he didn’t consider.

“No, it’s okay. I’ll eat whatever it is.” You’re not about to make him waste his food, or be impolite.

“Okay, well.” He presses a button on the stove panel, turning to the island. There’s the sound of a drawer opening and he pulls out a kitchen towel, smiling at you. He nods his head to the right, where, tucked to the wall is a modest sized wooden table. There’re two plates of what he’s made already there, and tall glasses of water. “Go ahead.”

You walk over to the table, pulling out the chair to sit. Dinner is creamy mashed potatoes, a hearty portion of steamed mixed veggies and steak that’s somehow done to your liking and already cut into pieces. Your mouth waters at the sight and it smells so good you could cry. Hoseok isn’t finished at the island, so you busy yourself with folding the sleeves of your borrowed tee-shirt up and out of the way.

When he comes over he frowns a little, “You didn’t have to wait, dove.” He takes his seat opposite you, “Please, eat.”

The random pet name flies over your head, not that you would’ve been bothered by it had you been paying attention. Hoseok was kind enough to open his home to you, let you use his things and now he’s feeding you. He could call you whatever he likes.

You murmur a thank you and dig into your food. The sound you make when you take the first bite borders on erotic, but your gracious host doesn’t seem to mind very much. There’s a pleased glint in his eyes and a small curl to his mouth as he watches you eat for a moment.

You’re too hungry to be embarrassed by the intensity of his stare, but you’re mindful to not choke or look like you left your manners somewhere at your feet.

The food settles in your stomach, heavy but it’s a feeling you welcome. You could barely remember the last time you had a full meal. The bite you swallow brings the odd feeling of it slowing down behind your sternum, and you take a long drink of the cold water Hoseok had set out for you.

The man himself barely touched his own food, seemingly content to watch you scarf yours down. He has his chin propped in his hand, a small curl to the corner of his mouth and a glint of something in his eyes.

“Thank you...for the food.” You stare at your plate, drizzled with gravy and what’s left of your dinner. You can’t meet his gaze and you’re not certain why, and the intensity of it is starting to gnaw on your senses.

“No need for thanks, little dove.” Hoseok says, and there’s a soft clink when he finally picks his fork up and it knocks against the round rim of the plate. “Just doing my good deed for the day.”

The pet name strikes you this time, no longer distracted by the delicious food and your rumbling tummy. The way it rolls off his tongue sends a shiver racing down your spine, one that was decidedly unpleasant. There’s something in his tone, the way he stares when you raise your eyes to meet his, something in his beautiful heart shaped smile.

The fine hairs at the back of your neck raises, and you’re back to feeling like a bunny in a fox’s burrow. It was the same feeling you’d gotten earlier in the strange fog; the primal sense that you’re no longer the apex.

Something like a bell jingles in the back of your mind and grows louder until its a wailing alarm.

You should leave. Thank him for being so kind and get as far away from him as possible.

The look in his eyes unnerves you, but it’s something you can’t put a finger on. Just off the edge of his form something flutters, a shadow that shouldn’t be there, but it’s gone so quickly you didn’t have time to focus on it. The feeling intensifies; tugging, now.

You don’t think he’s blinked.

A shudder runs through you, rippling along your skin like a shockwave and Hoseok is calling your name.

“Are you okay?” there’s concern on his brow, his unoccupied hand raised in a wave as though he’s been trying to get your attention for a while. “Do you feel sick?”

“N... no. I’m fine, thank you.” You try to smile, but you’re pretty certain it looks as strained as it feels. He was almost done eating, though he’s paused to asses you with furrowed brows. You feel like you’ve missed something in the past minute.

“I asked if you wanted more food but you just blanked on me.” Hoseok sets his fork down and you feel like you’re losing your mind. The feeling from before is gone, and you’re not even certain if you felt it in the first place. Maybe you’re tired, or maybe the feeling of the comforts you’ve missed for so long is messing with your head.

Hoseok looks perfectly normal, there’s nothing flickering at his back or anything odd in his stare.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m sure.” You don’t feel certain, and if Hoseok noticed he didn’t comment on it. You pick up the fork again, scraping up the little left of your food onto it quietly. You feel strange, as though the past two minutes moved by too quickly, or like they happened weeks ago and you’re struggling to cling to the details of them.

Hoseok is focused on his plate, and uncertainty at the hope that he keeps his eyes there blooms in your chest. You’re not sure why.

It’s awkwardly quiet for a couple moments, with Hoseok finishing his meal and you, playing with the folded ends of your borrowed tee-shirt. When he was done, he takes the plates and the empty glasses to the sink to clean them and you sit idly at the table.

He’s drying his hands with a dark kitchen towel when he’s done, settling at the edge of the island and facing you. The overhead lights glow against his form, casting shadows along his visage that makes him look sharper; menacing. It clings to his hair like a depiction of something holy, making his dark hair look russet in the gleam.

You go to thank him again, even though he’d probably wave you off like he’s been doing the whole time, but the lights are too bright. The glow of the lights swells and flood your eyes, you squeeze them shut, trying to dispel the ache that comes with it. You turn your head and it feels like you’re neck deep in mud, it takes too much effort to do something so simple.

Panic wells in your chest, sending your heart kicking against your ribs harshly. You take a breath, well, you try, but it gets stuck somewhere in your throat and you choke on it.

There’s two Hoseoks when you peel your eyes open, and they neatly fold the towel they were using and put it down. For a minute, your vision settles, and the man leans against the island nonchalantly, crossing his arms and tilting his head as he watches you spiral.

“You should try to calm down.” He says softly, and you hate the way you cling to the sound of his voice when it’s very clear what’s happening.

“Wh...” Your tongue feels heavy, and the words you try to say are slurred and unintelligible. You move to stand, trying to get away even when your limbs feel like there’s a ball and chains at the ends of them. The world tilts on an axis, doubling as you make to your feet, you’re not sure if it’s leaning or you are.

Hoseok reaches you in a single step and a strangled sound escapes you. He places a hand on your shoulder, gently guiding you back into the chair. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing your body can’t handle.”

You can barely hear him, your ears feel as though there’s cotton in them, reducing his words to a muddled murmur. You can’t feel the way his fingers curl into the hair at your nape, but you notice the shift as he tilts your heavy head back to look up at him.

He’s smiling, you think. Pretty and heart shaped, all white teeth and sinister. And there’s that feeling again, as he says something you can’t hear, can’t focus, your eyes are closing.

There’s something dark and broken that flickers against the light above his head and shadows that dance at his back.

When the morning came and you didn’t wake, Hoseok wasn’t too concerned. He watched over you as once was his duty to another, tucked you into the sheets and the blankets and let you sink into the warmth of them. He sits in a chair at your bedside, simply watching the rise and fall of your chest and the pinch of your brow as sweat beads upon it.

Your body is fighting hard to flush out what he put in, and he admits, he may have given you a bit too much of it. It wasn’t his intention, but nothing can be done now but wait for you to come to.

When the afternoon comes and the first sign of your conscious shows in a weak attempt to rouse yourself, and a jumble of words that Hoseok deciphers with a well-trained ear it; was clear you weren’t fully there yet. Your skin was too warm, eyes not nearly focused enough, barely looking at him, and then the contents of your stomach come in a rush of bile and acid.

Hoseok tends to you gently, patiently, taking you to the bath and settling you in a way so that you don’t slip under and drown in your unconscious state. He cleans your mess, changes the bedding, puts you in a fresh set of clothes and lays you back to rest.

You stay asleep throughout the day, and Hoseok isn’t too concerned.

Humans are such fragile, foolish things. To him, you’re a porcelain doll, pretty to stare at and admire if it sits on the top of a shelf behind a case. Take it out of that case and it’s so easily broken. Hoseok is like a child in a sandbox of his own creation with too much power in his fingers. If he isn’t careful, he could shatter your form and lose you to the dunes.

The fear you felt the night before played you directly into his hands – never mind he had nothing to do with it – and Hoseok knows, you don’t have to be inclined to feel the weight of his presence. Your mind knew that something wasn’t quite right -- unconsciously or not --, and yet, you willingly followed.

Foolish.

Though, it was purely coincidental that you ran into him, he had been on his way to somewhere and wondering about the strangeness of the fog that rolled in out of nowhere. He hadn’t missed the weird quiet and lack of people either, it hadn’t been that late.

He doesn’t know exactly what you were doing in it, running around the way you were like a mouse in a maze. It’s something that sits at the back of his mind.

The morning of the second day brought no change; you were in and out of your drug induced sleep, and now, Hoseok was a little concerned.

::

“How much did you give her?”

There’s a squeak of leather as Seungcheol crosses his arms, when it’s quiet for far too long he gives Hoseok a look.

“A little.”

Seungcheol leans over your sleeping form, raising a hand to rest against your forehead. Hoseok would think you were dead if it weren’t for the steady rise and fall of your chest.

“If it was a little, you wouldn’t have called.” Seungcheol says, shaking his head, the dark waves of his hair brushing his eyelashes.

“Well, she’s not dead.”

“Dude.” Seungcheol looks a little disturbed, straightening to stare at Hoseok with a displeased furrow in his brow. “You can’t just – humans have limitations.”

“I’m aware, Cheol. Thank you.” Hoseok grumbles, and he ignores the raise of Seungcheol’s eyebrow and the clear disbelief in his eyes.

“‘Course you are.” He rolls his eyes and then sighs lowly, he turns back to you, placing his hand on your forehead again until the tension in your face fades. “Don’t give her any more of that shit. She should wake up sometime today, maybe.”

Hoseok knows better than anyone the limitations of humans. Not that he acknowledges them, he hadn’t the need to in a long time, but he should be careful at least.

Hoseok leads the way out of his guest bedroom with Seungcheol following and closing the door gently behind him. Walking to the kitchen he could feel his eyes burning into the back of his head.

Hoseok takes his time, fetching a glass from one of his cupboards and the whisky he keeps stashed away for his more stressful days. “Spit it out.”

Seungcheol braces his arms on the other side of the island, eyes dark. “Hoseok. I normally don’t care what you get up to; it’s not my business.” He says, looking somewhere to Hoseok’s right. “You don’t fuck around with humans. Who’s the girl?”

Hoseok hums, looking down at the amber liquid in his glass with a contemplative stare. “Street urchin. No one anyone would miss or bother to look for.”

“So you just took her off the street?” Seungcheol frowns, but Hoseok could tell from the look in his eyes that he knows it’s not that simple.

“She came willingly.” Hoseok corrects, taking a sip of the alcohol he could barely taste.

He sets the glass down on the island and pours the whisky to fill half. Seungcheol is quiet, and Hoseok hates it. It gives his mind a moment to wonder, to open a box he’s kept locked and chained.

On most days, Hoseok barely knows himself. He remembers what he’s supposed to be – what he was – and sometimes, that part of him rears its head to fight with what he’s become. Wings dipped in gold and divinity at the end of his fingertips battle endlessly with the shadows that encased him.

A memory of a time he held something as fragile as glass in his hands, broken before he could properly hold it by someone who was supposed to keep it safe. The ache of it burns like a rash that never goes away, always there, only hiding under his skin until it flares up again.

“Just... don’t do anything stupid.” Seungcheol says after a while, watching Hoseok carefully.

“You and your moral compass.” Hoseok shakes his head, and just like that, the golden light is bundled up tightly and pushed back into the corner where he long hid it.

Seungcheol heaves a sigh, shaking his head, picking up his bag he threw on the island counter when he got here.

“I need you to do something for me.” Hoseok says, watching the light shine through the glass in pretty crystal shapes. There’s a furrow of Seungcheol’s brows, but he tells Hoseok to continue with a raise of his chin. “Keep an eye out for a fog.”

“A fog? Why?”

“She was in one the night before.” Hoseok sucks air in through his teeth, “and she wasn’t alone.”

Seungcheol hums, “Alright.”

Hoseok drinks the last of the whisky in one go and waves a hand at Seungcheol, “You can go now.”

“Thank you, Cheol. Don’t know what I’d do without you.” Seungcheol grumbles and then raps his knuckles against the countertop. “I’ll be over here for a few days, gotta sort some things out. Call if you need me.”

Hoseok watches him leave, stuffing his hands into his pocket as he walks back to the bedroom where you still lay asleep.

He sits on the chair, watching the rise and fall of your chest, every minute twitch of your facial features. Restlessness tugs at his limbs as the sun makes its descent western sky, spraying the dimming canvas in hues of lilac and peach.

Something in the back of his mind asks what exactly he’s doing. There was no reason – there wasn’t a reason for him to take you in. A sprout of boredom, maybe, or something involuntary.

Hoseok stares out the window at the slowly darkening sky and the soft glimmer of early evening stars, until the sky is navy and darkness clings to the room.

Your mouth feels like someone’s stuffed cotton in it, and your throat feels like sandpaper when you try to swallow.

You haven’t opened your eyes, laying on what you presume is a bed, if the softness beneath you was anything to go by.

There’s not much that you remember, even as the fog in your mind clears little by little. You remember eating, you remember feeling strange like someone had shrunk you and shook you around in a jar of water. You remember the fear that quickened your heart and your breaths and Hoseok, standing above you like a malevolent God.

You remember the strangeness of his form, and even now your mind can’t comprehend it. You’re not even certain if what you saw was actually real and not an effect of whatever Hoseok had drugged you with.

Drugged.

He drugged you.

Your eyes open and the room is dark. The blankets are thick and heavy and they make you feel warm. There’s a window to your far left, curtains drawn back to show the city in all it’s glory.

Slowly, you sit up, pushing yourself upwards on arms that feel a little weak, and find – to your horror – the clothes you were wearing before aren’t what you’re wearing now.

You take a breath before the panic could set in. You could feel it rolling under your skin like a rumble of thunder before rain, and you try your best to stay calm. You need to find a way out of here.

The apartment seems to be quiet as you slide your feet out of the bed and onto the floor. You barely register the chill of it when you stand, sock-less feet making it easier to sneak over to the door without making a sound. You don’t know where Hoseok put your things, and you don’t have time to go looking for them.

The door isn’t locked, and doesn’t make noise when you push it open slightly to peek out through the little gap you made. You recognise the hallway, the bathroom is two doors down on the other side, and opening the door a little more, you poke your head out tentatively. 

You don’t breathe as you listen, but it’s so quiet, so much so that your exhale seems too loud, and there’s a soft ringing in your ears that set you on edge. Stepping outside the room, you contemplate your next course of action: You can bolt right for the door and get out, but risk making too much noise if Hoseok is indeed here. Or, you can slowly and quietly make your way over and slip out without cluing your kidnapper in on your escape.

Can it be called kidnapping if you were living on the streets?

The door seems miles away as you inch slowly towards the open kitchen and living room area. There are a few lights on, the same LED lighting strips run along the edge of the large pane windows and glows an ominous blue and the lights over the marble island had been dimmed. Both rooms seem empty and you couldn’t be more thankful.

Like a mouse, you skitter across along the hallway space that divides the two, down the little platform at the entrance and take one more step towards the door.

The door that seems further back than it was a second ago.

The stretch of space that was just an arm’s length away was now more than a hallway’s length. You stand still and stare at it, reaching an arm out in case you’re suddenly tripping balls but your hand swipes through air and falls limply at your side.

You look behind you and the rooms and hallway are just as they were, and turning back, the door was right where it was before. You could’ve sworn there was a handle on it. You place your palm against the cool, smooth surface where the handle should be and in the face of your freedom thwarted, you pinch your thigh.

You must be dreaming. The pain flares and grounds you and you realise there’s no explanation for this. You’re wide awake. Still drugged then. But you feel fine. There’s no swirling vision or heavy limbs, your mouth doesn’t feel like someone squeezed glue into it; you’re fine. This doesn’t make sense.

You back away from the door and almost stumble against the raised ledge behind your heels. Steadying yourself with a hand against the wall, you turn, and immediately, notice the darkness of the hallway.

Your breath catches in your throat and your heart slams so harshly against your sternum it hurt. There’s that feeling again, it sends a shiver racing down your spine and scattering goosebumps along your skin. You’re being watched. You are not the apex here.

You want to run, or curl up into a ball and hope the darkness hides you. Fear coils into your muscles and locks them tight, and you’re left standing still, eyes darting around trying to make sense of the shapes in the dark.

There’s a darkness that curls at the center of the space a few feet away from you, undulating and crashing in on itself in an uncoordinated dance of chaos. It’s somehow darker than the darkness – stands out against it like white on black paint. It doesn’t make sense to you, and it could simply be your mind turning against you and scaring you further.

It slowly floats towards you, wraps around you in a languid, bored way, like smoke, no longer as tangible as it seemed before. You don’t feel it’s caress, but it’s cold, like you’d submerged yourself into a tub full of ice and water. You feel as though you’ll pass out, like the black wisps of strange smoke is filling your lungs and carving its way through. There’s fear, which is yours, and something that isn’t.

Something dark and lonely, desperate and afraid. It’s sad, so sad that you feel like you’ll drown in it, that tears would well in your eyes and squeeze your throat tight. There’s anger. It feels as though you can burn the world and revel in it.

The smoke snaps back and away from you, crumples on itself violently and then the lights are on, blinding you.

Hoseok is standing in front of you. There’s a mix of conflicted emotions on his face like he can’t settle on one before the storm in his eyes calm.

There’s a tenseness to his brow, and he studies you quietly with a tilt of his head.

“You’re awake.”

He takes one step forward and you take two back in turn. His eyes dart down to your feet and quickly back to your face, and draws the foot he put forward back to himself.

“I won’t hurt you.”

You scoff before you could help it, fear pushed slightly to the side as your anger rushes forward. “Right. Like I’ll believe that after you fucking drugged me.”

“Like I said, it was nothing your body couldn’t handle.” Hoseok counters calmly, “If I wanted to hurt you, you’d be dead.”

“Then why am I here? What do you want?” His threat didn’t go unheard, it settles into your mind and buries itself underneath everything else you’re trying to absorb for you to freak out about later.

Hoseok smiles, and its bright in its visage, every bit of sweet and caring as you thought him to be. Dimples you haven’t noticed before sinks into his laugh lines, and you think briefly, it makes him even more dangerous. He looks so harmless, as his smile blossoms and blooms into the heart shape you remember from the night before.

“Just you.” He says, eyes glinting with something you’ve decided is more than a little crazy.

You take another step back and he remains in his spot. If you’re quick enough – just enough – you can make it to the door. You might be able to outrun him.

“You can leave if you like.” He says, like he could tell what you’re thinking – or read your mind – and his smile fades, like a raincloud swelling and covering the warm rays of the sun. “Can’t guarantee you’d get very far, so I advise against it.”

You’re not sure if he’s being honest. Though, he looks pretty damn serious. He stares at you quietly, intensely, like he’s daring you to make that mistake. You hazard a look at the door behind you and the handle is still gone.

“What are you?” you ask, turning to face him and he’s directly in front of you. The startled squeak that leaves you makes him chuckle. Bending at his waist, Hoseok stares right into your eyes and you feel like your heart might just burst out of your chest and take off running.

Bunny in a fox’s burrow.

“Hm.” He hums, “Now you’re asking questions.” He straightens with a smile and steps aside, gesturing to the kitchen with a slight nod of his head. “I’ll tell you eventually. For now though, you should eat.”

You stay rooted to your spot and decide that if he wants you to move, he’s going to have to move you himself. He’s insane if he thinks you’d be eating anything he gives you.

“Come now, dove. Don’t be that way.” He sighs, stares at you for a moment later before nodding. He turns on his heel and walks into the kitchen without you.

There’re the soft clangs of him moving things around, doing whatever he’s doing in there.

“You’ve been unconscious for two days, and you’ve been sick. You shouldn’t be standing.” You hear him say from the kitchen, and you think you could make another attempt at the door but the handle is still missing, so you have no choice but to go.

You eye him suspiciously when you enter, watching as he butters a piece of toast and puts it on a plate. He doesn’t look at you as you hover unsurely at the dining table, watching the lights catch on the dark marble island counter.

“I won’t give you anything to drink. Get it yourself if you’re worried I’d try something.” He says softly, and not unkind. There’s a shift in his tone and the way his body moves as he brings the plate over. You feel like the man who was standing in front of you a couple of minutes ago in the hallway had hidden himself away and the man you’d met on the street had crawled his way back to the surface.

He sets it down on the table and walks back around the island, opposite from where you’re standing, and out of the kitchen.

You’ve been here for two days – whatever he’d given you must have been strong as hell – trapped here with...him. You’re certain you can’t call him a man, he’s something more than that and you won’t know until he tells you. Most of the memory of the night you came here are blurry and frayed at the edges, making them impossible to cling to and analyse.

There was something strange in the moments before the drug kicked in and right before you passed out. Something strange about Hoseok, but you can’t seem to recall it. It’s like it happened years ago.

The inconsistencies of your memory leave you on edge, and you eye the two slices of perfectly buttered toast on the plate. He’s given you something light enough that your stomach won’t be upset. As the thought comes to mind you faintly remember being sick at some point, but that too is fuzzy and you aren’t sure if its real. At least now the change of clothes makes sense, though, it doesn’t make you feel any better. He could’ve done anything to you while you were drugged and unconscious.

You wonder what he could possibly want with you. Why you, of all people? You’re just a girl who had everything taken from her and thrown off the ladder, now at rock bottom fending for yourself. There’s nothing left of you that could be given.

You feel Hoseok’s presence before you see him, a sort of odd pressure in the back of your mind and your chest. He pokes his head into the room like he’s checking to see if you’d started eating or not and doesn’t look surprised to see you’d left the toast untouched and you’re still standing.

“The toast is fine, you know.” He says, and there’s an understanding in his eyes when he looks at you. He knows you don’t trust him, though, he doesn’t seem too bothered by it. He sighs when you don’t make a move and comes into the kitchen. He takes the same route as before, walking around the opposite side of the island – away from you – until he’s standing at the other side of table.

“Okay.” He says, picking up one of the toast slices, he bites into it and stares at you while he chews. “Make something yourself then.”

You blink, “Huh?”

“The bread is in the fridge if you want. There’re oats if you prefer that instead. Stick to light things. I’d rather not be cleaning up after you.” You don’t understand him. In the short time you’ve known him, he’s like a square that’s trying to fit into a circle. The circle is too round to accommodate his sharp edges, but he somehow manages to get just half of the square through, even if the circle is struggling to contain it.

Not to mention the weird things that’s happened within the half hour you’ve been awake, things he’s yet to explain to you. Matter of fact, strange things has been happening since you left Abigail. The police officer, the fog, and whatever the hell was out there in it with you. You’re not even sure if that was real either.

You feel like if you focus on it, you’ll go crazy. So your mind does the only thing it can do to protect itself – pushes it away into a corner to mull over later along with everything else.

“I’d rather not.” You no longer feel the need to show him gratitude. You feel stupid, for one, why did you think trusting a random stranger would be a good thing?

Hoseok shrugs, dropping the half-eaten toast back onto the plate. He walks around you, close enough that the hairs on the back of your neck stands on end, that the warning bells are going crazy in your head again.

It’s uncomfortable being this close. The reaction is visceral, unable to ignore and you wonder why you hadn’t felt it the night before. Why you’d manage to follow him all the way here and not noticed. Maybe you had, briefly and in little moments that were small enough for you to brush them off.

You watch him watch you as he circles you like a vulture, “What are you?”

“Would you believe me if I said I was human?” He asks from behind you, and it feels like a terrible idea to have your back to him. He sounds amused, like this is nothing but a little game to him – just something to pass time while he’s bored.

As he rounds your right, your eyes meet the darkness of his. “You’re not.” It would be strange if you still thought he was after everything that’s happened already.

Hoseok hums, a twinkle lighting his eyes, “Perceptive, aren’t we?” There’s something like pride in his voice but you’re not sure what it’s for, “What do you think I am?”

“You expect me to guess correctly?” The difference in your height does nothing to stop you from glaring at him. He tilts his head at you, dark locks of his hair swaying against his forehead gently.

“No.” Hoseok smiles, “But it’ll make things interesting. I like games; play along.”

A shiver runs down your spine at his tone and the darkness in his eyes. He takes a step away from you and it feels like you can finally take a breath. His movements are fluid as he pulls the dining chair out from below the table. He sits gracefully, propping his chin in his palm as he watches you expectantly.

“Do you want a hint?” He asks, smiling sweetly.

“Why don’t you just tell me?” Your voice was barely above a whisper. You’re tired of whatever game he’s playing at, sick of the fear that keeps you standing still as he stares you down.

He stares at you like you’re a complex puzzle he’s trying to piece together. “I used to be an angel. Fallen from grace.”

You’d laugh at the absurdity of his words, but he has that look again. He has that look that makes you believe him, and everything seems to click into place and make sense, even if you barely understand it at all.

“Okay.” You nod, and then take a seat. You focus on the gentle waves of his dark hair and not his eyes, “Why am I here? Why can’t I leave?”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t. You can if you want to. I said that I can’t guarantee you’d get far; You weren’t alone out in that fog.”

You’d almost forgotten about that. Recent happenings had been enough to push it to the back of your mind. You knew you weren’t losing your mind that night, something had definitely chased you and you’re positive it wasn’t a regular animal.

“But that’s another topic.” Hoseok mumbles, more to himself than you, and it looks as though his thoughts strayed elsewhere for a moment before he focused. “You should be thanking me.” He says, tilting his head to meet your gaze with a smile.

He couldn’t be seriously wanting you to thank him. For what? Saving you? For all you know it could’ve been one of his tricks. Why would you thank him? He says that you could leave if you like – him messing with you since you woke up says otherwise. He’s not actually giving you a choice. You’re not going anywhere unless he lets you.

When you remain silent, he leans forward, pink tongue darting out to moisten his lips. “There’s nothing for you out there, though.”

You know he’s right. But that doesn’t justify what he’s doing. You assume he doesn’t care, if you were him, you wouldn’t feel the need to abide by law either.

You’d never been much for fantasy stories, growing up you were well aware that they were just that – stories. Your parents weren’t very religious, but you’d say grace before meals, pray before you go to sleep and when you woke up. Your parents would sometimes quote the bible when you were being naughty and every now and again you’d find yourself in a church for Sunday mas.

Your father used to say that the bible is a book of stories and lessons, and even if you aren’t to abide strictly by it, you should at least heed it. There’s someone up above, watching always.

The angels in the bible were described differently than the man before you, you think. Can angels really do things so bad that it gets them casted out?

Did he do something bad that got him sent here like some wayward child sent off to boot camp?

Even if a part of you is ever doubtful, his existence proves the existence of a higher being and you have some choice words for them.

In the days that go by, you remain wary of Hoseok. You don’t trust him, but you appreciate him letting you hover about him anytime he makes you something to eat. He makes everything from scratch and you wonder most of the time if it’s a skill he just has or was it something he had to hone on his own.

He barely bothers you, goes about his business, which really, entails him sitting in the living room and ignoring you.

Some days is another story entirely. You came to realise quickly that Hoseok is fond of games, usually at your expense. A shadow following you here, whispers that come from no where and bounces off the walls.

There are moments when you catch glimpses of something out of the corner of your eye – a figure lurking in the darkness, just beyond your line of sight. When you turn to look, there’s nothing there, leaving you to wonder if it was ever really there at all. You’ve seen shit at the corner of your vision way too many times for it to be a coincidence. You try to brush them off as tricks of the mind, but deep down, you know it’s not that simple.

Hoseok is always there when it happens, some sort of mirth in his eyes like your suffering is amusing.

The feeling of being watched becomes a constant presence, a weight on your shoulders that you can’t shake no matter how hard you try. Every time you turn around, you half expect to find Hoseok lurking in the shadows, a smug smirk playing on his lips as he revels in your discomfort.

For the first week it’s been this way, and when the second week started, he’d leave at one point during the day. Bored of you most likely, not that you’re complaining; at least he was no longer trying to send you crazy.

He’d give you the same instruction he did the night be brought you, use anything you need with additions of ‘Don’t cause trouble’ and ‘Stay put’. You always roll your eyes at that, the door remains the same; missing it’s handle. You couldn’t leave even if you wanted to.

You would stand in the living room, which looks much like the rest of Hoseok’s penthouse apartment; sleek and dark. There’s a few accents of white and red, black leather couches and clear glass tables. A flat screen TV you’ve never seen used mounted on the wall, a fluffy white rug covering the space between it and the couch. You’ve seen no other electronics besides that, nothing that you can use to contact anyone.

He’d left you things to occupy your time – like you’re a child – books and puzzles and what have you. And you found that the TV works if you become bored of the other things.

Weirdly enough, there’s people outside and below, unlike the night you came when it looked like a ghost town. You can see the glint of the sun bouncing off of shiny cars driving in and out of the hotel’s compound. Little people walking around as they go about their days, oblivious to your plight.

Sometimes you would hear someone out in the hallway beyond the door, like someone coming to clean and you would bang on the door and be as loud as you possibly could. It’s like you’re a ghost. You asked him about that once, and he told you that he can mimic spaces, make it seems as though something is or isn’t there.

Sometimes Hoseok would come back from his little excursions and be as normal as he could be. He’d talk to you like he isn’t holding you captive, ask you about what you did for the day as though there’s a million and one things you could do while there. You’d answer as to not be on the wrong side of him, even though it’s clear that he doesn’t quite mind you not saying anything back. He’d ask you what you’d like for dinner, and he’d eat with you.

On days like those it feels... normal. You feel comfortable and the nature of the situation escapes you. Like this had been your life for as long as you could remember. And sometimes you think, that maybe, if things were different. If perhaps he hadn’t kidnapped you, ‘helping’ you or otherwise. Maybe if your life had gone a little differently and you’d met him under different circumstances...then maybe.

Sometimes on those days he’d sit quietly as you give him little pieces of you; telling him about your childhood and not so important things. He’d clear the coffee table to put a puzzle together and ask you to help him with it.

Some days he’d come back and he wouldn’t be in a good mood. He’d stand and brood at the large windows looking out, lost in thought. On those days he’d look gone, vacant, as though whatever going on in his head was paramount to the reality around him. His eyes are sad then, and he’d be so quiet you’d forget he’s there. He’d make dinner, and he would not eat.

On days like those, if you wake at night and venture out of your room, you’d find Hoseok as you did the night you first woke up. A swirling ball of shadows and smoke somewhere about, and the lights are always off. It scares the hell out of you every time. It reminds you of what he is, despite the nature of his existence, there’s something very dark about him. He scares you mostly, even when he’s being nice, it’s unnerving. You’d try to stay clear of him then.

Something in your mind had been made aware that he is beyond your understanding. He’s stronger and faster than you, can do things that makes your brain grind to a halt trying to process. Sometimes it feels like he’s in your head, watching your every move and surveying your every thought. It scares you.

On days like those, the last thing you want to do is sleep.

Sleep evades you and when you do finally catch it, your dreams are wrought with nightmares of shadows and screams and blood. Sometimes Hoseok is there and he’s less kind than he’s ever been, and you’re lost in darkness and can’t find your way out.

Sometimes it’s a man with red hair lurking at the corners of them, smiling and taunting you. You feel like you could never escape them, like your dreams lasts the entire night and leave you exhausted when you wake up.

The room you woke up in so long ago was yours; Hoseok stays clear of it and never enters without knocking. One day Hoseok had brought you clothes you’re certain costs more than your life, they’re mostly comfort clothes as you have nowhere to be at no point in time. From sweaters to tee-shirts, lounge pants to bicycle shorts and an assortment of underwear that made you scowl at him.

That day you asked him just how long he was going to keep you captive – he didn’t much like the use of that word, prefers ‘keeping you safe’. He told you about the mysterious animal that chased you in the fog, that he and a friend are looking into it and reminds you that you wouldn’t get very far should you leave. You reminded him that he’s not letting you go anywhere.

You stare up at the ceiling, counting the swirling pattern from one corner to the next. You’ve lost count of them every time and you’ve lost count on just how long you’ve been here. Hoseok remains the same, fluctuating between rivalling the sun and being the moon that sometimes eclipse it.

It’s the morning of yet another day, and you can hear Hoseok moving about already. Sometimes you wonder if he ever sleeps...does he need sleep? He eats...that much is for certain, so by any rate he functions partially human.

You sigh softly, getting out of bed and shuffling your feet to the house slippers Hoseok gave to you. There’s the smell of breakfast coming from the kitchen, the sound of Hoseok moving about, and it sounds like he’s in a good mood if his humming is anything to go by.

You wash up for the morning and get changed before carrying yourself out to the kitchen.

Hoseok looks devastatingly domestic and the smile he directs at you is enough to send your mind haywire. These past few days has been confusing for you. Though the initial fear you felt for him was there, lately, it’s been less. You’ve found yourself missing him when he goes off to do whatever he does during the day and you’re excited when he comes back. You’re chalking up the reason for that being that he’s the only person you’ve been in contact with for possibly a month or two.

On some of the days where he would come back and be less than happy, and the lights go out like they’re scheduled to and Hoseok is no longer tangible. When he hovers in a little ball of controlled chaos that blends into the darkness, you sit and wait. You wait until he’s there again and the lights are back on and he looks at you like you’re something he’s lost.

It confuses you as much as his smile that sends your heart thrumming against your ribcage in a dance that isn’t out of fear. You actually can’t remember when you’d stopped being afraid of him.

“I’m going out today.”

Your brows furrow, he’s never told you that he’s leaving before. He brings over a breakfast of pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon and sliced fruit. A sealed carton of orange juice and a glass for you.

“Okay...?”

Hoseok smiles, “Okay.”

::

When lunch came around, you’re sitting at the island watching Hoseok prepare the ingredients for whatever he’s going to make.

You don’t really feel the need to watch him as closely as you did when you first got here, now you simply do it because there isn’t anything better to do.

He moves in the kitchen like it’s a dance, turning to and fro with a grace you could only hope to have.

He’s already got something on the stove, some sort of sauce you think. It smells amazing and you’re looking forward to whatever it could be.

He looks a bit in his head, brows furrowed as he concentrated a little too hard to just be cutting an onion into crescent slices. He mutters something under his breath, turning to stir the contents in the pot before going back at the onion.

“Hoseok?” You call softly as he sets the onion aside in a bowl and pulls something else onto the cutting board. For a moment you’re not sure if he’s heard you, with just the steady sound of the knife hitting the board, he hums, glancing at you. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yes.” You can tell he’s in one of his moods, but he’s actively trying to be pleasant. He fills a pot with water and sets it on the stove and then turns the oven on to heat up. “What is it?”

His tone isn’t harsh, just a tad bit impatient.

“Is cooking just something that you can do? Or did you have to learn?”

He turns, pauses, stares at you for a moment and then chuckles, “It’s a skill I acquired through a lot of trial and error. I had a long time to perfect it, though.”

“How long are we talking?” You’re a little intrigued, besides him telling you that he’s a fallen angel, he hasn’t told you exactly how he became one or how long he’s been here.

He tilts his head and smiles gently in the way he does when he’s thinking if he should answer you honestly or not before shrugging, “Long enough.”

You sigh, “Fine. Don’t tell me. You’re probably older than dirt anyway.”

A surprised laugh leaves him, high pitched and a little untamed. The sound is infectious and now you’re laughing too.

Happiness looks good on him, you wish he wore it often.

When it was about four in the afternoon, you hear the closing of Hoseok’s door and the sound of his footsteps walking up the hall.

You’re curled up against the corner of the couch, tucked under a yellow blanket with a book in your hand. You smell him before you see him; the cologne he’s wearing reaching the room before he does.

He steps in and stands near the entrance, the end of his coat brushing against his shins while he secures a watch to his wrist. His hair’s grown longer since he brought you here, curling against his jaw and the bangs are long enough to almost hide his eyes if not for the middle part. The rings on his fingers catch the light of the sun, and he finally settles, a serious look on his face as he watches you for a moment.

He seems to be contemplating something, the muscle of his jaw tensing as he grinds his teeth. He lifts a hand and crooks a finger at you.

Unwrapping yourself from the blanket, you walk over to him. He doesn’t say anything, but levels you with a look and guides you into the hallway with a hand at your back. “I’m leaving the door alone.”

The door is practically singing your freedom, the silver handle looks like a lighthouse at a stormy sea at night. Hoseok is looking down his nose at you when you finally tear your eyes away. His eyes narrow as though he can hear your thoughts and steps away from you.

“Don’t go anywhere.”

And you didn’t. You messed around with the TV, got bored, read another book, and decide to take a nap. Doing it all to ignore the door. You wouldn’t get very far. You really don’t want to know what Hoseok meant by that.

There isn’t anywhere you can go, you have nothing to your name. You get three square meals, clean clothes and a bed to sleep in when night comes – you think about Abigail, you wonder if she’s alright – you’d actually be quite dumb to go out there. Hoseok hasn’t done much but mentally exhaust you, you aren’t chained up in a dank room and being made to do things against your will. It’s actually quite pleasant.

You shuffle to your room and crawl under the covers, suddenly too sleepy to keep your eyes open. You would usually take naps when there’s nothing else for you to do, but you’re never this sleepy. It’s like your body is demanding you close your eyes and pass out right now.

You open your eyes a couple of minutes later and realise you didn’t know you fell asleep. It’s dark out already.

You throw the covers back, scoot to the edge of the bed, and put your feet right into water. You look down at it confused – did you leave a tap on? Hoseok would probably throw you out a window for flooding his place. Or maybe he’ll start up his silly mind games again and drive you nuts.

You’re not too concerned about it, strangely enough, as you get up, the water soaks into the legs of your pants. It’s high enough to lap against the middle of your shins and you curse softly, how could you forget to turn the tap off?

You swish through the water, reaching the door and pulling it open. The water is gone and you’re standing in the living room. Hoseok sits on the couch, one leg lapped over the other, bobbing idly as he turns the page of a thick book balanced on his thigh.

“Hoseok.” You sigh, “Stop it. I’m not in the mood for your stupid games.”

He turns his head slowly to look at you, crooks a finger like he did at you earlier. You stomp over to him, not caring that you probably look rather childish doing so. When you stop in front of him, he gently puts the book aside and then wraps his fingers around your wrist.

Your pulse flutters and you pray that he can’t feel it. A soft squeak leaving you as he tugs you to him, you fumble to catch yourself, trying not to trip over your feet and the carpet. Your hand lands beside his head, sinking into the leather, his eyes meet yours through his hair, and when he pulls you down, you follow without question.

He settles you in his lap, one hand gripping your waist and the other snaking upward to bury itself into your hair. He leans forward, nosing along the underside of your jaw and when the warmth of his tongue streaks against your pulse, a shiver races down your spine before you catch yourself. You push against his shoulder, “Hoseok.”

His chuckle sounds dark to your ears, his grip on your waist tightens enough that you fear you’d bruise. His teeth drag against your earlobe and yours sink into your bottom lip. “Don’t act like this isn’t what you want.”

His words wrap around your head, burying themselves under your skin and makes home there. The hand in your hair slowly slides out of it, moving down until it’s wrapped around your throat. His thumb presses against your racing pulse, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “You want me to break you.”

It’s a moment of bliss, warmth spreading through you before it instantly chills. It’s all fun and games until he’s actually trying to choke you out. Your breaths come in shallow gasps as Hoseok’s grip tightens around your throat, squeezing the air from your lungs. Panic surges through you, and for a moment, you’re certain you’ll pass out from lack of oxygen.

He’s going to kill you.

Desperate, you claw at his hands, trying to pry them away, but his strength overwhelms you. Your struggles intensify as you realize the danger you’re in.

He stands swiftly and lets you go, and you crash unceremoniously into the glass coffee table, nearly breaking your wrist trying to catch your weight. You cough and gasp, clutching at your throat that burns with every breath you take. Your eyes sting with tears as you scramble to put distance between you and him.

He watches you, amused, taking slow steps towards you. He laughs, the sound echoing off the walls and you realise – there’s nowhere to run.

You look up at him, and you’re now facing the windows. The LEDs that line the perimeter of them are glowing a sinister red and they’re the only source of light. There’s something slick under your palms, something you slide in as you try to get up. Inspecting it in the lighting does nothing, as it simply looks dark against your skin, but, there’s no mistaking the scent of copper.

Gazing around, you’re sitting in a pool of blood. Hoseok is nowhere to be found. The pool stretches off like something was dragged through it, going out the living room and down the hall.

You follow it, against your better judgement. This is the worst trick he’s ever played.

Your pants stick to your skin uncomfortably, and you wipe your hands hurriedly against the front of them. It doesn’t do much but spread the mess of blood around. The trail leads into your bedroom, and you stand outside the slightly ajar door with your heart pounding against your ribs.

Raising a hand, you push the door open, but plan to go no further than the threshold. The lights are on, dimly, it doesn’t give you much vision, but you could see Hoseok standing over someone.

It’s you, well...it was you. You’re not sure if you could call that you anymore. Limbs twisted in unnatural angles, sharp ends of bone sticking out from your bruised skin.

You stumble backwards, slipping in the still wet trail of blood and falling against the door behind you. Tears blur your vision, you feel sick.

“You see?” a voice whispers, echoing and bouncing around in your head. “This is what will happen.”

There’s someone else here.

“He’ll kill you.” The voice snickers, crawling along your skin like poison ivy. “Run. Get out.”

You startle awake, gasping for air, searching your body for any sign of blood. The sun is almost setting, preparing to make its descent in the west and you dart out of bed. Your skin feels tight, like you’re too big for it and it makes you uncomfortable. Your breaths are harsh barely making it into your lungs before you’re forcing it out again.

You make for the door, yanking it open and running down the hall. You didn’t stop to think, you just want out. You push the entrance door and it opens and you stumble out into the hallway you haven’t seen in ages.

You run up to the elevator, the overhead floor indicator is blank. And the elevator doesn’t budge when you push the button frantically. Hands caught in your hair you spin around, there must be a way.

The green exit sign glows like a beacon of hope. You trip over your feet getting to it, almost face planting on the expensive rug that lines the hallway. The door opens with a click and your footsteps echo in the stairwell as you take them two at a time to get as far away from this place as possible.

You don’t stop until you’re three flights down, breath ragged and vision spotty. You lean against the wall to catch your breath, panting and wiping the sweat off your brow.

There’s a loud bang that echoes from somewhere below and you freeze. Taking careful steps you peek between the railings and see nothing.

It might be Hoseok.

Or, it could be someone else in the building and your only hope of getting out of here.

“Hello? Is someone ther—” There’s another loud bang, and you take a couple steps down the fourth flight and look over the railing again. A thick fog swirls just a floor below.

The hair on the back of your neck shoots up at the low growl that dances up the stairwell. You nearly go tumbling down it in your haste to turn around and go back up.

As you turn to go back up the third flight, the fog surrounds you and you stop as it becomes impossible to see. You grip tightly to the stair railing, tentatively stepping up – You’re trying not to breathe too loudly.

There’s something scraping against the ground on the stairs below and your heart kicks. You step faster, at the same time trying not to trip and break your neck. There’s a low snarl and you bolt, taking the stair two at a time back up the way you came.

The floor vibrates beneath you as whatever it is gives chase. You make it up to the first landing, pulling the exit door open with a grunt. You’re just about to step through when what feels like three hot butcher knives slices through your back. The force of it sends you pitching forward, smacking hard into the wall on the opposite side before you crumple against it.

You could barely feel it, you’re aware you’re hurt...you could feel the pulsing, open wounds at your back. Your mind is trying to process as you struggle to move, taking a breath aches as you push yourself upward and away from the wall just enough to turn. You don’t manage much more than that, sliding down the wall until your butt hits the pretty red carpet.

The metal door of the emergency exit swings open harshly, banging loudly against the wall before it leans forward; one of the hinges broken. The thing that stands in the doorway looks like it crawled out of some deep, dark part of hell. It’s standing on it’s hind legs before it drops forward, claws that look at least nine inches long scraping against the linoleum.

It looks like a giant dog, honestly. It’s hard to tell when all you could focus on was that you could feel your heartbeat at your back, and the slick warmth soaking into your ruined sweater and pants. Shock maybe...or adrenaline, was keeping most of the pain at bay, you’re pretty sure you’d be dead otherwise right now.

With a guttural growl, the creature emerges, its form contorted and twisted, as if it were forged from the very essence of nightmares.

Its body is a grotesque fusion of twisted flesh and sinew, its skin a sickly shade of mottled grey, stretched taut over bulging muscles that ripple with every movement. Sharp spikes protrude from its spine, glinting menacingly in the dim light, while its black eyes burn with a fiery intensity that seems to pierce through your very soul.

The creature's mouth curls into a snarl, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth stained with blood. Its breath is a noxious cloud of decay and sulphur, filling the air with a suffocating stench that makes your stomach churn.

As it lurches forward on all fours, its movements are unnaturally fluid, each step sending tremors through the ground beneath you. It’s trying to squeeze its way through the small space of the doorway, too big to pass through, and you could do nothing but watch.

Your vision goes hazy as you simply stare at the creature.

The adrenaline is fading and you’re starting to feel your wounds, but maybe if you could crawl towards the door...

At six pm on a Friday evening, Hoseok isn’t at all surprised to see the line of people waiting to get into the club. It’s still a long way to opening, but with the prestige of this place, again, he isn’t surprised.

He was with Yoongi when he bought the place, watched him build it from the ground up. Watched his taste for the interior bounce around erratically until he settled, as the clientele flickered from the common club goer to people – if they had enough money – buying their way in.

Haegeum is on the high-end of the city, the type of place where you’d wonder if folks had enough money to burn just because. Yoongi doesn’t discriminate and all are welcomed.

The queue is a mix of people: folks dressed to the nines just to step a foot in the place, those of which would most likely be sitting pretty in the VIP section. People just looking for a place to escape to for a while, teenagers holding tight to their fake Ids and clinging to their friends. They mingle in groups or alone, their chatter filling the air with a soft buzz of voices and hushed giggles.

Hoseok takes everything in with an air of nonchalance as he strolls by.

The bouncer at the heavy black door stands stoically, clipboard in hand for VIP clients. Hoseok breezes past him when he opens the door to let him in, stepping into the entrance foyer, illuminated by dim red lights. He walks down the hall, and down the dark metal staircase into the main floor of the club.

The above head white florescent lights do nothing to take away from the grandeur of the club, though, Hoseok likes it better when it’s late and the lights are off. The main floor is usually accented in lights of blue and red, casting shadows streaking along the sitting area. Embedded into the walls are velvet couches that flow with the design in a sort of snake like shape, a short-legged coffee table and single seated chairs dotted between every inward curve. There’s a wide enough walkway for two people walking side by side to pass, a partition of glass, and on the other side of it, black leather couches and even more glass coffee tables.

 The walls are interesting, and Hoseok thinks this because he doesn’t know why Yoongi likes it so much. In large arched alcoves sits head statues of Greek gods of mortal tales, staring lifelessly into the distance, bathed in dark blue light. Between every two are columns that resembles those of a temple, and smooth grey stone. Hoseok honestly doesn’t know which vibe Yoongi is going for, not that he’d say it to his face.

He walks down the little walkway, down another set of stairs and across the dance floor. The bar is tucked in a corner, glasses being wiped by one of Yoongi’s employees behind it. Hoseok offers the man a nod of his head, moving towards the staircase that curves with the wall and upwards.

Yoongi’s office veers just off the VIP lounge, set behind large mahogany doors. And Hoseok doesn’t bother knocking. The room looks pretty much the same as it’s always had: dark walls with darker patterns, a maroon carpet lining the floor, abstract paintings hanging on the walls that allude to a darker nature, and in the far corner on the wall between two paintings is a golden blade dagger behind a mounted glass case.

“...Pick your side, kid. It’s either you’re with me, or against me.” Yoongi’s voice is cold, not angry per se, but reeking in annoyance that chills rather than burns. “And trust me when I say that you don’t want me as your enemy. I don’t play nice.”

There’s a young man standing in front of Yoongi’s large desk, his hands behind his back where one hand squeezes the other in bouts of nervous jitter. There are bruises on his knuckles, and even from behind, Hoseok could tell that he’s trying to fit into a crowd that doesn’t suit him. Haegeum isn’t just a club but a base of operations so to speak, in the middle of this high-end city, its easy for Yoongi to wrack up a certain clientele. People who seek a different ease of mind and has a different lifestyle.

Hoseok leans against the door, watching the scene play out, as the young man bows slightly and Yoongi waves his hand at him.

“Keep shadowing Seonghwa and Hongjoong for the week, and I don’t want any trouble this time.” He says dismissively, and the boy turns to leave. As Hoseok catches his eye, something akin to a bolt of lightening shoots down his spine. It isn’t noticeable to the more ordinary folk, but Hoseok isn’t ordinary, and neither are Yoongi and the rest of his boys. 

The air crackles with static, raw, untrained power that itches Hoseok the wrong way. The boy stands there clearly a moment too long, and Yoongi’s knuckles raps against the table top. “Yeonjun.”

Yeonjun gives a soft apology, and quickly walks towards the door. Hoseok opens it for him, not out of kindness, but purely to give him a long unbroken stare. He smiles as the boy struggles to hold his gaze, even as the hair on the back of his neck stands on end at his proximity.

When he shuts the door behind him, Yoongi is already watching him with a raised brow. Hoseok wanders over to the leather armchair at the front of Yoongi’s desk and sits, shifting around until he’s comfortable in it. “I thought they were a myth.”

“Obviously they’re not.” Yoongi mutters, shaking his head as he sieves through a stack of papers scattered on his desk before he finds what he’s looking for. “Kid wanted in, so I let him. More trouble than it’s worth, honestly. But, the Nephilim are stronger than the order, so I gave it a shot.”

Hoseok hums, and Yoongi seems to catch himself, narrowing his eyes at him. The scar that runs through his right eye looks pink and irritated in the motion and the overhead lights. “What are you doing here?”

“What? I can’t visit?”

If Yoongi narrows his eyes any more, he’d close them, “I think you know better than anyone that you’re never here.” He says, “You’re absent more often than not, so I have the right to ask. Did you do something? I’m not cleaning up any more of your messes.”

Yoongi pushes back his chair, walking across the room to the mini bar he has tucked in the corner. He pulls a glass from the cabinet and pours himself a glass of whisky from a long necked crystalline bottle. He takes a sip and turns leaning against the bar’s edge. “Last time was enough trouble.”

“You’d clean it up anyways.” Hoseok says, leaning his head back against the chair, tilting his head to look at Yoongi. “I found something fun to do.”

Yoongi stares at him for a moment, quiet, contemplative, “Causing a different type of trouble, I see.” He chuckles, “Don’t break her.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Hoseok smirks, and then frowns a little. With all Yoongi’s prowess and danger, he’s gone a little soft around the edges, and he could see that softness in his eyes as he looks off into the distance. Surely thinking about the mortal girl that has him wrapped around her little fingers like bubble gum.

“You’ll learn.” Yoongi says cryptically, and it reminds Hoseok that he’s never really sure what Yoongi is thinking. Sometimes he’s an open book and Hoseok could read him like one, easy to figure out in the way that he moves, and sometimes he’s sealed tight.

Yoongi drains his glass of whisky, setting it down with a clink on the bar top before walking back over to his desk. “Since you’re here...” He opens a drawer and pulls out a thick black file, “Give this to Seonghwa.”

Hoseok takes the file and opens it, reading over the contents. There’s a man on Yoongi’s black list that’s due a checking in. “You let him and Joong have all the fun.”

“You’re too messy.” Yoongi retorts, “I said I’m not cleaning up after you.”

Hoseok shrugs, and gets up, skirting around the back of the chair and walking towards the door.

“Hobi.” Yoongi calls, “I don’t have to remind you that there’s a meeting at the end of the month, right?”

“I’ll be here.” Hoseok says, as the look in Yoongi’s eyes gave no room to say anything else.

He leaves the office, closing the door behind him with a quiet click and lets the tension roll off his shoulders. He goes back the way he came, black file in hand, towards the VIP section where he knows Seonghwa would be lurking. He walks down the little walkway, through the identical couches and tables on raised platforms that overlook the main floor of the club.

At the end, there’s a small section of booths, black velvet and low lit, and standing with his back to him is Hongjoong. He seems to be busy, twin pistols in pieces on the booth’s table, cleaning supplies set up neatly in a little row. Hoseok saunters over, and throws his arm over the man’s shoulders.

Hongjoong doesn’t spare him a glance but sighs softly through his nose. “I’m busy, Hoseok.”

“Where’s your shadow?” Hoseok asks, and waves the file at him, “Yoongi has work for you two.”

“When doesn’t Yoongi have work for us.” Hongjoong slides away from under Hoseok’s arm, sitting down in the booth to avoid him all together. There’s a dull glint of light as the fixtures catch on the gold diamond studded crucifix that swings against the white of Hongjoong’s tee-shirt.

Hoseok clicks his tongue against his teeth, “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

The dark bangs of his hair, which are usually styled away from his forehead, falls into his eyes when he glances upward at Hoseok. He picks up the cleaning solvent and pours a bit of it into the cap before dropping a cotton patch in to let it soak, then, he wraps the patch around the bristles of a small bore brush.

“Seonghwa isn’t here, he’s out back.” Hongjoong picks up the dismantled gun barrel, sliding the bore brush through until the now dirty cotton patch pokes out from the other end. The scent of the solvent burns Hoseok’s nose, and he leaves Hongjoong be, going back down to the main floor and through the emergency exit. The exit sits in the middle of an alleyway that connects two streets, and Hoseok catches sight of Seonghwa’s faux fur coat on one end.

Smoke curls away from his form with a light wind and brings the scent of a cigarette as Hoseok walks with quiet steps towards him. He’s laughing at something, phone in hand, and Hoseok drops his hand heavily on his shoulder and feels the way he immediately tenses.

“I’ve told you one too many times, Seonghwa.” Hoseok says, stepping to the side and around him, “Always be on your guard.”

There’s a glint in the way that he sneers, pulling away from Hoseok’s grip. He takes a couple steps back, watching Hoseok as though he spat at his feet.

“Aw, don’t look at me like that. Makes me all tingly.” Hoseok teases mockingly with a smile, and then offers the file to him. “Here.”

Seonghwa shoves his phone into the pocket of his coat, taking the file and looking through it. He takes one last drag of the cigarette between his fingers before tossing it. He raises a perfect brow at Hoseok and tilts his head, something like amusement in his eyes. “You don’t show up for weeks, and now you’re just Yoongi’s errand boy.”

Hoseok chuckles and it’s dark, low in his throat. “Seonghwa.” He takes a step closer, “Don’t forget your place.”

It’s irritating how Seonghwa doesn’t back down, the way he looks at Hoseok as though he’s beneath him. He stands tall and proud with his chest puffed out like a peacock, and Hoseok knows he’s about to say something stupid without using that brain of his first.

“Don’t act like we’re not in the same boat.” Seonghwa scoffs, and even before he opens his mouth, Hoseok could see the thought in his eyes, glowing like an ember in the dark. He sees the minute curl at the corner of his mouth and the glow of the street light that catches on the pretty studded silver of his teeth. “You got your ward killed, and killed the man that killed her. There’s no hierarchy among murderers.”

Hoseok takes a breath, and he feels the heat rising from the tips of his toes. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the images he’s locked away floods out of the steel box he’s put them in. The little girl he’d been guardian to, her short, miserable and painful life. Found end at the hands of someone she had the misfortune of being born to. It was too late – he was too late, when he’d found her. And just like then, Hoseok sees red.

Warm, gushing red that spill into the creases of his fingers when he swings his fist at Seonghwa’s face. The black file and the papers within scatter on the wind.

Hoseok doesn’t let the surprise and force send the younger man stumbling back too far, and grabs hold of the front of his coat, curling his fingers into the material tightly. He kicks at his knee, and when he’s forced to kneel, Hoseok leans down to his height.

“You talk a lot of shit for someone who lost his wings for something so trivial; your sin and mine are two different things.” Hoseok sneers, and he’s so mad he could set Seonghwa on fire and watch him dance. “But I can remind you exactly why Yoongi doesn’t bother to have me involved.”

Someone pulls Seonghwa back, dragging him up to his feet. “The fuck are you two doing?”

There’s a tick in Seonghwa’s jaw that doesn’t go unnoticed and his eyes stay locked with Hoseok as he straightens. He should think twice, Hoseok knows he knows better.

Hongjoong shoves at Seonghwa’s shoulder, “Go pick that shit up.”

Yeonjun stands at the open doorway of the emergency exit, watching with wide eyes, looking like he’s halfway to backing out on his choice to get into Yoongi’s ranks. Hongjoong eyes Hoseok warily, glancing over his shoulder to make sure that Seonghwa was doing as told.

Hoseok’s gaze burns a hole into the back of Seonghwa’s head as he moves around to pick up the scattered papers while Hongjoong stands like a watchdog.

Hoseok shoves his hands into the pockets of his black coat, tilting his head back to stare at the sky. “You boys be good, now.” He says in parting, turning on his heel and walking out of the alley.

“What the fuck did you say to him?...”

Hoseok walks up the street, through the throngs of people still waiting to get into Haegeum. His phone vibrates in his coat pocket, with a sigh he pulls it out and answers.

“Yes, Cheol?”

“Hey, remember when you asked me to tell you when I’ve seen that weird fog?” Seungcheol sounds distracted, there’s a sharp sound from his end that has Hoseok pulling the phone away from his ear with a wince. He says something to someone else, voice too far away for Hoseok to catch, before he speaks again. “Couple of nights ago, it was in my area. Whatever’s in it is pretty good at hiding. It’s not the only thing in it either.”

Hoseok crosses the street, going in the opposite direction of which he came from. The people that line the sidewalk give him a wide berth as he weaves through them; unconsciously reacting to him being near.

“Didn’t see much of the guy, some twinky-looking redhead.” Cheol sighs, “I think the fog is like a domain. If you get lost in it, it’s like there’s no-one in there but you. Like a mirror realm.”

‘They who fight monsters should be careful, lest they become a monster themselves.  And if you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.’

What defines a monster? Something that goes beyond human comprehension, something that stands outside the bounds of what is morally accepted. Something that a person fails to understand and is therefore scared by. Something that make stories entertaining because they’re meant to be defeated in the end. They’re meant to be slain and mounted like trophies, pinned up for grotesque display of heroism.

What defines a creature that goes beyond human comprehension? White coloured morals and the freedom to help in the way it needed. He stopped being what he was created to be, and instead became something that someone needed the most. He did everything right. He had his head in the right place, he was determined to see it through to the end.

He was a little too late.

Over the years, Hoseok could no longer recall just how late he was. If it was by seconds or minutes, or an hour by a half. When he was finally strong enough to move, he traced the memory of a place he’d seen for years, all the way to a house where his charge waited inside.

She was always afraid. Alone, trapped with a monster of man’s making. A child he’s watched since the moment of her birth, watched her grow to be afraid and the light never reach her. By the laws of his nature he was forced to do nothing.

He was restricted to assisting in the only way he could. He couldn’t shield her physically, so he instead manipulated the monster in her closet. He made sure that his mind was changed, that he didn’t swing his claws as fiercely, that he slept deeply so that the child can have a night of rest.

He started to question, as he watched the monster that called himself a father, prey upon what he was meant to protect.

What’s the point? Is he not allowed to stop this? Why can’t he stop this? He could stop it because he has the power to do so.

The ideology was shared by another, and together, hubris.

Hoseok fell with pride; he fell with the intention to seek his ward out and help her. Even if he had no idea what was to come afterwards. Stripped of his grace and the feathers of his wings burned away, it didn’t matter to him.

He went as quickly as his wounds allowed, which in retrospect, wasn’t quickly enough. She was only six. An awfully short time to the likes of him, even shorter to mortals, not enough time to live and laugh – she wasn’t allowed to even do that. He’d stood there, in the broken doorway of a broken home and watched as the monster of his ward’s nightmare became a man before him. Hoseok’s vision had tunnelled and in the centre was the broken body of the child he’d sworn to protect.

When the shadows on the walls grew tall and Hoseok’s mind closed in on itself and allowed those shadows to encase him, the man cried. He pleaded on his knees at the sight of his reckoning, begged for mercy when he gave none.

Then, Hoseok shattered. Scattered like tiny specs of dust floating on the wind, and under the heat and pressure of his own realisations, he turned into glass. With his sharp edges he cut into the man and reveled in it. The sounds of his pleas like the gentle strum of a harp’s string, and the warmth of his blood was a bath Hoseok sunk into.

What he was, was something that was no longer needed, and with his hands covered in blood and gore and mess he held tight to his reasons for being and cried for her. He became something else that only protected himself. While he locked everything away and allowed the shadows to stay. The light he’s trapped struggles to glow, to breathe, and some days Hoseok wants to snuff it out for good, to become the shadows he plays in.

He wouldn’t allow himself to reach that point, though. He still has a sense of himself, however skewed.

He owes Yoongi a lot, his partner in crime that he would follow to the ends of the earth. He never turned his back on him even as Hoseok changed to suit his troubles.

Hoseok remembers Yoongi standing at the doorway, catching up much later than he had. He stayed there quietly while Hoseok mourned the death of his ward and his tears made tracks in the blood that coated him.

Hoseok buried her away from her cursed home, far away and as deep as the roots of an old oak runs and salt floats on the air. Wild flowers bloom there, giving her the beauty in death she wasn’t allowed in life.

His chest aches as he stands there now. Under the shade of the oak tree where little speckles of the setting orange sun spills through leaves and dances along the space that he occupies. There’s a crinkle of plastic and Hoseok stares at the small bouquet in his grip. He chose every flower that reminded him of her: daises and lavender, lilies and snapdragons.

He lays it gently on the patch of grass that’s long grown over between two large protruding roots, mutters the same apology he does every time he comes by, and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his coat as he straightens.

He’s sorry he wasn’t there in time.

He wished she was given a chance, and wondered if her death was his punishment. He wonders what it would’ve been like to watch her grow, safe and happy. What her favourite flower would’ve been, if she would’ve valued the little things. He would’ve given her everything – pulled the moon from the sky if she so desired it. He would’ve taken the stars and put them in her little hands for her to watch them shine.

He wonders if it would’ve been better had he waited a little longer. That maybe the slightest change would’ve brought about a different outcome.

Hoseok sighs, turns his head to watch the sun set, dragged behind the ocean’s edge far off in the distance. Something at the back of his mind wiggles and tugs. He knows something’s wrong and he’s in no mood to deal with it.

You’re dying...you think. Your hand slides against the floor and it takes a moment to realise it’s your blood you’re slipping in. You can barely feel the rest of your body, adrenaline pumping your blood out of the wounds at your back. The doors of the elevator doubles and swarms in your vision.

You see them open but it’s so hard to focus. Hoseok steps out and walks slowly to you, you can’t see his expression, but you faintly hear the long, drawn-out sigh he releases. Your eyes focus on the darkness that surrounds him, the way it curls like smoke. The shadows at his back are clearer to you than they’ve ever been – wings. Dark plumage that glitters with something silver in the light, the feathers are long, long enough that they drag behind his steps. If he were to unfold them they would easily span to the ends of the hallway.

He hardly gives you a glance, stopping in front of you. You can’t see the creature now – blocked by Hoseok’s wings – but you hear it growl, and the scraping of it’s claws against the floor. Something glints in his hand against the flickering lights, a short sword that looks like it was dipped in gold from the hilt and it ran down the edges of the blade.

He’s a blur as he moves and your tired eyes can barely keep up with him, if it weren’t for the small space and shadows his wings casted you would’ve lost sight of him completely. 

The creature snarls and lashes out with its razor-sharp claws, but Hoseok is already one step ahead, dodging with effortless grace. He moves with a speed and agility that seems impossible in the space he occupies, closing in on the creature that growls and snarls at him. It’s forced to dislodge itself from the doorway, pulling back into the stairwell that gives it even less room to defend.

Hoseok’s wings fold tightly to his back as he follows, and you could only hear the sound of his weapon sliding through the air, the sound of the blade whistling and the increasingly irritated sounds from the creature. Hoseok ducks under a swiped claw, makes a spin on his knee, and switches the hands that holds his blade. It slices through the creature’s gigantic paw like it’s made of something soft, and through the other as it comes back down. The severed limb drops heavily on the ground before it dissolves into ashes and float upward.

The sound it makes grate on your ears, loud and sharp and you can’t bring your hands up to cover them, something warm trickles out of each.

Without it’s two front legs to support it’s weight, the creature drops forward, and Hoseok grabs hold of the first spike at the top of its head. With a flick of his wrist his weapon spins in his palm and he points the blade right between the creature’s eyes and pushes.

Golden light flashes, nearly blinding you on top of everything else, you can just barely hear the cry it makes this time as it writhes in agony. It’s monstrous form twists and contorts before finally collapsing to the ground in a heap.

Hoseok stands over the fallen beast, his weapon clenched tightly in his hand, watching intently as it’s body dissipates like ash from a fire.

With a satisfied nod, Hoseok sheaths his weapon and it vanishes, and then turns his attention back to you, his expression a mixture of something. You can’t tell, everything seems so dark and it’s hard to breathe. He approaches you slowly, his movements cautious as he assesses the extent of your injuries.

Hoseok crouches and you slowly look up at him, he tilts his head and clicks his tongue against his teeth.

“I told you not to go anywhere, little dove.” He says softly, calmly, as though he’s telling you about his day and you’re not bleeding out in his hallway. “You’re so troublesome.”

You try to respond, but the words stick in your throat, drowned out by the rush of blood and the overwhelming sense of impending darkness. Hoseok’s presence feels both comforting and ominous, his wings casting elongated shadows that dance across the walls. You try to focus on his face, to find some semblance of reassurance in his eyes, but all you see is a blur of shadows and flickering light.

“I’m sorry,” you manage to choke out, your voice barely audible above the sound of your own laboured breathing.

Hoseok’s expression softens slightly, a hint of concern flickering in his eyes. He reaches out a hand to gently brush the hair from your forehead, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the underlying tension in the air.

“Jesus...” Another voice says, the sound of footsteps hurrying close and the last thing you see is the shift of the hallway.

The night he found you out in the fog wasn’t the first time Hoseok had seen you.

By now, it would’ve been at least three months ago. You were alone, pacing around like a worried mother on a bridge over your perceived peace – had you decided to take it.

Human lives were no longer any concern to him; no consequence. He and his kind were here before and would be long after your kind has crumbled to dust and returned to the earth. He stopped then, and watched you contemplate the height of the bridge and the chill of the water below it; whether or not you’ll receive the mercy you seek. You’d cried for a long time on that bridge.

Hoseok is many things, but cruel is not one of them. He changed your mind and sent you away into the arms of someone that would care.

Hoseok has many contradictions. The darkness that he allowed entry fights the light, beating it into a corner where it cowers on most days. On those days he’s distant and struggling to contain it, he could taste malice on his tongue and the bitterness of it. The steel walls he painstakingly built with bloody and broken fingers are nothing more than barbwire fences; they do nothing to protect the glass figurines that make him whole.

Sometimes the glass are shards, sharp and unforgiving and willing to cut anything that gets too close. Sometimes they’re splintered panes and Hoseok is cutting his fingers to keep them in place. He curls in on himself, draws himself away, pushes everything outside his barbwire fence and tries to reinforce the walls. The darkness that swirls outside it seeps in and he can’t keep it out so he lets it fester and churn and he becomes intangible.

You weren’t there, and then, at some point, you were.

Sometimes...

Sometimes he’s standing in a grass field full of wild daises and the sun is warm and there’s salt in the air. The light peeks through the leaves of an old oak tree, and there’s a little girl who’s placed her life in his hands, who skitters about in the  grass like something wild and free. She glows in her happiness, and nature stains her hands and the bottom of her white dress. She makes faces at him behind the trunk of the tree, smiles and hold his hands and tell him that it’s okay. It wasn’t his fault and he’s forgiven, he could let it go and be.

On those days, Hoseok feels like a still pool of water. The ones with lily pads and life, and everything’s alright. You’re always there then.

Hoseok knows of the fragility of humans. How easily they could shatter and break and suddenly be no more. He was something once, and then he became something else, and sometimes it’s hard to not be what he is. His darker nature prevails, and he doesn’t do much to stop it. Sure, sometimes he’s done things simply because he’s feeling particularly malicious and thinks that everyone should suffer – it’s almost always harmless.

He has a sense of himself, he knows when to stop, when things are taken too far and you can’t take much more of it. You eventually learnt to take it in stride and Hoseok was proud of that, though, a part of him thought it wasn’t nearly as fun anymore.

He would walk your dreams some nights when he was bored and had nothing better to entertain himself, his presence would sometimes bring his darkness and your dreams would not be as pleasant. He tried to walk through them less often.

When you were jumping at every little sound, the silence that Hoseok moves with and the way you’re less of yourself some days – he realised something. Not every nightmare was his doing, and the whispers in the walls of your dreams spoke of something else entirely.

The far, fuzzy edges of your vivid dreams where he’s reminded of things he’s tried very hard to lock away, lurks something red and more sinister than he.

He’s every reason to believe that hellspawn didn’t find it’s way here on accident, and for it to go undetected until the very last moment. It bothers him like nothing else has.

Though you lay peaceful now and Seungcheol had left after doing what he does best, the unease lingers in bouts under Hoseok’s skin, skittering about like electricity on a wire. His feelings where you’re concerned contradicts each other. Like oil on water he’s stuck in between wanting you close and keeping you at arm’s length. He likes when you’re near, but he likes when you’re far. A consequence of his nature, he toes the line of something sinister and could get dangerous and down right evil if he doesn’t reign himself in.

At a point he wasn’t quite sure what to do with you. He was just as confused on why he stopped you from ending your own life that night on the bridge and why he took you in that night in the fog. At first, he was just as wary of you as you were of him, despite the way he acted. He can’t help what he is.

On the days where he feels like splintered glass and he’s choking on his despair, you’d waited. You were there until the smoke cleared and your quiet presence helped put the glass back up and straighten out the posts in his fence.

He told Yoongi, there’s no fun in not breaking you. Yoongi said that he’d learn.

He can’t help what he is.

He could try, though.

He doesn’t want to break you, it’s a matter of cause and effect. You’re here with him, evidently, you’d be broken regardless. The most he could do is try. He could try to not be the straw, and try to not let outside forces become it.

He cares. He cares so much that sometimes he could taste it on his tongue. He cares that you smile when he’s earned it, that you eat well, that you greet him like a friend and then somewhere along get shy when you do. He cares if you live or die.

Hoseok squeezes his eyes shut, opening them to blink away the image of you, helplessly laying in a pool of your own blood.

Fear. He’s has only felt it once, the fear that you would die and he would’ve failed again to protect someone.

He sips slowly at his glass of whisky, drinking in the sight of you. He thought you were smart enough to listen to him at least, trusted that you would stay out until he got back. Perhaps it was his mistake, but he wonders, and he ponders as you give a minute twitch in your sleep. Your eyebrows draw together and you murmur something unintelligible.

Hoseok sets his tumbler on your bedside drawer and pulls his chair closer. This is something he could easily do from another room, though, for what he’s about to do he would need to be touching you in some capacity.

Your dream had started off vividly, as most of your dreams have since you came here. Hoseok stands just in the corner of it, watching you wake within your dream and put your feet down into water.

He walks along the edge of it, watching it play out like a simulation, following behind you as you make your way down the hall towards the living room. He’s there and Hoseok isn’t surprised – it’s not the first time you’ve dreamt him.

He watches as your dreamscape version of him pull you into his lap and he feels a little offended and rolls his eyes – he didn’t even try to make it look sexy. Is this what you think of him? He isn’t half as tactless. Seduction takes finesse, and you clearly have no idea what that is.

Hoseok turns, gazing at the darkened edges of your dream.

There’s a shift and he feels it. It’s heavy like a wet blanket and seeps in like mist, and your dream changes accordingly.

He knows this feeling too well – the intrusion of an external force manipulating the dream, it’s faint enough that he knows it wasn’t in his apartment or anywhere nearby, but strong enough to reach so far.

Hoseok hovers hesitantly between the doorway of the living room and the hallway, and closes his eyes against the image of him hurting you.

He follows you as you follow blood, and he wishes you weren’t so frightened. He stays close to you, stepping where you’ve stepped as though he could protect you from something that’s already occurred. You push the door to your bedroom open and he wants to stop you, turn you around and shake you awake, but he can only watch.

You’re there and he is too, whispers skittering along the walls like mice, and Hoseok yanks himself out of your subconscious mind.

He feels like glass.

When you wake it’s dark and your back is sore like you fell from a high place and splatted against a body of water. The moment feels like déjà vu regardless as you swing your legs over the side of the bed with a wince.

The broken projector of your sleep-addled mind flickers in black and white cut scene imagines of the evening. Hoseok, the fog, the dog that crawled out of hell specifically for you – as you can only assume – things considered, you’re pretty certain you died at some point.

The dark unnerves you, it makes you feel like a kid as you pull your feet back up onto the bed, and pull the blanket up over your head and pulled tight between your fingers at your chest.

You scoot back, wiggling a bit until your back is pressed flush against the headboard. There’s no light seeping in from under your door, and you sink lower, curling into yourself and hold the blanket tighter.

There’s a prickling at the back of your neck that sends a shiver racing down your spine. Your head turns slowly to the left and notice the unnatural darkness of the space between the edge of the wall and the window pane. Relief blooms in your chest at the sight of it.

“...Hoseok.” You call softly, waving a hand into the dark. You wait for a moment, but the lights don’t come on and he doesn’t appear as he usually would.

Carefully, you unwrap the covers from around you and place your foot on the ground. Taking a moment, you count your fingers – it’s always hard to count them in your dreams. All ten are there, and you take a breath before standing.

The floor is cold, and you notice the carpet that’s usually under your feet is missing, and the silhouettes of the things you’ve made yours are different; this isn’t your room.

You approach the ball of chaos carefully, and stand five steps away from the space it occupies. This is the second time you’ve been close to it, the first time had been much closer and you hadn’t understood it then. You reach a hand out, and gently: “Hoseok...”

It slows, the shadows and wisps shifting gently like a leaf on a soft wind. It elongates into a vague outline and then, Hoseok stares through you before he sees you. He’s still wearing the clothes he left in earlier, coat and all, looking a little more than rattled even in the dark.

He raises a hand and it hovers by your cheek, thumb ghosting the skin like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. The lights didn’t come back on and it’s hard to decipher his emotions in the dark.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice soft, barely a whisper in the darkness. Somewhere behind you, a lamp flickers on dimly and Hoseok looks like he’d shatter if you touched him.

“I’m okay.”

Hoseok’s hand drops slowly from your face as he blinks, as though waking from a dream. His gaze focuses on you, but there’s a vacancy in his eyes. For a moment, he seems almost confused, as if he’s not sure how he ended up here or what to make of your presence.

His touch is light, gentle, like he’s handling something fragile when his fingers brushes yours. You feel his fear, a palpable thing, thick and heavy. It’s a side of him you’ve never seen before, and you’re not sure what to do with it.

He exhales softly through his nose, nods once and then his eyes are somewhere above your head. “Are you in pain?”

“No,” Your back sings a low hymn, achy and sore, but it’s nothing to fuss over. “I’m okay.”

There’s a lot of things you want to ask, but you can’t seem to pick one. You want to ask him about the fog and the creature, about his wings or how you’re even alive to mull over said questions.

Instead, you ask: “Are you okay?”

Hoseok looks unprepared for that, his eyes snapping back to yours and he flounders. His mouth opens and closes before he stares at you in that unnerving way he had your first couple of days here, like he’s trying to understand you. Like he could strip you down to atoms and see what makes you act the way you do and therefore comprehend the bases of your human nature.

“I’m...” He blinks, looks away, and a muscle beneath his right eye twitches, “I’m okay.”

He doesn’t sound convinced and you aren’t either, and where his hand brushes yours you reach out first. His fingers are cold and he looks down, staring at your hand like it’s something foreign, but his grip tightens. It’s quiet for a moment, he takes a breath that doesn’t seem to ease the weight he carries.

“You almost died.” He says quietly, brows furrowed as though he can’t understand his own concern. “When I brought you here...I did so with the intention to keep you safe.”

It’s quiet again and you wait, and wait.

Hoseok’s eyes mist, his breath shudders on the exhale. “I wasn’t here in time. Again. I—”

His hand in yours tremble, he’s looking through you again, not entirely here and he looks like a man haunted by ghosts he alone could see. You stumble a step back when he falls to his knees before you, but didn’t get far as his arms wound tight around your waist. There’s something strange about a creature such as him with all his prowess and tainted grace kneeling at your feet, and his words tumble from his mouth like his tears that soak into your borrowed shirt and he lets you hold the chain that drags behind him.

The weight is heavy, heavy enough that it grounds you and you listen to it rattle as Hoseok tells you everything. In a broken tone about a broken home and a child he couldn’t reach in time to save, about the shadows that he let hide the light and now he struggles to find it. The things he’s done since that would make the most wicked men cower.

You make the connection, as he lays himself bare before you. He peeled back the layers of his being himself and let you look inside; the bases of his nature, the connotations of his own sins. It makes sense to you now. The way he would change like the tide and his near obsessive, compulsive need to wrap you in bubble wrap and put you in a glass case. He’d long stopped scaring you and somehow became a comfort despite himself.

Maybe it’s circumstantial, or something else entirely, but you’ve grown to care for him and he’s been caring for you from the start. However skewed that was.

When he’s stopped his babbling, and he’s no longer crying, he still holds you tight, whispering apologies against the dampness of your shirt. You meet his height, gently pulling his arms away from you and you kneel, too. He blinks away the last of his tears and you catch them with your thumbs just under his red-rimmed eyes.

He’s no longer looking through you, one of his hands covers yours, his lips brushing delicately against your wrist when he turns his head; your heart flutters. He whispers something you didn’t catch, he closes his eyes for a moment and when he opens them, he repeats: “You can leave if you want.”

“I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“Will you stay, then?” He looks away when he asks, pressing his fingers against your palm in a way that tickles and distracts, and studies the lines of them quietly. “Stay here with me.”

There’s something like hope in his eyes that glints against the shadows that linger, shining like flecks gold in cracked rock. You nod slowly and he smiles easily, all teeth and heart shaped and his hand is warm when he cups your cheek with the one that isn’t holding yours.

“Your dream...” He says softly, and later you’d find that it troubled him the most; he would never do something like that – not to you. “I’m sorry.”

You store the fact that he knows about it at the back of your mind for later – later when he’s not pressing the pad of his thumb against the fullness of your bottom lip, tracing the shape of it. You’ve learnt to ebb and flow with him, a boat on his tide, taking the shift of his mood in stride.

There’s something in his eyes now that has nothing to do with how you found him earlier, something that makes you follow his lead, leaning in when he pulls you towards him. Deja vu accompanies the way he shifts, easing back and turning you as he does, leaning against a dresser you hadn’t noticed. He keeps his eyes locked with yours, directing your leg over his with a hand, and he settles you on his lap.

“This feels familiar.” He giggles, lifting his head to nose along your jaw and you’re reminded that he knows. Heat flares at the back of your neck and races up your ears, and when you push against his shoulders, he steadies and keeps you still with his hands on the top of your thighs and a click of his tongue against his teeth.

“I’m teasing.” He gives a crooked smile, tilting his head, “It’s cute that you think it’ll play out that way.”

“Isn’t it, though?” You blurt out, embarrassment forgotten. Honestly, the only thing that’s changed is the room, and when Hoseok pauses you smirk.

He smirks right back, something dangerous, and he chuckles, “Keep talking back. I like that.”

His hand slides up your back, and you don’t suppress the shiver that follows after it. The air grows heavy, charged with unspoken tension. You’re vaguely aware of your heart pounding, the rhythm matching the erratic thrum of your blood. He leaves a kiss where your jaw meets your neck, sucking lightly on the spot.

“Hoseok...” You start to say his name, but it comes out as a breathless whisper. You’re not sure what you intended to say, but the words get caught in your throat.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours. “What is it?” he asks, his voice rough with desire and darker still. “Do you want me to stop?”

You shake your head, unable to form words.

With a low growl, he takes your silence as an invitation, his fingers tangle in your hair, and he tilts your head down, his lips meeting yours in a kiss you gasp into. It quickly deepens, becoming more urgent, as if he’s trying to devour your very soul. His other hand finds your hip, squeezing possessively.

You’re lost in the sensation, the taste of him, the feel of his body pressed against yours. The world has narrowed to the two of you, to this moment.

A soft moan escapes your lips, and he takes that as a cue, his tongue exploring your mouth with a hunger that sets your entire being ablaze.

His touch ignites a fire within you, consuming your senses and leaving you breathless, his hand sliding from your hip to your lower back, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

He pulls away slowly and you chase, he smirks against your kiss, and when he lifts his hips you feel the press of his arousal. His kisses trail, ghosting along your jaw, his tongue warm where your pulse thrums. He directs the shifts of your hips, grinding you down against clothed erection with a curse growled against your skin.

You follow the light tug of his hand in your hair, tilting your head back and to the side to give him more room to work. He hums appreciatively around your skin between his teeth and you hiss softly at the sting of the pull.

“So good for me.” He whispers when he pulls away. His fingers tap at your hip before he wraps his arm around, bracing the other against the dresser behind and stands easily.

A startled squeak leaves you, wrapping your arms around his neck even though he’s holding you steady. He reaches the bed in two strides, and drops you there, a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

You bounce a bit amongst the soft sheets with a soft giggle before you settle. His index finger curls beneath your chin and tilts, thumb brushing along your bottom lip again, “Ah.”

You comply easily, and then his thumb is pressing against your tongue. Saliva pools in your mouth and he hums when you wrap your lips around the digit. There’s a tick of his brow and the dull glint of his teeth when he smiles in the dim light of the singular lamp, and a darkness in his eyes that doesn’t scare you.

He tests the boundaries of what you’d allow, sliding his thumb along your tongue. His palm lays flat against your cheek, thumb reaching far until you feel the lurch of your stomach and pull back with a gasp.

He coos softly, leaning down just as he slips his finger out of your mouth to capture your lips in a kiss that’s more teeth and tongue than anything else. He nudges you back softly, large hands sneaking their way under your tee to reach your skin, desperate in a way that makes you think he’d die if he doesn’t.

He stops just shy of the undersides of your breasts, pulling away from the kiss to rest his forehead against yours. His breaths are shallow, he whispers your name, “I can get intense.”

“I know.”

“I could hurt you.”

“I know.”

He studies you for a moment, then, tugs gently on the hem of your tee-shirt, “Up.”

As you shift to sit, you’re not surprised to find you aren’t wearing anything underneath the tee-shirt and cotton shorts he’s put you in; dressing you properly must’ve been the last thing on his mind.

Hoseok stands back to shed his coat, dropping it carelessly on the floor. There’s a metallic clink as the buckle of his belt jingles, and the sound of it racing through the loops of his pants.

You – oddly – don’t feel ashamed under his gaze that sets a heat wherever it settles as he roams over your exposed upper half. Putting your weight on your hands, you lean back, watching Hoseok roll the long sleeves of his tee-shirt up his forearms.

His tongue darts out to moisten his lips as he closes the distance again, climbing into the bed on his knees and coming up until they’re on either side of your thighs. Silently he trails a finger down the slope of your neck, it tickles across your collarbone and his fingers spread and palms your left breast.

Your breath hitches and he chuckles, and you know very well he could feel the shifting of your thighs as you rub them together seeking friction. It’s been ages since anyone’s touched you like this, all of Hoseok’s teasing isn’t doing you much good.

His lips meet yours, licking into your mouth, and he groans when you suck on his tongue. His fingers lightly pinch at your nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. His other hand roams, goosebumps following it’s path down your side and stops where his fingers tease the band of your shorts.

Your hips buck as you whine and Hoseok pulls away, eyelids heavy, pupils all but gone, panting softly; looking drunk on you.

He smiles and makes a disapproving sound at the back of his throat. “Patience little dove.” He tuts, tilting his head at you, “I’ll give you what you need.”

He trails his fingers along the edges of your shorts before pulling them down and off, leaving you exposed to his touch. His hair tickles where it drags against your sensitive skin as he moves downward. He avoids where you need him most entirely and you squirm, a soft whine building in your chest.

He kisses and licks his way up your thighs, teasing you until you’re begging. Gently, he spreads your legs, kissing the inner thigh of your right before he rests it over his shoulder, pushing your other up and holding it there with a palm.

His dark gaze meets yours and you can’t hold it when he licks a hot stripe from your weeping entrance to your clit. Your hand shoots down to grip his hair, back arching when his responding growl vibrates against your core.

With each stroke of his tongue, Hoseok explores every inch of your most sensitive areas. He laps at your clit, drawing out a series of gasps and moans that fill the room. You’re shaking and swearing as he eats you out like a man starved, his tongue swirling around your clit in figure eights and then dipping into you. He moans like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted.

Your hands curl into the sheets, fingers digging in as if to anchor yourself. You’re lost in the sensations, a whirlwind of pleasure that leaves you breathless. And you wonder, briefly, if this was just something he was good at or something he had to hone.

His arm draping over your hips was the only warning you got before his lips wraps around your clit and sucks. Your back arches with a pitched moan and he slips a finger into your heat, and groans when you clench and gasp his name.

Your heart pounds in your chest, each beat a reminder of your vulnerability. Yet, paradoxically, it’s this vulnerability that fuels your desire, pushing you to new heights. You’re a wild thing now, driven by pure, primal need.

From between your legs, Hoseok watches your reactions, a dark-haired god feasting on your pleasure. His gaze is intense, a silent promise that he’ll take you to the edge. He adds another finger and they curl against your g-spot and it brings about your undoing.

If your arousal was a fire, Hoseok just threw gasoline on it just to watch it explode. He keeps hips lips around your clit as it throbs, fingers dragging along your fluttering walls and your eyes squeeze shut. You could barely breathe, lights dancing behind your eyelids as you gasp his name.

“Good girl.” Hoseok praises, lips brushing your clit and your thighs tremble. He rubs his hand gently over your stomach while you come down, and evilly, bites your thigh with a dark chuckle.

“Hoseok...” you whine as he laves his tongue over the stinging spot.

“Hm?” He smiles, “Want more, little dove?”

You almost cry as he changes course, pulling away entirely, and makes it clear he revel in your suffering when he coos mockingly, standing now.

He slowly unbuttons his pants, slowly pulls his legs out of them one after the other, smirking at you all the while. Even in the dim lighting, you could see the strain his cock against his black boxer briefs and you don’t miss the near inaudible sigh of relief from Hoseok at the change in pressure.

He crooks a finger at you, and shuffles closer as you do. He stands at the edge of the bed, and he sinks his fingers into your hair, brushing it back as you look up at him. He looks down his nose at  you, and raises a brow, “Be a good girl now, dove. Or do I have to teach you?”

“I know how to suck cock you ass.”

Hoseok shrugs, a playful smile shifting his expression as he gently squeezes your cheeks, puckering your lips, “Is all that little mouth good for talking back to me?”

“You said you like that.” You say defiantly.

Hoseok hums, “Have your fun then,” He says, smiling, “Won’t be able to say much in a bit, anyway.” He tugs on your hair, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to signal his impatience.

Funny, he was preaching patience is a virtue a while ago.

You scoff softly, holding your weight with a hand and tugging his boxers down with the other. His cock springs out, long and thick enough that you wonder if it would fit anywhere. It’s flushed red at the tip and leaking pre that beads and dribbles down the underside, and maybe if you focus enough you could just about see the throb of the vein that runs along side. A breath hisses through Hoseok’s teeth when you wrap your fingers around him, his eyes shut and his head tilts back.

Your eyes meet his when you slowly drag your hand down the length of his shaft, teasing him like he did you; turnabout is fair play. His hold in your hair tightens just a bit, eyes narrowing.

“Dangerous game you’re trying to start.” He murmurs, “I don’t take well t – fuck.” He hisses, the word tapering off into a low groan as you wrap your lips around the head of his cock.

The slightly salty taste of him bursts against your tongue and you hum, twisting your wrist as you bring your hand back up to meet your mouth and follow it down again. The saliva that escapes from the corners of your mouth helps with the glide.

You take a breath through your nose and relax your jaw, taking him in until he hits the back of your throat and you gag. Hoseok’s thighs tense and a stuttered breath leaves him.

“Easy there.” He soothingly runs his fingers through your hair, though it does nothing for the involuntary tears springing at your waterline. You decide to play it safe, not taking more than you can handle. Hoseok doesn’t seem to mind, letting you set your own pace, whispering swears and your praises.

Heat pools in your gut as your head bobs back and forth, your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, swirling around the head every time you pull back.

Slick with spit, your hand strokes the rest of him, and his groans vibrate in your ears. His fingers tighten in your hair, and it’s the only time he directs; holding you still.

“Take a deep breath for me, dove.” You do as told, and as you inhale, Hoseok slowly pushes forward, his cock reaching the back of your throat in no time at all. He groans above you, cock throbbing against your tongue, “There you go.”

He holds you there for a moment, only easing you back when your throat tightens with the need for air. He lets you breathe for a bit before he’s going again, thrusting slowly, once, twice and then holding you still. He keeps you there, cock throbbing at the back of your throat, your nose pressed against the neatly trimmed hair at the base.

When you gag he pulls you back, barely letting you breathe before he’s leaning down to kiss you, catching the string of drool that hangs from your bottom lip with his tongue. He lets you catch your breath, stepping back to pull his tee-shirt over his head and your mouth goes dry at the full expanse of his lithe frame.

Sitting back on your heels, breath a little ragged, you admire the sculpted lines of his body. Every movement is fluid and graceful, his muscles shifting smoothly beneath his skin.

His chest is defined, the faintest sheen of sweat highlighting each ripple of muscle. You can see the strength in his arms and shoulders, the way they flex as he moves. There’s a raw, primal energy about him, but it’s tempered by a quiet confidence.

Hoseok comes back to you quickly, cupping your cheek and kissing you fervently, moving with you as you shift back, cock smearing pre-cum along your inner thighs as he slots his narrow hips between them. He nibbles at your bottom lip, fingers sliding through your slick folds before the head of his cock nudges against your entrance.

For a quiet moment he stares then, kisses you tenderly as he breeches. It’s an easy glide, but it stings none the less, and you give an appreciative squeeze to his wrist when he goes slow. The stretch is bearable and soon the slight discomfort dissipates when he bottoms out and gives you a moment.

“Good?” he breathes out, hips pressed flush against yours. The same breath sucked back through his teeth when your walls tightens around him, his cock throbs in response and you keen. He grinds his hips down, pelvis pressing against your swollen clit and the sensation is almost too much and not nearly enough.

He’s close enough that you can run your tongue along his collarbone  and feel him shiver. Leave your own marks there with your teeth and revel in the growl that rumbles in his chest.

He hooks an arm at the back of your knee, pressing it against your chest as he raises and balances his weight. You’re spread open for him, his cock sinks deeper, rubbing against a spot that makes your eyes roll back. He gives shallow thrusts at first, pressing kisses and bruises wherever he could reach.

“Fuck.” Hoseok hisses between his teeth, hips still, palm against your cheek, and he watches you with something other than lust in his eyes. Something gentle as he caresses your cheek with his thumb. “Look at you, such a good girl. Taking everything I give you.”

His hips snap forward and you cry out, hands gripping the sheets between them at his sinful groan. He keeps a relentless pace, and you could feel him everywhere. His fingers on your skin, leaving you cold and hot at the same time, gripping your hips so tightly you fear they’ll bruise. It would simply add to the ones he’s already placed, scattered on your neck and chest like mismatched constellations in a dark sky.

He brings your hands up above your head, holding them there, together with his free one.

“You’re so good to me, Dove. And all mine, hm? Say it.” He grunts, “Say you belong to me, promise me that you’ll stay here with me.” He says this softly, tenderly, grinding his hips against yours in slow movements, tightening the coil in your stomach.

“I’m yours, I’m yours. I promise.” You babble, hips moving against his on their own accord. “I’ll stay. I promise. Please.”

Hoseok groans at your words, leaning down to capture your lips with his, tongue finding yours with ease. “That’s right. You’re mine. Fuck. All mine. Say it again.”

“I’m yours, Hoseok.”

He curses under his breath, straightening his form and brings his hands down to grip your hips tight, and sets a brutal pace. Head tilting back to reveal the marks you left on him, groaning before he looks back down at you, “Close? Hm? You’re squeezing so tight.” His words taunt, as did the smirk on his pretty pink lips, “Make a mess for me, Dove. Cum all over my cock. That’s it, good girl.”

White lights dance behind your tightly shut eyelids, a ringing in your ears. And Hoseok was fucking you through it, fast and hard, his praises a rumble in his chest. You lay there boneless, taking what he gave with a haze over your mind, a weak moan leaving your parted lips when his hand met your throat. Your heart spikes for another reason entirely, but he doesn’t squeeze. Fingers just there, barely any pressure, as he chased his own end, cock kissing your cervix with each trust, his other hand pressed against your lower stomach.

His thumb finds your clit and you jolt, catching his sinister smirk that curled his lips. “There’s no going back after this, baby. Fuck – you’re mine, understand?” You can feel him throbbing, feel the way his hips stutter on the draw back, he was close and you wanted nothing more than him marking you, claiming you in this way. When your eyes meet his, a shiver goes through you.

He comes undone with a low groan, hips flushed with your own, still thrusting through it, and you can see them with your own eyes, as he shudders and stills. His wings uncurl, dark feathers, darker than anything you’ve ever seen, dipped in silver, spreads out behind him and flutters. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, gentle, barely there and you feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.

Your eyelids were heavy, and sleepily, you reach out to brush your fingers through the feathers that encased your forms. Hoseok stiffens before your fingers reach them, and chuckles, nipping softly at the flesh of your neck, “Go ahead, Dove.”

He relaxes, when your fingers touch, and you feel him shudder, groaning softly against your neck. They’re soft, your fingers disappearing in the inky blackness of them. With a final brush of his lips against your neck, Hoseok pulls back, his wings shimmering away like a mirage and your hand passes through air before lands limply at your side.

He squeezes your hip gently, mindful, and then he’s gone, walking out his room and into the hallway. The light that spills in helps you see a lot better than the dim lamp, and you notice that Hoseok’s bedroom looks much like the rest of his apartment; sleek and dark. There isn’t much to it either, the basics, more utilirian than a comfort space. You wonder if he uses it at all.

Hoseok comes back and gathers your boneless self into his arms. You rest your cheek against his collarbone, the sound of running water reaching your ears when he steps out into the hallway.

The tub is filling, steam rising from the bubbles that form at the top of the disturbed water. It smells like mint and some sort of fruit, and the temperature is just right when he steps into it and lowers you down. He positions you so that your back is against his chest and turns off the water when it’s high enough. You sense that he’s in his head again, not quite here even as he presses a soft kiss to the back of your neck.

“Feeling okay?” he asks suddenly, tracing a mindless pattern along your arm.

You hum softly, “Yeah. Sore, though.”

“I expected that.” Another kiss, apologetic, against your shoulder. “Also...” Hoseok pauses, “I finished inside you. I didn’t ask. I’m sorry.”

The realisation dawns on you too and you shift a little to look at him, “I don’t mind, but....is that a bad thing?”

There’s a strange half smile on his lips and he lifts a hand to tug softly on one tangled end of your hair, gently sifting his fingers through until he’s satisfied. “It can be, if it takes. But, I’ll get something for it tomorrow.”

You notice that the marks you left along his skin have begun to fade already, and you poke at them with a finger. He heals quickly, you figured. He chuckles softly, taking your hand to press kisses along your finger tips and then to your palm. Your finger brushes over the mole on his upper lip gently and watch him melt.

He studies you for a moment, the same way he did before he left earlier, though, it’s softer now. “Would you like to come with me?”

You brighten, perking up with a nod, “Is that okay?”

Hoseok hums, mischief in his eyes, “If you promise not to run off as soon as you step foot outside.”

You roll your eyes and turn around, and Hoseok pulls you back to him with an arm around your middle. “I have nowhere to go.”

“I know, I was only teasing.” He chuckles.

You’re both quiet for a while, and you simply relax, almost falling asleep against him as the warm water soothes your aching muscles. You aren’t aware that you did, and only wake when Hoseok was just done tucking fresh clean sheets up to your chin. You’re back in his room but you don’t mind, the thought of going back to your own unsettles you right now. You haven’t forgotten your nightmare, and it’s something you’d definitely have to unpack another day.

You wait until he’s crawled in behind you, the warmth of him encasing you gently. His form melds against your back like he belongs there, an arm slipping under your head and the other over your hip. “Hoseok?”

“Yes Dove?”

You worry at your bottom lip, fingers finding his under the covers and they squeeze your own encouragingly. “There’s a friend of mine...I was with her before I met you.”

“I can help her.” He murmurs, and he sounds...sleepy. Today was a lot for him as well, you suppose. “I can get her a job here.”

You shift, turning to face him, he tucks you to him when you settle, chin resting on top of your head. “How are you gonna do that?”

You hear the smirk when he answers, “Do you think everything I have magically appeared? I own the hotel.”

“Wha—”

“Shh.” Hoseok squeezes your hip, “Go to sleep.”

Sometime later you’ll realise that Hoseok needed you more than he would admit. When you learn his tells he would help put himself back together with you instead of trying to do it alone.

Sometime later he’d take you to see her. When the wind is cold and the old oak tree reaches it’s bare, spindly arms to the frosted sky. When the day marks yet another year and he lets you put the flowers between the roots. He looks like a shadow against the glittering white, and he tells you he’s okay.

He’d take you to meet his friends at a club on the high-end and you’d would realise that he’s soft only with you and the guy who reminds you of a cat. With the others he’s closed off and friendly in a way that seems a little odd.

You’d see Abigail often and would skirt around how you actually met Hoseok when she’d ask. Anyone would think you’re crazy if you told them.

You spend most of your time at home while Hoseok goes off doing god knows what when he’s not there. It’s something to do with his friends and you never ask.

Then he’s there and everything beyond him and you and the space you both occupy doesn’t matter. And it’s kind of easy to forget where it all started – it’d been so long since you’d wondered where you were going to get anything to help you get by.

He’s made of cracks and splintered glass but he let you sink into the spaces, filled the pieces with you and settled. There would always be cracks in the glass that he’s made of, and there would always be a post in his fence that he needs to hammered in to fix. Despite the unconventional way you’d both started, the abnormality of his existence, you’d be there.

[bold, can't tag]

Tagging: @iammeandmeisiam , @imanhaitani @allhobbitstoisengard @dontstoptime @astormunchar @eoieopda @blog-name-idk @madbutgloriouspond @bangtansmauyeondan @taestefully-in-luv @mssukeyna​ @euphoricfilter @luaspersona

[violetasteracademic]

I know people are already discrediting Sarah's instagram post today, which is perfectly fine. Of course an author should be able to post about a new album they are enjoying and have that be it. And people are welcome to interpret this however they wish. Confirmation bias is a real thing, and none of us are above it.

For example, I myself am a writer. I spend a lot of time curating playlists that remind me of my characters and help me get in their headspace. I truly believe a lot of writers connect deeply to music and lyrics and poetry that hit deep on themes they explore. So this confirms my bias that Sarah is extremely excited about an amazing song that just dropped by a massive artist that reminds her of her work. That is truly one of the best feelings in the world.

Ana Huang curates playlists for every single one of her couples and books. She both posts them on her website and at the beginning of her books:

These photos were pulled directly from my kindle from her website.

Sarah does have a book announcement coming soon. One of the biggest stars in the world and one of her favorite artists released a song that has an uncanny amount of similar themes to a couple that every major news outlet covering the topic in the past months have suggested is "suspected or likely to be next" and Sarah was genuinely so excited about that song (out of 31 tracks) and said "Thank you for this GIFT."

Just a few weeks ago SJM made a big post about Spring. It was full of flowers, blushes and pinks, and BAKING! All of those things scream Elain, however there was a huge surge of "Sarah is so intentional, she does everything for a reason. There is no way this isn't confirming Lucien or Tamlin endgame." Those same people are now saying that this very pointed instagram post is meaningless and let the woman just post fun stuff that she likes. Sarah also loves flowers and baking in her real life, so that also *could* have just been things Sarah loves and just general ACOTAR buzz since there are new readers every day and the series starts in the Spring Court.

Another important major thing to note is that Sarah frequently states she does not have social media on her phone, she stays out of theory spaces, and she likely does not run her own socials. Most, if not all of her posts are directly related to her books and generating buzz. Her last feed post was about writing the ACOTAR book, and now a song came out that is potentially a perfect fit. This all falls within marketing and generating buzz and conversation. Sarah likely didn't just download instagram to her personal phone, which she avoids like the plague, just to post this one song and then delete it again. It is more likely it fits in with marketing themes.

The truth is, we, as the consumer, do not get to decide the intentions behind a public persona's social media behavior. But when it comes to Sarah's last two instagram stories, it's either both or neither. Either Sarah's flower and baking filled springtime post meant something AND this means something, or neither meant anything.

Sarah is aware everything she does gets dissected. I'm not making a definitive statement whether or not she leans into that, since she hasn't made an outright statement like the queen of easter eggs herself Taylor Swift has.

But there is only one character relevant to both of her instagram stories: Elain Archeron.

Flowers. Baking. Forbidden love.

We don't have to change up the rules or remove anything from the equation to show all signs point to Elain.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

Am I the asshole for blocking my friends who I suspect wrote mpreg about “me”?

I (21ftm) have two friends who have recently been writing a story together, I’ll call them O and S, O and S are both cis woman my age. They openly discuss the story on our friend groups discord server in a channel dedicated to this story. O draws the character designs while S primarily writes and they added a character into their story a few months ago who I believe was meant to be me, or at least inspired by me, they’ve done this in the past with other friends of ours who have side characters and cameos, I can usually tell because the character has a name similar to their real life counterpart and a design similar as well, such is the case with “my” character, he is a trans man who looks like me and his name is a shortened nickname of my chosen one.

I wouldn’t have an issue with a character inspired by me but they made him gay and began shipping him with a pre-existing male character which made me uncomfortable because I am very much not gay, the other characters inspired by our friends weren’t given love interests or anything so I can’t say they’ve changed the sexualities of those tribute characters. I don’t care if a character is gay, but this character is clearly meant to be representing me and I’m very uncomfortable with this. People assuming I’m attracted to men is a BIG dysphoria trigger to me and they KNOW this because I told them in the past and when they first wrote this in, all my life I’ve had people assuming I was into men because I was AFAB and I’ve dealt with a lot of “comphet” stuff, I’ve been harassed and haven’t been believed when I told people my actual sexuality, the expectation that I would one day get into a relationship with a man and have children with one was treated like an inevitability by the people around me and it scared the fuck out of younger me.

When they first wrote this relationship, i asked them to change it, i said that if they wanted to put this character into a relationship he could have one with a woman instead, they refused and said they liked the rep it gave, though there is already lots of gay rep in the story and I said that it would still be rep because the character is trans but they didn’t change it, so I then asked that this character could be changed so he wasn’t actually related to me in looks and name and they again refused, which made less sense to me because I didn’t (and still don’t) understand what they got out of writing someone who was basically me into a gay relationship. I gave up because I didn’t want to cause drama in the friend group and other the next weeks I spent less time on the friend groups server and never checked the stories channel because I was still extremely dysphoric and upset. It made me feel angry that they didn’t consider how I felt and dismissed my suggestions.

The next time I checked on that server was a month later and they were discussing the future of the story where some of the characters had children, among those characters that had children were the male character my tribute character was in a relationship with, I came into the chat and asked them how that character had kids, O posted a blushing emoji and said he had kids “the fun way”, I asked further and they said my character also had children and at this point I got really angry and just left the server and blocked them.

Later on one of the friend group J (22nb) dmed me saying that I was being dramatic and that I had no right to control what they put in their story, we had an argument and two of my other friends said I was “ruining the fun” and trying to censor their story and it wasn’t “explicitly clear that it was me”. I originally thought that if you are writing something inspired by someone and it’s making them upset you should stop right? But now I’m not so sure and I’m still feeling very down, I don’t know why they decided to write that in, and especially about someone meant to be a tribute to me, it feels like they’ve taken everything I told them about my dysphoria and distilled it down into something to hurt me.

Aita?

What are these acronyms?

[drconstellation]

A Tale of Two Peacocks

The Relationship Between Gabriel and Michael

Some weeks ago I said I would take on the challenge of looking at the relationship between Gabriel and Michael, then I got sidetracked writing something else* - which is not always a bad thing. But I want to return to this because its too good not to do a post on it, and before I get too deeply involved in the other writing.

This is definitely going to involve some NSWF language - hey, I can't help this, its in the script - so the bulk of this is going to be below the cut. But the short of it is, they have a fairly low opinion of each other.

We need to go back to S1, where there is an interesting set of parallel scenes we should start our discussion with that spells it out for us. The first one is in S1xE2, and the other is actually in one of the deleted scenes from the cold opening of S1xE3, and they both use parallel characters to inform us of what Gabriel and Michael think of each other.

It turns out I've already talked about the first one, in this meta here, where I discuss how Newt is a parallel for Crowley.

Then [Frobisher] power-walks past. Newt is not even worth her time stopping for. "Need a hand, Dick?" *Snort* - and ouch. That's a below-the belt joke. She's just called him a wanker. In the US you might use the term jerk instead. Someone who's a bit egotistical and more in it for themselves than others. (and I never thought I'd be fact-checking the meaning of this word ever, but there's always a first time...) She's basically just equated him Gabriel, in my book (and in more ways than one.)

And I wrote all that months before I started writing my Crowley-Gabriel parallel/foil series, too.

The other thing about this first parallel scene is the character of Frobisher, who is dressed very much like a demon, but is actually the parallel character to Michael, as we see later on in the paintball fight at Tadfield Manor.

(Er, I know this is all a bit 2nd/3rd hand evidence, but the second scene is a bit more direct, so bear with me.)

The second one, in S2xE3, is the deleted bookshop opening scene.

Source: Script for the unaired scene of Aziraphale opening his bookshop in 1800

Oh, look at that. Somebody is being called a wanker. Again. This time it's Crowley calling Michael a wanker, however, and its only one step to the side with Crowley being a parallel character to Gabriel (and I challenge you to watch s1 again in this light after finishing this post, and see how many similarities you can see between Crowley and Gabriel showing through even back then.)

OK. So we've established that Gabriel and Michael both think each other are wankers at this point, but what else can we find out about them?

Peacock Fighting

I've written a couple of posts about peacock symbolism. Firstly, Michael is strongly associated with having many eyes - their Ophanim ring, their costume has eye motifs, and they are essentially head of surveillance for Heaven. So this made me think they might be the peacock referred to in the Job minisode.

But later, after more research, it became apparent the lines paraphrased in Job were definitely referring to Gabriel. (See also Judgement Day.) There are associations with both royalty and vanity there.

They are both peacocks, but for different reasons.

And they are also both in competition with one another.

Gabriel Doesn't Have A Desk

Desks are a symbol of power in western society.

The bigger, and more solid the desk in a corporate office, the higher up the person is.

The teacher at the front of the room, the authority in the room, has a bigger desk than the students.

Those desks offer protection to the person in authority sitting behind them. They mark a separation between that said authority and the masses they command on the other side. Only the most trusted get to come around to the same side that they are sitting on to be more intimate with them.

At work, your desk is connected to your identity there. Its your place in the organization. You may even individualize it with decorations.

Just take a look at what Newt was bringing on his first day to work in S1xE2:

Pens, a pen holder, notepads, a ball of rubber bands, a plant (a bromeliad, a plant that does well in fully shaded damp environments, just like Hell) and some rations. Er, I mean lunch. Given to him by God Frances his mother.

The travesty of the modern trend of "hot desking" is de-personalizing the employee. They are no longer a valued employee with a valued place, they're just another faceless cog in the grind.

We see Michael behind a desk as Duty Officer in S2. It's starkly clean and sharp and made of glass, as we would expect to find in Heaven. It's used a shield and badge of office when we see them fulfilling that role.

Michael doubts Gabriel has a desk, although Gabriel insists he does, even though we have never seen it. Yet he still requires the proverbial archive box for moving locations?

I'm just going to leave the parallel between Newt and Gabriel there for further discussion. Please do remember the bottom falls out of Newt's box in the car park, leaving him with an empty box, too.

(Muriel has a glass desk, too, but interestingly they don't have a chair. You might like to compare their encounter with Aziraphale in the Job minisode to the escapade with Crowley in the present day. There is volumes said without words.)

Just while we are on the subject of desks, thought you might like to compare Crowley's and Aziraphale's desks as well. They are always on about how much paperwork they have to do!

Sovereign versus Disciplinary Power

This is eventually going to turn into a discussion about fate versus free will at some point, but I do need to talk about the different types of power first, because I haven't done my long promised Power and Authority meta yet. The two concepts are closely related, and Gabriel and Michael are each acting as foils for a side of the concepts.

Gabriel represents sovereign power, the supreme legitimate power of the state. Power and action trickles down from the top, and punishment is almost a show of entertainment, but one designed to educate. "Oh, those angels Fell - if I do something bad, I might Fall, too!" And so Gabriel expects to Fall when he is given his trial, and Aziraphale when he lies to save Job's children.

Michael is representing disciplinary power, something that lies at the heart of society today. This is where power is spread among individuals, and individuals are more likely to do their own discipline merely because of an overhanging threat of a possibility they may get caught if they do.** Are they being watched? Who might see and report their transgression? Michael has eyes (and ducks) everywhere... So does Orwell's book 1984.

This is a very simplistic view, of course - reality is more complex than that, and is usually a combination of the two, but we have to start somewhere.

Now lets throw the fate vs free will components into the mix. Let us revisit the story of King Cnut and the tide.

The story, if you are not familiar with it, is that Cnut had his throne set on the beach and commanded the incoming tide to halt where it was, and not to wet his robes or feet. Of course, the tide kept rising and splashed the king, where he leapt up and declared his might and power as a king worthless compared to that of God. The story is meant to demonstrate his piety before Heaven, and that he was not the ultimate controller of all things - his sovereign power was limited.

They say time and tide*** wait for no man - we are at the mercy of what ever fate they bring us, and we can't manipulate that. That's decided by the supreme power, the ultimate sovereign power, so to speak.

Gabriel tends to take this line - he does not have control over the summoning of the Four Horsepeople, they are just happening as they supposed to, and that's not his department. Plausible deniability, baby! Back channels? What back channels, Michael?

So if you did want to have some power over it, some free will to control outcomes? But hang on - every one else has free will as well. Sounds a bit chaotic. Who's in charge? Nobody. Everybody. Welcome to Michael's world. They want the power, they're prepared to fight for it, for what they think is right - but so is everyone else.

But what if you were the creator of free will itself? Would you be The One to have control over time and the tides?

Tadfield Manor, Again

Michael is the archangel who throws Lucifer down from Heaven, and we see this play out at Tadfield Manor during the paintball fight, when we are shown that it is actually Frobisher/Michael who shoots the shot that hits Norman/Lucifer in the heart - although we are initially made to think its Nigel/Gabriel who did it. (One day I will teach my self how to make GIFs and make a GIF of this.)

Frobisher is the more competitive one at all times - she is the only other employee besides the naive Newt to put their hand up when Nigel asks who is looking forward to the Training Initiative and she asks Crowley and Aziraphale "Who's winning?" as she runs past them inside - to which Crowley presciently declares "You're all going to lose."

If you look at the extended scene in light of the above, you can see sovereign authority of senior manager Nigel/Gabriel is still floating around as a rather toothless tiger to the whims of fate, while everyone else is exercising their free will and disciplinary powers to try and control one another. And, as Crowley says, nobody wins. It's a lose-lose situation.

Michael is competing for an empty dream.

Gabriel is trying his best to survive something that is not what it seems.

And...I think I'll leave it there. Thanks for reading.

*I've started writing a multi-chapter human AU fanfic. But I'm a slow writer, and I'm not writing it in a linear fashion - because it has to be stuffed full of meta, of course - so I decided I better pull myself out of it before I got pulled in too far and finish a couple of things off so you didn't think I'd disappeared completely. I wasn't planning on doing one, but you know how these things go - one day an idea just pops into your head, the next thing the characters are talking to you and taking on their own life and a couple of thousand words later...

**There was a post about the oculus, (found it! thanks to gallup24) the round skylight window in the roof of the bookshop and the Panopticon, an infamous prison design where the prisoners can all see each other but can't see if the guard is watching them, but of course I've lost track of it, haven't I.

***The tides are controlled by the Moon and Sun, and ostensibly for this argument, by Heaven as well. They are fated to continue in their set orbit and/or path through the sky - or the Earth on it's orbit around the Sun, is probably the better way of looking at it.

[krotiation]

Your tag is keeping on playing in my head. Like - just how much of Tales had Jack spent thinking of his revenge and taking over it all. And how much he actually enjoyed spending time. Could he really look through Rhys' memories or was it just some folders Rhys kept on his Echo Eye. Was he just thinking about how to use him or did he catch himself being actually proud of him and happy to be stuck in this guys head specifically. Grrrrr hologram Jack tell us more

I personally think Jack had some type of attachment to Rhys, even if it wasn’t his intentions like… at all. Sure, getting back on Helios and taking over Rhys body was always the main goal, and whether he came to like Rhys or not wasn’t gonna stop him from going through with his plan, but Jack was almost predisposed to eventually become obsessed with him. Strap in, I’m about to ramble

First of all, I imagine that Rhys reminded him a lot of Angel. Rhys was young, he looked up to Jack almost naively so, but he was snarky and also defied him sometimes which Angel did too. I made a real long post about this a couple months ago but basically, Rhys and Angel share a lot of similarities in how Jack treated them. Jack probably did feel proud over Rhys at times, and thankful that it was Rhys and not some other Hyperion employee with the personality of a napkin. It feels more personal than just “let’s manipulate this kid and take his body”, even if that ultimately was the end goal.  And after Jack was plugged into Helios and found out about what happened to not just Angel but Nisha as well? Not to mention Wilhelm being dead and Timothy leaving for the casino? Rhys was the only one Jack somewhat trusted who wasn’t already dead or long gone

But also, imagine this: you’re quite literally inside someone else’s brain. Everything you see and hear, everywhere you go, everyone you interact with, is through this dweeb with the most questionable fashion sense on Pandora (which says a LOT). No one can see you except for him. You’re dependent on him in every sense of the word. If he pisses you off, you can’t do your usual routine of beating or killing him. You HAVE to get close to (or at the very least, used to) him, something your paranoid ass hasn't allowed yourself to do for years

And honestly, Rhys’ software has bled into Jack as much, if not more, as the Jack AI has bled into Rhys. This is just my personal headcanon but I definitely think some part of Jack felt a little hollow when he left Rhys’ head on Helios, almost like having a tooth ripped out (or… being the tooth that got ripped out). Some part of him expected Rhys to be as dependent on Jack as Jack was on him, which is why he thought Rhys would just mindlessly agree to essentially be his meat puppet. But then he not only rejected him, he tried to leave too. The only one Jack had left, who became such a huge part of his holographic life, physically and emotionally. The only one who hadn’t died, left or abandoned him up until this point, wanted to leave

Jack was back on Helios, back on his throne, and he had everything in his power to regain control of Hyperion. Despite how horrified Rhys was over Jack’s plan, he didn’t have any intentions to kill Jack, and had Rhys been any less important to Jack, he could have let him go or commanded someone else go after him while he focused on getting another employee to give him their body. The only problem was that Jack was attached to Rhys and took this as a betrayal, just like Angel and Moxxi had been close to him until they betrayed him too. So what if Helios paid the price for Jack’s revenge? So what if Jack was going to die killing Rhys? It was too personal to not risk everything for

This is a very complicated way of saying I definitely think Jack cared about Rhys, whether that be because he was emotionally attached or because he was literally inside this guy’s brain and couldn’t help but get attached. Everywhere he looked, there was Rhys and only Rhys. So yeah, he DEFINITELY thought about Rhys a lot. Probably more so than Katagawa did. It’s a special kind of horrific <3

[flibbetygibbetsbro]

Kay so I already posted this a month or so ago, but I find it very applicable to the fandom rn

The lore in Nightfall is actually insane. You're telling me that hundreds of humans went missing, and when the Elvin Leadership did NOTHING the humans revolted so hard-core that ya'll really had to DISSAPERE from their knowledge? "But it was to keep the peace!"

Nuh uh.

If you REALLY wanted peace you would have actually looked into the disappearances. That would have been waaay easier to pull off than erasing hundreds of minds and flibbety-dippen SINKING an entire city into the ocean. Despite Elven egos, I think that the council got scared. That's right. The humans you call dumb and violent SCARED you into hiding.  We ugly, weak, and untalented things decided enough was enough and you couldn't handle it.

What's extra crazy is the fact that the Elvin world has everything in their pockets OTHER THAN THE HUMANS. You're telling me that we idiots rule the Earth while you lock yourselves and others away? 

An even crazier thing is that Elves view themselves above everything, even if they won't admit it at the get-go. Ogres really are pissed about it. They are CRAZY strong but also incredibly intelligent. The average elf understands nothing about Biochemistry (other than extreme exceptions such as Lady Candace) yet Ogres have things that can wipe out entire species and put Elves in endless comas. "But the Neverseen used the sedative so they understand it!"

Nuh uh.

They stole the research from the Ogre scientists. (Or made a deal with the king I honestly don't remember at this point). They NEVER would have pulled that off without them. And guess what? Ogres are a generally violent species as well but the Elves keep them around. (Albeit on a short leash). 

The humans have a similar situation. Many times in the books a human story, invention, or belief is brought up only for someone to smugly say "They get that from us", or "he was inspired by ME". I believe there was also a scene where someone talks about how human "help" organizations were terminated because the information shared with them led to dangerous inventions. Don't you guys just love it when Elves claim credit for all good ever done by humans? But as soon as a nuclear power plant or bomb is mentioned (crazy complicated crap) it's suddenly the nasty humans and their dumb, violent minds. *insert eye-roll* Which is it? Are we smart or dumb? Are WE responsible or are YOU? Ya'll can't cherry-pick. Elves also pretend that they have control over humans, yet you can't stop an invention from destroying a Japanese City and ending a devastating war that killed more Jews than the average Elf could comprehend? If humans are so terrible, THEN WHY HAVEN’T YOU STOPPED US YET? WHY DIDN'T YOU KILL US WHEN YOU HAD THE CHANCE? oh that's right, you're too scared.

My final thought: The fact that HUMANS are what Vespera chose to "study". Why not Ogres or Trolls? Were humans the easier target, or was there some other reason? The fact of the matter is that Humans and Elves are more similar than either of us would like to admit. Ogre's minds are too different than an Elf's. Human minds are only different in the sense of how loud they are.  In fact, that's arguably the most important difference between us. We humans are loud, we feel intensely and love like nothing Elves would understand. For we love for our short lives while they wander on for eternity. The only reason we can handle violence is because we have to fend for ourselves. Elves have protectors and little green people to do their dirty work. Humans have to live through thick and thin, slavery, war, loss, and heartbreak. When Elvin minds shatter, our minds find ways to make it through. Lose someone? We make up afterlife after afterlife and history shows different religions arising when the general public needs a way to work through their violent and tiring lives. But maybe we AREN’T so different. The characters presented as able to handle violence/are inclined to it either had to suffer violence and neglect, lived through endless years of times before the treaties and the council, or spent time with humans. Take Fitz as a prime example. Bro legit beat the shit out of Alvar and trapped him in goo to die. NOTHING IN THE BOOKS SHOWS FITZ FEELING ANY GUILT FOR THIS. Hm...seems like a very "human" thing to do.

The real reason Elves fear us is because we're just an untethered form of themselves with shorter life spans and a lot less to lose. We feel more deeply, more “violently”. As the books go on the Council itself is presented in a more kick-butt way as they finally step up to Vespera and the horrors she caused. 

That sounds a lot like The Humans of Atlantice.

[ultra-violet-heart]

The Story of Joel Who Fell In Love With His Junior Knight

This is a bonus short story written by Touko Amekawa with for 7th Time Loop Volume 6! It’s set on Rishe's 6th loop, when she was still a knight, and her senior, Joel, who fell in love with her during that life.

Disclaimer: This translation is made by me for fandom purposes only. This unofficial translation is not affiliated with the official 7th Time Loop franchise. All rights reserved for 7th Time Loop to its respective committees, committee members, staff, author and rights holders.

The bonus short story can be found in Touko Amekawa's 7th Time Loop Shousetsuka ni Narou blog!

I’m posting my Ko-Fi here as currently, I’ve been having financial troubles, so if anyone can donate, I would be much grateful for the help, thank you very much.

***

"Joel?"

That day, Joel, who went silent after realizing an outrageous truth, was called by Lucius, who was with him in the same room.

"......"

This was Joel's junior knight, who joined their order six months ago.

Joel, the youngest child of a family with an older brother and an older sister, had joined the knights' order earlier than was customary. For as long as he could remember, he was surrounded by people usually older than him, and this junior is the only 'junior who was close to him in age'.

"Lucius. You."

"?"

Sitting on the bed, Lucius' head tilted in confusion, that short coral hair swaying.

Lucius' round eyes were fringed by long eyelashes, those very eyes tinted emerald, akin to wet glass beads. Those were similar to the color of the eyes of the neighborhood cat Joel used to nap with.

"......"

Putting down everything he wanted to say at first, in the meantime, Joel continued to talk.

"It's fine if you're taking over cleaning the baths every day, but after this, you're not allowed to go there this late. Got it?"

"Huh?! Oh, I'm sorry! Since I was about to take a bath, too, and cleaning would take some time... am I too noisy every time I go back here?"

"Yeah. Right. That disturbs me while I'm sleeping, so go there when I'm awake."

"Yes! I'll pay attention from now on!"

Lucius nodded vigorously while Joel nodded back in assent.

"You can go there right now as all our seniors should have finished bathing already. Also, any individual sword practice shouldn't be done at night, but at mornings."

"Understood! Joel, let's do our best getting up early tomorrow, too!"

"Huh. Don't want that."

"Hehe."

As Joel clearly expressed his refusal, Lucius laughed amusedly for some reason. Just like that, while they were talking, Lucius briskly moved, getting a towel and a change of clothes.

"Well, then, I'll go take a bath and clean up!"

Leaving the room, Lucius' footsteps and presence slowly faded away.

Sitting on the chair next to their bunk beds with a thud, Joel pondered over understanding his current situation.

(―――That person is a girl, huh.)

He planned to erase from memory all the events leading to this conclusion.

Instead of sitting upright on the chair, Joel's body slid sideways, his head resting against the wall, his eyes now closed.

(Even though cleaning the baths was supposedly a rostered task. I now understand why Lucius kept saying incomprehensible things like, "It's part of my training!" and volunteering to do that alone every day...)

She would go to their training grounds and practice very early in the morning, and would prepare for missions faster than anyone else. However, that would be the best possible way to cover up her changing clothes in the dressing room.

"Ah―――..."

For the first time in his life, Joel let out what would call a "sigh". Up to that point in his life, such worries were previously irrelevant to him.

(...I don't really care whether she's a man or a woman...)

Even though he thought like that, the moment he realized Lucius was a girl, he broke into a cold sweat underneath his clothes.

His heart thundered greatly, beating louder than it usually did after battles.

(Damn you, Captain. You knew all along yet you placed her in the same room as me, you bastard.)

Before Lucius joined their knights' order, Joel stayed in that room alone.

Then enter the newcomer, the delicate-looking and small Lucius.

Six months have passed since then, and as his new junior never showed signs of building muscle nor growing taller, he felt he finally solved that mystery.

(Lucius said she was originally a noble, but she got exiled by her family due to various reasons. If that was the case, because she couldn't travel easily due to her being a young woman, she disguised herself as a young man? ...Even so, why become a knight? I don't get it.)

She's really a big enigma, he thought.

Joel's only junior is someone whose thoughts and behavior are completely unreadable.

("Lucius" is probably not her real name.)

He was sure she was known with a different name as a girl.

(It's odd things like this make my heart flutter. It doesn't matter whatever her name is.)

Unsure of what he was thinking, Joel continued sulking alone.

(She should call herself the name she wants to be called with. It's likely her alias is similar to her real name, too...)

While he was thinking of whimsical things like that, it seemed like some time has passed.

There was a knock on the door, and Joel's eyes widened.

"It's me, Lucius!"

"...What?"

He stood up to open the door and found Lucius standing there, out of breath, her hair so wet that it looked like water was still dripping from there.

"...Too fast. What's the matter? You usually take longer to...?"

"If I bath too late, you'll have less time to sleep, Joel..."

"......"

That "sleep disturbance" he told Lucius earlier wasn't actually a big deal at all.

The building where Joel and the other lower-ranked knights lived in was far from where the baths were located. Just when lights are put out, the area on the way gets pitch black with no people around.

(I know she is a girl, so I lied to her as I didn't want her walking in the dark after taking a bath. That's all.)

Lucius turned to Joel with a very serious look on her face, then said,

"I've finished cleaning the baths completely! From now on, I won't be too noisy, so please, sleep well, Joel!"

(She went in a rush for my sake...)

Joel thought for a moment, then prompted Lucius to enter the room.

"...I'll dry your hair occasionally, so come here, 'Lu'."

"Joel? 'Lu', you say... perhaps..."

The junior he had been calling "Lucius" up to now widened her eyes in shock.

"Your name. 'Lucius' is too long, and it's tricky to pronounce."

It was another lie.

However, Joel didn't let it show on on his face and continued.

"From now on, I'll call you Lu. That's your nickname."

"A nickname..."

"All right? I won't call you anything other than that."

As he can't call her by her real name, it's better to use the nickname Joel came up with.

(Because this girl is)

Joel then grabbed a towel and placed it on her wet, coral-haired head.

"...Because you're my one and only junior."

"...!"

At that moment, Lu's eyes sparkled with joy, just like the color of a treasure left under the sun.

"Yes! I'm very glad, Joel!"

"...Mm. Good kid."

In the days that followed, Joel's life got wrapped around Lou's finger.

After all, Lu was a person who would try anything. Not only did she put everything into her training, she also worked hard to help people in need even outside of her knight duties, and she even joined in drinking parties of the other units.

Every time she experienced something new, she smiled brightly and happily.

"Hey, Leo. Do you know where Lu is?"

"...If you're talking about Lucius, he's been summoned by some beautiful women earlier."

"Hmm."

It was probably because she was actually a girl, but she was more attentive and friendly to other women than anyone else, and her knightly conduct made her very popular. Nevertheless, this interaction with others never led to disputes, and their senior knights could only look at the situation with wonder.

"Joel, good morning, rise and shine!"

"...Today, I'll be training in my dreams. It's praiseworthy training, so it's all right..."

"I won't be able to participate if that's the case! As my senior, please guide me in training, and I'll dry your hair for you tonight!"

Joel was watching nearby this whole time.

"――The Crown Prince of Galkhein killed his father and usurped the throne."

"......"

When he told Lu about this fact, her face turned really sad.

Even though her hands clutched the hem of her clothes tightly, and those hands were covered with blisters from continuing to hold the sword, those hands still looked frail and dainty.

(...I hope this girl won't come to the battlefield.)

He thought to himself as he patted Lu's head, her eyes downcast.

(As I can't fully protect you...... No matter how everyone told me I'm worthless at everything except swordsmanship, I'm just a knight.)

Such selfish wishes kept appearing in his head.

Her short, coral hair was so silky smooth, it was hard to think of her using the same soap as Joel and the other knights.

(I need to protect this country, His Majesty, and the princes. A mere knight like me can't look back.)

Even though she knew of the future to come, she couldn't say anything.

As Joel was her fellow knight and her 'senior'.

(――Such is the life Lu and I chose.)

He had seen more than anyone else how much effort she put in to be a knight.

"...Become even stronger, Lu."

"Joel..."

"Hey."

Joel crouched down in front of Lu, rested his chin on his lap, and smiled.

"...I'll help you train every day, then. I'm your senior, after all."

"...!"

As he was her senior, he couldn't tell her he didn't want her to die.

But as he was precisely her senior, Joel could give Lu hope in the way he only could.

"...Thank you, Joel!"

(...Truly, I fell in love with such a troublesome girl...)

As Lu smiled, her eyes held the same sunny emerald color.

[velidewrites]

Breaking Point

Six months after Catrin Berdara is presumed dead, Gwyneth abandons the Erudites in search for answers. Knowing there is only one faction with the ability to take her over the spiked fence that shields their world from the truth, she does not hesitate to spill her blood over the burning coals at the Choosing Ceremony. But to be taken over the Fence, Gwyneth must first pass Initiation—and, unfortunately for her, one of the Dauntless squad leaders seems hell-bent on making her life all the more difficult.

Pairing: Azriel x Gwyneth Berdara

Tags: Divergent AU

Notes: I was going to post this yesterday when I realised Divergent was released exactly 10 years ago today! If you were as obsessed with this series as me, welcome to the chaos. This fic was inspired by me seeing a tiktok of the knife throwing scene and thought oh yeah this is Gwynriel at its peak.

This is baby's very first Gwynriel and my humble contribution for @gwynrielweeksofficial! Thank you to @azrielshadowssing @ablogofsapphicpanic @octobers-veryown for being such patient betas and to @damedechance for being so brilliant and coming up with this title for me.

Before you proceed, please be advised of the TW for past SA.

Read on AO3 or continue to Chapter 1 below!

Gwyneth Berdara was risking her life, and it was the most exhilarating thing in the world.

Her sister’s ice-cold hand on her mouth had snapped her awake, and it had only been thanks to her quick “Shush!” that Gwyneth managed to stifle the scream in her throat. It had not been the first time Catrin woke her up in the dead of the night—still, their routine had never quite made either of them loose the reins on her instincts.

Catrin’s eyes had glinted like onyx as she’d quickly prompted Gwyneth to get up and get dressed. The nights were shorter during the summer, which made the next few hours all the more precious. The truck had already been waiting, parked two blocks west—only two minutes on foot if they kept a fast pace.

Gwyneth could see the urgency painted on her sister’s features, yet it had nothing on the excitement that had her leg bouncing near the doorway to their dorm. It had lit up her entire face like moonlight, all the dark heaviness of the risk they were taking skittering away at the sight. It was contagious enough that Gwyneth, too, had found herself smiling—a smile that lingered even as they’d made their way down the pristine white hallways of the Academy.

Frankly, she had never quite figured out who in Campus Security Catrin had managed to bribe. The only thing either of them had was each other, a fact that Catrin often joked would make them the perfect fit for Abnegation once they turned twenty-one. Gwyneth could see her sister there—could see her spilling her blood on the smooth, grey stones and devoting her life in the service of others. Not Gwyneth, though. She had always thought herself too selfish—too selfish to abandon the Academy and all the knowledge it contained. At heart, after all, Gwyneth was—and always had been—an Erudite.

It was only one of their differences. From the day Gwyneth and Catrin were born, people had a hard time believing the two of them were twins. Catrin’s eyes were darker than the depths of the ocean the city bordered, her hair a similar black and her skin pale as milk. Gwyneth’s eyes were the sort of teal their ocean never saw, not even now, when the sun blazed right above it every day. She enjoyed the way it reflected in coppery brown waves, though, and the way it brought out the freckles on her face.

But as Gwyneth moved carefully behind Catrin, her every step falling right into her sister’s quiet shadow, she forgot about everything that divided them. In this—the excitement of the rebellion, the danger of the risk—in this, they were the same.

The drive to Amity had been almost entirely silent save for the crunchy gravel of the road as they exited the city. Even so, she could make out Catrin’s grin in the shadows of the cargo bed, could hear the gentle tapping of her still-bouncing leg.

If anyone in the Erudites found out about their nightly escapades, Gwyneth and Catrin would be dead—or worse, subjected to whatever classified research the Erudite leadership was undergoing at the headquarters. Only the most brilliant of the Academy students were allowed to apply for their stewardship—to watch and observe. To learn, the way the customs of their factions demanded.

Gwyneth had no interest in aiming for the top floors of the HQ. There, she would have likely been guarded—supervised—every hour of every day. Catrin, if she would be allowed to see her beyond Visiting Days at all, would no longer be a constant in her life, their monthly drives to the farmlands beyond the Fence only a distant memory. It was why Gwyneth sometimes doubted herself. An Erudite without ambition, after all, was like a Dauntless without courage, an Abnegation without people to serve. Useless.

Studying alongside the most illustrious of her faction was perhaps the greatest ambition of all, but Gwyneth was happy to remain at the Academy, to learn and contribute in whatever ways she could, all while retaining the little pieces of herself she still owned. To think such thoughts was to betray the Erudite virtues, constantly in pursuit of wisdom and intelligence. It was a fear that lingered somewhere deep in her chest every night she and Catrin ventured out to the unknown.

She tried to dwindle it, though, as she now danced around the bonfire near Sector Five’s stables. One of the Amity girls, dressed in yellows and oranges as dictated by the Amity fashion, had grabbed her by the hand and dragged her into her circle of friends, her laughter rising over the crackling flames. Sometimes, Gwyneth wondered what it would be like to be a part of that—part of the Peaceful, the Kind.

She couldn’t imagine a life free of worry, a life dedicated to preserving what remained of their destroyed world’s nature without questioning its past. And while the joy on the Amity girl’s face felt true, Gwyneth couldn’t help but feel like right now, she was living a lie.

“Have you seen my sister?” she shouted over the fire, the music a small guitar band had begun playing a few minutes ago. She had not seen Catrin since the Solstice celebrations started—since all of Sector Five had gathered to honour the end of the longest day of the year.

The girl shook her head, the fire dancing in her brown eyes. “I’m sure she’s with Clare,” she replied with a smile. Then, she winked, “I’d avoid the stables, if I were you.”

Gwyneth blinked. “Clare?”

The smile quickly faded from the girl’s pretty face. “Oh,” she said, her shoulders deflating slightly as she halted mid-dance. “You didn’t know?”

She must’ve had the surprise written all over her face, and Gwyneth schooled her features back into that light, free-of-any-worry-in-the-world expression she knew would help her avoid suspicion. “Oh, Clare! Of course,” she lied. “Sorry. It’s been a long night.”

The girl waved a hand. “I get it. The way they keep you under watch back in the city is ridiculous to me.” She angled her head, that brown gaze studying her with mild curiosity. “How old are you, again?” she asked.

“I’ll be twenty-one in a few months.”

She clasped her hands together, her whole face lighting up at Gwyneth’s answer. “Ah, you haven't Chosen yet!” she exclaimed. “You always have a place here—we’d welcome you with open arms.”

“I doubt my results will sort me into Amity,” Gwyneth said truthfully.

The corner of her mouth twitched. “Well,” the girl said, leaning conspiratorially over her shoulder, “I know we’re all supposed to follow the Aptitude Test’s recommendations, of course.” She tilted her chin towards the dancing group before them—to the truck still parked in the distance. “Something tells me, though, that you’ve never been one to follow the rules, anyway.”

Gwyneth followed her gaze—but words died on her tongue before she managed to answer.

There she was—Catrin, sitting with her back resting against one of the truck’s large wheels, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Alone.

“Excuse me,” she said to the girl, and moved towards her sister without so much as a goodbye. It wasn’t as she, or any of her Amity friends, would ever take offense—they simply returned to their dancing, the band’s song slowly fading into the distance as Gwyneth kept on walking.

Catrin’s eyes were fixed on the fire even as Gwyneth took her seat on the cold ground beside her.

“Where’s Clare?” she asked, unable to keep the hurt from her voice. There had never been any secrets between them—whatever there was to face in this world, they had always faced it together.

But Catrin simply smiled, her gaze sad, somehow, as she said quietly, “Look at them, Gwyneth. Look at all the dancing—the singing. They’re all smiling.” Finally, Catrin peeled her gaze off the scene to meet her own. “Do you think it’s real?”

There was something in her sister’s tone that made Gwyneth pause—something so unbearably raw it made Gwyneth shelve all her questions in the back of her mind and consider.

She looked towards the celebrating crowds. “I think they believe it is.”

Catrin rasped a laugh. “Yeah. I think so, too.”

Gwyneth placed a hand over her sister’s. As gently as she could, she asked, “Why do you ask, Catrin?”

Her gaze dropped to her feet. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Clare,” she said, and it wasn’t lost on Gwyneth how she’d avoided her question in favour of another. “Dating outside our own factions is forbidden, and I suppose…” Her throat bobbed. “I supposed I didn’t want to burden you with the secret.”

She was so unlike the Catrin from a few hours ago that Gwyneth felt her own throat burning, all the excitement they’d shared earlier fading into the night along with the bonfire smoke.

The question nearly forced itself onto Gwyneth’s lips—what changed?—but instead, she managed, “You could never burden me, Catrin.” Then, “I didn’t mean to pry. If she makes you happy, then that is all I need to know.”

Slowly, Catrin turned to face her again. “She makes me happy,” she whispered. “Very much.”

Gwyneth smiled. “Good.” She squeezed Catrin’s hand. “No secrets, remember?”

Perhaps it was the smoke carried by the summer breeze, or the late hour catching up with Catrin at last, but Gwyneth could’ve  sworn she saw silver gleam in her sister’s eyes as she said, “Yeah. No secrets.”

***

Catrin’s funeral took place midday, and it rained the entire time.

Erudites had never been too spiritual in nature, and saw death simply as the time for the mind to finally rest. As such, there were no celebrations of the life she had lived like the ones held in Amity—no formal burials with lengthy speeches from Candor’s government officials, either. It was, perhaps, the one thing where Erudites and Abnegations found common ground—in the lack of spectacle surrounding their funerals. In Abnegation, death was only a tragedy because it meant an end to one’s servitude.

Gwyneth watched as her sister’s casket was covered by a deep-blue sheet, the colour slowly darkening as it soaked up the pouring rain. The entire Academy had gathered to watch it being lowered into the city’s foundations—to symbolise the collective knowledge upon which it was built, if nothing else. One of the Erudite representatives then murmured a few words about the tragedy Catrin’s death was, and the new, stricter regulations the labs would be implementing to prevent anything like this from happening ever again.

Gwyneth had not been invited to say a few words. The Erudite virtues did not speak of emotional attachment, of the importance of sentiment. Catrin’s pursuit of knowledge may have ended, but Gwyneth’s…Gwyneth’s had only just begun.

She was not permitted to look upon her twin’s face for the final time, either. The stone casket seemed impenetrable from where she stood, one lone student in the sea of blue umbrellas and Academy uniforms. It was not like Gwyneth would have asked to see her, either. Whatever spirit of rebellion had lived inside her before, it died today—watching its counterpart disappear beneath the ground.

As the plates of the burial site began closing in on each other, though, ready to swallow Catrin for the rest of time, something shifted—like a spark in the air, charging the weather with lightning. Gwyneth’s shoulders tensed as she braced herself for impact.

And then, someone screamed.

All one hundred—perhaps more—Erudite heads snapped towards the sound, some of the faces immediately twisting in a grimace, some in curiosity. Gwyneth’s eyes, though, only widened in shock, her mouth parting slightly as she realised who the voice belonged to—who had just lunged onto the stage, her orange dress muddy and torn.

Clare Beddor’s tears blended into the rain as she reached for the Erudite representative, her expression so wild and pained that Gwyneth felt it in her own already shredded heart. Even through the hauling rain, through the thunder booming somewhere in the distance, she could hear Clare’s words as clear as the day she had last seen her lover. Could hear the accusation that would get her reunited with Catrin at last.

“MURDERERS!” Clare yelled, the crowd gasping in unison. “You’re all murderers!”

Everything happened so quickly after that.

Someone had grabbed Clare from behind—one of the junior HQ researchers, a Dauntless transfer if his large, muscular frame was any indication—and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back with the kind of force that should’ve hauled her off the stage. But Clare kept on fighting, kept on kicking and screaming and digging her nails into the man’s forearms, leaving long, bloodied streaks splitting his tattoos. Still, the man did not let go.

Only when the rain began to leave the taste of salt in Gwyneth’s mouth did she realise she was crying, too. She watched as Clare was dragged off the stage and shoved into a sleek, black car—Candor, Gwyneth noted immediately—which appeared seemingly out of nowhere. She watched as it drove off, too, as the Erudite representative apologised for the intrusion and once again reiterated the tragedy of the incident before ordering all of Catrin’s fellow students to return to their daily obligations.

But Clare’s words lingered even as the crowd dissipated, echoing between the glass Erudite buildings before settling right in Gwyneth’s chest. 

Murderers. Murderers. Murderers.

When the rhythm of her heart started to beat alongside the syllables, alongside the truth Gwyneth had thought no one else believed in, that rebellion inside her reignited—blazed, like the fire she had danced to in Amity two weeks ago.

She wasn’t insane. She was not paranoid, and Clare all but confirmed it.

Catrin Berdara had been murdered. When and how—it did not matter.

The only question that mattered was why.

And Gwyneth was going to find the answer.

***

SIX MONTHS LATER

Compared to her old Academy dorm, Gwyneth’s apartment at the Erudite Headquarters felt ridiculously empty.

Truthfully, she had not exactly put any effort into decorating it in the past two months. The walls remained white and untainted by the vibrant prints and watercolour paintings she and Catrin used to sneak into the Academy from Amity. The entire space was simply occupied by her bed, wardrobe, and desk. The latter, at least, was filled with enough books to let the average visitor know someone was, in fact, living in this place.

Gwyneth had shoved one of those books into her bag before leaving, along with some crumpled papers containing notes she could hardly remember writing last night. It must have been well past three in the morning when she’d finally finished, but when it came to her supervisor, Gwyneth always prioritised being sleep deprived over unprepared.

Not that anyone had ever acknowledged her efforts, though. Her supervisor just so happened to be the Erudite representative, the faction’s very leader and the main voice advising their Candor-comprised government. It was a great privilege, Gwyn had always told the other graduates, making sure to dip her head an inch and blush slightly as she lied: I was certain it was a mistake, but Merrill was really impressed with my dissertation, it seems.

Gwyneth’s Academy dissertation just so happened to align perfectly with the Erudite’s research—a coincidence, and, of course, a great privilege. Gwyn had been planning to teach at the Academy post-graduation—that much, at least, was the truth—but when the HQ had made her an offer, she simply could not refuse.

She was the envy of other HQ graduate researchers, which was definitely one downside in the grand scheme of things. Gwyneth had been prepared for the attention, but the amount of eyes turned towards her in every lab, every hallway, was certainly making things…difficult.

After all, no one at HQ could ever suspect why Gwyneth Berdara, a previous history major, had suddenly taken up interest in genetics—why her dissertation, initially on the history of the Erudite faction, had suddenly shifted focus onto Aptitude Tests in the final two months of her studies at the Academy. No one could quite figure how, exactly, she had managed to produce a report worthy of the attention of the Head Erudite herself.

That part, Gwyneth did not have to lie about, either. She was an Erudite. She studied—she sought the knowledge and acquired it.

Getting to the HQ was the easiest part of her plan. Getting out of it, however, was going to prove a lot more…difficult.

There was one other thing cluttering her desk, its silver gleam drawing her eye before she finally made her way to leave. Gwyneth picked up the lighter, the metal cold against her skin, and pushed the small lever down with her thumb.

The flame came to life in Gwyneth’s hand, and she watched as it danced playfully in the air. All of her belongings, all the Amity posters and photos she had taken over the years—they were memories too painful to bring along for her final act of rebellion. The lighter, though, was the one thing of her own she’d allowed herself—she had purchased it on her first day at the HQ despite the voice of reason protesting in her mind.

“I’m almost there, Catrin,” she whispered to the little bonfire in her palm. “I’m almost there.”

With that, the lighter disappeared in the folds of her lab coat, and Gwyneth did not spare another look at the empty apartment as she made her way out.

Lost in her thoughts, Gwyneth hadn’t even realised she’d already made it to her supervisor’s office.

“You’re late,” Merril said in her usual manner of greeting.

 “I’m sorry. I’ve been preparing for tomorrow,” she replied, closing the door carefully behind her.

The Head Erudite looked up from her computer, its blue holo reflecting in her stare. “There is no preparing for the Aptitude Test. You know this, Gwyneth.”

“Emotionally preparing, I suppose,” she corrected herself, her response met with a deep sigh.

“I assume you have the notes I assigned you,” Merril said, not entirely a question. Everything was an order with her—an order that would never be satisfied no matter what Gwyneth did.

Still, she nodded, taking the papers out of her bag to place them on Merrill’s desk, the professor’s eyes already scanning over the writing. She couldn’t help but hold her breath as she waited, silently watching as Merrill took in the results of last week’s experiments, then finally, finally, nodded.

“Take these to Lab Six,” she instructed, Gwyneth’s shoulders sagging with relief. As far as Merrill’s compliments went, this one was the best she could have asked for. “Make the necessary preparations for next month.”

Already on her way out—Merrill did not appreciate anyone wasting her time—Gwyneth stopped.

“Next month?” she asked, turning over her shoulder. With the Choosing Ceremony scheduled for the last day of January, who knew what the next month would bring.

Clearly, Merrill thought Gwyneth was here to stay.

She raised a white eyebrow in scrutiny. “Is there a problem?” she asked.

In exactly a week from now, Gwyneth would finally do what she’d spent the last six months meticulously planning. Merrill said there was no preparing for the Aptitude Tests, but Gwyneth had not spent all those sleepless nights studying, all those days smiling and pretending Catrin’s death hadn’t affected her at all, only to let someone else decide her fate.

No. Gwyneth Berdara had figured out how to cheat.

Tomorrow, the Aptitude Test would sort her into the one faction with the ability to bring her one step closer to the truth behind her sister’s murder.

Next week, she would no longer be Gwyneth Berdara, Erudite.

She would be Dauntless.

“No,” she said to Merrill with a sweet smile. “No problem at all.”

***

It had been over twenty-four hours since Gwyneth had last slept, and she was seriously starting to worry she might just pass out in the chair if her name was not called out next.

As dazed as the lack of sleep was making her, Gwyneth knew that once she exited that room, she would thank herself for persevering. No one under the age of twenty-one was supposed to know this, but being Merrill’s protegé came with its benefits—all carefully researched and planned for six months ago.

The test would begin by having a simulation serum being injected into her neck, setting off a range of scenarios eventually leading to Gwyneth being matched to one of the five factions: Erudites, Abnegation, Dauntless, Candor, or Amity, all based on the choices she’d be making throughout. Fifteen weeks—Gwyneth had spent fifteen weeks studying the simulation patterns and the reaction of the brain every scenario it presented. The Aptitude Test’s results were meant to serve as a guide for the Choosing Ceremony, and if one did not wish to end up factionless–-end up an exile to society—following the Test’s recommendations was the only true choice.

Gwyneth knew—had always known—she was an Erudite, if the last few months were any indication for her to ground her confidence in. Her Test results today, though, would recommend a different faction entirely.

Her research suggested there were side effects to the serum. Sustained deprivation of sleep, Gwyneth found, would catalyse a heightened neural state—high enough for her to remain in full cognitive control of the simulation. She would recognise the patterns effortlessly—would know where to go and what to say for the test administrator to proclaim her as a Dauntless the moment she woke up. In theory.

A few hours into the tests, there weren’t many people left. From the colour of their clothes, Gwyneth noted two from Abnegation and one from Candor, his black tie and formal attire making her shift in her own seat. She could hardly register the light tapping of her foot against the linoleum floor, consumed entirely by the silence of the hallway. Waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

The Tests were being held at the Academy, and it made her all the more uneasy. These halls, the cafeteria they now sat in, this entire building—the Academy was so familiar Gwyneth had nearly forgotten what had driven her out of there. She half-expected Catrin to come out of the East Elevator leading right up to her old lab, to give her a small wave as she called out her name.

“Gwyneth Berdara?”

Gwyneth jumped in her seat.

The Candor boy snorted.

The test administrator—a woman that could not have been more than a few years older than Gwyneth—gave him a look. The Candor cleared his throat immediately, his eyes falling back into that blank, emotionless stare. It was then that Gwyneth realised the woman was from Candor, too.

She arched an eyebrow as she looked at Gwyneth again, her ice-blue eyes settling on her own. “Gwyneth Berdara, yes?”

Gwyneth nodded.

“Good. Come on in.”

The hallway, as Gwyneth already knew, hosted a row of ten rooms, and the woman led her to the one at the far left. The teaching classroom had been transformed into an empty space with nothing but a reclined chair that made her feel as though she was about to walk into her dentist’s appointment, the walls now covered in floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

Even though Gwyneth knew what to expect, she couldn’t help but swallow the tightness in her throat. She had volunteered to set those rooms up herself before—the administrator herself was a volunteer, too. Most of the Candor worked for the government—their inclination towards truth and justice made them the only objective candidates. According to their manifesto, at least.

This woman, though—she seemed nothing like the Candor Gwyneth had met before, perhaps save for the stern look in her gaze and the way she carried herself. As if nothing could bend her will.

There was something about her face that seemed familiar, and Gwyneth could not shake the feeling that she had seen her before. Her features seemed sharper than those faded images in her memory, her hair a lighter shade of golden brown, straighter and tied into a sleek, braided bun. No matter how hard she focused, though, Gwyneth couldn’t quite place her.

“Take a seat,” she instructed before Gwyneth could try searching her mind again. “My name is Nesta Archeron. I’ll be your test administrator today.”

The name did not seem familiar, and, frustrated, Gwyneth slipped into the chair, the leather cracked at the armrests. As though whoever had come in before her did not take the simulations well.

Great.

After an uncomfortably long pause, Gwyneth looked up to meet the administrator’s stare. Was the test not supposed to start already?

“Well?” Nesta asked, her arms crossed over the sleek, black jacket padded lightly at the shoulders. She might have been the only Candor Gwyneth had ever seen that did not seem stiff in their clothes.

She blinked in confusion. “Well…what?” she asked.

“Most people want to know if it hurts,” Nesta pointed out.

Oh. “I already know it doesn’t hurt,” Gwyneth told her. “My research focuses on Aptitude Tests,” she explained, her cheeks flushing slightly as she realised she might have fallen into the Erudite trap of sounding too pretentious.

“Your research,” Nesta repeated, a shadow of a smile playing in the corner of her mouth. “That is, perhaps, the most Erudite thing I’ve ever heard.”

Gwyneth huffed. “I thought the simulation was meant to decide my faction, not you.”

To her surprise, Nesta snorted. “I think I might like you, Gwyneth Berdara,” she said. Then, “Why do I know your name?” she asked, her golden brows knitting.

Gwyneth could see the exact second realisation dawned on Nesta’s face.

“You were Catrin Berdara’s sister.” She shook her head, her hair catching some of the white, artificial light at the ceiling. “I am so sorry. Horrible tragedy.”

“Yes,” Gwyneth said, unable to keep the tinge of bitterness from her tone. “Tragedy.”

Nesta’s eyes narrowed. “You know, in Candor, our most prized virtue is the truth. During Initiation, we spend weeks training how to detect lies.” She tilted her head to the side. “Why do I feel like you’re lying to me, Gwyn?”

“It’s Gwyneth.”

“Gwyneth,” Nesta corrected, that strange amusement returning into her face. “I have two sisters, you know. The youngest had her test earlier today.”

“How did she do?”

“You research our tests, don’t you? You know the results are not to be discussed—not even amongst family.” Nesta smiled. “I know, though—from the moment she was born, out and screaming her rage right into the world.” She snorted. “Feyre is going to choose Dauntless, because that’s who she always has been.”

“You sound excited for her,” Gwyneth started carefully.

“I am.”

“Won’t you miss her in Candor?”

“My sisters and I were born in Abnegation,” Nesta explained. “Four years ago, I chose Candor. Two years ago, Elain had left for Amity. Grey had never quite suited her, anyway,” she added. Gwyneth was not entirely sure she’d ever heard a Candor joke before. Then, Nesta said, “In a week from now, Feyre is going to leave, too. I’m sure of it.”

Gwyneth hummed. “Your parents must miss you very much.”

“Our parents are dead, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” she faltered, her cheeks heating yet again. “So are mine.”

Nesta shrugged matter-of-factly, the gesture enough to keep Gwyneth from asking. “Then you know,” she said, her gaze dropping to whatever notes Gwyneth’s profile contained on the datapad. “I see you study under Merrill Dorset,” Nesta observed. “The Aptitude Test research makes a lot more sense now.” She shook her head, as though in disbelief. “Thanks to her, we no longer have sixteen year olds do these tests. Ridiculous—to make someone with such a young mind decide on the rest of their life.” She looked at Gwyneth again. “You must be very excited to work under her.”

Gwyneth shrugged. “It has its benefits.”

“I’m sure it does,” Nesta said—and if she weren’t Candor, Gwyneth might have thought it a lie. “Is that how you know not to be afraid?” she asked, pressing one of the electrodes to Gwyneth’s head.

Gwyneth scoffed. “Merrill has nothing to do with it,” she told Nesta, flinching slightly at the cold touch as Nesta attached yet another electrode to her head. “I’ve figured it out all on my own.”

The words escaped her without warning—and if Nesta were an Erudite, she would have been fully within her rights to drag her straight to Merrill’s office and filed for Gwyneth’s expulsion.

Instead, a smile—a true smile bloomed on Nesta’s face as she pressed the syringe to Gwyneth’s neck, the clear serum swirling lazily inside. “Perhaps not an Erudite, then.”

The word blurred into nothingness as Gwyneth slipped into the simulation at last.

***

Gwyneth woke up to the sound of screaming, muffled only by a thick wall of concrete and windows sealed shut by dark, bloodied wood.

She did not recognise her surroundings, and from the blurriness of the corners of her vision, she knew she was not supposed to. Even the words of the crying crowds outside had no meaning at all. The emotion they carried was clear, though—fear.

Gwyneth grounded herself in the sounds—became one with the simulation, aware of every pattern presented before her, every entrance or exit she could find her way to. There was a door behind her that had not been barricaded—only an iron handle stood between her and the screams. Turning towards it, she wondered why those people did not simply open the door.

“You’re late,” a childlike voice now spoke behind her. “He’s getting away,” it said.

Gwyneth whirled back to the sound—and found no one at all.

The setting before her had changed, though. There was a staircase now, tall and made entirely of concrete, too. A table blocked the way up, though, small and built from some light type of wood Gwyneth had never cared to study at the Academy.

“Who?” she asked carefully.

“Have you changed your mind already?” the voice spoke again from somewhere behind her back. “You’re our last hope, you know.”

Gwyneth turned again—once again facing nothing but the iron door and the screams behind. She was not supposed to see this child, whoever it was. So instead, she asked, “What’s happening outside?”

“You have a choice here,” the voice continued as though she hadn’t spoken at all. “Go up, and finish what you came here to do. You cannot proceed without this,” it then said, and when Gwyneth turned towards the staircase again, the table was no longer empty.

Atop a clean, ivory cloth laid a gun—a pistol, its silver glinting subtly beneath the streaks of sunlight pouring in through the cracks between the bloodied wood. Gwyneth sucked in a breath.

“You may decide to go back. Rejoin the others, if you wish. The choice is entirely up to you.”

The choice seemed entirely clear to Gwyneth. Turn back to the people—Abnegation. Amity, perhaps. The gun, however…

“I thought you hired me,” she told the voice.

It giggled—a shrill, eerie sound that seemed to carry all the way upstairs. “I cannot decide your fate for you,” it said, as if scolding her.

Gwyneth looked back towards the door again—then to the gun. What if this was a test, and the true display of courage would have been to save the people outside from whatever horrors had befallen them?

No—there were no underlying motives in these tests. Her choices, Gwyneth had learned, were plain and simple, the way the faction members’ lives had been designed to be. If she wanted to be classified as a Dauntless, the gun was her only viable option.

So Gwyneth picked it up—wrapped her hand around the cool metal, letting it slip down to the polished hilt.

“Go now,” the voice urged. “Go!”

Gwyneth did not waste any more time.

She started running, every step light as she made her way upstairs, the echo of the people’s cries following her all the way up to the sixth floor. She felt no weariness, no strain in her muscles or stiffness in her joints, the blend of the serum and twenty-four hours without sleep clearly taking effect.

The stairs seemed to end here, though. There was only one door at the very top of the building, made of the same dark, blood-stained wood the windows had been. Gwyneth reached for the doorknob—iron, too, she realised—and the door clicked open as she turned it to her left.

“Are you the one?” someone asked her—a new voice, male and hoarse coming somewhere from the back of the room.

“What?” Gwyneth asked, and the room lit up with the question.

She had to stifle a scream of her own as she saw him. The man stood at the very end of the narrow hallway, his back pressed toward the wall and a gun steady in his hands.

“Are you the one they sent after me?” he repeated, his voice rougher now, like gravel against her skin.

“No,” Gwyneth lied, fighting to keep her voice from trembling as her own pistol slipped down an inch in her clammy grip. “I’m on your side,” she told him.

“Liar,” he seethed, “I’ll give you one more chance. Tell the truth, and I will go—you and your people will never see me, never hear of me again. Peace,” he said. “So, what will it be?”

Gwyn opened her mouth—and the man smiled, revealing a perfect set of bloody, iron teeth.

Her mind raced, chasing every possibility that seemed to escape her the wider the man grinned. He must have been the reason for the carnage outside, all the pain and death that would have awaited her had she chosen to open the door. Perhaps the simulation would have made her tend for the wounded, or forced her to become one of them. Either way, there was no turning back.

She understood now—she had to kill that man. His promise of peace, while appealing to an Amity or maybe even an Erudite, was a lie. That left her with two choices.

Tell the truth—Candor.

Keep on lying—Dauntless.

So Gwyneth tightened her grip on her gun and told him, “I’m not here to kill you.”

The man’s smile became a long, vicious snarl. “Wrong answer,” he said, and pointed his own pistol at her.

“Leave her alone!” someone screamed then, a voice—a familiar voice, one she had met in this simulation before. The child materialised before her, a small girl that could not have been older than five—and lunged for the murderer aiming at Gwyneth.

All Gwyneth could see, though, was Clare Beddor’s face as she ran for the Erudites that killed her sister. The same Erudites that prized knowledge above all else, only to put an end to it whenever someone reached too far.

What had Catrin found out that day? How bad must it have been to merit an order for her execution.

Whatever truth the answers held, though, Gwyneth had already failed. But, perhaps, she could do this—could save this child, so ready and eager to sacrifice its life for those who could not have done the same.

For Catrin.

As if reading her thoughts, the man pointed his gun at the little girl.

“NO!” Gwyneth screamed, and jumped in front of the child the moment the gun fired.

***

The word still lingered on her tongue as Gwyneth shot upright with a scream.

“Sit up,” Nesta ordered, her hand steady on Gwyneth’s back. “Drink,” she added, a cold glass suddenly pressed to her trembling lips.

She obeyed, the water dripping down her chin as she gulped, the glass shaking alongside her sweaty palms.

“The whole thing,” Nesta nodded, and only when Gwyneth emptied the glass did she finally seem satisfied enough to let her speak.

“Well?” Gwyneth asked, wiping the salt on her forehead with the back of her hand. “ Not an Erudite, I’m assuming?”

Nesta’s lips pressed into a thin line, her skin somewhat pale as she quickly entered something into her datapad. “Not exactly.”

“What—what is that supposed to mean?”

Nesta met her gaze, her blue eyes wary. “Gwyn—Gwyneth, your results were inconclusive.” She sighed. “Is that something you have seen in your research, or do you need me to explain it to you?”

Gwyneth ignored the jab. “Inconclusive?” She frowned. “That is not possible.” She tried so hard—so hard to be matched to the Dauntless. She was prepared to shoot—to prove she wasn’t afraid, to prove she didn’t hesitate. If she only hadn’t let her emotions get the better of her—

“Of course not,” Nesta said, something like mockery creeping into her tone. “In theory. How many times have your theories been proven wrong, Gwyneth?”

She had to give her that one. “Many.”

“You have chosen the gun, effectively closing both paths that would have taken the simulation towards Amity—or Abnegation, for that matter.” Nesta looked at her datapad again. “That gave us Dauntless. Then, you lied to the man—then lied again, even when given a second chance and promised peace—that rules out Candor. You’re definitely not Amity, that’s for sure.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “You were smart enough not to believe him, displaying equal aptitude for both Erudite and Dauntless. But then you saved the girl,” she said. “Threw your body over her own. Abnegation again.”

Nesta set her notes on the chair’s armrest, leaning in closer—close enough for the distance between them to close almost entirely as she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “Gwyneth, people like you are called Divergent. And they are very, very dangerous.” Those icy eyes searched her own. “Tell me, Gwyneth, what does our society do with dangerous people?”

Gwyneth stopped breathing entirely.

Nesta nodded. “You, of all people, should know this.”

“You know,” Gwyneth breathed. “You know what my sister researched.”

It had been Gwyneth’s theory from the day she had found a stash of notes in Catrin’s bed—shoved deep into the mattress, nearly lost to the world after death. Notes containing Catrin’s own research, all of them detailing the hypotheses of her Genetics thesis. Catrin had been studying the factionless—had been seeking to understand why, no matter how hard they tried, they did not belong to any of the factions. She had nearly found the answer.

But Catrin’s notes ended abruptly, the final entry dated two weeks before her death. The night the two of them had last ventured out to the Amity farmlands. The night Catrin had promised her no more secrets.

“And look where that research got her,” Nesta said quietly. “Gwyneth, you cannot share this information with anyone. Under no circumstances can you reveal your test results. Do you understand me?” she asked, her tone inviting no protest.

Gwyneth swallowed. Hard. “I do.”

Nesta straightened. “I’m going to put your aptitude down for Erudite, and we’ll forget about this whole thing.”

She picked the datapad up again.

“No,” Gwyneth said then.

Half-turning over her shoulder, Nesta’s brows rose. “No?”

“Dauntless,” Gwyneth blurted out, her final attempt at salvaging six-months of pain and preparation. “Please. They will look—Merrill will look at my test results. She cannot know why I didn’t come back.”

“Gwyneth,” Nesta started slowly. “Whatever you think you’ll find at the Dauntless—”

“It’s not what I’ll find there,” she interrupted. “It’s where the Dauntless can take me.”

Understanding settled into Nesta’s beautiful features. “Going beyond the Fence is strictly forbidden,” she told her.

Gwyneth offered a tense shrug. “It seems to me like I’m already on the forbidden list.”

Nesta shook her head. “To live the life of a Dauntless is to die,” she warned her. “Not many Transfers survive their Initiation. Consider what you’re about to do, Gwyneth Berdara.”

Gwyneth was done considering. It was finally time to act.

“If it was your sister,” she started, looking Nesta right in the eye, “either of your sisters. What would you have done?”

Something like surprise sparked in Nesta’s gaze, and for a moment—for a short, beautiful moment, Gwyneth had hope.

But then, Nesta told her, “You are asking a Candor to lie.”

Gwyneth knew she had lost.

She’d forgotten—she’d forgotten that, in this world, factions came above all else. No matter what Nesta thought of her, no matter what she would have done for her own sisters in Gwyneth’s position—the primary Candor virtue was to never tell a lie.

Dishonesty is rampant. Dishonesty is temporary. Dishonesty makes evil possible.

The doctrine was practically written on Nesta’s face, her features practically writhing in conflict.

So Gwyneth braced herself—braced herself for the administrator’s next words, no doubt announcing her imminent arrest and exile following the betrayal of her faction, of conspiring against her own. Perhaps they would tackle her the way they had Clare Beddor—perhaps they would drag her down to her casket beneath the city’s foundations themselves.

But then Nesta’s datapad flashed red—and Gwyneth watched as her results disappeared, wiped from the digital memory forever.

“When you get to the Dauntless,” Nesta began, her voice tight, “Find a man named Cassian. I need you to pass on a message.” Her throat bobbed. “Tell him,” she asked, “Tell him I was right.”

Gwyneth could only stare.

“Go now,” Nesta ordered, jerking her chin towards the exit. “And try to survive.”

For Catrin—for her sister, Gwyneth always would.

“Thank you,” she breathed. “Thank you, Nesta.”

She did not remember the walk back to her empty room at HQ. The last thing Gwyneth truly recalled was the cold bowl of her toilet as she leaned over it and retched her guts out.

The Choosing Ceremony was held exactly a week later at the Hub, the very centerpiece of the city. Gwyneth had queued in her dedicated blue line of twenty-one year old Erudites all morning, unable to occupy herself with anything else but waiting.

She could trust Nesta. Couldn’t she? When had she ever met a Candor with the ability to tell a lie, or worse, keep the truth from reaching the rest of the world? One word to the wrong person, and Gwyneth would be dead before even entering the building.

She had entered it, though, the Hub so much larger than she had remembered it. She and Catrin had once visited it during a school trip, when they were so young they could hardly understand the power it would one day hold over them. The power it held over everyone else. 

The Ceremony had started about thirty minutes ago, and after a few brief speeches from the Candor government about the grandiose of this very moment, people’s names had begun being called out one by one. Gwyneth watched as those with an A last name made their choices, her gaze slipping occasionally to the sector at the far right, where the Dauntless would shout out their excitement each time a new Initiate’s blood was spilled over the hot, burning coals.

It was a sick display of devotion—Gwyneth had always considered it as such. Still, she was in no position to argue, not when her only other choice was to embark on a self-imposed exile. Or, apparently, submitting herself to the authorities for being an illegal outlier she had no idea even existed.

Slowly, she slid her gaze over the five white bowls, each the size of the large, sizzling cauldron she’d remembered from her childhood’s fantasy stories, their contents symbolising the five factions. Grey stones for Abnegation, plain and unassuming the way their lives were supposed to be; the hot coals for Dauntless; glass for Candor, clear as the truth; soil for Amity, like the farms they cared for; and, finally, water for Erudites, its flow representative of  the ever-changing nature of knowledge.

Somewhere behind those bowls sat Merrill, no doubt expecting to see Gwyneth stain the water red. Perhaps, in another life, Gwyneth would have done just that—would have returned to the Academy, studying history the way she had always wanted, sneaking out to Amity every Summer Solstice to celebrate Catrin the way Amity celebrated the sun.

That life, though…it would not have been enough for Gwyneth. Not when she had seen the rage in Catrin’s lover’s eyes, not when she felt it in her own heart every time she felt the weight of her lighter tucked into her lab coat. Honouring Catrin would have never been enough.

Gwyneth wanted answers. Gwyneth wanted revenge.

“Gwyneth Berdara,” the announcer’s voice boomed over the hall, some of the Erudites’ quiet gasps disrupting the space. Some of them, no doubt, had already forgotten the tragedy from six months ago, Gwyneth’s family name serving as an uncomfortable reminder.

Gwyneth did not look back at them as she walked down towards the five bowls at the hall’s centre. Her eyes were only on the knife laid out before her the way the gun in her simulation had been—waiting patiently to find its way into her hand.

Gwyneth took one, steadying breath before picking it up at last. Then, she flipped it over to the sharp edge and sliced through her palm.

The quiet hiss snuck its way past her teeth as her skin split open, and she realised with a tinge of embarrassment that she may have cut too deep. Within seconds, her blood would begin spilling nowhere but the floor. Perhaps it was exactly the place where the Divergent belonged—unable to be defined despite so many choices laid ahead of them.

Gwyneth allowed herself one look at the water before looking up to meet Merrill’s gaze.

She held it even as she outstretched her hand over the burning coals and opened her palm, her blood sizzling over the fire.

There was only a second of silence when the entire hall held its breath.

And then, the Dauntless erupted with a roaring cheer.

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added!): @azrielshadowssing @damedechance @talons-and-teeth @octobers-veryown @foreverinelysian @sunshinebingo @aldbooks @climbthemountain2020 @trashforazriel @bibliophiliaxvignette

[journalfen]

i understand that following lolcows is a morally dubious activity but what is happening to amberlynn reid at the moment is really making me think. i feel like i have nobody to talk to about it in detail so i’m making a post.

very very brief history; amberlynn reid (amber) is an infamous youtuber who has a following because she started to make youtube videos as a weight loss channel in 2013. she weighed about 300 lbs at the start of her channel and went on to gain significant weight (she weighed 572 lbs at her known highest weight and is about 500 now) while starting and stopping countless diets/weight loss challenges/lifestyle changes. she is a lesbian and has had several controversial relationships since the start of her channel. it’s genuinely impossible to recount the actual events in one post so for the sake of this, amber is a bad partner and learns very little from mistakes she’s made in previous relationships. there is a lot of information about her life because she documents it very thoroughly, and people are extremely invested in her life story, so i’m interested in it from a sociological point of view. lolcows and the communities that spring up around them are like bullying case studies, which is what i’m a bit crazy about currently.

amber has been presumably single since july of last year, and her last partner only appeared as a hand and disembodied voice in her vlogs. she unconvincingly faked a new long distance girlfriend starting in february of this year. shortly before what’s going on now, amber made a lot of content suggesting that her ‘valentine’ had cheated on her and they had broken up. these past few weeks she’s been teasing the introduction of a new girlfriend—a woman identified as tommy. relevant context about the community is that amber viewers are eager to have a new ‘side character’ to make her content entertaining again, because the consensus is that she’s been boring since her offscreen girlfriend started being the only other presence in her videos. amber is discussed on… the fruit farms, a community of people who will uncover public information about anyone to build a narrative about them. the excitement from the amber spectators and the inevitability of people investigating any new girlfriend’s identity meant that tommy’s personal identifying information and past escapades were revealed only days after amber first officially posted her face on her tiktok.

piecing together clues based on tommy’s tattoos and social media accounts, posters identified her as a woman who was a part of feeder fetish communities. that on its own was surprising, but it gets a bit sinister from this point. tommy ran a couples’ account in one of those communities with a woman who was about 1,000 lbs and passed away due to obesity related complications in april of this year, about three months ago. tommy and amber have been talking since june of this year. another woman who posts social media content focusing on her weight (i don’t know/care about her specific weight but she is similar to amber) revealed that tommy had been sending flirtatious messages with her even before then. i don’t think that tommy wanted her partner to pass away or anything, but it feels malicious to move between relationships with people who are near immobile and suffering from obesity related health conditions almost immediately after losing a partner to the same serious medical problems.

the community is obviously frothing over this development. there are a lot of opinions, but i’ve been very troubled by the amount of people who are dismissive of the potential danger of the situation because amber has supposedly consented to a relationship with a feeder with a shady past. amber made a video and a post ‘addressing the rumors’ where she confirmed that tommy’s late partner passed away, but denied the ‘rumor’ that she had a feederism fetish. it’s hard to say what exactly she knew before she entered this relationship. amber has repeatedly demonstrated that she is quite naive about being an online celebrity, has severe and deep seated issues with regulating her eating/lifestyle, and is a public figure who could easily be targeted by someone with less than pure intentions.

but because amber supposedly ‘knows what she’s getting into’, because she is a bit of a villain herself, because she struggles to maintain her health (and oftentimes, just straight up neglects it), amber can’t be a victim. because she’s ‘consented’, she can’t be blindsided by this internet stranger’s true colors. it’s reminding me of how people only want perfect victims with perfect circumstances, who are completely unaware that they’re going into dangerous relationships. nothing has even happened, but it’s reminding me how dark internet communities can become. it’s a complicated situation with so many overlapping fucked up subcultures/mindsets that show off the worst of the internet. there are countless reasons to dislike amber but it’s insane to me that people can look at an extremely shady relationship and just not care because of who is involved.