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rotworld · 3 months ago

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Where They Keep Winged Things

after an exhausting night of being chased, captured and sentenced to convenire service, you wake up in the eerie mansion of a powerful nightbound and the strange fledglings in his care. welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.

->(more) introduction to the "meanvamps" universe. suggestive but not explicit; contains power imbalance, feral behavior, captivity. also on ao3.

Something smells sweet.

That’s the first and only thing you know for a time, lured from the abyss of sleep into groggy consciousness by a mouthwatering, irresistible scent. You struggle to identify it. Syrup? Frosting? Not chocolate, not quite, more delicate than that yet twice as potent. It’s perfect, whatever it is, dessert incarnate with the fresh tang of a fruit tart and the decadent weight of caramel-covered flan. You wipe the drool from your mouth and open your eyes to flickering light and shadow. Candles. Curtains? A canopy, you realize slowly. This is a four-poster bed, heavy blue drapes tied to the wooden columns with thick gold cords. You sit up slowly. The fog clears from your mind one blink at a time. This isn’t your bed. This isn’t your room. It reeks of dust and stale air like an attic that hasn’t been aired out in a while. Candlelight gleams on the wooden frames of antique furniture, decorative end tables and bookcases and a fancy sofa where a nightbound sits, eyes aglow. Bleary confusion sharpens into dread.

“Good evening,” Athanasius says, gloved hands resting in his lap. He’s dressed differently than he was at the Council meeting. Not as formal? It’s hard to tell. He looks less like he’s going to walk the red carpet and more like a Renaissance Fair escapee in an absurdly frilly white top and form-fitting black trousers. You watch him carefully when he stands in a fluid motion, tracking his slow approach to your bedside. He’s infuriatingly beautiful, the kind of pretty that makes a person tongue-tied. Long lashes, Cupid’s bow lips, ink black hair all the way down his back. He looks at you with perpetual bedroom eyes, always half-lidded like a sleepy, sated predator toying with prey it doesn’t have the appetite for yet.

“Evening?” you repeat in confusion. It was already late when you were dragged before the Council, wasn’t it?

“You slept soundly for an entire day. I thought I may need to persuade you to rest longer, but there was no need. You must have been exhausted.”

You almost ask him how long he’s been sitting there, watching you. You decide the answer probably wouldn’t make you feel better. “Where am I?” you ask.

“The Belanger Estate. My convenire.” There’s a hint of pride in his voice. “I apologize for the mustiness. This room has not been in use for some time. The bedding and pillowcases have been washed, but I did not have time to finish dusting.” You glance around cautiously. Everything looks old and overly ornate, too pretty to use. It feels like a museum, not a bedroom. “You do not like it,” Athanasius notes, his gentle enthusiasm unaffected. “You may redecorate, if you wish. I am eager to see you comfortable.”

You’d argue if you had the strength, but all you can muster is a sigh. Maybe it’s lingering mesmerism, or maybe it’s all the late nights and paranoia you’ve been stewing in for months. You’re still sore everywhere, your back one big bruise from the Lord Regent’s demonstration. You wince trying to sit up and Athanasius hums softly, smiling like he’s watching a kitten learn to walk. Hesitantly, you peel the covers off. You’re not surprised to find your clothes were changed, but these pajamas are yours. It brings you an unexpected rush of relief. You didn’t have much to begin with—couldn’t, with how much you moved—but you still feel a hint of relief. Anything familiar will make this more bearable. “You got my clothes?” you ask.

“That thoughtful fledgling from the task force delivered some of your belongings,” Athanasius explains. He must mean Edmund. You’re torn between discomfort and gratitude, imagining him picking through your closet. “The rest will arrive in the coming nights, but he was insistent that you have your own clothing.” You flinch when he suddenly tilts his head in that abrupt, owl-like movement, a distinctly nightbound gesture, regarding you with a slight frown. “I hoped to have garments made for you. I had something lovely in mind, but I was advised against it.”

“Am I supposed to be grateful?”

He laughs softly and shakes his head. “I expect nothing yet. Obedience will come with time and I am patient.” You’re careful to avoid him when you scoot to the edge of the bed, maintaining as much distance as you can. He allows it, eyes arched in amusement. “Perhaps you would like a tour of the estate?” he offers.

You don’t answer, staring at the walls. Neutral, cream-colored, divided into panels by beveling and golden accents. A handful of paintings hang in metal frames. All landscapes, you notice, horizontal stretches of forests and mountains, all dawn or day with gentle pastel skies. There’s a window but the curtains are closed.

“You do not want to speak to me. I understand. Will you accept food?”

The mere mention of food makes your stomach clench tighter. You’re starving. Did you have a proper meal at all yesterday? You shrug, trying not to look too eager. “Is someone baking something? It smells like dessert.”

“Does it?” he muses. That smirk makes you nervous. “I wondered if that might wake you. Do you recognize the scent?” You shake your head, surprised when you get another sharp tilt of the head in response. He’s looking at you the same way the Council did last night, all concern and bewilderment. “Truly? You have never tasted nectar? I was told there were gaps in your knowledge, but I did not realize they were so severe.”

“I’ve heard of it,” you say, defensive. Athanasius gives you a considering look, his lips twisted into a thoughtful frown.

“Do you know the tale of Qayin’s Curse?”

“I wasn’t born yesterday.” You take some pride in the slight twitch of irritation at the corner of his mouth. He’s not unflappable after all.

“Then tell it to me,” he says.

“I’m not an idiot, I know that stupid fucking story—”

His fingers hook beneath your chin and tilt your gaze upwards, ensuring you don’t miss his frigid stare. “As I said, I am patient. I will allow you to test my limits and discover where the boundaries are, and I will be gentle for your first infractions.” His soft, sweet tone never wavers but you feel the unspoken threat in the unyielding firmness of his hand, his thumb settling over your lower lip. “Here it is. The first boundary. I do not recommend you push any further.”

You don’t back down and you don’t shy away, no matter how much the most primal part of your brain screams that you’re staring into the eyes of something seconds from ripping open your throat. Athanasius’ eyes are drawn to the flex and release of muscle in your throat when you swallow. “Why is this so important?” you ask.

“Because there is no shelter in ignorance. You have much to learn, and I must know where to begin teaching.”

You can’t deny the temptation. Living in hiding has denied you valuable information. There’s a lot you don’t know about the nightbound, or even about being a witch. Athanasius sees you come to a decision before you speak, giving you a pleased smile and a condescending pat on the cheek. You don’t snap at him because you know that’s what he wants but you don’t bother to hide your contempt. “Once upon a time, you used to be able to walk in the sun. People mistook you for gods because they couldn’t kill you, no matter how much they wished they could. You were kings and warlords and you did whatever you wanted, keeping humans like cattle. You didn’t need as much blood back then, but you liked the taste. Who was going to stop you if you decided to drain a village dry? But the worst of you was Qayin the Kinslayer, so of course he was in charge.” This is a story every witch knows, first spoken over the cradle. When you had no one else to tell it to you, you started whispering it to yourself. You didn’t want to forget.

“Unsurprising to hear that you do not consider Qayin a magnanimous ruler.” Athanasius chuckles at the withering look you give him. “There are many versions of this story. Some nightbound describe our predecessor as a more sympathetic or tragic figure.”

“Oh, of course,” you say. “Can’t think of anything more tragic than a greedy vampire with a hair-trigger temper who murders all of his problems.”

“I am not trying to aggravate you, merely prepare you for the nights ahead. There are those who venerate Qayin and seek to resurrect the old way of life. Rest assured that I do not tolerate such rhetoric in this convenire.”

Admittedly, this surprises you. “Not a fan of Qayin?”

“No,” Athanasius says. Huh, you think. That wasn’t just any old no, but a distinctly curt, slightly forceful, do-not-argue-with-me-about-this kind of no. “Continue. How does Qayin become cursed?”

The abrupt subject change is the cherry on top. Apparently Qayin is some kind of conversational landmine in this household. You’ll be sure to use this information courteously and responsibly. “He heard a rumor that his human livestock was up to something,” you continue, “so he got all his awful friends together to put a stop to it. Turns out it wasn’t just a rumor. The people he’d tortured and terrorized into obedience were tired of living in fear. They wanted him dead. And the only ones who really thought they could do it were the ones who could use magic.” Your voice grows quieter as your bravado wilts. This isn’t a happy story. “Of course, they didn’t actually stand a chance. He found them and he made them suffer before he killed them. And that was that. No more sunlight for any of you. No more being unkillable. No more blood orgies just for the hell of it. You don’t choose your indulgences. They rule you now.”

Athanasius says nothing for a while. You find his eyes shut, his head bowed slightly. You don’t know him well enough to guess what he’s thinking or feeling. You wonder if the nightbound mourn what they lost. “And the curse?” he asks after a time. “Where were you told it came from?”

You shrug. “From all the pain and cruelty. Like a haunting.”

He hums, fingers pressed to his mouth in contemplation. “I see. Whoever told you was deliberately vague. That is common in the witch tradition.” You shrug again, staring at the wall some more. “Among the nightbound, some say it was divine retribution. Not the witches themselves, but the wrath of something that favored them. It is, as you might imagine, contentious to say it was a witch-curse. Many believe it was, but those who look favorably upon Qayin take this to mean they are owed something in recompense.”

“I don’t owe you anything,” you say firmly.

You’re really starting to hate his indulgent, eternally patient smile. “Come. I would like to see you savor your first taste of nectar.” He offers his hand. He says nothing when you ignore it, climbing out of bed by yourself, but you feel his gaze burning into your back.

Athanasius called it an “estate,” but you’re still shocked by just how overwhelming the place is. It’s not just the sprawling size but the anachronistic strangeness of it, half a dozen eras and styles patchworked together to disorienting effect. One hallway is boldly Baroque, gold and marble and covered in a headache-inducing orgy of detail (That vase is from the 20th century, made of bronze, marble and ormolu, Athanasius points out). The next is all geometric patterns and dramatic jewel tones, slick Art Deco (This Tiffany lamp is an original, and a personal favorite, Athanasius mentions). A winding staircase descends into a lounge that is Victorian Gothic at its most imperious, dark wood and red carpet, somber and stately. (The bookshelf is 19th century, if I recall correctly. Not a piece I chose, but it has grown on me with time, Athanasius muses.) A cluster of velvet-upholstered armchairs and a curvaceous chaise lounge are arranged around a TV mounted to the wall. Someone’s left a Nintendo Switch running on the dimmed menu screen.

Athanasius smiles unhelpfully at your bewildered expression and gestures for you to follow. You can hear voices echoing down the hall as the scent of nectar grows stronger. Two people? It sounds like an argument, or maybe just some panic and excitement.

“I think it needs a few more petals.”

“A few? How much is a few? Like…this much?”

“Ahh. Maybe?” Utensils clink. Someone stirs something.

“Does that look right? Oh god, it doesn’t. We put in too much. Ohhhh it’s fucked, we fucked it up!”

“Hm. Smells bitter.”

“Renaud. Renaud!”

“It’s fine, don’t panic. Doesn’t nectar smell really sweet to witches? The bitterness is good, it should add contrast.”

“Fuck, dude, we had one fucking job. Why is this so hard?”

Athanasius leads you into what might be a kitchen. It’s dimly lit, just like everywhere else, a few candles glimmering on the countertops. It’s probably all very pretty and vintage somewhere beneath a sea of dirtied plates and pans and baking supplies, the aftermath of some flour-related incident blanketing everything like a layer of fresh snow. There are two men huddled over the stove, fussing with a boiling pot, but they both turn to stare like startled cats when you walk in. The glint of their eyes startles you. They look so normal, no military uniforms or formal fashion from another era. The bigger, taller of the two looks like any other guy you might run into at the gym in a sleeveless shirt and drawstring shorts. Hints of red dye fade to maroon at the tips of his short black hair. The other one has long, striped sleeves rolled up to his elbows showing off snaking tattoos, both ears pierced. They’re wearing matching slippers.

But they’re staring. Not just a curious, head to toe look, not in lingering surprise, but something much more intensely focused. They’re utterly entranced by the sight of you, forgetting about the powdery mess they’re standing in and the pot bubbling on a burner behind them. One of them swallows hard and mutters a curse. The other realizes he’s drooling and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I see a great many things have transpired in my absence,” Athanasius says. That seems to break the spell, both of the younger nightbound suddenly aware again and exchanging guilty glances. “Please remember to clean up after yourselves.”

“Right, yeah, of course,” they insist, quick and overlapping.

“As you can see, the time has come for introductions. Sacrament—”

You say your name, loud and clearly enunciated. “Don’t call me ‘sacrament,’” you warn them. The younger nightbound shrink back warily like they’re expecting something to explode.

Athanasius smiles and continues smoothly like you never interrupted him. “These are the members of the convenire you shall provide for, Orion and Renaud.” They nod one after the other when their names are called. Orion is the bigger one and the more obviously nervous of the two. Renaud is a bit shorter and a lot leaner, brown hair just past his nape. The more he looks at you, the more his frown deepens. Athanasius glances around the kitchen. “Where is Mihai?”

Renaud rolls his eyes. “His room.”

“He got nervous,” Orion mentions, sounding much more sympathetic.

“I will see if he would like to join us. Take this opportunity to become acquainted.” Athanasius gives you a look that you struggle to interpret before he leaves, a smile that looks like something between pity and a warning. You aren’t sure whether he’s worried about you or the younger nightbound. They look alarmed when he leaves, like he’s just dumped a poisonous snake on the kitchen floor and left them alone to deal with it. Orion shifts his weight back and forth between his legs nervously. Renaud leans against the kitchen counter and watches you with narrowed eyes.

“It’s boiling over,” you say.

Orion hisses a panicked, “godfuckingdammit!” and whirls back towards the stove, stirring aggressively and turning down the heat. Renaud doesn’t move. He looks annoyed when you meet his gaze and increasingly uncomfortable when you don’t look away.

“Just so we’re clear,” you tell them, “I don’t want to be here.”

“And you think we do?” Renaud asks sharply.

You kind of did, although the quiver of barely restrained anger in his voice makes you reconsider. “This is all new to me. I thought being in a convenire just meant you were all roommates.”

“This is a supervised convenire. We’re stuck here until they say we aren’t anymore.”

“They? You mean like the Council?”

He snarls, flashing his fangs at you. “Who else? How are you such a clueless fucking juice pack?”

“Juice pack?”

“Renaud, man, come on.” Orion looks back at both of you over his shoulder, pleading. “None of us have it easy. Come help me with this, I wanna get the mixture right—”

“Do it yourself,” Renaud mutters, shoving past you to get out of the kitchen. Orion takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, dragging a hand over his own face in exasperation.

“I’m sorry about him,” he says sheepishly.

You shrug. “I wasn’t really expecting a warm welcome. What’s his deal, though? Does he hate witches or just me?”

Orion shrugs. “He kinda hates everyone. Shit, hold on, I think this is done. Lemme get it all set up and you can tell me what you think.”

You watch him rush around in a panic, looking for a clean bowl and a spoon he hasn’t used yet, flinging open cupboards and rummaging through the refrigerator for something. “What about Athanasius? What’s his deal?” you ask.

“What, like the dresses and stuff? Yeah, it kinda threw me off at first but it’s just his thing, he likes being pretty. And, like, he is, right? The first time I saw him, I, uh, actually thought he was a chick—”

“I mean what’s his deal,” you cut him off. “Is he in charge around here? Is he on the Council? He seems important, but I don’t know how…”

Your train of thought is derailed entirely by the dish Orion starts to assemble right in front of you. It’s ice cream, three big scoops crammed into a glass dish. It’s white like vanilla but speckled with something, colorful little nodules sparkling like prisms. Orion brings the pot from the stove over and ladles out a thick, creamy concoction, something cherry red and glittering with tiny crystal particulates. There are flower petals mixed in, minced and shredded and falling delicately over the melting ice cream. He scrapes the bottom of the pot a few times to get the very last of it and sets a spoon to the side. It looks grotesque when he’s done, the scarlet syrup and petal chunks making the ice cream resemble dead thing slowly oozing out its insides, but that doesn’t matter at all. That exquisitely sweet smell has you swiping the bowl closer immediately, shoving a spoonful into your mouth without a second thought.

You moan. It’s so fucking good. Were you really so starving that a bowl of ice cream is the height of ecstasy?

“Oh. Wow. You really like it,” Orion says, a grin spreading across his face. You want to tell him to stop staring but you can’t stop eating long enough to talk. “It’s Athanasius’ recipe. Kind of like an affogato, except the ice cream is mostly nectar and the espresso is roseblood. Oh, uh, he said you might not know what that is. It helps your body make more blood so you can feed everyone here safely.” He inches closer a little bit at a time, leaning against the counter and watching you demolish your dessert. “I work part time at Bats ‘n Bagels. You know, the all night bakery? Uh, maybe you don’t. But I’m getting pretty good at sweets and stuff so I can make you things like this. I mean, if you want. No pressure. Just—”

“Give them a moment, Orion. They need this.”

You almost drop your spoon. When did Athanasius come back into the kitchen? How did he get past you without you seeing or hearing him? He’s lurking just behind Orion, smiling down at you with his usual patronizing glee. “Is that, like, normal?” Orion asks quietly, like you’re a wild animal he’s trying not to disturb. “I didn’t know nectar made ‘em so, uh…distracted.”

“Only in cases of extreme magic depletion,” Athanasius says.

You can hear them both talking, can see them both standing there, but you can’t bring yourself to think any further than that. You’re tired. You’re hungry. There’s a sharp urgency in your gut, a craving that’s gone unsatisfied until this moment. Your greatest concern is finishing the food before someone takes it from you. Athanasius coos softly when you drag the bowl closer, further from them, hunched over it protectively. You’re vaguely aware of a hand stroking your head but you pay it no mind.

“You will need to keep an eye on them. They are untrained and do not know their limits. If they use their magic, it will exhaust them, and that will make them more susceptible to the scent of nectar. There are those who would exploit that. You must be wary of dissenters and lawbreakers. This is how easily it can happen.” Athanasius pulls off one of his gloves and swipes his index finger along the bottom of the bowl. You bristle angrily until he holds his hand in front of your face, palm up, a thick glob of perfect sweetness glistening on the pad of his finger. He’s offering, clearly. Should you…? You glance up at an encouraging smile. “Go on,” he says. So you do. Just your tongue to start, a tentative lick, but you can’t control yourself. It tastes so good and he sweeps up more from the bottom of the bowl just for you, not just with one finger but gathering as much as he can in his palm. You suck the sweet stickiness from his fingers and eat from his hand.

You hear a sharp inhale and an audible swallow. Orion leans a little closer. “Are you using mesmerism?” he asks hoarsely.

“No. This is how tempting nectar becomes in the throes of magic exhaustion.” He presses down on your tongue and you let out a weak moan, your eyes fluttering shut. “This is our sacrament, Orion. Our feast and our responsibility. You must keep them from harm to be worthy of such exquisite blood. Swear to me that you will.”

“I will, I swear,” Orion says, firm and decisive.

How long do you suckle and nip at the hand offering the sweetest thing you’ve ever tasted? You lose track of time. When the bowl is empty, clarity comes with both euphoria and humiliation. You feel better. Well-rested, like you’ve had a good night’s sleep, clear-headed for the first time since you woke up. You also can’t meet bear to look at Athanasius but you can feel how smug he is, can just imagine the look on his stupid fucking face, and it makes your cheeks burn even hotter. You’ve changed your mind. You hate nectar. You never want to see it ever again.

“Ah, good, you are back with us,” Athanasius says sweetly. He waltzes over to the kitchen sink to wash his hands of ice cream and nectar and your saliva, which you are desperately try to forget ever happened. You look at Orion instead but find him avoiding your gaze as he starts wiping off the counters. You happen to notice a very distinct, very large bulging outline in his sweatpants. “You have had your nectar, but you must eat something more substantial. I would like to begin administering the roseblood regimen immediately. It is not safe to take roseblood without increasing the iron in your diet…” Athanasius trails off. You’re startled when he comes over and cups your chin, studying your weary expression intently. “You are overwhelmed,” he notes. “Come. You should sit down.”

You nod weakly, in agreement for once. Orion offers a wave when Athanasius leads you out of the kitchen and back to the room you saw before with the chairs and the TV. He urges you to sit on the chaise lounge and offers a blanket, and you’re too tired to put up a fight when he drapes it over you.

“You will adjust,” he assures you, stroking your shoulder. “It will not always feel so strange and unfamiliar. I will prepare at least one of your meals each day and you may spend your time however you would like. For now, you may not leave the estate unaccompanied but that could change.”

“The Council put in my two week notice, huh?” you mutter.

He strokes your cheek tenderly. “If you do as you are told, you will find pleasure in your service.”

You shove his hand away. “You can’t seriously expect me to believe you.”

Athanasius smiles and this one is different from the others. It’s just as arrogant as you expect but it doesn’t have that sleepy contentment you’ve gotten used to, none of the calm, collected confidence he normally exudes. It’s feral. It’s excited. He shows you his fangs and his eyes arch in eager anticipation. “I told you,” he says smoothly, “I expect nothing yet.” That’s definitely a lie. He expects that you’ll keep that promise you made in front of the Council, an oath to make his life as miserable as possible. He must think that he can break you. And maybe he could, maybe if you’re not careful and you start letting your guard down, but you didn’t get this far by being easy prey.

You bite your tongue and bow your head, feigning exhaustion and submission. Athanasius hums in approval and tells you he’s going to check on Orion. Does he feel how intensely you glare at his back when he leaves? It doesn’t matter.

He’s going to be sorry he ever brought you here.

#rotpeach writes #meanvamps #turns out i needed a bit more intro lol we'll actually start focusing on specific characters next time #lore and terminology posts coming soon(tm)

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oros-ash3s · 3 months ago

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⋆˚࿔ Kokoa and Kau’i Kalawaia ｡𖦹°‧

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

Introductory || Kokoa and Kau’i are two of the more important main characters inside The Chrysalis, and are introduced in the fifth arc, titled “The Alliance of Magicae”. Just like the title says, they are apart of the Alliance of Magicae, and are actually the leaders of it after their uncles passing. They soon become very important figures inside Wren, Atlas, and Alastair’s life, introducing them to a whole different world that the three couldn’t have even tried to imagine.

Basics ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

Kokoa ||

★ He/him

★ 19 years old

★ Magicus

★ Aromantic + pansexual, though he usually likes to say he’s “undefined by labels”

★ Hawaiian

──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !!

Kau’i ||

★ She/her

★ 19 years old

★ Magicus

★ Lesbian

★ Hawaiian

Fun facts ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

The two are twin siblings, though Kau’i was born about eight minutes prior to Kokoa. Everyone always assumes that Kokoa is older than her though, something that annoys the hell out of her.

A song that fits the two of them very well is Balloon by Tyler the Creator.

Kokoa is 6’4” while Kau’i is only 5’6”, something he mocks her for mercilessly.

They both have pink hair.

Atlas had a big FAT crush on both of them for a while. (They were his awakening no joke.)

They’re in a band called “Motion in Space”. It was a four-person band before two of the members left, but Kokoa and Kau’i kept it going. Atlas joins the band later on, when he is around 19.

Kokoa is in a homoerotic relationship with his best friend.

The two are quite literally inseparable. You can’t find one without the other, one of them always close by.

Kau’i was a scene kid, if you couldn’t tell. The “phase” never fully wore off.

Kokoa is scared of dying.

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

“So…” The boy leans down, now face-to-face with Wren. His eyes are dark, glinting mischievously, and with Atlas out of commission, their gun out of reach, they can’t help but feel intimidated by his presence. So close, too close. “Are you guys with Eden?”

Wren levels their jaw at him, brows furrowed in a thin line. “What’s it to you?”

The snark comes off instantaneously, pure instinct at this point. Even in near-death situations when keeping their big mouth shut would do them some much-needed good, they can’t help it. Avoiding the question, spitting back the first thing that pops in their head — that always seems to be the answer. Even if it lands them in more trouble than not.

The boy snorts. “Is that a no?”

Wren huffs, scowling. From the smirk tugging at his lips, they can tell he knew the answer from before he opened his mouth. This was simply a test, to see what they would say.

“No, I’m not with that fuckin’ crazy-ass organization.” They grunt, eyes narrowed. With the boy so close, Atlas and Alastair held hostage, they don’t attempt to reach for their gun. They can’t let the two of them get hurt. Atlas’ words of wisdom repeat in their head, ordering them to think first, take action second.

Make a plan.

“No?” The boy smiles, standing straight. He moves towards Atlas, frozen in his spot. His eyes are focused straight ahead, hand gripping the gun so tight his knuckles have gone white. His finger is just seconds away from the trigger. A mere moment faster, and he would’ve had them. “Because your friend over here is definitely an Eden soldier.”

He pushes the gun down, forcing Atlas’ arm to aim at the ground instead. The Eden symbol tattooed on his hand is now clearer than ever, flashing up for the both of them to see. The boy glances over his shoulder at Wren, curious, as if to see their reaction.

Wren’s frown deepens. “He’s not.” They snap. They hate this interrogation, hate their helplessness. They’ve become too dependent on Atlas. Without his calm reassurances and level-headedness in their ear, they feel lost again. And the boy isn’t helping, standing so casually, smiling as if they’re old-time friends.

What is he playing at?

“He sure fights like one.” The boy muses. “Almost put a bullet through my sister’s head, the little rascal.”

“I said he’s not.” Wren takes an unsteady step back. They just need to stall. Stall the boy, figure out what he’s here for. Figure out if these two are dangerous or not, and how to get out of here, if so.

The boy hums, examining Atlas’ face. It’s pulled tight, eyes squinting just barely, an expression of pure concentration. A look Wren has seen too many times to count, a look Atlas always gets when they’re in trouble. Only this time, he isn’t conscious enough to protect them.

“Who— who are you?” They blurt, eyes beginning to glow. They don’t like this one bit. They need to get out of here. Fast. “What the hell do you want?”

“The name’s Kokoa,” the boy answers calmly, turning to face them again. “And I have a proposition for you.”

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#a new intro!!#something very cool planned with Ohagi.. coming soon #oc: Kokoa #oc: Kau’i #oc: Wren #writeblr #writers on tumblr #oc writing #writers of tumblr #my ocs #original character #digital artist #art blog #artists on tumblr #artists of tumblr #procreate #procreate artist

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