#the ideas from the unseen chapter are already being threaded through these ones

[partystoragechest]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, the banquet begins.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,620. Rating: all audiences. Warnings: brief mention of murder/decapitation, very close to the end.)

Chapter 24: The Banquet - Part 1

Trevelyan’s dress was not plum.

Her plum dress, sent oh-so-specially by her mother, was currently indisposed.

‘Indisposed’ here meant that it was, at this moment, being washed—quite thoroughly—by the laundresses. Because after it had been pressed and prepared yesterday, it had gone mysteriously absent—only to be discovered hours later, by Trevelyan herself, stuffed inside a sack of sugar.

And so, while the Baroness wore a sleek golden gown, and Lady Erridge one of ruffled green gossamer, and the Lady Samient an outfit of breeches and doublet—black, with striking red panels—Trevelyan wore simply her silk shift, and burgundy surcoat.

“You’re sure you saw her?” Lady Samient questioned, as Trevelyan recounted what had led to this. It was certainly one way to pass the time, whilst they waited to enter the Great Hall.

“It was her,” Trevelyan confirmed, “that Sera.”

Because whilst scouring for the dress her ladies’ maids had failed to find, Trevelyan had seen someone. Certainly, it was dark, and they were dressed like any other servant—but she swore, in that glimpse, she recognised her. Sera.

“You ought to report it!” said Lady Erridge, who had strangely been the most furious about the matter—even more so than Trevelyan. “Tell Lady Montilyet!”

“No,” said Trevelyan. “If this is her response to one act of disclosure, then I should hate to find out the consequences of a second.”

Because it all fit too well, the idea of Trevelyan having told about the swapped sugar and salt being met with a dress covered in a such a substance, hours before it was due to be worn.

Besides, the only injured party was Trevelyan herself, rather than the dozens it would have been for the salt and sugar swapping. The laundresses did have some extra work now, but they were happy to do it, by way of apology for letting the dress out of sight in the first place.

“That is for the best,” the Baroness said. “You shall not stoop to her level. Play with the mabari, and you shall win only fleas.”

Trevelyan was suddenly quite grateful Sera had not resorted to covering her dress in fleas. But there was little time to think of that:

“Presenting Baroness Touledy of Val Misrenne; Lady Samient, daughter of Duke Samient; Lady Erridge of West Coldon; and Lady Trevelyan, of Ostwick!”

The crier’s call was their cue to enter. One last look of understanding passed between the Ladies. No matter how it had started, they would enjoy the rest of tonight.

The door opened, they entered. The frown was wiped from Trevelyan’s face, and replaced with awe.

It seemed not only they knew how to dress for an occasion—the Great Hall had been decorated to perfection, under the guiding wisdom of Lady Montilyet.

Every other candle had been left unlit, resulting in an ambient warmth like a campfire’s glow. Tapestries and banners were of a rustic weave; mounted game became focal points of the scenery. This grand space, which had once played the role of an opulent ballroom, now transformed, to an intimate country manor.

The guestlist reflected such intimacy. Only thirty attended—including the Ladies themselves—which the Great Hall made seem an even smaller number, with its size. Their gazes felt as intimidating as a hundred, however, as they applauded the Ladies’ entrance.

Trevelyan cast her eyes across this congregation in turn, seeking faces she recognised; the anchors of safety she would cling to.

Naturally, it was Dorian she saw first. He sported a black tunic, laden with gold embroidery, and stood beside the Inquisition’s flame-haired Spymaster, who wore a contrasting blue gown. It was so tight to her body, Trevelyan wondered how she concealed the doubtless many weapons she had hidden within.

Varric, meanwhile, wore half a very nice shirt, and was entertaining a few fans. Lady Montilyet glided on by, ever the consummate professional. Her dress was of a muted blue-grey, that almost blended with the stone—intentionally so, most likely. She would not outshine her guests.

And that was all Trevelyan recognised, having done dreadfully little mingling in these sorts of circles (and more in the mage kind of Circles).

Apart from, of course, the Commander. She spied him standing awkwardly, as was his wont, beside a chattering noble (whom he appeared to pay little attention to, as was his wont).

It was the first Trevelyan had seen him in a day. Lady Erridge had told her, of course, that his stubble had grown, but it appeared he must have trimmed it back since then, for he looked delightfully like his normal self.

Not so pale, not so weak. Normal.

Good, even, for he was finely dressed. He wore a sort of doublet, sleeveless, to expose the arms of the fine shirt beneath. Odd, though. Trevelyan struggled to find any other word to describe the colour of this waistcoat than… plum.

How fortunate that Sera had played her prank, then. Trevelyan chuckled to think of what might have happened, had she attended wearing that dress her mother had sent. They’d have matched! How embarrassing it would have been. She’d have to thank Sera for the favour.

If only she could have tricked the Commander instead, into staying away somehow. For as well as he looked, Trevelyan still did not think it best for him to be in attendance. More and more, she was drawn to the suspicion that the person he treated with most contempt, was himself.

“Lady Trevelyan,” the Baroness said, stealing her attention away, “look over there.”

She nodded towards a small group of nobles—clearly Orlesian, going by the elaborate fashion—and indicated in particular a woman in a mask of turquoise, and a ballgown of silver. With pale yellow lace? Definitely Orlesian.

“That, is Comtesse Bervard.”

Ah.

Trevelyan had been told much of the Comtesse before their arrival. Like how one might learn all the types of wild animal that stalked a road, before travelling down it. And just as that information might make one terrified to leave their home, so did the Ladies’ warnings of Bervard make Trevelyan nervous now.

The Comtesse, she had been told, was a skilled player of the Great Game. Translated, that meant that she was callous, quick, used others for her own entertainment, and gossiped more than the Randy Dowager. Anyone who didn’t like it, would have a nice little visit from a bard.

“Why invite her?” Trevelyan wondered, very, very quietly.

“Because should this banquet be a success, all of the Heartlands shall hear of it within a week,” Touledy explained. “Everyone has their uses, your Ladyship. Though, to that point: do not say anything to her you do not wish the entirety of Thedas to know.”

Lady Samient smirked. “Do not say anything to her at all,” she corrected.

Trevelyan nodded. Like a bear, then. Do not look at it. Do not get close. Do not make eye contact. And if it sees you, pray.

Gladly, however, chamberlains arrived to lead them away from the Comtesse Bervard, and towards their seats.

The banquet was to take place across two long tables, that flanked the Great Hall’s central walkway—and like the Hall, they had been decorated with care. Evergreen wreaths made up the centrepieces. Ripe red fruits—possibly candied—nestled betwixt them. Pewter dishes lined the edges; precisely-laid cutlery surrounded them. Rustic enough for Fereldans and Marchers, quaint enough for Orlesians. Montilyet was good.

To her relief, Trevelyan and the Ladies were escorted together, to the leftmost table. However, upon their arrival, their respective chamberlains split apart, and they were each seated two or so spaces away from the others. So, perhaps Montilyet wasn’t that good.

At least Trevelyan was placed at the end of the table, her back to the garden door. In case of emergency, she could make a run for it.

But she would at least wait to see who sat beside her, first. A chamberlain pulled out the neighbouring chair, with a scrape so quiet it was barely a ‘scra’. Still, the movement caught Trevelyan’s eye, and she watched as a devastatingly handsome, incredibly clever man, took his seat.

“Dorian?” she said, quite gladly. “I see you made it.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” he lied, already reaching for his glass. “Reminds me of home.”

Oh, she quite understood that. “Well, it’s lucky we’re sat together, at least.”

“Luck...” Dorian muttered, “or a direct request.”

“Ha! I’m flattered.”

“As you should be.”

Trevelyan smiled and left him to his drink, giving her attention instead to the arrival of further guests. A couple of Banns, one Arl, some Baron. And of course, the Commander.

Where he sat, and indeed, where all of the guests at this particular table sat, though tedious to describe, would be important for events to come. Therefore:

Lady Samient was to the far left of Trevelyan, at what might be considered as the ‘top’ of the table. Two places down from her, was the Baroness Touledy; and near-opposite Touledy, was the Commander.

Two places down from Touledy sat Dorian. Opposite him was Lady Erridge, and next to Lady Erridge, there was an empty chair.

The empty chair was to be surprisingly important, in the farce that followed. And it started with Baroness Touledy.

“Lady Trevelyan?” she called. “May I exchange seats with you? I need more space, for my leg and cane to rest.”

Though reluctant to abandon Dorian after he had so specifically sat with her, Trevelyan would not leave a friend in pain. And she was at least confident that he would not find the Baroness a dissatisfactory conversational partner.

“Of course,” she said, rising from her chair.

Dorian sighed. “Well, that lasted.”

Trevelyan laughed and walked away, passing a grateful Baroness on her journey. Now seated more centrally, she took in the new landscape of faces around her. Most notably, the Commander’s, right in front of her.

She gave him a little smile. He reciprocated, and began to ask, “Lady Trevelyan, are you—?”

“Commander,” came Lady Montilyet’s hurried voice. She appeared behind him, and leant down to whisper something Trevelyan fully intended to hear: “The Marquis du Vert refuses to sit next to Bann Royton. Would you be able to sit in his place?”

There was a barely-contained look of exasperation on the Commander’s face. But nevertheless, he rose, nodding once to Trevelyan as he did so, and went to the empty chair beside Lady Erridge.

She seemed quite startled by this. Quite startled indeed.

“Lady Trevelyan!” she called down the table. “Would you switch places with me? I cannot speak to Lady Samient from here.”

Trevelyan considered it for a moment. A long moment. But dutifully, she nodded, and got up from her seat.

“Thank you,” said the giddy Lady Erridge, as they passed each other by. Trevelyan smiled, and went to her new seat.

Quite by coincidence, she was now sat shoulder-to-shoulder with the Commander. She looked to him, with a smile and a shrug, and a little laugh that escaped her mouth. He managed a smile in return.

“Are you well?” he asked, seemingly retaining some of that shyness from their previous encounter.

“I am,” she told him. “Are you?”

He nodded, and let the thread of the conversation dangle there. It was like talking to him for the first time, again. But Trevelyan was practiced in this by now:

“That is a nice waistcoat,” she said, indicating the plum doublet.

“Ah—er, yes. Lady Montilyet chose it—or, rather, the one she chose was in green. This one was brought to me by mistake.”

“Then a happy mistake it is. I think this colour suits you quite well. Certainly better than green would have.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Thank you, you… too?”

“What?”

“You, you look nice. As well.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Trevelyan brushed her skirts so they hung correctly over her legs, which was certainly not an excuse to escape eye contact. “Though I think—”

“Commander,” came Lady Montilyet’s voice once more, even more frazzled than the last time. “The Comtesse wishes to switch tables, and the Marquis now says he would rather sit with the Bann than near her. Would you..?”

Trevelyan held her mouth to stop herself from laughing, because this had to be a joke.

And yet, deadly serious, the Commander rose again. “Forgive me,” he muttered, as he followed Montilyet back to his original seat. The one he left behind was soon taken up by a man in a fanciful white mask.

And not long after, Lady Erridge leant forward. “Lady Trevelyan, would you—?”

Trevelyan sighed. “Lady Erridge, unless it is a matter of life and death, I shall not move from this spot.”

Erridge relented, and sank back into her seat. “Never mind.”

And so, it ended, with Erridge in the centre, and the Commander opposite her. The Baroness sat where Trevelyan first had, at the end of the table, next to Dorian. Trevelyan sat opposite, relieved that she was still, at least, not far from the garden door. Lady Samient had not moved at all.

Yet there was one seat left, across from her in particular. And the arse it waited for finally arrived.

Turqoise mask, silver dress, yellow lace. The Comtesse Bervard settled into her chair. Poor Lady Samient.

“Top of the table,” said the Comtesse, her voice dripping with Orlesian glamour, “as it should be.”

The Baroness snorted into her goblet. Trevelyan rolled her eyes. This was going to be a long banquet.

“Friends and allies of the Inquisition!” Lady Montilyet called. She stood between the two tables, and addressed all upon them. “Thank you all for coming, to solidify our bonds, and to forge new ones. The Inquisition has much to give to Thedas, and we hope to demonstrate that tonight, with warmth, mirth, and good food. Please, enjoy!”

She clapped her hands, and doors opened. An army of kitchen staff filed into the room, each one carrying a plate of steaming food. Well-rehearsed rows were formed around the tables and, all at once, the plates were laid.

Pleasant sounds came from the guests. The first course appeared to be some kind of baked fruit—but presented in fine slices, and with cuts of meat and cheese. A balance of Orlesian tastes, and Fereldan simplicity.

Any conversation quieted, as people began to eat. Polite mouths kept closed, the only sounds those of hummed approval. Until, that was, a fork clinked down onto its plate at the other end of the table.

The Comtesse Bervard leant forward, and gazed down its length. “Who am I eating with, hm?” she asked. “I see new faces here. Introduce yourselves to me.”

The Baroness shot Trevelyan a look, but she needed no prompting. She sank back into her chair, hopeful that the extravagant mask of the Marquis du Vert next to her would do enough to hide her face.

And it did. Because it was not Trevelyan whom the Comtesse spotted first. “You there,” she said, pointing at Erridge. “Your Ladyship, is it?”

It was clear Lady Erridge was nervous, to anyone who knew her. For anyone who knew her, knew she did not miss an opportunity to speak. And yet, when the Comtesse addressed her, she merely nodded in reply.

“Well, what is your name? You must have one.”

Erridge tried to straighten. “I am Lady Erridge, of West Coldon.” When the Comtesse continued to stare at her, Erridge added: “In Ferelden.”

“Ah, I see why you were so keen to hide it. You need not be so embarrassed to be Fereldan here. We are all easy company, I am sure.”

Lady Erridge nodded.

“But I admit, I have never heard your family name before. How delightful to increase one’s knowledge of the world.”

“Well, you might have heard of us,” Erridge muttered, gaining a little sense of pride. “My family are quite prolific traders, in stained glass, particularly.”

The Baroness grimaced. Lady Samient tensed. The Comtesse’s stare narrowed.

“Oh, I see,” she said, speaking as one does to a toddler, “you are in trade. How sweet.” Addressing the table more generally, she went on: “This is why I am so grateful to the Council of Heralds. In Ferelden, they give titles to anyone.”

Chuckles rippled through the other Orlesian guests at the table. The mocking little chorus was cut short, however, by the screech of Samient’s fork against her plate. Accidental, of course.

The Comtesse turned on her. “Lady Samient, you have forgotten your manners.”

“Oh, have I?” Samient replied. “I suppose we left them in the same place.”

The Comtesse laughed. “Still a little spitfire, just like your mother.” She dabbed her mouth with her napkin, and muttered, “And I hear you like the stables, just like your mother.”

Oh no. If she was referring to what Trevelyan believed she was referring to, then it was best to brace for whatever would come next.

Yet to Trevelyan’s surprise, Lady Samient chuckled along. “Yes, the ones in Skyhold are very well-kept for their location.”

A Bann nearby agreed, and began to talk fondly of the Inquisition’s horsemaster. Trevelyan exchanged a glance with Touledy, all too relieved that was over. They both turned their attentions to Erridge.

The ever-cheerful and bright Lady Erridge sagged as if a candle that had been snuffed. Her food was half-eaten, currently being idly pushed around her plate. Had Trevelyan not already been disposed to intensely dislike this Comtesse Bervard, she would certainly hate her now.

Servants came to clear plates, providing enough distraction for the Baroness Touledy to see to Lady Erridge’s mood. Through whispers behind Dorian, and a little blown kiss, she managed to put a smile back on dear Erridge’s face.

But Trevelyan was not quite satisfied with this. ‘You ought to be loosing fireballs upon the sky’. She waited for the servants to return, and for the second course they brought with them.

Plates were set before the guests—some well-cooked meat with a selection of fine vegetables, in a rich sauce. Everyone, naturally, reached for their cutlery. And as the Comtesse reached for hers, Trevelyan performed just a teensy-weensy bit of magic.

“Oh!” gasped the Comtesse, dropping her knife the moment she touched it. “It gave me a shock!”

Trevelyan bit her lip to conceal the absolute smugness with which she wished to smile. Though she expected a reprimanding glare from Dorian, when she caught his eye, it seemed he suffered the same struggle.

And Maker, if only that had been the end of it. But there were still two more courses. And the Comtesse Bervard was determined to talk through each of them.

“How does your gracious father find the increased Chantry tithes?” she asked Lady Samient, in the midst of riveting discussion about how healthy the Bervard finances were. “My people have been whining, despite all the Chantry does for us in these uncertain times.”

“If there has been complaint,” said Samient, “I haven’t heard of it.”

Nothing to entertain her in that answer. So she turned on Touledy.

“I would ask you, Baroness,” she called across the table, “but you do not have a Chantry to tithe. I expect your people don’t even pay tax.”

What bait! Touledy composed her response carefully: “My people do pay tax, and gladly. For unlike the Chantry tithe, it has some use to them. The roads are well-kept, the commerce flows, no child goes hungry, and my guard is strong.”

The last part in particular caused an unpleasantly confident tip of the Comtesse’s head. “Really? For I have heard your guard was put quite to the test, recently. A skirmish on your land.”

“And they saw it off, did they not? That is proof, I would say.”

The Comtesse had no answer to this, it seemed. She relaxed back in her chair, and continued speaking to a nearby Baron.

With her distracted, Trevelyan whispered to the Baroness: “A skirmish?”

“Bandits,” Touledy replied, reassuringly nonchalant, “though more organised than the usual louts.”

“That shouldn’t be allowed,” Dorian commented. “If they’re smart enough to organise themselves, then they’re smart enough to do something more useful. Become a dancing troupe, perhaps.”

The Baroness laughed. Trevelyan had been quite right that the pair would get along; they’d been doing so famously for the last two courses.

Smiling, she decided to leave them to it, but felt an odd sense of cold as she withdrew. Like a stare.

“And who might you be, on the end there? I do not recognise you.”

Well, shit.

Trevelyan turned, and saw the Comtesse Bervard leaning over the table, her piercing mask pointed directly at her.

There was no escaping this now: “I am Lady Trevelyan, of Ostwick.”

“Really?” Though her eyes were nearly concealed, her glare was petrifying. “I have met all the Trevelyans of Ostwick, and I don’t recall your face. I am a regular attendee of Lady Lucille Trevelyan’s balls, you know.”

Touledy swept in: “Lady Trevelyan is the Bann’s seventh child; she attended the Circle in Ostwick for some years.”

There was a laugh from that mask. A cold, wicked laugh.

“Oh, you’re the little apostate. How intriguing to meet you here.”

Trevelyan put on her best smile. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

“Naturally,” said the Comtesse. “Though I wonder, if you were truly there, could you tell me something about Ostwick Circle?”

“What is it you wish to ask?”

The Comtesse leant further forward, and in a voice that echoed a thousand times through Trevelyan’s head, asked: “Is it true that the Templars sent the heads of mages to the First Enchanter as trophies?”

The candles began to flicker.

Oh, no.

[hollyhomburg]

Before I Leave You (Pt.4)

(Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: Yoongi makes his choice, so does Moonbyul.

Pairing: Beta! Yoongi, Omega! Reader, Omega! Jungkook, Omega! Seokjin, Alpha! Namjoon, Alpha! Hoseok, Alpha! Taehyung, Alpha! Jimin,

Tags: Graphic material, Death, Murder, Dead bodies and dying described in detail, brief suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts, depression, DARK THEMES, guilt, blood, a touch of blood kink? drugs, murder/crime themes, guilt, kinda fuck or die vibes? finally fluff at the end, mating marks, 

W/c: 7.1k

A/n: here is the moment you’ve all been waiting for! the big d word moment!!! my carpal tunnel is acting up, I will probably not be able to get the next chapter out for a few days or until next week. Chronologically the next chapter continues after part 1. 

(PLEASE READ TAGS FOR CW BEFORE YOU PROCEED)

Previous part — Masterlist

Part 4: If I Have You 

Pulling the trigger is the easiest thing you’ve ever done. 

Geumjae’s body flinches back from the force of the bullet. The ceiling splattering with the spray of his blood. It hits the side of your face too, your white shirt crested with red at the shoulders, dripping down your throat along with the blood from your mating bite. It’s a percussive splatter, noisy as it hits the wall.

People never talk about how blood gets everywhere during a murder. Yoongi is unable to stop his flinch when Geumjae’s brain matter and viscera splatter against him, just a little. 

Yoongi didn't think you'd actually do it. 

He watches you shove the body away from you, hard, what's left of his head, an empty vessel, hitting the floor with a hollow thud. His hands leave you for the last time, but the pain isn't finished. 

Yoongi barely has the forethought to lunge forward, knees scraping, wrestling the gun out of your hand before you can turn it on yourself. The barrel of the gun is hot when Yoongi's hands close around it and yank it away from your own temple. The smell of burning skin joins the metallic scent of murder. Your scent is a mess- it’s barely had a chance to mix with Geumjae’s burning wood-burning bread and wrath, rainstorms, and gunpowder. 

He shouts your name but you don't respond. 

Yoongi yanks the gun from your hands, probably hurting your fingers but panicked when he hurls the gun to the other side of the room and takes your hands in his, wrestling with you and screaming your name until the fight goes out of you. 

You’re hyperventilating when you stop struggling. Both of your wrists pinned above your head in both of Yoongi’s hands, his knees pressing your legs to stillness in a way that could be sexual but isn't- it's the easiest way for him to restrain you- both sprawled on the bloody floor. Yoongi’s crying, tears dripping down his nose, every other drop shines pink from what's on his face.  

“Yoongi please- please just let me go- I don’t want to become a ghost- I don't wanna become a walking corpse.” The way you look breaks his heart, your neck so bruised and bloody, your face swelling too from Geumjae’s hits. The way your eyes hold only darkness and no warmth as you look at him and beg- beg him to let you take your life. Your pupils are so small he can't see them at all. 

“Let me die Yoongi- please just- if you do one thing for me- let do this. let me go."

Yoongi looks at your mating mark and can already see the thin tracery of ink spreading under your skin- inky blackness spreading from your mating bite and up your throat. A piece of someone who’s dead inside of you, shot through with silver to make it stand out more. 

It’s like some silly zombie bite in a bad horror movie but it’s so much more haunting, The veins in your eyes are even starting to discolor. You have maybe a few minutes before the mating bite takes you over completely and you’re mated to someone dead.

Zombie movies were nothing more than fear of this taking root in common culture, everyone fears losing their mate. What else is more terrifying than something that takes your humanity in the way that this has taken yours. This is every person’s worst nightmare- a death sentence.  

‘Ghosts’ are what society has dubbed the women and men who live after losing their partners. Most of the time they live without alpha or a pack- unable to bond to anyone else ever again once their mates are dead. Mating bites are a one-time thing. 

When one-half of a mated pair dies- a person's body has a peculiar way of letting outsiders know how to treat them gently- The mating mark turns black like a brand. A mark to let everyone know that they would never have another person to take care of them- to love them.

But you aren’t alone- you’re not alone because you have Yoongi and he’s right here with his wide palms on you. Hands that where always made to fix things, but you aren’t just some broken toy that needs a bit of glue.  He’s too late, just seconds too late and only inches away. 

He grips both of your forearms in either of his palms hands, pulling you closer. Making you sit up, dragging you into his lap like carrying your weight in his arms will fix this. Anything to hold onto you- to not lose you too soon. 

"Stop- just stop, I've got you- I've got you," Yoongi repeats it more for himself than he does for you.

But there are wounds in your body that can’t be fixed by simple hoping. There is a limit to what one person can take. Despair is one hell of a drug and while Yoongi fights and fights there is no undoing what Geumjae has done to you.

But maybe…

Yoongi dares to hope; “It’s only a half bond if we-“ he falls silent as the idea settles over him like a bucket of cold water. His brain rushing over everything he’s ever learned about mating bites and beta’s; all of the statistics and articles that Namjoon had shoved down his throat when Jungkook had first stopped having seizures. 

The medical mystery that betas were; how they were able to heal unseen hurts and maybe- maybe this was like that. Maybe the solution to this problem lays in Yoongi’s veins, in his mouth. 

His jaw aches at the very suggestion of it.  “I’m a beta- and betas don’t usually mark- because- because they’re stronger than alpha and omega bites.” 

It’s the only truth that makes sense. All of the stories of omegas and alphas going crazy after being bitten by betas, not being able to move from them too far, extreme clinginess- a bond that was too close, too strong, stronger than anything else in their life. You weren’t supposed to bond with someone so deep, the bite almost seemed to do more harm than good. 

But you’re already dying and there isn’t much worse that could happen to you.

You don't have anything to lose but Yoongi does. You shake yourself free from his arms and pull back. Recoiling from what he’s offering to do for you; tether him to you forever when you might not make it. 

You can already feel the mating mark taking hold- It's already starting to cloud your judgment, deep down, the part of you that cares if you survive this is already winking out. The blankness sinking through your every inch, The emptiness. You’d be surprised if you lifted your hand to your chest and found your heart still beating. 

“Yoongi- No- you don’t have to- you’ve already got a pack and don’t- don’t bind yourself to someone like me.”

It’s the same argument that you had before but there’s no force behind it- every stupid excuse you had for him not to love you is moot now that your husband is dead next to you. But you're done; Every breath takes more effort than it should and you feel so heavy. You look down at your lap and feel the lethargy sinking beneath your bones like lead. Hidden hands gripping around your throat cutting off your words.

You feel like you’re choking on something. 

You’ve felt depressed before (how could you not have given what your life was like before Yoongi). And having a mating mark from someone deceased feels like that but worse, like it's turned up by a factor of three. A weird mixture of dizzy, absent, and dissociative. You have never felt less connected to your own body, it feels foreign.

You are nothing but a soul inside a body, craving release. A thread of black that wants to tug you down to where ever Geumjae is now. 

The sinking sadness says to you with gentle hands- this is a fine spot. You can just sit here, It’s okay. You don’t have to move, you can just sit here until you die. As long as no one bothers you and hurts you again, you could just sit here, as long as it was quiet and peaceful. Things don't even have to be good, you don't need good things, you just need it to not hurt anymore. Until the earth reclaims you like it takes abandoned buildings. 

 A sharp pain that goes through your heart, an ache so deep that it speaks to cavernous places, wakes monsters that you didn’t know where there. 

You’ve never really wanted to die before, maybe as a passing thought- but didn’t everyone think that way? it’s so different now- where the thoughts are all consuming, running over your words in your head like oil spreading and staining cloth. 

Die- want to die- want- want- want die- wanna go- wanna be quiet- wanna fall asleep and not wake up- want to- 

But if you decided to lay here and not get up again, Yoongi would stay too.

He would try and get you to move, probably beg and try to get you to live. Even if he never bit you, he’d stay next to you until the end, just to hold your hand so that you didn’t have to be completely alone. You thought dying would feel more lonely,  But maybe it doesn't feel that way because Yoongi’s here. 

His hand closes around yours, his thumb rubbing soothing circles as he cries. And you think if you want one thing; it's for him to stop crying. Out of all people- Yoongi doesn't deserve the hurt (but maybe you're biased because you love him).

That tips the scale in his favor.

Geumjae’s blood is pooling on the floor. His body gives a twitch, the last remnants of his misfiring nerves as he dies. You feel the painful jerk in your mating bond. Yoongi watches the muscles of your neck twitch. 

Neither you nor Yoongi pays him any mind. 

"You don't have to do this Yoongi." Yoongi’s hand on your cheek- is like a balm to those words, pushing them out of your head. “You can’t take it back. If I die- you could die too.”

“But I want to” he kisses your cheek- and the contact lights a flame down your neck to your touch starved heart. The heat flares to light and the next second your body and your mouth are aching to bite. Your instincts an avalanche around you begging you to complete the bond that’s tearing through you making you shake. He kisses a little closer to your lips, cheeks wet and cool against your skin.

Geumaje and Yoongi were related by blood at all, maybe your instincts can’t tell the difference. 

“I don’t care if it does- I can’t- I’m not going to just let you die” his voice breaks on the last word. Not when it was me who was too slow to save you; He won’t say the words or whisper his guilt into the open air. 

“Please sweetheart- let me.” He kisses your lips. So soft- achingly soft, Your first kiss, you wish it had happened under better circumstances.

You hate that the first kiss you and Yoongi share tastes like blood.

But there would be more- there could be more kisses if Yoongi manages to do what he’s saying he can. The mark on your shoulder is already healing, the blackness stretching to scar treacherously fast. Normal mating bites usually take a day or so to heal, but not yours, it’s already scabbing and sealing in the poision.

If you’re going to try this- if it’s going to work- it has to be now. The bond is advancing, regardless of the fact that Geumjae is barely dead, barely cooling beside the two of you.

It’s barely been 10 minutes since you shot him. And if you listen carefully- you can hear sounds in the rest of the house, maybe someone else from the gang here- about to come upstairs and discover the mess of you three. muffled voices and heavy footsteps grow louder by the second. 

Yoongi is safe but you’re not. “Yoongi,” you say, his name a broken hymn on your mouth. Musical- and Yoongi can’t think of a time when he wouldn’t want to hear it. Hoping for more of this closeness and maybe one day, a love that doesn’t hurt.

You get the feeling that even if you are broken beyond repair, this man could fix you. Wide hands and careful fingers that rub the blood away from your skin, hands made for making things and mending things when they break. And maybe you’re selfish enough to let him bind himself to you- broken as you are.

You press your forehead to his, you have to ask one more time. "Are you sure Yoongi?"

He nods, quick and small, "I'm sure." there isn’t anything in his eyes that makes you doubt him.

"Okay," you say softly, tugging him closer, tilting your chin up to the sky, your skin stings where it stretches around the mating mark. "okay. Come here then."

Your hands tangle in Yoongi’s hair as you guide his mouth to your throat, and his mouth sliding into the space where Geumjae was just minutes ago. He lingers for just half a breath before sinks his teeth over the mating mark, a little deeper- his mouth a little wider. He makes the bite a tiny bit offset.

Your breath hitches, back arching. His hands-on your waist go hard, holding you closer to him, as close as he can get you. Unlike before when Geumjae’s bite was agony, this feels like heroin- like every drug mixing together sending you up and up.

If you looked down and saw your hands were tipped in gold you wouldn’t be surprised. For a second you think you can taste colors, and then the chocolate sea salt of Yoongi settles over your tongue delicious, like ambrosia- fuck it’s so strong, it’s halfway between a headache and a high. You gasp when you feel it, feel Yoongi all over, Goosebumps rising on your arms as he touches you. The smell of ocean breeze and chocolate filling you in a way that Geumjae’s scent didn’t.

Geumjae’s bite was nothing compared to this, a whisper to a symphony. 

This must be what a mating bite feels like when you want it. You cry out. Gripping the lapels of his coat. Yoongi’s heartbeat thunders in your ears, the only thing you can hear, until the beat matches to your own, heartbeats pumping in sync.

Your blood tastes sweet and he wonders what it says about him that he likes the taste. He gulps at it- once- twice- and then a third time just to make sure the mark sticks, maybe he could suck a little bit of Geumjae out of you.

His kisses get feverish, lapping up your blood with wide laves of his tongue, moaning a little. and this time when you kiss- with your blood in his mouth, they get hurried and rushed like he can consume you, each one sweeter than the last. There is one moment of nausea, only one moment where Yoongi sees the black tracery receded and feels it dim. 

Maybe it’s not gone, but at least it's buried.

Yoongi can almost feel you, can almost feel the bond, but not yet. Your scent, it's all cake-sweet now. You kiss him until your jaw aches until your lips feel bruised. Until you know the sounds below actually are people, rushing around trying to find Geumjae. Calling out your names. 

Yoongi is the first to break apart, the room spinning. “Do me” he lifts the edge of his shirt, picking out a spot that he likes, the meat just above his hip. A spot is half-hidden by his shirt and his pants.

Not everyone likes to have their mating marks on their neck (you certainly would have chosen to have yours another place had you been given the chance). And Yoongi stretches out so that you can get your mouth on him, your mouth on the spot he wants to bind your soul to his.

He holds one of your hands in both of his hands so gently as you cup his hip and bite down, even as you begin to make out the noise of gang members coming up the attic stairs. Yoongi bites down a moan, lets you take one gasp of blood into your mouth before your teeth leave his skin.

The high rushes over him and he knows his pupils are mirrors of yours, black and dilated. He just has time to wipe his blood from your mouth and get you as close as he can, before the attic door creaks, the barrel of a gun pushing it open. And the gangsters enter the room with practiced steps.

Yoongi pulls his shirt back down just before they have a chance to see.

You play the part, slumping against him and letting him take the reigns. the people must take it for pain even though you’re shaking not with sobs, but from the feeling of Yoongi’s soul intertwining with yours. Full body shivers and something solidifying between the two of you. 

Together you shake, Yoongi is barely aware of the gangsters clearing the room. 

You feel like you can taste his thoughts, though you can’t actually hear what he's thinking. You can feel the way they tumble like small waves over each other. You feel concern and something else, something that feels an offal lot like love shoot down the fledgling bond as Yoongi’s arms pull you up, firmer against him.

It makes shivers rise on every inch of your skin, the pleasure he feels when he touches you that you're now hyper-aware of. It's what your body has been craving- the completion of the bond.

You both bleed- your blood dripping onto the floor. One part sacrament and sacred love and another part poisonous longing for a man you hated so much more than you ever loved him. This feels strange, it feels wrong, and that you have one part of you reaching out for something that’s not there. And then this- with Yoongi, right and front of you and inside of you. Completely occupying your heart and your mind and your body.

Accept for that one poisoned inch; you might not be completely his, but it's enough now, the bond with yoongi occupying those thoughts you'd had minutes before.

The gangsters don’t touch Geumjae, at least until Moonbyul enters the room, unarmed. Yoongi’s cousin eyes Yoongi from the door. There isn’t enough room in this torture room for the 12 or so gangsters and the three of you, they press against the walls, guns at the ready.

Moonbyul approaches Geumjae’s corpse, turning him over with her foot to see his blankly staring face, turning it towards the heavens instead of hell. For a moment, Yoongi thinks she might actually kick him. She plucks her pink handgun from the floor. Someone passes her a rag and she wipes it free of blood and fingerprints.

Her eyes on Yoongi are hard; a bit of mirth playing on the edge of her mouth as she plays her hand. A queen in a room full of pawns and knights, and the king underfoot. Her hand of aces. 

Betting it all on a simple game of roulette- red or black- will Yoongi challenge her or not. Yoongi doesn't miss the way her finger hovers on the trigger. 

“I suppose this entire situation would be concerning to me- if you hadn’t already named me as Don.” she nudges Geumjae's body again with her foot. "I guess he didn't take it well?"

She lies effortlessly, taking the moment to seize power. So this was what she was waiting for. Yoongi doesn’t challenge her words for fear of what she might do right now, not that he really would anyway. 

Yoongi tips his head forward in difference, “No he didn’t,” 

Moonbyul tucks her gun back into her waistband, and holds out her hand to pull yoongi to his feet. 

Yoongi takes you with him, small and still a little high in his arms. You hide your face in Yoongi’s shoulder, Holding onto him tight. You don’t know if you could take it if they tried to separate you now. 

Yoongi has to swallow to continue, struggling to think before he speaks with so many new sensations shocking his body. He's intimately aware of the way you shift in his arms, arms tightening around you at the very idea of you moving more than an inch away from him right now as you settle onto your own two feet. still a little unsteady. 

“He- he mated her against her will, and then he tried to kill us when I told him I wouldn’t- and- and after-” It’s not a lie- not really, but it still feels that way. Moonbyul doesn't need to do anything more than that to nod to call her men off, and they all relax around the room. 

They instantly fade from engaged concern to understanding. The other heads of household will probably grill Yoongi more. But you’ve both got time to get your story straight. For now, they need to clean up the body.

It helps that threatening the beta is a punishable offense; no one will question Yoongi killing him- especially since they’re brothers. Most of the families tend to think that inner house spats that family's business. Yoongi doesn’t know which of his relatives will inherit the title of head of the Min family, but it won't be Yoongi.

You’re small and silent in Yoongi’s arms, so vulnerable, he keeps you a few paces away from any of the mobsters, bites down a growl whenever any of them come too close to his mate. It’s just the mating bond making it’s self-known. You are his. No one can touch you.

Yoongi has never been a possessive man, but now he is. The mating mark tearing through him and screaming at him to protect, to provide, to nurture, and keep safe. He strokes down your back as his cousin quietly orders the others to clean up the mess and Geumjae’s body. The family has cleanup crews on call for this very reason.

They quietly offer to burn the house down to stage the death but Yoongi doesn’t care. He guesses it belongs to him now or maybe you. It depends on which bond the family will consider more important; the bonds of a half mating or the bond of brotherhood.

“I’ll handle it-“ his cousin has the good grace to offer comfort to Yoongi that way when he gets you into her car. she doesn't say anything about the dents in the side.  

Yoongi doesn’t quite hate her for any of this, but he doesn’t trust her the same way he did before either. She’s gotten what she wanted- the Don position. Plucked it from Yoongi’s hands.

“You haven’t had a chance to call the heads of house and tell them about your decision yet, but after that, you should be free to go” she reads him easily as always, The only other manipulator up to par with Yoongi himself in the gang. She knows that not an inch of Yoongi wants to stay in this house or this city a second longer.

At the idea of leaving you to straighten up in Yoongi’s lap to listen in a little more, you share a look with Yoongi. Your mate, your body sings the eye contact makes you shiver in your seat. Yoongi pulls you closer, stroking up to your arm mistakenly thinking you’re cold. You pull yourself closer to him- but it feels like you can’t get close enough, He makes a dissatisfied noise in his throat.

Yoongi will have to get used to this feeling. Like his soul is walking outside of his body. It feels incredibly vulnerable and intimate- He can feel your panic, how physically you’re being torn apart right now, every few minutes you shake. Yoongi puts your legs over his and holds you close. Watching your face closely for every twinge of pain as the lights of the city flicker over you two.

The meeting with the heads of house is tense, though the usual group of is two short now, standing only at eleven members now that Geumjae is gone and Moonbyul is named Don. You cannot be Don and a head of house at the same time.

It takes every bone in Yoongi’s body to let you be taken into the other room by Moonbyul’s mate to check over your injuries. He stops her with a hand on her shoulder. He catches Moonbyul’s nostrils flare, but she doesn’t say anything. “Would you look at her bruises for me?”

Later Yoongi will check them himself, again and again until he's sure you're all right. But the sooner you get ice on the nastier bruises the better off you’ll be. Someone should look at your ribs and your head too- he has half a mind to take you to the hospital before you leave the city. He doesn’t know how long it will be before you’re stationary again. He’d stay in the city tonight if you needed to. But he can feel your panic down the bond, The sooner you both get out of here the better.

With Geumjae dead there is no true opposition against his cousin's rule. She stands at the head of the table like she’s meant to be there. And still- the heads of the families talk through the night, kicking the non-proverbial dead horse into the ground. There is little mourning for Geumjae, one granny who cries faintly in the other room while the heads argue. Yoongi supposes he should look more upset, but no one pays attention to him now that he’s made his choice.

No, what they spend most of the time discuss is you. Sat in the other room, able to hear all of this, the men and woman weighing your fate and deciding what to do with you. If Yoongi listens, he can hear Hyejin’s quiet voice. Can feel your discomfort as the ice hits your ribs, maybe broken, definitely badly bruised.

Yoongi flinches every time he feels the pain pulse down the bond. Maybe in time, it will feel less sensitive but right now- Yoongi can feel your hurts just as bad as he can feel his own. A part of him is reaching out into the other room, screaming in his ear to go comfort his mate.  

He has a mate. Yoongi can scarcely believe it.

The gangsters around the table remain blissfully unaware of that fact. Most of the heads are on the same page, and he won’t reveal his mating mark unless he absolutely needs to, he will let that secret stay secret unless necessary. It’s a good bargaining chip. They wouldn’t kill you if they knew it was going to kill him too. But still- it’s hard to hear them argue over your fate when he can’t intervene.

“You know the rules- no divorces and no separations,” one alpha says, he’s older- nearing 60, but Yoongi can’t excuse that cruelty with age. The youngest, the head of the Ahn house does the rebutting for Yoongi, and he bites his tongue.

“But it wouldn’t be a divorce; she’s his widow now and his ex-mate technically.”

“Yes but that’s only a half bond.” There is only one omega head, and the woman snubs her long cigarette out on the table leaving an ashy circle 

“It’s only the alpha bite that matters- or have you forgotten?”

To her credit, the omega doesn't back down. “Chances are she’ll die anyway why are we even talking about her, we should start transitioning already.”

“That’s easy to say- if she’s got nothing left to lose what’s to stop her from going to the police.”

“I can keep an eye on her,” Yoongi volunteers, jumping at the chance to turn the discussion to his favor. They can all go fuck themselves if they ever dare to try and hurt you. “You say she’s as good as dead anyway. So you shouldn't mind if she comes with me.” 

The likelihood of anyone living after their mate dies is in the teens. Yoongi knew that and even then he bonded to you anyway. He can only hope that with his bite coursing through your veins and your body confused that you’ve got better odds than that. Yoongi did what he promised to do, now your odds are both 50/50. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t go to the police.”

Through the bond he can feel your curiosity and a little bit of fear too, you’re listening in. And he does his best to let his calmness comfort you too. Your panic instantly relaxes and he senses you reaching out. If you were next to Yoongi you’d be holding hands, and it kind of feels that way. If you could ever hold hands with someone’s soul.

“You realize that if you make her your responsibility, anything bad that happens will fall on your head as well” their betas might be sacred- but they aren’t free from the rest of the laws of the gang.

“I understand.” The Don lifts her head, regarding Yoongi with a heavy look. “She’s his widow and whether we want to address it now or not, the law says she’s inherited his wealth.”

It's met with immediate opposition, several heads of house start speaking over each other at once,  but Yoongi speaks up again, shouting over them. A beta raising their voice is about as strange as one giving or getting a mating bite, everyone falls silent. “Give it to me or her- I don’t care.”

another few minutes and they’re ready to let you go. they vote on it, and only 3 out of 11 heads vote to have you killed. Moonbyul gives the all clear, “Then you’re free to go.” Yoongi doesn’t even say goodbye, going to you in the other room just as quickly as he can without outright running. The Don’s mate is crouched in front of where you sit. Your body is mostly clean of blood and you’ve been put in other clothes; a pair of sweats and a baggy shirt.

Yoongi can see all the bruises on the side of your face turning purple and Yoongi wants to cup your face and bring it to his, kiss away the pain coloring your skin like watercolors, but can’t do it here. “Do we need to go to the hospital?” 

“Not for her but maybe for you, no ones checked you over yet, have they?”

yoongi grits his teeth, seconds away from snapping at hyejin, he wants her to get away, get as far from you as possible. “i asked if she needed the hospital.” 

Hyejin stands when Yoongi crouches. shaking her head when it becomes clear yoongi isn’t to be argued with right now. “There’s something wrong with her- but I think you know what” her eyes hover on Yoongi’s hip.

 So at least she’s figured it out. She has the good sense to utter the words quietly. Though the people in the other room aren’t concerned with Yoongi anymore, they’ve already launched into discussions about transitioning power and re-defining responsibilities. It seems Moonbyul had a plan on how she wanted the family to run from the beginning.  

He shakes off his annoyance, “Thank you,” he says to the omega, holding out a hand to you, which you take, still not saying anything. Tiredness holding you down to the chair. The same kind of look you’d had when Geumjae had died. The mating mark has been taped over but some of the blackness is still there. Yoongi wonders when it will fade, if it ever does.

“I wish I could say I’ll see you soon but I don’t think I will.” You and Yoongi nod, your hands twined between the two of you. She knows that neither you nor Yoongi has a love for the gang. No one stops you and Yoongi when you leave the house. Immediately hailing a taxi. You stop only at Yoongi’s safe house for a spare 20 minutes, while he packs up a fraction of his belongings in a hurried rush, anything to get out before someone tries to change their mind.

If Geumjae had any hidden loyalists the beta that killed him and his runaway wife would be the first targets. Let alone their reaction if they knew who had really killed Geumjae. The quicker the two of you get away from the city the better.

You end up at the train station, Yoongi breaks the bracelets off of your wrist- the same ones that he saw you wear on you the first night- and the ones that he’s always thought looked like shackles. He yanks at them as hard as he can until they snap; kissing your wrist after each one is off. You throw them over the side of the chain-link fence and into the darkness- to be lost forever you hope. The symbols of all you’ve lost.

When you get on the train, you cuddle close under Yoongi’s jacket and into his warmth. He’s a protective barrier between you and the third seat that thankfully remains empty this late into the night it’s so late it’s nearly early morning. Most of the train is empty besides an elderly couple at the front. Regardless, the two of you sit behind them. Yoongi can’t take his eyes off of the potential threat. Actually flinches when the conductor comes around to stamp your tickets.

You head off into the night- your little box of light in a sea of street lamps and hidden dangers. You almost fall asleep a few times, head bobbing as you catching yourself before it hits his shoulder. After the third time this happens he pulls you in close, tucks your head close to his scent gland, and commands “sleep” in a voice that you cannot disobey.

Eventually, you wake, the car is bright with the midday sun and the car is half full. Yoongi’s eyes are bloodshot as they train on every passenger who comes in and leaves your train car. Yoongi holds your hand, rubbing his thumb up and down the back in an endless trail. A conductor opens the door of your train car to pass through, bunching a few tickets here and there from the new passengers who have boarded the train.

He passes by where you're bundled and Yoongi flinches so hard it wakes you fully. his shoulder accidentally nudging a bruise on your cheek, He murmurs his apologies, panicked hands fussing over you. He could feel that he hit one of your bruises and the horror of hurting you make him wide-eyed and worried. You catch his hands, pressing the pads of them to your lips. Yoongi's hands shake as they touch you, hours later, he's still high on adrenaline. 

“You need to sleep Yoongi” it’s been a long few days for both of you.

He doesn’t answer with more than a grunt. But you get off the train at the next stop and it’s nearing noon by the time the two of you stumble across the street to a motel, and it’s shitty and smells like cigarettes and the lady at the front desk asks if you need the hourly rate or the daily rate. Though she does give you a discount because Yoongi’s a beta. Eyeing the blood-soaked collar of his jacket and the bloody bandages on your neck.

You should be holed up somewhere safe away from prying eyes to adjust to your new mating bite- not in a hotel where the smells of other people assault your nose. Making you press close to Yoongi because everything smells so new and scary. Like your senses have been turned up and only Yoongi can quell their sensitivity.

you don’t realize that the attendant gave you two beds until you get to the room. you both stare blankly before you cough and separated. the closeness too much now that you’re alone and free from threats. Though it doesn't feel that way. 

you hate it- you don’t want to curl up across the room from Yoongi- you want to be next to him. you almost whimper when he He steps away to the other bed to set down his backpack. You want to cry, your skin feels irritated and itchy without his pressed to yours. You want him to touch you but you can’t stay it. Don’t know how to ask around the thickness in your throat.

He gets a clean shirt from his black backpack and helps you put it on so that you don’t irritate the mating bite. You can’t lift either of your arms much and neither can he but he pushes through the pain for you. He only has 2 or three sets of clothes that he grabbed from the cottage, and it’s all you’ve got.

“We’ll get some more clothes for you tomorrow.” He doesn’t say that you should have grabbed some of your clothes- because you both know you couldn’t handle staying in that house a second more than was necessary. You barely thought to linger long enough to grab your purse, which thankfully had everything you really need in it. 

Somehow he has athletic tape in his bag, and he spends a few minutes changing out your soaked through bandages, bundling up toilet paper, and taping it over your mating bite. Only after yours is taken care of does he let you do the same for his bite on his hip, and the burns on his hands. 

You pull his pants off and then his boxers down just enough so that you can get at it, small from your mouth, the skin around it irritated and pink. You try not to let your eyes hover on the small happy trail that traces from his belly button downwards. The band on his boxers is stained with blood- and you wonder how much it hurt to have it dig into it all day.

You curl up in separate beds, and only when you’re under the covers do you slide off your pants. leaving you only in a large shirt that smells like yoongi.  Yoongi does the same, says “goodnight” and shuts off the light but doesn’t turn away from you, keeping his eyes on you in the darkness. 

You’re silent for a few minutes, but you can tell that neither of you is falling asleep. Your bed feels cold and you wonder if he feels the same, you let the distance hurt for a minute before you give in.  

"Thank fucking god-" He peels back the blanket for you the second you make the move and dash across the cold room. you scoot into his warmth and he lets out a little ‘oof’ when you collide. Letting him pull you closer, put the blanket over your back, and make sure all of your skin is covered.

It’s not enough for Yoongi and he pulls you sideways so that he can get some of his weight on top of you. A growl building in his chest at the thought of anyone walking through the door right now.

He needs to check the lock, make sure that no one can possibly disturb you. Needs to- the instinct filling him so harshly he can’t breathe. He tries to pull away, but your hands tighten on him, and you let out a whine so heartbreaking that instantly has him releasing comforting chocolate, flopping back on top of you nuzzling under your chin, you feel like you’re drowning in it. 

Your love with Yoongi is still too new and raw to be close like this without feeling shy- and yet you can’t resist, your mating bond is like a fresh burn that you can’t stop picking at because it hurts. (Like there’s something dead there that you need to get rid of, you can’t heal around, you need to tear it out so that it feels more like bleeding rather than something that was carved out by hungry heat.) You fiddle with the bandage at your neck before Yoongi takes your hand in his, lacing your fingers together.

For a moment, you crave the release that blood might give you- and like he can feel it. Yoongi presses a kiss to the back of your hand. “Couldn’t sleep?” Yoongi says. You shake your head. The motel creeks and overhead you can hear someone else moving in an adjacent room. Yoongi gets his head on your pillow and adjusts his hand around your waist so that he’s not hitting the vicious bruise that Geumjae left with one of his kicks.

The last 24 hours have been such a tangle. It feels weird to not move now. Yoongi’s heart is still hammering; you can feel it under your palm. You’re both unwilling to relax and close your eyes even for a second even though you’re both exhausted.

You’re worried if you close your eyes you’re going to see Geumjae's face.

Yoongi left the light in the bathroom on for you. Sensing that the shadows would be too thick with nightmares for you to handle for long. You look at each other in the darkness before Yoongi lets out a shaky little giggle.

“Do you know what I just realized?” he says, the words quieted against the too scratchy bedspread. “We could have gotten a better hotel, we easily have enough money for it now” and that’s true.

If Yoongi’s orders were followed and the gang's accountant really did transfer all of your inherited wealth to your name then- fuck- both of you saw the bank statements. Both of you know how much money Yoongi’s family had amassed- the same wealth that Geumjae had inherited and now you.

“Fuck you’re right,” you say, ducking in so that you don’t have to meet Yoongi’s eyes. Geumjae used to hit you sometimes if you did that- and trained habits die-hard. 

yoongi kisses your brow, slow little pecks that travel down your cheeks, as unhurried as they are sweet. It's strange to be close to him now when it’s all you’ve wanted for the last few months. You never thought you’d get this. It feels like a daydream and a nightmare all at once.

“We could buy a whole house- or three” and even then you’d have more than enough money to live on after. For the rest of your days, comfortable and cozy even if you were foolish with the money. Yoongi still gets his stipend from the gang. No doubt to be greater now that he’s the only beta.

He stops his kisses, mouth hovering on your cheek, “We could do that.” he sounds like he’s barely containing his excitement. 

You’ll both be fine. Neither of you will ever have to worry about money again and it makes you feel sick and happy with something that feels a terrible lot like grief.

Even if you got that- the last 24 hours haven’t been worth it. You’re not entirely out of the woods yet. The mark on your shoulder is scabbing over and inky. But every few hours of closeness that the two of you have- Yoongi think’s he sees the color fade- just a little bit.

You don’t know where the giggle comes from but one moment it comes out of your mouth and you laugh, and Yoongi joins in the sound startling out of his chest. He presses his forehead tight against yours and sighs at the sound. You see the moment clarity falls on him and an idea settles into his mind the second it hits. And dim happiness settles over your bond.

Yoongi lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses your bruised knuckles. “Let's buy a house.”

You smile- tired from today but still willing to placate him. “Okay Yoongi, we can do that.”

Now finally, his eyes are starting to droop, every few seconds he tries to keep them open, but you know he's seconds away from sleep. His words slurred when they whisper, his sweet chocolaty breath tickling your cheeks. “Goodnight sweetheart- love you.”

“Love you too,” it’s the first time you’ve ever said those words to each other. It feels like the first of many times you’ll say it. Forever- you and Yoongi will be mated together until you both die. And who cares if that happens tomorrow or months from now. Who cares? Because you have him and that’s all that matters.

Yoongi holds you and knows- that he will love you- as long as he can.

He watches you sleep, waits until your eyes are closed. Until he can make sure you’re safe and warm. A gentle purring fills the hotel room, soft and peaceful. yoongi hears it louder when he presses his ear to your chest. He tries to keep his eyes open, but somewhere around the second hour- they fall closed.

Neither of you dream.

—————

Please Reblog and Comment! 

Series Masterlist ~ Donate ~ Twitter

[sableflynn]

apodyopsis

I saw this prompt on one of those “beautiful word” type prompt lists, and my brain immediately went but what if Volkan-- 

been feeling very inspired lately by the lovely creepy whumper pov snippets @justplainwhump and @whumping-newbie write, and this didn’t dig quite as deep as I would like but it was still fun!

cw: super creepy whumper pov, implied noncon, thoughts of forced stripping, brief hand whump mention. takes place between chapters 3 and 4 of out unseen.

---

apodyopsis (n): the act of mentally undressing someone

The girl is nothing in his arms, head lolling to one side as he lifts her unconscious body against his own. It’s a gamble, taking her in place of what he’d originally come here for, but she’s just what he needs, and his mind is already racing with the possibilities.

He settles into the backseat of his car, letting her head fall into his lap, and his driver begins the journey without a word. He wonders if his guards will find her friend, out there in the maze of shipping crates, but he isn’t holding his breath. No matter; the boy will turn up eventually, and he has plenty to keep himself occupied in the meantime.

The glow of passing streetlamps casts soft stripes of light over her face. In sleep, her features are soft, pliant. Her lips curve downward in the slightest frown, and he can’t resist brushing his thumb over them before tucking some loose amber strands of hair behind her ear. His hand lingers there a heartbeat, before trailing further down her body.

She’s dressed like someone who thinks she’s on an important mission, and he’s almost charmed by it. The dark jacket and pants, the boots—it’s like she fancies herself some sort of spy or something. A child, playing at being something much bigger than herself. Having no idea what she’s truly getting herself into. He can’t wait to see the look on her face when that illusion shatters.

He’ll take her jacket off while she’s still out, he decides. Enough to give him the first tantalizing glimpse of her soft skin underneath, fresh and untouched and just waiting to be marked by his whip or cane or fists. Enough to unsettle her when she wakes up, while still leaving plenty more for him to unwrap later.

And once she’s awake...his fingers dance along her collarbone, tracing the neckline of her tank top as he ponders. It’s cheap fabric, and it’ll part easily under his knife when the time comes. He could have her in chains, slicing the last of her dignity away and leaving her shivering and defenseless. Or maybe he’ll throw her on a bed and rip her clothes away, tearing the fabric with one hand while he pins her down with the other.

Maybe he’ll strip her with a gun to her head, and one word: undress. Sit back and watch as shaking hands pull her shirt over her head, as she bares herself to him bit by reluctant bit. Full of hatred or terror or despair, and absolutely gorgeous, naked on her knees before him.

He takes her hand, warm and tiny and utterly fragile. Her fingers are delicate, and he can’t help but think of how easily he could snap them in his grip, let her wake up to a world of agony. But no; when she finally wakes up, he wants her lucid and unharmed, with no pain to distract her from every single thing he’s going to do to her. So he rests one hand on the curve of her hip, threads fingers of the other through her hair, and watches the flickers of lamplight passing through the window, and he waits.

[earstwo]

     ✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

I hit 7k recently after losing almost 1.5k followers when I converted to a Reylo blog (not sorry in the slightest) and decided it was time to finally compile some of the INCREDIBLE fanfics that I’ve read since joining the fandom in December. 

I’m constantly impressed by the talent around here and I'm so grateful to love a ship that has some of the most amazing content I’ve ever seen. The creators in this fandom are second to none. I’m so thankful for all they do and all that they give to us. 

Please keep never stop sharing your gifts. <3 

**Note: Most (pretty much all) of these are rated E. 

Without further ado, here are (some of) my favorite stories: 

The Jedi Path  by SouthsideStory | 19k | E | I am such a sucker for Jedi Academy Ben and Rey. It’s everything I never knew I needed, and this fic is a beautiful rendition. If you know me at all, you know that I devour Angst with a Happy Ending stories, and this is no exception to that rule.

Exile by Ernzo | 22k | E | Oof. This one hurts. Leia sends Rey to the planet where Ben is exiled. It’s angsty and sad and cathartic in every way. I’ve read it dozens of times. 

Before the Saber Swings by @waterlilyrose​ | 28k | M |  Fuck. When I tell y’all that this story fucked me up, I mean it from the bottom of my s o u l. It stayed with me for days. I literally couldn’t get it out of my head. It felt so real to me that I was in physical pain while reading it. I also made an AU gifset of the fic with a quote from Buffy because I’m extra and love pain. 

penitence by @bettsfic​ | 16k | M | Look, Betts is one of my favorite fanfiction authors of all time. Her Bellarke works are some that I’ve read dozens of times and I was fucking ecstatic when I found out she also writes Reylo. This is an A+ TROS fix-it that is lovely and soft and sweet. 

The Writings of Ben Solo by BurnedStars777 | 39k | E | This was recced to me by the fabulous @galacticidiots​ and is just a fantastic story all around. Rey finds Ben’s journal whilst stuck on a planet with Kylo Ren and she (eventually) connects the dots. Rey falling in love with Ben sight unseen? Here. For. it.  find a thread to pull, and we can watch it unravel by again_please | 17k | E | A fantastic post-TLJ story with angsty and broody Ben and just some all around quality smut. I devoured this and have read it multiple time since. 

We Could Plant a House, We Could Build a Tree by @likeadove​ | 124k | E | I will probably never stop reading this fic. It’s such a beautiful coming of age story for Rey and her relationship with Ben as she grows up is just... gah. It’s fantastic. Please read it.    

Soul Searching by OptimisticBeth | 205k | E | Soulmates AU where Ben is Rey’s teacher? Sign me the fuuuuck up, and Soul Searching is so fucking well written. I go back to this one every few weeks and just gush at how great the world building is. I love the relationship Rey has with Leia and Han. It’s rich with love and angst and fluffffff. So good. 

Coveted by OptimisticBeth | 82k | E | WIP | OptimisticBeth is just an incredible writer, so you should honestly read all of her stuff, but I am so, so, so into this fic. It’s A/B/O and Ben’s Rey’s pack leader. He, along with a bunch of other Alphas are trying to court Rey, a highly desired Omega. It’s so fucking delicious, y’all. Alpha Ben Solo is just...it doesn’t get much better. 

A Treehouse Covered in Salt by violethoure666 | 34k | E | This fic made me cry my eyes out. I’m not kidding. It’s so raw and real. It hurts to read at some points, but you care so much about Ben and Rey in this that you fight through the pain. They grow up together as neighbors and Han builds them a treehouse where they meet throughout their childhoods/teen years. Prepare to cry but also be so fulfilled and satisfied. It’s wonderful. love it when you call me lover by @kylotrashforever​​ | 66k | E | WIP | First, let me say that anything by KTF is going to be gold. These fics I have listed are just a few of my favorites at the moment. Lover is hot as fuck (as is all of her stuff) but also fluffy in the best way. It’s in Sadsville right now so I’m fucking PUMPED for her to update. Ben’s a doctor who basically gives Rey a sexual awakening when he proves her statement of “I just don’t think I can come from (insert sexual act here)” very, very wrong.  

mountain at my gates by @kylotrashforever​ | 26k | E | More A/B/O goodness. Omega Rey’s car breaks down on a mountain. Ben is a mountain man Alpha. You can probably guess what happens from there. *fans self* 

take me to church by @kylotrashforever​ | 26k | E | I love this story so much. Ben is the pastor’s son at the church Rey grows up in. They start hooking up in secret and are terrrrrrible at communicating with each other which leads to angst. But it’s so sweet and soft while also being super hot. I love this Ben and Rey so much. 

Your Pretty Little Heart by @ever-so-reylo​ | 64k | E | The A/B/O Reylo bible, I feel like. They’re doctors and he’s a grumpy as fuck Alpha. Shenanigans ensue. And by shenanigans I mean a lot, a lot, a LOT of sex. 

The Food of Love by @lovesbitca8​ | 60k | E | Y’all. If you haven’t read this yet, please stop what you’re doing and read it RIGHT NOW. I ate this fic up in one sitting because holy SHIT it’s amazing. It’s so well written and the story is just... absolutely exquisite. Ben is cellist that’s also a famous rockstar and Rey’s an up and coming violinist and they fall in loOOoOOve in the best, most angsty, sexiest way. Please just read it right now. The scene when she firsts goes to his apartment and plays one of his cellos............you guys. It’s a lot.

Already Home by AttackoftheDarkCurses | 81k | E | This is soulmates + A/B/O so naturally I am obsessed with it. Rey gets connected with her soulmate via a website and he’s going by the name Kylo Ren. At the same time, she’s also moving in with grumpy librarian Ben Solo. She falls in love with both but has no idea that they’re the same person. It’s INCREDIBLE. 

Tangled but Unbroken by AttackoftheDarkCurses | 20k | M | I read this the other night and it’s so fucking soft. I am such a fucking sucker for growing up together fics and this is just such top quality. The braiding kills me every goddamn time. Also, I’m making my way through all of Attack’s works right now and they’re all incredible. Highly recommend. 

Dear Mr. President by @shmisolo​ | 89k | E | I love this Ben so much. The characterization is so on the money. The angst is absolutely delicious. The smut is top brass. Oh, and did I mention they’re soulmates? It’s everything you need, I promise. 

Good Day, Professor by @faequeentitania​ | 38k | E | One of the best Professor Solo fics out there. I’m such a sucker for age difference fics. Of course there’s angst, who do you think I am? 

Embers by sciosophia | 34k | E | Breaking up/getting back together fics are some of my favorites and this one is fantastic. The pining with these two is ridiculous. You just want to smush their faces together. It’s a beautiful love story. 

Reclaimed by @bettsfic​ | 14k | E | Ughhhhhhhhhh, Reclaimed. I am so in love with Reclaimed. Alpha Ben adopts Omega Rey after she’s rescued from this terrible Alpha that held her captive for most of her life. She doesn’t talk and Ben has to help her learn to be a human being and not just a subservient Omega. This Ben is the Ben of my dreams. No contest. 

the following are all written by  @kylorenvevo​. please read them all if you haven’t already. 

landscape with a blur of conquerers | 362k | E |  Y’all know this shit is fire. It’s basically the bible. If you haven’t read this yet, consider this as me yelling at you to do it NOW.   

like young gods | 84k | T | fuck, the Sword of the Jedi series is incomparable when it comes to in-universe fics. I cannot begin to express how much I love this story. It’s so soft and intense and sad. Like, gut wrenchingly sad. Ben senses Rey on Jakku when she’s six and he and Luke take her back to the Jedi Academy. She grows up with Ben. 

to kingdom come | 145k | M |  The sequel to Like Young Gods. I’m not gonna spoil much here, but just know I cried through most of this fic. I downright SOBBED at the end. It’s gorgeous and I will never stop rereading it. The love these two have for each other... it’s unreal. 

i kill giants  | 34k | E | WIP | The TROS fix-it we all need. Ben is alive and finds Rey on Tatooine. It’s soft and Thea does a great job of soothing so many of the gaping wounds we were left with after TROS. My heart soars every time I read a new chapter. This is what we deserved. :( 

the heartbreak prince | 58k | E | WIP |  Harry Potter AU. Professor/student. Size kink. Virginity kink. ANGST. All the good things life has to offer. Professor Solo is fucking filthy in this and I (along with Miss Niima)  am here 👏 for 👏 it. 

place the moon at my eyes (and her whiteness shall devour)  | 29k | E | Another breakup/get back together fic that I absolutely adore.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

Thank you to everyone that’s been so kind and welcoming to me the past couple of months! I love this fandom and its energy and enthusiasm and how much everyone seems to care for each other. I hope that I can continue to create content for you forever <3 

[olivinesea]

A Mixed Blessing

Chapter List

chapter three: counting up the exits

a/n: Alright, fun’s over. We’re getting into the thick of it now. Warnings for substance use, abuse, panic attacks, vomit, scars (idk let me know if I need to be tagging more things please, I really don’t know. I feel like if you’ve found your way here you probably know what you’re getting into but I could be wrong.) Love you all <3 ~5k

It surprised no one when Aaron started cutting class in high school. He didn’t usually have any plans, just headed toward the fields, trying to stay out of sight. He may already have been considered a lost cause as a freshman but that didn’t mean an adult wouldn’t stop him, demand he return to whatever class he was missing. And that wouldn’t do, that would only ruin his good mood. At first he had been leaving class to better enjoy the high his mother’s pills provided but when that ended he continued to wander. It was much nicer outside than in the building where people stared at him, whispered about him, called him names. He kicked at rocks as he slunk behind the portables in the field. They had been put up during a population surge, only to sit empty, waiting on some future use or someone to be motivated enough to tear them down.

He slowed when he caught sight of a group of students standing next to the last building. They were circled together, backs to him for the most part. He hesitated, unsure if he wanted to approach. If he'd learned one thing, it was to avoid situations where he stood out. Walking up to a group of random older kids was definitely something to steer clear of. As he was trying to decide, a boy on the far side of the circle looked up and made eye contact. Aaron’s heart beat faster, breathing became short and though he wanted to run, he couldn’t get his legs to cooperate. The boy smiled slowly, his mouth a little too wide.

As if he was being pulled by some unseen thread, Aaron took a step forward, then another. Even though his mind was telling him to turn, to leave whatever this was alone, he found that he wanted to know more. No one ever smiled at him and it made him feel both uncomfortable and something else he couldn’t quite name. He twisted his fingers in the fabric of his sleeves that he’d pulled down over his hands. A chill air current danced across the back of his neck, whispering words he couldn’t comprehend. The cold made his ears ache.

He was close enough now to hear them talking, laughter and some grumbling from whoever was the butt of the joke. No one had noticed him yet aside from the boy who’d smiled at him. He felt his heart in his throat, worried he might throw up from the anxiety of this choice, this incredibly foolish choice. The boy looked at him again with that same peculiar smile. He seemed amused by Aaron’s nervous, stilted approach. Still several feet away from the group, the urge to flee overwhelmed him. His muscles tensed, preparing to run, half a thought went towards how ridiculous he would seem when they finally noticed him as he raced away. Just as he was turning, a voice called out, raised above the rest of the conversation.

“Hey kid, come here.”

Aaron’s shoulders rose up to his ears, bristling at being addressed like that but also helpless to the attention. Normally he’d do the opposite, flat out refuse to acknowledge this stranger’s demand, but the voice sank into him like a hook. He looked back at the group, now all eyes staring at him, questions clear on their faces. He bit his lip before he could stop himself. There were too many people looking at him and he hated it. He could imagine how he looked to them—too skinny, too pale, drowning in his own clothes and the bruising that shadowed his eyes. He’d gotten taller but barely looked old enough to be a high school student even though he would turn fifteen in a few months. This had been a stupid idea.

“What’s your name?” The other boy’s voice cut through the air, pinning him in place.

“Aaron,” he mumbled, suspicious he’d been dragged into this only to be mocked (or worse).

“You a freshman?” There were chuckles around the group. He nodded reluctantly, eyes darting to the ground, unable to look at any of them directly.

“Shouldn’t you be in class?” A different voice, this one female and clearly irritated by the interruption he’d caused.

He looked up to glare at the speaker, not enjoying being teased. “Shouldn’t you?”

While the girl directed a bitter scowl at him, the first boy snorted, holding up his hands. “Fine, fine, we all make our own choices I guess.”

Aaron frowned at that statement, unsure what to make of it. The rest of the group lost interest and returned to their previous conversation, widening the circle just enough to leave space for him. He shoved his hands in his pockets to stop from fidgeting and took the few remaining steps towards the group. He couldn’t bring himself to completely join them so he hung back half a step, always ready to make a quick getaway. When he looked up, that same boy was still watching him. Up close Aaron could see he had freckles, which felt out of place somehow. They suggested a sort of innocence that the rest of his face, all sharp angles and dark, calculating eyes completely contradicted.

The person next to him handed the boy a joint. He continued to stare at Aaron as he took a drag, closing his eyes only as he inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs. He reached across the circle to hand the joint to Aaron, skipping several people who muttered in annoyance but no one complained too loudly. Their fingers touched as he passed off the half burned joint. Aaron had never smoked before but he was more than willing to try. He was certainly not going to turn it down in front of half a dozen upperclassmen.

“Make sure you inhale all the way,” he instructed.

Aaron did, coughing as the smoke came back out, scraping his throat. There was some laughter but mostly they were indifferent to him. The only one paying any attention to him was the boy with the strange smile; it wasn’t friendly and it unnerved Aaron. He tried to hand the joint back as he smothered another cough.

“Again,” he said, eyes intense.

Aaron blinked at him. The boy waved his hand in encouragement or impatience. Aaron flinched at the unexpected movement but tried to hide it by doing as he was told, bringing the joint back to his lips and taking another drag. This time was a little easier though he wasn’t sure he liked the way it made his face feel hot and his eyes water. The other boy accepted this time when he tried to return it. Already the edges of his vision were softening, his chest felt like it was being wrapped in something warm. He hugged his arms around himself, feeling very out of place, the sounds of the others talking fading in and out like a stereo speaker with a bad connection.

He looked up again moments or minutes later and the older boy was still watching him with that same expression. Aaron was finally able to place it, the narrowed eyes and too many teeth self-satisfied grin of a cat who’d caught a bird. He laughed at the absurdity of this thought. He laughed and he found that he couldn’t stop laughing. He crouched down, hugging himself tighter to try to stem the laughter that way.

“Oh no, you got the baby high, Cole,” he heard someone say. He wondered who they were talking about. Who was the baby and who was Cole; he was unable to make the association. There weren’t any babies here. Sean was a baby and he was at home. He had almost managed to stop laughing but thinking about Sean being here, so out of place with his golden curls, his innocent smile, made him start to giggle again. He started coughing as he choked on his own saliva, muscles lazily not performing their assigned tasks of conducting fluids where they belonged. He felt a hand pounding his back and he tried to roll away from the pain it caused, unsuccessfully biting back a moan. He closed his eyes, vaguely embarrassed but also not fully aware of his surroundings anymore. He knew he was outside because he felt the damp grass beneath him, pressing against his cheek. How did he end up laying on the ground? He tried to breathe but his lungs didn’t seem to be taking directions anymore. He grabbed at his chest with frantic fingers.

“Hey,” this voice was quiet, much closer to him than before. He felt a hand placed carefully on his shoulder, barely any pressure this time, a dragonfly lighting on the water. He was too confused to open his eyes, too afraid he’d made his way back home somehow—why couldn’t he remember? Why couldn’t he just get his lungs to expand?

“You’re fine.” The statement was more command than reassurance. Aaron tried to place the voice, thoughts flashing through his mind at an alarming rate. Each time he tried to catch one, they sped by faster. He’d almost gotten it but he was so distracted by the chill transferring from the individual blades of grass, the water drops becoming wet patches on his shirt. He should have more layers on, the weather was changing already. The hand shook his shoulder a little, bringing him back to the present.

“Look at me.”

He cracked his eyes open reluctantly, unable to disobey even though he was terrified he’d be met with the dark eyes of his father, that he’d find this was only the set up for something horrible. He didn’t know what to think when his vision was met with that freckled face, no longer smiling, a slight frown of concern along with a clinical curiosity. He touched his fingers to Aaron’s exposed collarbone.

“Inhale,” he said and Aaron wondered if time had made a loop—how many times had this happened already? The cool pressure on his chest distracted him from the thought and he did as he was told. The flood of oxygen immediately relaxed his constricted limbs. The boy, Cole, nodded encouragingly. “Again.”

Aaron closed his eyes to focus better, all he felt was the air filtering into his lungs and the fingers splayed against his chest, guiding it there. A few more breaths and he knew where he was again, finally locating himself in space and time. With this awareness came the full force of his embarrassment. He blushed as he pushed himself upright, curling his fists so tightly his nails dug deep into his palms. Cole looked at him from his position squatting beside him, hands on his knees, trying to be certain the younger boy wouldn’t collapse again.

“Are you coming?” someone called. The group had moved down the field, heading someplace more interesting. They’d had enough of the small drama of some inexperienced kid overdoing it. It was time to get away from campus before a teacher took notice. Cole ignored them, watching Aaron’s slow recovery. Aaron felt dizzy, still lightheaded from lack of air. His sides ached from laughing but he couldn’t remember what had been so funny. Cole stood and extended a hand down to Aaron.

“Come on.”

Aaron couldn’t decline even if he’d wanted to.

~

From that day forward Aaron found himself trailing this group around whenever he couldn’t stand being in class anymore. He’d sneak away from the building and down to the field where he’d find a few of them lingering. Sometimes only two or three, sometimes more. They never said much to him but no one told him to go away. Cole was usually there and while Aaron would swear he could feel his eyes watching him, he didn’t speak much to him either. When they’d leave campus, he would follow them to the woods where they’d taken over an abandoned shed. Over time teens with the same ideas had dragged logs and old couches around to lounge on as they got high and drank warm bottles of malt liquor. Aaron always tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, half-certain they would yell at him to leave if they realized he was tagging along, leaching off their pot and alcohol. At first he only took sips, pretending to drink but wanting to stay alert to the people around him, not trusting any of them. But eventually, as they continued to ignore him, he relaxed into the habit.  

After the first panicked experience of getting high, he had a much better time, taking smaller hits until he built up his tolerance. Sometimes it made him giggly but mostly he liked to just lay on one of the stained couch cushions and stare at the branches above, eyes unfocused, colors blurring. He listened to the birds and the voices around him and the way they blended together, layering to make a song only he could hear. He didn’t notice the dirty looks he got from one girl, Amy, whenever Cole sat beside him, passing him a bottle of something he certainly didn’t need more of. He’d gotten better at drinking than when he was a child, no longer as prone to getting sick, but he still didn’t eat enough not to need to be careful.

On a Tuesday later in the year, a couple months since he’d started hanging around with the older kids, he didn’t find anyone when he went down to the field. But he’d already left class so he decided to go on to the shed on his own, perhaps they’d left early that day. The day was overcast and starting to drizzle. He pulled the hood of his ratty sweatshirt over his head while the mist collected and dripped off his dark bangs into his face. When he got to the clearing, he didn’t see anyone there either. It was too wet to sit outside so he pushed the door to the shed open. It was dim inside and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust as he heard scuffling noises.

“What the fuck!” a girl’s voice shrieked.

Aaron realized what he’d walked in on and stumbled back quickly. He knew he should run but he just kept backing up slowly, heels sinking into the soft forest floor, unable to take his eyes off the partially closed door. Less than a minute later it swung open again, a tall shape emerging from the dimness. It was Cole, pushing his hair back off his forehead with one hand, adjusting the waist of his jeans with the other. They locked eyes and that smile was back, the one that made Aaron’s skin crawl but drew him in at the same time.

“Come here kid.”

Aaron hated that he gave in so easily but he changed direction, retracing his steps. Once he was within reach, Cole grabbed him by the arm and pulled him inside. A camp lantern had appeared from somewhere, throwing shadows and providing just enough light to see the scowl on Amy’s face as she finished straightening her top. Cole pushed Aaron down onto one of the cushions on the floor. She curled her lip in distaste at Aaron before turning on Cole. “I don’t understand why you let this kid hang around. He’s a total creep.”

Aaron frowned and tried to shrink into his sweatshirt. He didn’t want to be there either.

“Now that’s not very nice,” Cole replied, mockingly stern. He dug around in his worn backpack, pulling out a bottle of cheap whiskey. “Look you made him feel bad. Better say sorry.” He still sounded like he was teasing but there was a hard edge in his voice, his eyes were watching her reactions, unblinking. “Maybe a little kiss will help.”

Amy scoffed, looking between Aaron, who was wishing he could disappear, and Cole, who was unscrewing the cap of the bottle.

“Fuck you Cole,” she spat and then stomped out of the building. The thin walls shook as she slammed the door. Cole shrugged and flicked the cap away. It vanished into the shadows beyond the range of the lantern. He took a gulp then pressed it into Aaron’s hands as he sat down alongside him, leaning against the wall. Aaron hesitated, he’d never been alone with Cole, with any of them, and he wasn’t sure what to expect.

Cole noticed and smirked. “Need help kid?”

Aaron’s pride flared, he hated it when they called him that, the way they acted like he was so young, too young to know anything. But he knew plenty, far more than they could ever imagine. He lifted the bottle to his lips and swallowed, wincing down the sharp gasoline fumes. It had been awhile since he’d had any real liquor. The others always showed up with beers and forties that they were able to steal or shoulder tap from the bums in the liquor store parking lot. He wasn’t surprised to find Cole watching his reaction closely. He was always watching. Silently, he nodded his chin, indicating the bottle, so Aaron drank again. He tried to ignore the feeling of discomfort, the voice in his head mocking him for becoming so compliant.

He’d spent the last few weeks watching Cole out of the corner of his eye, seeing how the others treated him differently. They might tease and rough house with each other but never with him. And when Cole said an argument was settled, that was the end of it, regardless of whether the parties involved felt their complaints had been satisfied. There was something about him that was both frightening and compelling, sending a shiver up Aaron’s spine when he thought of him. He had been trying to figure it out and thought it must be related to the way Cole’s eyes never seemed to blink as he stared so intently. It always made him uncomfortable, made him assume he was in the wrong somehow. The part that confused Aaron the most though, was that he’d do anything to fix it. Even not knowing what was wrong, he felt the need to make it right, to win the older boy’s approval. Cole silently took the bottle from Aaron’s fingers as he was lost in contemplation of this stranger he was suddenly in such close quarters with. It felt like being too close to a wild animal. Something with too much intelligence that was just biding its time until it could strike.

Cole leaned his head back against the wall, letting the bottle hang from his fingers in between his bent knees. He closed his eyes and sighed, tired of the world already at seventeen.

“Hotchner.”

He said it so quietly Aaron almost didn’t catch it. He flicked his eyes over to Cole who hadn’t moved. Maybe he was hearing things now.

“That’s you, right?” He was looking at Aaron again, expression impossible to interpret beneath the rippling shadows cast by the tree branches as they swayed in the wind.

Aaron nodded slowly, unsure where this was going. He’d never told any of them his last name but there was no reason to think that they wouldn’t be able to figure it out. The town was not all that large. He passed the bottle back again. Aaron couldn’t even taste it anymore. His head was starting to swim.

“Your dad’s the lawyer right?”

“Mhm,” Aaron didn’t really want to answer but didn’t see how he could lie about it either. Cole laughed at the scowl on his face. Defiantly he took another swallow.

“Not too fond of the old man?”

Aaron lifted a shoulder, noncommittal. Even drunk he was not about to start talking about his father with anyone.

“Mm, not sharing. That’s alright.” He pulled rolling papers and a bag of pot out of his back pocket. Aaron hoped that would be the end of that line of questioning. It was quiet for a few minutes as Cole focused on breaking apart a bud.

“I don’t have a dad,” he said as if continuing some conversation they hadn’t quite started. “Or a mom, really.”

Aaron snorted, too drunk now to be careful with his reactions. “‘fcourse you do. That’s stupid.”

Cole looked up from his task, amused by this outburst. “I don’t. Not anymore.”

The way he said it suggested something dark and twisted but Aaron shied away from the bait, opting to drink more rather than wade deeper into whatever that was. Cole resumed rolling the joint, placing it to his lips and lighting it when it was ready.

“Who—“ Aaron wanted to ask who takes care of you but that sounded too juvenile. He was already annoyed with how they treated him like a little kid. He settled on, “Where do you live?”

Cole exhaled, blowing the smoke into Aaron’s face. “My grandma’s got a basement where I crash sometimes.”

Aaron didn’t ask what he did the rest of the time, just accepted the joint that was being passed to him. He brought it to his lips with unsteady fingers. He was just aware enough to know this was a terrible idea, but Cole’s steady gaze on him wouldn’t let him stop now. He could do anything the other boy could do. He would do anything the other boy wanted him to do. It hardly made sense but this older boy—who didn’t know him, who he had nothing to offer to— nevertheless, this boy was paying attention to him in a way that no one else did. The only other person who was ever this aware of his existence was his father and that was never a good awareness. They continued smoking and drinking in silence as it started to rain in earnest.

“I hate him.” Aaron’s voice was raw with fury, the feeling so strong he was on the verge of tears. Cole nodded lazily, too stoned or too disinterested to form a reply. But now that he’d started, Aaron couldn’t stop thinking about every bad thing that had ever happened to him at the hands of his father, of how his mother just let it happen, of how no one had ever bothered to notice. His breathing sped up. He needed Cole to understand, to believe him and to acknowledge that his life, his experiences were real. He felt a sudden intense certainty that if he couldn’t have just one person look at him and see what was really there, he would disappear completely, never more than an irritation, swatted away by a distracted hand. He leaned forward on his hands, swaying unsteadily as he tried to make eye contact with Cole. For some reason he wouldn’t stay in one place, his image swinging from side to side. Aaron shook his head, hoping to clear it. The other boy lifted the nearly empty bottle to his mouth, lifting an eyebrow at this behavior, eyes bloodshot and hollow.

“I—“ Aaron couldn’t finish his thought. His stomach muscles seized and everything he’d consumed over the past day forcefully came back up, spraying across both Cole and himself. He coughed, nearly choking as he doubled over, forehead touching the dirty floor, scraping against it with his fingernails, trying to find purchase on the violently tilting horizon. Cole swore loudly, dropping and breaking the bottle in his attempt to move away from the mess. The smell of the spilled alcohol, so close to Aaron’s nose was too much and he threw up again, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t remember what had been so important just moments before, all he could do was pray he would be forgiven. He didn’t have a lot of hope.

“Goddamnit,” Cole muttered, moving away from the broken glass and liquid mess. Aaron felt a hand pulling on the back of his sweatshirt and cowered, putting his arms above his head, unable to operate on anything but instinct. Cole tugged a little harder, dragging him away from the mess he’d created.

“I’m sorry,” Aaron sobbed, wishing he didn’t exist, regretting his earlier insistence on being noticed. Cole pulled him to his feet none too gently and Aaron braced himself for the hit he knew was coming, the hit he knew he deserved. Instead he felt fingers pulling up the hem of his sweatshirt, he snapped his arms to his sides and tried to back away but stumbled back into a broken and worn office chair someone had lifted from the school. He sat heavily, barely saving himself from falling onto the floor as the chair rocked unevenly. He gripped the sides of the seat so hard his knuckles turned white and, though he wanted to close his eyes, he also wanted to see what was coming, wanted to prepare himself.

Cole stared at him for a minute, incredulous, then shrugged. He pulled his own soiled shirt off in a single motion, hooking the back of the collar to bring it over his head so none of the vomit came into contact with his skin. He balled it up, wrapping the clean fabric around the outside and dropped it on the floor. When he was finished he noticed Aaron staring at him, staring at his chest. He looked down, tracing a finger over the long purple scar that ran from the bottom of his ribs almost to his hip bone, dark against his exposed skin.

“Like it?” he asked mildly. “It’s got a partner,” he said as he turned, showing another dark scar, not as long but thicker, near the middle of his back. There were other, smaller scars, some Aaron recognized as the circular prints left by the lit end of cigarettes. When he turned back around, Aaron’s eyes were large and round, unable to comprehend what he’d been shown. Cole scratched at the long scar a little self consciously.

“My mom was real into meth and uh…well she thought I was trying to steal from her one time.” He shifted from foot to foot, pressing his fingertips against his scar. “It was a long time ago,” he added.

“You said you didn’t have a mom,” Aaron said stupidly after the silence became unbearable.

Cole’s eyes grew dark. “I don’t. Not anymore.”

Aaron shivered, promising himself he’d just shut up from here on out. Cole ran a hand through his sandy blond hair, it appeared brown in the dim lighting.

“Are you going to take that off or what?”

Aaron looked down at himself, he was covered in vomit. Seeing it made him aware again of the smell and the nausea and he raced to pull it off, forgetting that he too had something to hide. He was too intoxicated to be coordinated and his shirt came off along with the sweatshirt and he was left exposed from the waist up, just the same as Cole. It was the other boy’s turn to stare, to assess the range of injuries inflicted by the marks left behind. Aaron might not have anything as dramatic but he made up for that in quantity. Aaron forced himself not to close in on himself, to allow the other boy the same time to observe that he’d been given. He couldn’t meet his gaze though, looking out the window as his cheeks burned red with humiliation.

The silence stretched out and he started to think that he would be left standing there forever. That he was too broken, even for someone who knew what Cole knew, who had experienced a similar kind of pain. He squeezed his eyes shut to try to stop the tears, telling himself he was stupid, so stupid to have thought it was at all the same. He was startled when he felt cool fingertips on his chin, turning his face.

“It’s gonna be okay.” He said it quietly, like he knew this was Aaron’s deepest, most shameful desire. He left him for a moment, walking in a wide arc around the mess. Aaron stood chewing on his lip, trying to remain composed. He came back with a sweater he’d pulled out of his backpack. Instead of handing it to him, he pulled it on over Aaron’s head, carefully guiding his arms into the sleeves. It was too big, but clothes were always too big on him, and the fabric was soft and warm. When Aaron was dressed again, Cole pulled on his jacket, a dark canvas, faded at the elbows with frayed drawstrings. He left the zipper undone and Aaron could just see the edge of his scar. It pulled his gaze like a magnet. He couldn’t help staring; too much had just happened for him to process and he hung on this one detail, this proof that he wasn’t alone.

He believed the scar was evidence that there was one person who had lived a life like his and still managed to move through the world unbroken. He didn’t know yet how scar tissue, like icebergs and secrets, grew larger and more twisted the deeper one looked. He wanted to believe in a life with simple answers, with safe endings to stories like his. See, here’s proof. He wanted to touch Cole’s scars, absorb them through his palms as if he could absorb a resolution to his own pain, as if it would make everything stop long enough for all his own wounds to heal over, to scar and become long ago stories instead of the next act waiting in the wings.

Cole zipped his jacket closed, blocking Aaron’s view and breaking off his feverish train of thought. Cole looked at him with a complicated mix of emotion. There was tenderness but also hunger. Aaron couldn’t decipher what that meant but he didn’t care, he was already lost to this idea, a belief he was too ready to attach to this person he barely knew. High on the revelation, he would believe what he wanted: he’d found someone who understood, someone who would stay with him, not leave him struggling on his own. And he would follow him anywhere.

chapter four

[argentvive]

The Furnace Man, the Mermaid, Lyra, and the Alchemist - pt 4

VII.  Lyra Gets a New Alchemist

In Part 1, I explained how the alchemy in this chapter was operating on two levels:

1.  Physical alchemy, with an actual alchemist, Johannes Agrippa (based on Henricus Cornelius Agrippa), doing real alchemy in an alchemical laboratory

2.  Literary alchemy:  Lyra, the Philosopher’s Stone To Be, is tried and tested and emerges with greater knowledge and a clearer purpose

Parts 1-3 cover the physical alchemy aspects.  Part 4 deals with the literary alchemy, with the impact on Lyra.

After the Chemical Wedding is complete, we have four pages of dialogue between Lyra and the alchemist.  Agrippa has already told her that he “arranged for her to find” the Furnace Man.  He has guided her immediate past; now he will guide her future.  

     Agrippa stood calmly, book in hand, as if waiting for Lyra to ask a question.

Initially, she reproves him for sacrificing two lives; she doesn’t understand that they were not an actual human being and his daemon.  But the conversation turns to one of Lyra’s intellectual obsessions in TSC--the hyper-rationalist philosophy of Gottfried Brande.  It is Lyra’s devotion to Brande’s ideas that alienated her from Pan; Agrippa begins to sow doubts in those beliefs.  

“Nothing is only itself.”

  “That’s not true. Nothing is any more than what it is,” Lyra said, quoting Gottfried Brande, feeling uneasy as she did.

  “You’ve fallen for that lie, have you?”

  “You think it’s a lie?”

  “One of the biggest lies ever told. I thought you would have more imagination than to believe it.”

  That took her aback. “What do you know about me?” she said.

  “As much as I need to.” 

   So Lyra has several secret armies of people protecting her and guiding her mission.  In the first trilogy there were gyptians and witches.  Now we learn that there is a confraternity of alchemists too.  Lyra realizes immediately that Agrippa has insight into her future--and can be trusted.  She asks:

     “Will I ever find my dæmon?”

  “Yes, but not in the way you think.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Everything is connected.”

  Lyra thought about that. “What is my connection with this?” she said.

  “It has brought you to the one man who can tell you whether to go east or south on the next stage of your journey.”

Agrippa is declaring himself to be Lyra’s alchemist--not in the physical but in the literary, symbolic sense.  He is her guide--he is putting her in the crucible, shaping her for the next step of her alchemical process.  In this role he is continuing the work of Sebastian Makepeace and Roderick Hassall (whose notebook launched Lyra’s journey).  

  Then she felt dizzy. This was all impossible, and it was all happening. “Well?” she said. “Which way should I go?”

  “Look in your clavicula.” He gestured towards her notebook.

  She turned to the page with the added lines in pencil, and found under his name and address something she’d missed before: the words Tell her to go south.

      “Who wrote this?” she said.

  “The same man who wrote my name and address: Master Sebastian Makepeace.”

  Lyra had to grasp the side of the stone tank. “But how did he—”

  “You’ll find that out in due course. There’s no point in my telling you now. You would not understand.”

And like the lump of rock in the alchemical process, Lyra is kept in ignorance.  She doesn’t get the full story.  She is a somewhat passive hero being acted upon and directed by others.  This is a very typical for an alchemy story; it also works well narratively, to maintain suspense.

Lyra asks Agrippa about Dust but receives no further explanation about it other than the key revelation that Dust can be read, not just by the alethiometer, but by a special deck of cards.  As usual, Lyra’s alchemist doles out only the information she needs and can handle.  

But Lyra is nothing if not persistent--stubbornly persistent.  She asks about the secret commonwealth, suggesting that her mind is opening slightly to the unseen, non-rational world she had rejected.  Agrippa explains, in the process refuting Brande again:

“That is a name for the world I deal with, the world of hidden things and hidden relationships.  It is the reason that nothing is only itself.”

VIII. Lyra Is Transformed

Finally, Lyra asks Agrippa about how to get to the Blue Hotel, the refuge of lost daemons, and to Karamakan, the city of roses.  His explanations tie all the disparate threads of information together.  These will be the final two stops of Lyra’s journey.

Lyra experiences a sudden, transforming clarity.  

What Strauss wrote on those tattered pages she’d found in Hassall’s rucksack had suddenly become clear. So much became clear!...And as the clarification spread through her mind, blowing away all the mist and doubt, she remembered the feeling she’d had when she first read Strauss’s journal: she was certain that she knew what was in the building. 

Agrippa refuses to answer any more questions.  But as Lyra departs the laboratory, she recognizes that “great hidden purposes were at work” and that “everything in his cellar seemed alive and full of purpose.”  Lyra’s imagination has been stirred and she has opened her mind to the secret commonwealth.  Thus transformed, with her scorched hand as a reminder, she can embark on the rest of her journey.  She, too, has “a clear purpose at last.”  

She is “exultant.”  (Exaltation is the Tenth Gate of the alchemical process, in Ripley’s poem, when the Philosopher’s Stone is created.)

[virtueangel]

limitless.

chapter twelve.

wc: 1,817. original publish date: october 25, 2020. 

"You're really gonna be in for it if I get tetanus from all of this rust, JFK," Van Gogh grumbles as he climbs up the service ladder. Kennedy is following behind him, full intentions of keeping the promise to catch the boy if he falls.

"You're not going to get tetanus, Vinny. You're too careful for that."

"It's not care so much as fear," he replies.

Vincent manages to climb onto the platform without cutting himself on any rusty metal sticking out from the ladder. He moves aside and waits for JFK before stepping onto the rollercoaster track.

"Are we going to fall and die?" Van Gogh asks, peering at the barely-visible ground below him.

JFK laughs. "No, Minivan. We're not going to fall and die."

Van Gogh rolls his eyes. "If you're wrong, I'm not letting you write my eulogy."

"You were going to let me write your eulogy before?"

Now it's Vincent's turn to laugh. "No, of course not. You may be smarter than you let on, but there's no way I'm letting you 'errr' and 'uhhh' your way through my funeral."

John smacks the boy on the head playfully. "Hey! I only 'errr' and 'uhhh' when I'm nervous!"

"And you wouldn't be nervous then?"

JFK takes a moment to think. "No. I'd just be sad."

Vincent and John step out onto the green-tinted rollercoaster track, hand-in-hand for support. Van Gogh walks right on the edge, the toe tips of his Keds threatening to dangle off the side. Kennedy squeezes the boy's hand harder. "You're making me nervous, darling."

Van Gogh turns to JFK, a daring look in his eyes. "I just wanted to see if I could flare up your 'errr'ing."

Kennedy rolls his eyes playfully. "Yeah, yeah, you've made your point. I'm a huge fucking dork."

Vincent grins. "I'm going to remember that you said that."

The boys walk together in contented silence, their cheeks swelling pink from the cool breeze and the misty fog. Van Gogh moves away from the edge of the track, pressing up against JFK as he walks. Kennedy peers down at the boy.

“I’m cold,” Vincent explains with a bashful smile on his face.

JFK lets go of Van Gogh’s hand to wrap his arm around the boy, pulling him closer. “What about now?”

Vincent smiles, a bubbly laugh rumbling up his throat. He speaks in a low voice, even though the only thing around to hear is the fog. “Better.”

Kennedy smiles as Van Gogh nuzzles in to his chest. “Good.”

A couple seconds go by. Jack and Vinny take careful steps down the rollercoaster track, Vincent tucked under John's arm as they walk. The only sounds in the world are their breaths, and the occasional whirr of an unseen plane flying by overhead.

"Can I ask you a question?" Van Gogh asks.

"Yes," JFK replies almost immediately, as if he'd been expecting those exact words.

Vincent hesitates for a second, forming the perfect phrasing in his mind. "How come you always present yourself as some airhead jock when you're so much more than that in reality?"

"I guess it's just easier that way."

"Easier than what?"

Kennedy takes a moment to think, trying to put his feelings into words the way Van Gogh knows how to. He always has the most coherent thoughts, the most truthful outlooks on life. He sees everything.

"Easier than having a foot in both worlds."

Vincent reaches up to play with a loose thread in JFK's letterman jacket. "You've already got one foot in both worlds, Jack."

"I don't see how I can be a star athlete and a star student."

"But you have no trouble at all being John F. Kennedy's clone and a normal high school student."

JFK hesitates before answering. "You don't know that."

Van Gogh furrows his eyebrows. No, he doesn't know that. "You wear him so well, though. Wear yourself so well."

Kennedy shrugs. "Most days it's just smoke and mirrors." He adds, "I have a lot of people looking up to me."

Vincent lets the loose thread free. "I know."

The two come to a stop at the end of the track, where there's a small dip before it curves to turn the rollercoaster cab around, when there actually was a cab. The boys sit down, their legs dangling over the side, trying not to think about how far away the ground is. Van Gogh snuggles up to JFK, but not because he's afraid of heights: just because he's cold.

"What are you thinking about?" John asks, his voice soft as he moves some hair out of Vincent's face to see his profile better.

Van Gogh takes a deep breath before pulling his gaze away from the foggy abyss and returning his conscience to reality. "I was thinking about how pretty the world would look if it all went up in flames."

"Are you an arsonist, Minivan?" JFK teases, a hint of a smile behind his voice.

Vincent looks away, hiding his own smile from view. "I already told you, Jack. I just like the smell of fire."

Kennedy grins. "I assumed that was a euphemism for sex."

Van Gogh shoves his boyfriend playfully. "You're so crude!"

JFK fakes a wince. "Can't a boy have any fun?"

Vincent kisses his cheek. "Not if you're going to be so abrasive."

John turns his face so his lips meet Vincent's, and in that moment, he realises that he’s never kissed anyone like this before -- without all the tongue and the teeth and the competition. They kiss for a couple minutes, the action never getting to be anything less than innocent. Van Gogh never expected he'd be this comfortable with the first person he kissed -- he never imagined it'd be more than a one-time thing with him.

"Can I tell you something, Vincent?"

"Oooh, this is a new one. You don't want to ask me something, you want to tell me something," he replies. "Yes, you can tell me something."

"I have no idea what I want to do when I grow up."

"I thought you wanted to be a politician," Van Gogh says.

JFK shrugs. "Yeah, I do, but it doesn't sound... perfect, you know?"

Van Gogh nods. "Yeah, I get what you mean."

"Does painting sound perfect?" Kennedy asks. "For you, I mean."

Vincent smiles, his face lighting up like a Christmas tree against the thick fog. "Yes, it does. It always has. I think I got lucky. Maybe I got, I don't know, wired this way or something, but I really do enjoy all the things I'm supposed to enjoy, being Van Gogh's clone and all."

John flashes his lopsided grin, his eyes washing over his boyfriend with reserved affection. "I wish I could be like that. Like him."

"You are."

"You don't have to be nice just because we're dating now, Vinny. You've never been one to lie."

Van Gogh stares out into the fog again, a pensive look turning over his face. "He was queer coded, you know."

"What does that mean?"

Vincent rolls his tongue over in his mouth, feeling the words before releasing them into the air. "It's like... when someone doesn't explicitly state that they're attracted to people of the same gender -- queer -- but they sort of... exhibit the qualities. Like their actions just scream queer."

"Like gaydar?"

Van Gogh throws his head back as he laughs, his fiery orange hair wet with mist. "I guess you could say it's like gaydar, yes."

"Wait, but doesn't that only apply to, like, fictional characters?"

Vincent shrugs. "He was rumoured -- more than rumoured -- to have homosexual tendencies."

JFK smiles. "How much research have you done on the real JFK, Minivan?"

Van Gogh giggles before turning serious. "Enough to see similarities between him and you."

John kisses Vincent softly on the head before Van Gogh rests it on his shoulder.

"And I'm scared to graduate," John adds.

"What? Why? Because of college?"

JFK shakes his head, unsure of how to respond. "I thought I was afraid to leave Exclamation!, but I think there was just... one thing I would miss. One thing I was worried that if I left, I would never see again. I didn't want to let it out of my sight."

Vincent grins. "Oh, yeah? What's that?"

Kennedy rolls his eyes, but can't suppress his smile. "You, silly."

A couple seconds of silence go by. The two listen to their breathing, wrapped up in each other's arms and comforted in each other's body heat.

"I like the world from up here," Vincent whispers.

"You can't even see anything," John protests, his toothpaste model teeth peeking out through his grin.

"It looks like the world is limitless. Feels like the world is limitless."

JFK rests his chin on Van Gogh's head. "Our world is limitless. And this is our world, right?"

Van Gogh blinks slowly, a calm smile turning up the corners of his lips. Everything feels right, in this wet fog with this warm boy in this amusement park town. "I like it when you kiss me."

"Well, that works out, because I like it when you kiss me."

Up there on the rollercoaster track, the world doesn't feel so big. Marshtown is spread out beneath their feet, though they can barely see past their dangling legs through the thick fog. The sky is hazy with mist and Van Gogh can't stand that his hair is wet, but he refrains from making a scene because he doesn't want to throw JFK's chin off of his head. He likes the way he fits into the boy, like they were moulded together, like they were crafted to be each others' missing puzzle piece. Vincent wraps his arms around John's midsection, pulling them closer together until there's no space between their torsos at all. They are a tangle of arms and a continuation of clothing, neither of them sure where one ends and the other begins. Van Gogh wants to breathe him in, to have his clean yet sweaty scent permanently implanted in his nostrils. He likes the way his heart races when he sits next to JFK, he likes the way his head spins when he thinks of all the things he's too afraid to say out loud. Now, he tries one of the phrases out on his tongue, just to see what it would feel like to say the others.

"It's our rollercoaster. We get to build the track."

Kennedy nods in agreement before closing his eyes, his breath slowing as his mind calms itself down. He tastes Vincent's scent in his mouth, against his tongue, against his teeth. He holds all the thoughts he can't say out loud and stores them in his back pocket, waiting for a perfect moment to take them out and paint them across the boy’s stomach, one by one. 

[fremedon]

Brickclub 2.5.10, “How Javert Came to Find the Bird Had Flown”

Here we meet Javert at the beginning of his corruption.

I am now firmly sold on the idea that Javert broke his geas when he killed Fantine. In taking a life the law had no claim on, he has lost his ability to act as an empty vessel for the law.

He has none of the self-awareness about his corruption that he will have started, barely, to develop by the barricade. He doesn’t seem to realize or acknowledge any culpability in Fantine’s death:

The name of Fantine was well known to him. He remembered that Jean Valjean had made him burst out laughing by asking for three days’ grace to go fetch that creature’s child. He recalled that Jean Valjean had been arrested in Paris as he was getting into the coach for Montfermeil. Some indications even then had led to speculation that it was the second time he was taking that coach, and that he had already made a previous trip the day before to somewhere on the outskirts of that village, for he had not been seen in the village itself. Why was he going to that place, Montfermeil? No one could work it out. Javert now understood. Fantine’s daughter was there. Jean Valjean was going to fetch her.

But he must be starting to realize that his instincts and his self-gaslighting are more openly at war with each other than they used to be. In Arras, months after recognizing Valjean and making a meticulous case against him, he immediately throws it all out when presented with an officially-identified Jean Valjean, makes a positive identification of Champmathieu, and is certain enough about it to recount the whole story to Valjean’s face.

But here, officialdom (and the newspaper) says that Valjean is dead; Javert’s instincts say Valjean is alive (and, given free rein, lead him straight to the Pont d’Austerlitz); and Javert...doubts. He hesitates, waits for verification he doesn’t need, wastes time going for backup.

But at the same time, Javert is also enjoying his job on a personal level. From being an empty vessel, Javert has become “an artist,” and in this context that is not a good thing.

And then there’s that pinch of snuff once he thinks he has Valjean cornered. I always think that this passage cannot possibly be as horny as I remember it being, and it is always even hornier:

Then he began to have fun. He experienced a moment of fiendish delight, letting his man go on ahead, knowing he had him in his grasp but wanting to delay to the utmost the moment of arrest, taking pleasure in being aware that the man was caught; and seeing him free, gloating over him with that relish the spider takes in the flitting of the fly and the cat takes in the scurrying of the mouse. Claws and talons enjoy a monstrous thrill: that is, the unseen movements of the creature imprisoned in their grip. How delicious is this snuffing-out! Javert was in ecstasy. His net was firmly staked. All he had to do now was tighten his grip. With the backup he had, the very idea of resistance was absurd, no matter how energetic, strong, and desperate Jean Valjean might be. Javert advanced slowly, delving into every nook on his way down the street, as into the pockets of a thief. When he reached the center of his web he found the fly was gone. You can imagine his fury.

We kind of don’t need to, Victor. You’ve spelled things out very clearly.

I remember mentioning when we met Javert that he was the only major character whose introduction did not immediately situate him with regard to Napoleon. And we do get a Napoleon reference at the end of this chapter: “Certainly, Napoleon made mistakes during the war in Russia,” at the start of the long litany of colossal mistakes made by great men. It is telling that Javert only gets the Great Man comparisons here, at the start of his corruption and in the moment of his failure.

But even though the Napoleon reference is to the Russian campaign and not to Waterloo, I think it is supposed to prime us to think about Waterloo, because the long dissection of Javert’s failures brings us to this:

Great strategists have their weaknesses.

The greatest follies, like the stoutest ropes, are often composed of a multitude of strands. Take the cable thread by thread, take separately each petty determining motive, and you can snap them one by one and say, ‘There’s no more to it than that!’ Braid them and twist them together, and what you have is momentous: Atilla wavering between Marican in the east and Valentinian in the west, Hannibal lingering at Capua, Danton going to sleep at Arcis-sur-Aube.

We’re back to watching fatalité at work in history--accident, carelessness, oversight, the accumulation of small debts, the guide who points the wrong direction. Javert is getting the Great Man treatment, Doylistically, because Valjean already has, and he needs to be well-matched as a threat. But we’ve already seen that great men can be--and should be, must be--brought down by small things. A single failure isn’t a judgement Javert’s skills or potential, or the new level of personhood he’s starting to develop--but we should be asking what those skills, and that potential, are in service of.

Other stray observations:

The old verger, “muttering prayers and spying through his prayerfulness,” does not inspire confidence in the convent as a refuge. 

“In this world there are two beings that shudder to their core: the mother finding her child and the tiger finding his prey. Javert felt this profound thrill.” FUCK YOU JAVERT, that should have been Fantine’s feeling and you stole it from her.

Besides the by-this-point usual tiger images for Javert, Valjean is both a stag hunted by hounds, and a lion.

Javert has learned the streets of Paris extremely thoroughly in less than a year on the job.

[highsviolets]

like real people do, chapter one: obi-wan x handmaiden!reader

summary: in which you and obi-wan stumble into each other’s acquaintance through accidents of honor and pleasure

word count: 3k-ish

cw: brief, brief allusion to body dysmorphia in first paragraph after part one (a). 

A/N: WOW it’s finally here!!! my handmaiden x obi fic!! my first multi chapter!!  anon you are so patient. thank you for bearing with me as i developed this concept and finally got words onto paper. This lil chapter takes place at the beginning of AOTC and sets the scene for all sorts of shenanigans. pls be gentle folkx i am v nervous i hope you love these idiots honorable humans as much as i do. 

*if this is your gif pls lmk!* 

like real people do, a fic by corellians-only 

prologue

Glamor. Satin. Hapan wine and curtseys and a diplomatic accent polishing over your country roots and the knife strapped to your thigh and a propensity to linger in shadows. This is your life, as handmaiden to Senator Padmé Amidala. This is your duty.

Grime. Sweat. Clone armies and custom armour and a commission muddling the balance of peace and deep-rooted affection and unwavering devotion to the Jedi Order. This is Obi-wan’s life, as High General of the Republic. This is his duty.

You meet before the chaos erupts, though, before it spills over the senate security and the temple’s walls and starts incinerating the foundations of life itself.

You meet before the chaos erupts, but your acquaintance is tangled with its aching tendrils. You do not see each other, at first. So many things are in the way. But slowly, gently, acquaintance forms into friend forms into companion forms into lover over cups of tea and night watches and snatched moments of vulnerability in a world that is determined to wrest your soul from your body. Armor and silk and robes are stripped away; duties that once swathed you tightly become more gentle. When you are together it is just you and him, but when you are in the world you are handmaiden and he is general.

But we are getting ahead of ourselves: let us go back to the beginning, when the wholeness was yet separate. Let us go back to the beginning, and meet ourselves anew. Let us go back to the beginning, where everything divines its purpose.

part one (a)

Shimmersilk voile glistens as you turn in the mirror. The tender glow of artificial sun lamps is enraptured by the diaphanous weave, and its metallic threads gleam under such ministrations. It’s a dress that drips with regality. A sense of noblesse oblige seems to ooze from every swish of the cape flowing from your cap sleeves, and you sigh. The act is heavy, and the cape grumbles as your shoulders heave with the motion. Brilliant flickers of gold and silver mock you as you continue to shift from side to side, scrutinizing your body from each angle. Another sigh leaves escapes through your nose, but this one is softer, gentler, more like the gossamer that now encloses you — more like the woman you been trained to be. You will never be as petite or slight as the Senator, but that, you observe, wrangling to adjust one final hairpin into your headpiece, was never quite the point. Your job is to stand in for her ladyship: not to assume her person.

The offending hairpin proves obstinate. You surrender to the cause and submit yourself to an evening of faint wisps of curled hair framing your face. Wisps of hair are too spontaneous. You must be crisp, but it is not about what you want — not in these petty, mundane expressions of living.  

While you have been doing battle a figure has entered the room. It’s one of the Senator’s new Jedi protectors, if the robes are any indication. Without fanfare he approaches you and plucks the pin from your fingers, like he is intimately acquainted with such things and communes with them on a daily basis. Gentle fingers — though, the bruised knuckles tell you they are not immune to struggling against life’s grip — smooth the hair at the crown of your head before he slips the pin into its rightful place, nudging into the golden circlet now held secure. The sleeve of his robe caresses your cheek, obscuring your vision, and you feel with your , rather than see, all of this occur.

“All of this” happens without sound, without breathing almost, as though the two of you have entered a vacuum that warps both space and time and sound.

The man takes a step back and paints himself with an apologetic smile, clasping his hands together in the privacy of his robe and offering you a half-bow.

“I apologize for the liberty, your ladyship.” The Jedi’s voice is precise. “I do hope I wasn’t too forward.” He announces every syllable, acknowledges every idiosyncratic whimsy, each grammatical proclamation.

You meet his gaze in the mirror, and despite the shadows casting about, you can detect the openness, the earnestness of his gaze. He holds no tension in his face, or anywhere else in his body, for that matter. It has been a long while since you have seen someone so at peace. Perhaps, hidden under the cloak, his fingers are grasping at themselves, trying to be rid of the vestiges of forbidden touches.

A half-smile graces your painted lips and you incline your head. The movement cuts but a short arc in the air’s currents, just as you have been taught. “It is no matter.” You toy with the idea of letting him continue to believe you are Padmé, the thought careening through your mind like a model airspeeder run amok. You let the thought crash. It is above you to engage in such petty games, you decide. Padmé would not do it, and it is your job to act as she does. Besides, the Jedi would know, wouldn’t he? Can’t they read minds with the Force? That’s what fisherman in your village used to say when you would let your feet dangle off the docks and graze the surface of the water and watch the boats come in with the day’s catch.

So you turn, then, the cape twisting behind you, and address him face-to-face. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Master Jedi.” You gesture to your twinkling gown. “I am not the Senator.” You catch the tail end of his frown as you avert your gaze, fixating on some unseen object just out of sight. “I am but one of her ladyship’s handmaidens.” You hear the clipped tone of your voice, the way every word is measured like cups of flour, like the yards of fabric for this dress, and you think you hate it, but you cannot tell.

“Oh, I am sorry.” The apology is sincere and bookmarked with amusement, and he rocks back on his heels. It seems he is laughing at his own mistake. “I must however, inquire after the whereabouts of her ladyship. The council has requested that my padawan and I escort her to this evening’s function.” The Jedi’s hands drop to his sides and the robes that shield them follow.

“I’m afraid the Senator has already departed,” you say, making for the exit. The Jedi matches your stride. “She left with another Jedi some twenty standard minutes ago. I presume it was your padawan, Master Jedi?”

“Blast!” he murmurs, but you hear his swearing and duck your head to hide your grin. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes again, throwing a glance your way. “I’m afraid my padawan has a mind of his own.”

“I think the Senator and your padawan will get along famously, then,” you remark wryly. You have reached the landing pad and are about to bid him a good evening when he climbs into the shuttle and extends a hand to guide you.

“May I be of assistance?”

Skin meets skin for the second time that evening. At this rate you will be more acquainted with his body than your own, and as you sense his muscles grow taut when you shift your weight to board, an unfamiliar sensation embeds itself among the metallic threads. It feels like when you have to receive the Chancellor when Padmé is away on business, or when you act as decoy traveling to and from Theed, but more subtle, more inviting.

“Thank you, Master Jedi.” Skin breathes on skin for one, two heartbeats and then the contact withers and he drops your hand.

A silence nestles over the two of you as the pilot races you over to the function. It persists as he helps you exit the shuttle and delicately rearranges your cape, ensuring the shimmersilk is matches the beams of fractured stars.

Obi-wan does not know why he does this; he does not understand why he feels the nudging of the Force to offer his arm like he is a chivalrous courtier, but he obeys. It is his duty to obey the will of the Force, so he does.

part one (b)

The function teems with lifeforms, and each one spars for attention. They are wrapped in chiffon and decked in damask robes and fine crystals compete for light so they can shine that much brighter. It’s some gala ostensibly designed to raise credits for a struggling cause, and it is like all the rest. A pathetic excuse for most Senators to say they are dedicated to more than greed.

To you, it reeks of Coruscanti power; to him, it stinks of politics.

The Jedi Master spots the Senator and her Jedi protector before you do, and he steers you in their directly, swiftly sidestepping curious glances and intoxicated beings. You manage to snag a glass of something from a passing tray.

He bows again, deeply. His hair seems to blend in with the crowd — it is copper and gold and refined.

“My lady,” he intones, and his voice sparkles like the gem-encrusted champagne flute in Padmé’s hand.

“It’s lovely to see you again, Master Kenobi.” She looks up at the gangly teenager by her side. Rich chocolate and licorice colored robes complement the Senator’s wine-colored gown. It’s a striking image, despite the youth’s awkwardness, here in the blurry illumination of the cavernous room.  

Padmé breaks into a full smile as she spots you lingering at Kenobi’s side. “I see you’ve met my handmaiden.”

“I suppose I have,” he says, examining you anew, “although I’m afraid introductions got swept away in the excitement.”

You think he sounds as unaffected by “the excitement" as one could possibly be, and the duplicity gnaws on your gentility.

You sip while Padmé sweeps together strands of lore about your service, about your loyalty, about your selflessness. The beverage is sweet and sparkling, rather like your gown, and like your dress, it feels sticky and cloying and altogether fake for something that tries so hard to be real. But you smile and nod and once more his skin melts into yours as he shakes your hand.

“The honor,” he says in that voice colored with melody, “is all mine.” You look into his cerulean eyes and wish, dimly, in that part of your brain untouched by starlight, that he had said pleasure.

Padmé’s eyes flicker between you and him, but the moment has passed. She pulls you away, citing the need for diplomatic business and brushes aside her escorts with a firmness she seems to have possessed since birth.

The pair of you wander through the crowd. You are always one step behind, always letting her be the first person they see. She is wearing her favorite designer tonight, and you wonder, taking another sip as she holds court with Bail Organa, why she has commissioned such a work of art for tonight’s event.

Like yourself, the Senator has opted for airy materials matched with splendor. And yet, her garb lacks your ethereality: the deep burgundy smacks of something firmly rooted in rich soil even as you strain heavenward. Tulle and satin are artfully draped over her lithe form, and beaded crystals cover her from head to toe. An open back reveals creamy skin. More than one being in the hall has dragged their eyes over the Senator’s body, straining to glimpse more, more, more, in the dim light.

The Senator pays them no mind. When she concludes her business with Organa, she refreshes her glass, and yours, and tucks you in her side. You begin to walk. It is an aimless thing, but not purposeful — now is when you see who is here, and who is not, who is watching, who pretends to look away, and who slips out unnoticed.

“How did you meet Master Kenobi?” you ask.

“Oh, it was years ago.” Padmé drinks. “I was still Queen at the time.”

“And?” Back in those days, she had retained at least a dozen of Naboo’s finest young women. Now, it’s just you and few others.

“And that was when we met,” she announces. “He’s very famous, you know. So is his padawan, Anakin Skywalker. They’ve protected at least half the galaxy.”

Confusion contorts your features, carving rivers in your forehead. “I’ve never heard of them.”

Padmé laughs, but the expression is faint, almost undetectable. Senators do not typically jest with their bodyguards. “That’s because you think anyone who reports on the Jedi is a gossip-mongering snob and you refuse to read anything about them.” She squeezes your arm and drops her voice to a whisper. “Don’t know know they’re the ones who write all the good stuff?”

“All…the good stuff,” you echo, voice flat and uncomprehending.

Padmé simply rolls her eyes and resume her stride. “They’re in charge of my security now, with Captain Typho. I expect that you’ll be working closing with Master Kenobi. Please help him fulfill his mandate from the Council in anyway you can.”

The mere suggestion of working with that man twists your insides. It’s the same feeling from earlier, swirling and basing into unease. Work with a Jedi? A famous one? The ache anxiety you are used to. It is familiar and it is your unwelcome companion but you have made peace with each other. This — this is something new. This is a grinding jaw and a drawbridge heart and hot and cold dueling for dominance in your stomach and something so strangely akin to anger. You drink more champagne to mask the disconcerting sensation.

part one (c)

The Senator is being pulled away, now, to a group of prominent Senators to discuss the new child labor protection regulations. She does her job and you do yours, melting into the shadows, embracing them, keeping eyes on all those who gather near to your mistress.

Master Kenobi’s sudden appearance at your side does not surprise you, though perhaps it should.

“Are you quite sure you’re able to keep watch on her ladyship from this distance?” His words are no longer melodic. They come to your ears dry and flinty, the way rocks feel without the rain to abate their constancy.

“Quite.” You fail to elaborate because there is simply nothing more to say.

“Your disguise is quite effective. You must pass along my compliments to Captain Typho and the rest of the security team.” He tries again, but you refuse to be endeared. He is stubborn, just like you — he resists being broken down by your cool acidity.

“Thank you, Master Kenobi.” You finally meet his gaze. “I was worried it would be too intricate, but the Senator assured me I had selected the perfect piece. It’s just enough like her for people to not look twice.”

“You engineered this?” Master Kenobi’s body is static, but his face swells with vivacity. A minuscule gesture to the left, an arching eyebrow, a corner of his mouth quirks upwards, ascending to meet his eyes.

“It’s my job,” you return, but the pH of your tone has neutralized somewhat. You are uncomfortable, so you try to tease him. “Maybe one day I can show you how to use all the weapons I have under this gown, and you will believe I can do my job.”

You regret the tawdry joke immediately when he shifts and looks away. “I’m sorry I’ve offended you, my lady.” Master Kenobi analyzes you, then the Senator, and sighs heavily. “I see you have everything well in hand. I shall bid you good evening, then, my lady.” He bows and exits in a boiling mass of robes, his padawan not far behind. Anakin Skywalker lingers on the threshold, gazing into the crowd, eyes frantic, but his Master beckons and he follows obediently.

part one (d)

It is not until early morning, during that brief moment between night and dawn, that you are able to think clearly about the strange feeling gurgling in your chest.

You think of Master Kenobi and his sentimental hair and the caramel of his accent. You wonder about his hands grazing yours, how your fingers curled so naturally around his, the ghost of fingertips in your hair. You consider his attempts at gallantry, at his fealty to his duty, to Padmé embrace of his presence and her lavish praise.

And you ask yourself what would it have been like, if he were just a boy, and you were just a girl, and maybe if he had danced with you he could have respected you more, and maybe if you had been less defensive he would have been more contrite, and you laugh at yourself.

Silly girl, you think as sleep nibbles at your vision. Those are not our kind of dreams.

tbc.

[extremelyblackandwhite]

the unseen one - 17

Pairing: Hades!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: none

A/N: hope you guys enjoy it xx

Next Chapter >>

Y/N was somehow divided between her mind and listening to what James was telling her. Part of her just couldn’t believe it. Her parents had worked their whole lives on explaining why the Greek pantheon existed, on why the Greeks would raise architectural architectures when those gods were mere mythical beings created so that the human conscience and idea of mortality could be satisfied. Turns out they existed, they really existed and she had not only slept with one of them but was now stuck in the land of the dead due to eating pomegranate like some modern day Persephone.

James had assured her that there was no Persephone, that he was not the first person to take on the Hades mantra but she was still stuck inside her head. Anne had given her the pomegranate, how had she gotten it? She had known Anne since they were teenagers, she would never harm her. 

      - Sweetness? - Bucky took her hand in his, his other hand coming to draw imaginary circles on her palm. He had a serene facade which hid a wave of emotions he was doing his best not to show to her, understanding her predicament was worse than his. - Where did you get the pomegranates? 

      - Anne gave them to me. - his face scrunched in confusion as she mentioned her friend’s name. Sure, he wasn’t very found of her due to how she would always somehow stare at him and her with a unreadable look. His interaction with her just after he left Y/N rushed back to him. - She said she was sorry before she left.

      - She was with you when you ate the fruit? 

      - Yeah, she was acting very weird. - Y/N shrugged not being entirely sure of what she remembered before everything went dark. She just remembered Anne being there and then leaving but everything else was shrouded in the mystery of her mind. James got up from his seat, offering her his hand to take to help her get up too. - Where are we going? 

     - I have to go, but I’ll leave you with the Lampades for the time being. - he walked with a fastened pace, almost as if pulling her through the Underworld. She found the Meadows bleak and almost terrifying with the constant cries and every so often souls grabbing her feet to try and keep her from coming, but James pull and aura were much stronger than the poor unfortunate souls of the meadows. All she saw was darkness with the glimpse of shimmer from the black rocks and stones that adorned the meadows until suddenly patches of grass started to show. She looked down at her bare feet touching the small piece of grass. 

Bucky took a golden coin from his pocket, climbing onto one of the boats that were standing by the river’s bay and offered it to a clothed figure, much too similar to the faceless figure from before. She clang onto James as the boat started to move, her eyes moving side to side observing the river. She wasn’t exactly sure what river it was as her dad had once told her the Underworld had five rivers, but the sounds of the damned soon perished and the light chirping of birds could be heard. The boat docked by a bigger patch of grass then before. She was certain Bucky had said something to the clothed figure but that went unnoticed as she took in where she was standing. The greenery was tall, reaching past her ankle and the skies were the clearest shade of blue she’d ever seen. The horizons were filled with beautiful green mountains and there were trees of various fruits along with various flowers blooming from the grounds. She was almost certain she was standing in the Elysium but chose not to ask as the King of Underworld kept on moving through the grass and in direction of a particular area where various ladies dressed in white gowns were tending to the plants. 

       - Wait here ... - he let go of her wrist, the faintest memory of his touch still lingering which made her hand reach the once touched spot. She stood there watching as he walked to a woman she had seen before. Hecate had always been one of Y/N’s favourites goddesses, mainly due to how, other than Persephone, she made sure the Underworld worked by tending to its sections and guiding the new souls. However, Hecate seemed to be not that found of her. The pair turned to face her and took to reach her, the goddess looking at the mortal woman as if she were the lowest of kin. - Y/N, Hecate will take care of you while I’m gone. 

      - Where are you going? - she wrapped her hands around his hand, stopping him from leaving so soon. 

      - I have some business to tend to, sweetness but you needn’t worry, Hecate will make sure you’re alright and safe until I return. - he kissed the top of her head, faint smile on his lips. - I won’t be long, besides, there’s not much to worry in the Elysium. 

    - Alright. - Y/N declared, unwillingly letting go of him to see him walk away. If time had allowed her, she probably would mourn it for a bit but the goddess of witchcraft had already put her hands on her shoulders, turning her to face the place where her maidens were tending to various plants.

    - If someone asks, you are one of my maidens and as such you’ll stay in the Elysium and tend to the Groves of Persephone. You are not to be intimate with the God of the Underworld as not to entice any gossiping and unless told otherwise you will listen to me and my maidens. Are we in agreement? - Hecate always carried an air of dominance that contrasted with James’ cool demeanour. His command seemed to be an unspoken rule and people just did his deeds, Hecate’s, on the other hand, came from the will of what looked like both fear and attraction. People seemed to want to be in her good graces. 

She gestured towards one of the ladies taking care of a rose bush. The maiden immediately got in her feet and rushed over to them. Y/N took in her appearance, she looked exactly like the beautiful water coloured paintings of nymphs following various hunters with her light ginger hair pulled with threads of gold and light green dress. 

       - Minthe, this is Y/N. She’s a new arrival and I’m assuming you can put her in the proper garments. - she clearly meant the now blemished satin white dress Y/N was wearing. The nymph nodded and instructed Y/N to follow her into one of the white marbled buildings scattered around the grounds. 

      - So, you and the King looked rather comfortable with one another. - the nymph mentioned, a twist of malicious curiosity in her voice as she grabbed a jug of water to fill in one of the baths. - He doesn’t tend to pay favour to the maidens. Are you a minor goddess, a demigoddess maybe?

      - Not really. 

      - That’s good. Zeus has been trying to marry him off for the longest time and, well, the Queen of the Underworld has to have some value in the pantheon. 

      - You needn’t worry. - Y/N pushed a strain of her hair behind her ear, climbing into the bath trying to clear her worries.

Meanwhile, James and Thanatos had gone back to the mortal realm. He knew where Anne lived, he had figured that out from Y/N when she used to talk about how her friend would use the fire escape to come into her flat. He wasn’t entirely sure if he would doom her to the underworld, knowing how Y/N would react to that but he was mad. Thanatos was the only God allowed to enter someone’s home without permission which he why he managed to break into Anne’s flat finding her in the coach. 

She turned her head to look at the two gods, the most serene look in her face as if nothing had occurred.

      - You’re late. - she said, placing her cup of coffee on the coffee table. - You would think the God of the Underworld wouldn’t be so dense. 

      - You’re an oracle. - Thanatos interjected. 

      - An oracle? - James looked at her with confusion in his eyes. Why would an oracle be amongst mortals, besides, why would she do that to Y/N? - You stole the pomegranate didn’t you?

      - I don’t do that sort of dirty work.

      - Did you or did you not feed it to Y/N? - he was starting to lose his patient with the girl and the unmoving smirk on her lips. 

      - My job is to make sure my prophecies happen. It has nothing to do with Y/N, it’s just how things are designed.

      - You don’t wanna mess with me. - he almost growled at her, his eyes alone darkening in such fashion that even Zeus would cower before him. 

      - Now, would Y/N really enjoy if you asked for my death? 

      - Stay away from Y/N. 

      - Maybe you should stay away from her.

tag list: @philogrobizedvee​​​​​  @keithseabrook27​​​​ @inlovewith3​​​​19

[rwbyremnants]

WARNING: Still a little gore

Okay I did mean to post this faster than this but at least it wasn't TOO long... I hope... anyway enjoy!

=Chapter 28

The world seemed to slow to a crawl as Weiss reached toward the red stain blossoming outward from where the blade was penetrating her navy blue dress, turning it a shade of indigo. She vaguely saw Pyrrha taking a step away from her, eyes wide in abject horror.

Cinder. No, wait - one of the Huntsmen. Raven. Her father. The culprit could have been anyone by this point. As Weiss tried to turn on the spot to see what was going on, she lamented how many people had come to resent her in such a short time. It wasn’t as if she had ever done anything to anyone on purpose, and yet she had become one of the most hated people in Vale. How unfair that was! Now all that remained was to find out which specific adversary had taken action.

Nothing could have prepared her for the incensed expression in Emerald Sustrai’s face as she stood panting in her driveway, shaking all over. Yes, she was angry, furious, fists clenched just below her still-bandaged forearms… but something wasn't right. Her eyes were unfocused, breathing ragged and uneven. Saliva was running down her chin.

“Make you pay,” she stammered, stumbling slightly as she backed away with the knife, fought to remain standing. Clearly, it wasn't easy. “Get you to… make Cinder… make her.”

“I…” Pressing a hand against the wound, she asked, “Why?”

“You!” Tears had joined the spittle, and she raised the knife again. “You got her h-hurt! Not allowed! Fake Dragon, I'll-”

That was as far as she got. Grinding back into life, Pyrrha tackled her to the ground, wresting the knife away from her. Not that Emerald was going down easy, but it was difficult to tell through all that fog; Weiss felt her own vision beginning to blur as she sank to her knees.

“HELP!” her friend was screaming as she wrestled with the green-haired Dragon, even though she sounded so far away. “Someone help us! Please!”

Not that Weiss could wait for help. The world was sliding to one side - or was she? Impossible for her to tell. Her entire body felt so light… maybe it wouldn't matter what fell where. Maybe nothing mattered.

Nothing except…

“Yang…”

Even her own voice sounded false, immaterial. Footfalls and outcries filled her ears, but light was already fading by then. No time for anything anymore. Only nothing.

-------------------------------------

Though Weiss had a fleeting memory of sirens, shouting and being manhandled, it all seemed so insubstantial that she couldn't be bothered to focus. At some point, she was sure she heard her mother's voice…

The next thing she was aware of was glaring fluorescent lights overhead. They hurt. Nothing else did, but that was so painful that she couldn't stand it. So she squeezed her eyes shut again immediately. The throbbing had to stop, she wanted to throw up, but she couldn't move, her legs were so heavy, and some unseen force was jostling her all over the place…

Consciousness evaded her for so long that when it came back again, she had no idea whether or not it was hours or days later. The lights were still painful but tolerable now. Trying to move felt like rolling back the tide, but she had to - something she couldn't quite catch hold of in her mind was screaming that she had to act, to move right now. So she pushed up with her elbows-

And felt a wealth of bandages and cotton pads restricting her movement. Not that they did anything to blot out the pain: sitting up that one time made a cold prickle spread outward from a sharp heat, and she hissed in through her teeth.

At least now she could see that she was in the hospital room. Sickly green curtains hung around her bed, and the quiet beep of a heart rate monitor broke the silence every few seconds. Looking down at the sheets, she caught sight of a little red tube leading from the crook of her arm up to a bag of blood hanging from a metal apparatus.

That was when it all came rushing back to her: Emerald. The knife. Pyrrha-

“He-” The noise that came from her throat was more of a rasp than a word, and it set in motion a coughing fit that made the pain in her abdomen so much worse. In that moment, she wished she had never woken up.

A stirring in the corner of her eye made her turn, dreading another attack - not that she had even seen the last one coming. Instead, she saw her mother, slumped down in a chair and quietly dozing. She looked utterly exhausted. Bags darkened the skin under her eyes, and her dress was more wrinkled than she could remember seeing her wear in quite some time - even on her most drunken nights, she would simply change the next morning.

“Mom?” she rasped. No response. Looking down, she saw an empty cup of coffee by her pumps. How long had she been up before she succumbed? Maybe it would be kinder to let her sleep, even though she desperately wanted some answers.

Settling back against the bed again, Weiss resigned herself to her fate. Aches were beginning to make themselves known. Mostly, the one in her abdomen was the one worth noting, but dozens of lesser pains were beginning to flare up now that her mind was awake. Did she get run over by a bus? Curious now, she peeled back the bed sheet to get a look at her abdomen…

A red blotch was marring the pristine white of the bandages around her midsection. Weiss let out a strangled cry of alarm. Seconds later, she more felt than saw her mother shoot to her feet before her face came into view over her bed.

“Oh no… oh no oh no oh n- NURSE! My daughter!”

Medical staff began to flood into the room. She looked on in mingling a horror and fascination as they began to strip away the bandage, examining the tiny hole from which welled her life's blood. She tried to keep watching, hoping to learn something about what they were doing and what was happening to her, but the sight of her own blood made her head so light that she had to lay it back down…

-------------------------------------

The next time Weiss awoke, clarity came a lot faster. Even still lying in the bed, she remembered that she had been attacked, that she was presumably in the hospital now. Remembered the look on her mother's face when she saw her bleeding again. How many times had she seen her bleeding before? The thought of forcing her mother to suffer through the agony of watching her own child cling to life on a thread was an awful prospect.

This time, she didn't try to sit up. Partly because she was so weak she didn't feel like she could accomplish it, but also because the longer she lay there, the more certain she was that sitting up had been what opened her wound again. Not that she was any sort of a medical professional.

With no way of tracking the passage of time, she couldn't know how long she had been awake before a familiar face poked over her bed. After a second, the olive-toned features lit up with mingling relief and joy.

“There she is,” Kali Belladonna whispered.

“M-Mrs-” She gagged, but somehow stopped herself from coughing this time.

“Shhhh.” Looking around very briefly, she reached toward an unseen table and came back with a small cup of water, gently tipping it to her lips. Weiss drank deeply until her thirst was slaked. “There… that's better, isn't it?”

Gasping for breath now that she had finished, Weiss gazed up at the cook. She certainly looked as if she could use a few more hours of sleep herself. Unlike her own mother, Blake's mother was as well-dressed as ever, makeup in place and hair flawless. But that couldn't hide the very real fear in her hazel eyes, nor the fatigue in her posture.

“I'm… what…”

“Take it easy. Do you want to know what happened?” Weiss nodded. “What's the last thing you remember?”

“Stabbed. Emerald. Then… I woke up, Mommy was here, but… I bled.”

The instant she tried to sit up, Kali pushed her back down firmly. A thrill of dread shot through her - even though she trusted Kali, it was scary being held down.

“Lie still. You lost a lot of blood, twice. You shouldn't lose any more.” Tears glistened in the corners of her eyes.

“I'm sorry.” Her own were welling up now. “I'm sorry, Kali, I…”

“Shhhh, Weiss, it's not your fault.” Clearing her throat, she began, “Emerald attacked you. Her story is… interesting, to say the least. From there, your mother heard your friend Pyrrha calling for help and called for the ambulance. We… well, I kept pressure on the wound until they got to you, Pyrrha kept Emerald under control. She got nicked here and th-”

“What? No, I have to-”

“Stop, stop,” she reminded her as she held her in place. “It wasn't too bad; they already treated her. Small cuts on her arms, nothing to worry about. Please don't forget about your stitches.”

Feeling chagrined, she whispered, “I'm sorry… so… what happened? I'm alive, am I going to be okay?”

“They…” Her throat worked to swallow. “Well, as I said, you lost a lot of blood, and… the blade did nick your kidney, but missed the major blood vessels, so you were lucky there. Still, it was touch and go for the first couple of days to save the kidney.”

“Days?” Afraid of the answer, she asked, “How long…?”

Kali averted her eyes. “It's Sunday. So almost the entire week. But you're stable now, you just- they warned us that if you pulled your stitches again, they would have a harder time… keeping you from bleeding out. So please, please…”

The tears made her reach up to pet up and down Kali's neck. The warmth was comforting to them both. “Gee whiz… I'm so sorry for making you worry. You and- is my mother still here? What about Pyrrha? Has anyone told Yang? We have to-”

“Shhhh, Weiss. Yang knows. She's right outside.”

“Can I see her?” When Kali frowned, she craned her neck up. “I need- need to see her!”

“She's been awake for so long, Weiss… she needs her sleep. All of us do. It's not your fault,” she headed her off before she could apologise again. “But we love you and are so worried, and we want to make sure at least one of us is awake if there's news.”

A little smile broke through Weiss's fear and gloom. “You love me?”

Kali blinked a few times, stunned out of her current train of thought. “What? Oh… oh, Weiss, of course! Haven't you been able to tell?”

The poor girl burst into tears. The entire situation was far too much for her, and hearing that someone she had become increasingly attached to felt the same way provided an easily accessible outlet for all those feelings to come pouring out. Kali leaned down to hug her very delicately, to make sure Weiss didn't lean up. They cried together, laughed in the middle before crying took over again.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Kali finally breathed when she could talk again, kissing the side of her head. “I'm so glad you're going to be alright. I r-really… Weiss, you are family now, and don't you ever forget it!”

Such simple words, yet they were music to her ears.

After another few emotional minutes, Kali bowed out and prompted her mother to come in and fuss over her for a while. She had never felt so adored in all her life - well, other than with Yang.

“The doctors really have been swell,” Willow finally blubbered some time later. Her poor mother seemed like she was nearly as bad off as she had been when drinking, but wasn't drunk; that was some relief to the patient. “Even let Kali and Yang stay, as long as I was here to vouch… that they knew my b-baby…”

Her smile was almost pitying as she squeezed her mother's hand. “I'm going to be fine, Mother. I promise. Though I guess I won't be cheerleading much for the rest of the semester…”

“This is very h-hard for m- for me to… I want to hate those Dragons! My baby keeps getting h-hurt, but then… Kali is so wonderful to me, and you, so it isn’t- and your father! He isn't one of them, and he attacked us, so even with that girl stabbing you…”

“Yes, Mommy, I know,” she told her gently. As she well knew, calling her that came out when she was very emotional, but it also seemed to convey a deeper love that her mother often worried was lost. Her hope was that it might help soothe her nerves somewhat.

“I don't know what I would have done. You're my… m-my only baby left! Winter's gone, your father… and Whitley-”

“Whitley and Winter are fine! They're just… not as close. Right now!” she added when she saw her face scrunching up more. “But… I mean, give them time! Especially for Whitley. You know he's Daddy's little boy.”

Nodding, she leaned down and left one of those kisses on Weiss's forehead that was more firm than necessary, causing her to roll her eyes even while she smiled. “My little angel. I'm so glad she didn't get you. You'll never… never know!”

Comforting her enough so that they could hold a conversation again took the better part of five minutes. She knew it was a little twisted, but Weiss was extremely happy. Yes, she hated that she and her mother had to go through so much trauma to get to that point, but at least it felt like they were mother and daughter again. It was a vast improvement over the wino she had living in her house scant weeks ago.

“Okay,” she finally whispered into her hair as she pet up and down her mother's back. “I do need to know something.”

“Yes? Oh sweetie, whatever it is, we will find out together. I promise!”

Smiling a little wider, she asked, “Do you know… what happened to Emerald? Do the police have her?”

“Oh…” Finally, Willow sat back up, one of her hands brushing her own hair back into place as the other one remained on Weiss's shoulder. “Well… yes, but she's in the asylum ward here at the hospital. Under constant guard. At least, that's what Kali told me.”

“Have they tested her for drugs?”

Her mother looked quite taken aback. “How… did you know that?” When Weiss merely waited, she cleared her throat before continuing, “They said she has been doing… oh, I don't know much about these things. Opium, maybe?”

That confirmed something that has been bothering Weiss since she first saw Emerald in her front garden. Her unfocused eyes, broken sentences… they may have meant nothing, or may have just been the product of grief. But she had never seen anyone behave quite that way before. Her first thought had been the reefer, but opium could certainly be the problem - not that she knew much more than her mother did.

“Weiss? What is it, sweetheart?”

“Nothing. Just… never mind. The important thing is that I survived, and I don't plan on going anywhere ever again. Mother, I'm sorry for worrying you so much! I never meant-”

Her mother's hand drifted up and pressed into her lips gently, silencing her whinging. “Please, don't apologize for that anymore. How were you to know that she would… th-that sh-sh-she…”

Again, her mother was useless for conversation for the next several minutes. They then talked a bit about her general health after she had collected herself, and about whether or not Whitley had come to see her - he had, but had scarcely stayed for a few minutes before wanting to return to the waiting room.

Then they were interrupted. Yang stood in the doorway, looking completely beside herself. Weiss had never seen her hair so matted, nor her features so stricken.

“Oh,” Willow breathed when she noticed, sitting back away from her daughter.

“Yang?”

That was all the prompting it took for her brute to take off running across the room, straight for her. Willow had to stand up and catch her to keep her from landing on the bed with her full weight.

“Don't! Her stitches-”

“WEISS!” Tears were streaming down her face that quickly, bloodshot eyes wide and pleading. “I'm sorry! I shoulda been there, shoulda- you almost died and- a-and I never… told you I…”

Finally, her mother let her go so she could embrace her love. They both breathed a sigh of relief when the hug was a lot gentler than the one Yang had initially gone in for. A minute ticked by as they found comfort in the warmth of each other’s bodies, in the nearness of their soulmate.

“Shhh,” Weiss whispered gently into her hair, her own eyes wet. “It’s okay. It’s okay! You can’t be everywh-”

“NO! I should be! You’re all I care about in the whole goddamn world, Weiss! And if I lose you… I’ll burn it to the fucking ground!”

Both she and her mother started at the strong language used. A second later, she petted over her hair and hissed, “Hey, hey. I’m fine, alright? Yang, I’m fine. Golly…”

After a couple of minutes, Yang finally pulled back to smile down at her. “My Princess. She’s a real fighter.”

“Sure I am,” Weiss laughed wetly, pushing their foreheads together. They both giggled to release the fear and tension and pure raw emotion. “Pyrrha deserves the congratulations.”

“Oh, believe me, she’s gonna get a big ol’ kiss from me the next time I see her! But… wow, this just- I can’t believe… was it really Emerald? If you say it was, then I trust you, but it’s still crazy to think-”

“It was.” Sighing, she looked away at the curtain. “But I could tell she wasn’t herself. Too much drugs, apparently. Has… Emerald ever…?”

Yang blinked at her for a moment, then seemed to realise what she was asking all at once. “Oh! No, never - I mean, we’ve all tried reefer once or twice, but Emerald barely even drinks that often. Nothing stronger than that.”

“Okay.”

“Why? What did they say she was on?”

Weiss glanced at her mother, who had been watching them very carefully. Almost as if studying them. When she realized they were looking at her, she held up both hands helplessly. “I don’t know. Opium, maybe? I thought she got it from you.”

Even while Weiss was groaning at her mother’s continuing unintended prejudice, Yang sighed and answered patiently, “Not from me. And not from any of us; the Dragons don’t deal in stuff like that.”

“Well…” Sighing deeply, the patient reached up to caress Yang’s cheek. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed her mother wincing, but decided the best way to handle that would be to ignore it; let her sort out her feelings in her own time. “I suppose there’s only one way to find out.”

-------------------------------------

“What do you mean, ‘you can’t see her’?!”

The full-bearded officer tipped his hat again, even as he repeated the same sentiment: “Sorry, can’t let you in there. Dangerous criminal.”

“I know!” Weiss burst out, leaning even more heavily against Kali. “I’ve been waiting days for them to tell me I can leave my bed so I can actually talk to the ‘criminal’ myself! Now, will you move out of the way?”

“Listen, girlie. Why don't ya go back to your room? Let the adults handle business.”

Kali definitely took offense to that. “And what am I, then? A newborn?” All she got in return for that was a wolf whistle, and her eyes narrowed further. “Just ask if she's open to any visitors. I assume you have her handcuffed to the bed?”

“Well… yeah, but that don't-”

“Ask.”

He asked. It didn't take him very long to come back and usher them into the hospital room, though he looked quite surly about it.

Emerald was definitely not in the best of shape, but she was doing better than Weiss had been when she was admitted. All of the machines she was hooked up to seemed to be for the sole purpose of monitoring her vitals because of the drugs in her blood supply. There was a saline drip, and she still had bandages around her forearms from Shopkeeper's, but other than that and the handcuffs holding her upper arms to the bed, she looked more or less right as rain…

Other than the purpling bloody nose. Privately, Weiss reminded herself to congratulate Pyrrha the next time she came for a visit. She and Yang had been in and out constantly, fussing over her, and Blake and Ruby dropped by once or twice. Still no word from Winter… but she didn't want to think about that right now, so she returned her attention to the matter at hand.

“Oh…” Emerald sat up straighter, eyes wide with pure fear. “H-hey, Weiss. Mrs. Belladonna.”

Kali seemed to have no time for games. “Is that all you have to say to the young lady you stabbed?”

“No, I… of course not. But I don't know what to say, it was like…”

Weiss waited for her to finish. When she didn't speak again for a few seconds, too plagued by inner demons - or worried about repercussions - to summon the words, she calmly seated herself in the chair at Emerald's bedside, hands folded neatly in her lap.

“Go on.”

“I couldn't think. Couldn't calm down, o-or make my mind focus on anything other than how angry I was with Weiss.”

“Angry? Why were you angry with me?”

Finally, she turned her eyes to glare daggers at the guest. “You got Cinder hurt. Do you even care about that? Because your daddy can't let go of you, he burned down our place and Cinder got hurt! And really bad, Weiss!”

“That isn't fair,” Kali admonished her in a firm tone of voice. “Parents are supposed to be responsible for their children, not the other way around. She can't control what that idiot does any more than Blake could control what I did if I were to settle petty grudges like that.”

“I don't care. She's the cause for it; he would never have made someone set that fire without her being involved. But…” The ire faded, and Emerald's eyes became more haunted than anything. “I didn't want to attack anybody! All I wanted to do was go find Weiss and yell at her, tell her that she owed Cinder, ask what she was going to do to make it right. Th-that’s really… that’s all I wanted, I didn’t…”

Weiss was listening patiently all along, trying to distance herself emotionally from the situation. Then she asked, “Do you know what the doctors have said, about the drugs?”

The haunted aura only intensified, her tan fingers clutching at the white linen sheets. “Yes.”

“Well? What was it? Marijuana?”

“I'm no reefer addict,” she snapped impatiently. “No, I… they said it was opium, and s-some other drug I've never heard of before. Just some letters…”

“Letters?” But even as she asked that, she could see Kali's hand raise to her chin, tapping as she thought. “What is it?”

Barely distracted, she let out a soft “Hm?” that forestalled any more questions for a few seconds as her mind worked through the possibilities. Then she asked Emerald, as if there had been no pause at all, “Were the letters ‘LSD’?”

“I think they might have been?” The lilt at the end made the statement a question.

“Hmm.”

Reaching up to catch her arm, Weiss whispered, “What is it?”

“Lysergic acid diethylamide. It’s an experimental drug being used and studied by psychiatrists.”

“How is it you just… know everything?!”

That made Kali laugh weakly. “If I knew everything, I could have…” But she didn’t finish that sentence. Weiss had no way of knowing what past mistake she was thinking of, because she moved on immediately. “Well, I’ve only heard of these things. I’m no doctor. But I like to know what’s going on in the world. I thought this could have been Dexedrine tablets - Ghira used to talk about those when he would send correspondence home from the war front. But it wasn’t until she said ‘letters’ that I remembered LSD.”

Emerald was nodding, sitting up straighter as if it would take her closer to salvation. “Y-yes, I- I mean, I don’t know anything about this stuff at all, but it was like I was watching myself do it. St- stab…” Tears finally pricked, but she was trying to ignore them. “I couldn’t control anything once they pushed me out.”

“What?”

Weiss had noticed that as well. “Who pushed you out? Of where?”

“I don’t… remember…” Both of Emerald’s fists slammed into her eyes. “AH! What happened to me?!”

“They said you checked yourself out of the hospital,” Kali was saying in a distant voice, eyes unfocused as her mind raced. “But… nobody could tell me how you got home. Your bike is still at my house.”

“Were they lying?” Weiss asked urgently. “Did they kidnap her and… and pay off the nurses, or something?”

“It’s sounding too likely to ignore.” Sitting up straighter, she said, “We have to tell Salem about this. Immediately. If Jacques Schnee is trying to pull strings from behind the scenes-”

“Oh no,” she breathed. When Kali only blinked at her, she looked up into her eyes. “Cinder and me, and Emerald… it’s all my-”

Fingers covered her mouth again. “We don’t have time for that. Emerald, please say you forgive Weiss. She is a victim of this now as much as you are.”

“What?!” But then the poor girl’s red eyes pointed down at Weiss’s bandage before flicking away again. “Oh… well… I don’t know if I can; my Cinder is…”

“She’s hurting just like both you and Weiss are hurting. Like Salem is, even if it was only a little smoke.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks. “It’s still her fault! Who cares if she got herself hurt?” However, her next words were, “I’m sorry… I d-don’t mean to be- I know she’s a Dragon, Cinder told me sh-she’s branded, and it’s… this is all too much. What did they do to me?”

Kali gestured for Weiss to join her. They both worked together to help Weiss stand gently as they could, trying to avoid further aggravating her injury, and made their exit.

“Do you think she’s going to be okay?” Weiss asked once the door was closed and they were further along the hallway.

“I don’t know,” Kali confessed, arm securely around her back as she helped her along. “But this is bad news. Emerald attacked a fellow Dragon; she won’t be let off easy, no matter why it happened. Even worse than that…” She swallowed hard. “Someone has decided to start messing with our minds. If it’s not your father… then we could be in for such a terrible time that we can’t even fathom.”

[ghostmartyr]

SnK 123 Thoughts

#spoilers

You know, I, for one, am not shocked. From an outside view, our options were Eren going through all this trouble to fix everything once and for all with a genius solution that only works with grand forbidden power--

--or Eren continuing to make everything worse.

His most enduring strategy has involved making everything worse.

I’m not mocking him. That honestly seems to be the point.

What’s interesting is how unhappy he seems about all of this. He’s angry when his dad needs him to step in to wipe out the Reiss family. In the aftermath, he’s despondent. He takes Armin’s punches and insults Mikasa. He allies himself with Zeke but makes no effort to build their relationship. He goes out and cries over all the things he’s about to do, but he still does them.

That’s the part of all this that seems strange to me. Eren finally losing to the pressure of being Paradis’ hope is a depressing storyline, but not that weird. Burning everything to the ground because that’s the only way he can see out anymore is something that I can see coming from an Eren who’s taken one too many hits. Sometimes something essential cracks. Sometimes people break, and when the storm that shatters them comes free, there’s nothing left to hold it back.

Only Eren’s relentless adherence to his goal doesn’t seem to be something he’s happy about. He doesn’t lose his stress lines the entire chapter, except when Mikasa brings him ice cream. I don’t think he’s had a scene without them since the time skip.

He can see the future. He makes it to Marley, and all he can do is stare at all the people. Alive.

Eren knows what he is going to do. He goes out alone his last night with his friends and cries about it. There is no appearance of this being something that he wants. The only thing that’s seemed to resonate properly since he left everyone is Willy’s declaration that they were born into this world.

He spends one last night with his friends, and leaves them forever.

This is not someone who is so far gone that this is it. This is what fixes everything. That might be where he gets the energy for all of it, but his last honest moment with anyone seems to be asking Mikasa why she cares about him.

Even by Eren’s current standards, he does not look good when he asks.

"Why is it... that you care so much about me?”

What value does Eren have as a person? Who is he? Who does the person who has been most obvious in her affection for him see?

That’s how this chapter opens. With Mikasa asking herself that question.

“But maybe that’s wrong. Eren hasn’t changed one bit from the start. If that’s who Eren truly was all along... what part of him... had I been seeing?”

Eren is someone who can kill children. He can take advantage of his friends’ love and dedication and manipulate it so they have no choice but to cooperate. He can throw his entire country’s desperate hopes to find a new solution out by leaving the room without discussion.

Before that step, he stands by himself and cries. And asks someone who loves him why she even cares. What creates this bond that the future he sees has him destroy.

Over eighty chapters ago, someone else tries to ask someone they love this question. They also get the wrong answer back.

“I mean… I decided to join the Survey Corps on my own. But… you didn’t, right? Back then… you chose the Survey Corps… Because I...” “Because what?! Huh?! Are you saying I joined for your sake?!”

“Then why are you here right now? If you don’t have a reason, then just start running...”

“Why… Why would you do that much for me? Does it have… something to do with my family?” “Yeah. It does.” --37, Krista and Ymir

That saga has its own tragedy, and here we repeat the refrain that causes the most miscommunication; that simple inability to admit the vulnerability of caring for another person by choice and happenstance.

Eren asks why. He wants a direct answer. He frames it first by going through the excuses. He saved her. They’re family. She’s said it often enough.

But is that it? Is that all that sums up her link to Eren? Is it just circumstance?

What is it that Mikasa values in him?

Mikasa can’t tell him the full truth. It’s too much for her to admit. So of course that, when the world is falling to pieces, is what lingers. That last moment of honesty she has with Eren, and she can’t make herself tell him any of the truths that maybe could have stopped this.

There’s no logical reason to think it would have, but Mikasa wonders for, I think, the same reason Eren asks at all.

Is there something valuable enough in Eren that just being Eren is enough?

Can something that isn’t the big picture and humanity and everything--can he find stable ground in that?

The answer was probably always going to be no. Eren’s been beyond friendship speeches for longer than I think any of his friends want to contemplate. But the picture Eren paints is someone who wants to be reminded of his humanity before he throws it away.

Mikasa, hearing that now, knows she couldn’t do that in that moment.

There is a very clear line following Eren through his decisions, but the logic of why he’s picked them is still missing. If the thread of him simply wanting destruction is to be followed, you find his obvious unhappiness whenever he’s confronted with what he’s about to do. If he truly believes he’s doing the right thing, why isn’t he sharing the strategy with Armin, or Hange, or Levi, or any of the people he’s already waded through blood with?

What is so important about Eren doing this, and why is it so important that he does this alone?

The Zero Requiem strategy demands that Eren be the villain of this piece, and he’s playing that part well, but there’s no stable end in this version. He’s simply antagonized both sides to the point of loud voices chanting for genocide.

Framing Paradis as the villain could arguably be the point, but Eren’s firmest declaration about why he’s doing all this is directed at other descendants of Ymir. The only ones who know he’s willing to slaughter the world for Paradis are the people who are already dealing with everyone hating them because of this one damn island.

The state of the world is not such that you can have the good Eldians in one corner and the bad Eldians in another.

Focusing on the island has been the rule of the land for a while, and it’s helped nothing. All Eren has done is bring yet another titan-led wave of destruction down on everyone, reminding them why the hatred started.

Really, the case that Eren’s doing this for precisely the reasons he says he is is the one that makes the most sense, and so we come back to him having clear problems with his own idea.

Additionally, while there are going to be those Eldians who are psyched about everyone else being dead, there are probably going to be more who are traumatized and horrified, so at the end of all the stomping, you’re just going to wind up with different groups of people in wars.

This doesn’t solve anything.

Like Liberio, it’s a bloodbath with the main accomplishment being that more people think Eren should be taken out.

Getting as many people to hate him as possible is the only consistent result of everything Eren has done.

Which is nice, since that suggests that maybe there’s some kind of logic buried under all of this.

Except the aim of making everything worse has only succeeded in making everything worse.

So. Like.

Everything’s worse.

Make everything worse.

Worser.

More worser.

The worstest.

Things are now worse.

Congratulations on a successful plan.

This is why Armin is usually stuck with this.

I can’t even be properly upset that Eren’s setting loose the rumbling, because something is clearly still missing. Not to be a broken record, but we’ve got unseen flashbacks with Historia and our little pickpocket, and Historia’s the only named character permitted to be featured listening to Eren without her face visible.

This after 108 made a big show of pointing out how strangely inconvenient the timing of the pregnancy was. Unless having Zeke alive mattered to someone.

As previously discussed, that adds to the worser pile, clearly making it relevant.

So yay, Eren has succeeded in setting himself up as The Worst.

Now we wait for why while an undetermined number of people are sacrificed to whatever unholy abomination of a strategy this qualifies as.

...Yeah, that’s all I’ve got.

Oh, wait.

This part was good.

This too.

It’s a curious chapter. There’s so much light and joy in pieces, and everywhere we look we see reminders of why these are the people we’ve rooted for. Levi won’t let a pickpocket get lynched, even if it causes their cover issues. Mikasa’s eyes sparkle at ice cream. Armin’s excited to be out in the world.

They party with a group of people they don’t have a language in common with. It’s that easy.

All of that still exists, so what is it that makes this the logical next step?

Why introduce so many devastating cycles only to keep them going? Why would someone--several someones--actively opposed to perpetuating this kind of violence settle on a plan that loops a new one around?

The only answer I can come up with is that this isn’t the final word on what’s going on.

So, in keeping with the chart...

The worse continues.

To the secret better.

[electric-sympathy]

Vampire!Dean fic excerpt

Right, so, I know I said I was going to post a bit of Cathemeral, but I was going through my files and yet another unfinished Vampire!Dean fic caught my eye. I wrote it a number of years ago after a “painful transformation” commentfic prompt at Hoodietime. 

So, here is a quick excerpt from my Hellsing-inspired fic!!! Just finished fleshing it out. It’s about 1.5k words. Takes place after Dean has busted himself and Sam out of a stronghold of Crowley’s with a little help from an impromptu vampiric transformation, but as you can see, something went Very Wrong. I guess you could call this Chapter 3?

Enjoy!!!! Concrit welcome!!!

Sam is concentrating intently on a scan of a 14th century manuscript when he hears a noise right at his ear, like wings, drawn out and distorted as if through water, quiet and delicate.

There are four pure black moths on his forearm, gathered three in a circle at one point and one scuttling towards them, looking to squeeze in.

He flaps his hand at them. They collapse into shadow and swirl round his fingers like fog before dissipating, drawn unseen into the surrounding darkness.

There are three pinpricks in his skin.

--- * \ \ * \ \ * ---

Sam’s immediate thought is of Dean, unconscious in the bedroom. He rushes away from the computer, but pauses when he reaches the bedroom door, open just a crack. For just a moment, the suppositions that Dean needs protecting and that Dean himself could be the danger fight each other before Sam's guilt and protectiveness wins out. 

Cautious, he presses the pads of his fingers to the aged wood and eases the door open as silently as he can, edging inside, demon killing knife at his hip...

And then he stands in the doorway, staring, half in half out, one hand clutching the door frame. Trying to make sense of what he sees.

The shadows on Dean's body have broken their bounds.

They've spread out strangely, bigger than they should be, and are reaching out into three dimensional space. And like shadows, all he can see at a given point is the outline of the entire semitranslucent mass. 

At first, it looks like hydrangeas flowing in the breeze.

Sam edges cautiously further into the room. He can't match whatever this is to anything he knows about vampires, real or fictional, and can't help but use the caution pounded into him through years of hunting, Dean or not.

Closer now, he can make them out: Hundreds of moths made of pure shadow are clustered on Dean's body. Small wings flutter sluggishly as they wander drunkenly in each space portioned out to them, oblivious to Sam's entry. He waves his arms in the air, trying to get their attention, but none take notice. The revelation doesn't make any more sense to Sam than before. It doesn't seem like they're doing anything to Dean. They almost seem to be a part of him, with the way they seem to be reaching out from the shadows on his body. Part of whatever transformation he's going through. Sam can't think of anything like this, nothing he's read or encountered. Even Daeva are dramatically different shadow creatures-- more invisible than really made of shadow. The effect could almost be pretty, if it were not so obviously unnatural, or infesting his brother.

...Should he wake him? Would that make it stop? Should he make it stop? The answer seems obvious.

Sam creeps to the head of the bed. Slowly, he reaches towards the intersection between Dean's neck and shoulder. At the edges of that mass, he can see their beady little eyes as holes punched through the shadows.

It parts at the intrusion of his hand for a moment, the little things bumping lightly into each other as they move away, seemingly not sure what to make of him. But when the wave crests, they clamor for him as one. They reach out in a strange symmetry, four tendrils made up of a column of bugs to wrap around his forearm. Tens of dainty, long proboscides reach for his skin, and this time, he feels the pain. He panics, yanks his arm away, and there's a delicate pull like little threads snapping as he does. The moths are pulled free, and collapse from the force back into shadowy tendrils that recede into Dean's neck. That shadow looks normal again.

There are four rows of perfectly spaced lines of pinpricks wrapping up and around his forearm. Just barely big enough for blood to bead before clotting.

He waits, knife at the ready.

Nothing happens.

They've forgotten about him already. He waits as long as he can stand it, knife hand eventually falling dejected at his side. He concludes that their intelligence is rudimentary, if they are even sentient.

Well, he decides, at least I have something to go on now. He trots back to the side room to retrieve his laptop, focus newly replenished.

By the time he's back, setting himself up at the little desk at the window to watch out of the corner of his eye, little wings are budding like petals from the shadow at Dean's neck again.

Sam tries to cover up the knowledge that he is sitting vigil with the idea that at least he can tease Dean about being the Butterfly Boy when he wakes up.

--- * \ \ * \ \ * ---

"...The genus Calyptra is a group of moths in subfamily Calpinae of the family Erebidae. They are a member of the Calpini tribe, whose precise circumscription is uncertain but which includes a number of other fruit-piercing or eye-frequenting genera currently classified in Calpinae.

The common name of many of these species, vampire moth, refers to the habit that they have of drinking blood from vertebrates. Some of them (C. thalictri) are even capable of drinking human blood through skin..."

"...The Carpathian Mountains arch through the Czech Republic and then turn east, continuing on through Poland, Romania, Slovakia, and Ukraine before finally ending near the Danube River in Serbia. It is here in this mountain range that there lives a species of vampire known as a mahr. Living off the consumption of human souls, the mahr swoops down upon its victim in the form of a moth, taking a bite or two before flying off. The more often a mahr attacks a single victim, the easier it becomes for the vampire to do so in the future. Eventually the prey is killed and the soul consumed. Fortunately, there are two ways in which a mahr can be slain. The first is to...."

Sam stretches and runs his hands through his hair, turning away from the desk, and freezes.

Dean's awake.

Mostly.

The shadow moths are gone. Oversized, red irises with blown out pupils wander the room. He doesn't seem entirely aware of what he's looking at, or even what he's looking for. 

He's baring his fangs, and God, they're gigantic. 

As he works unconsciously to keep himself from drooling, his tongue laps out of his mouth like an angry dog's.

The expression on his face, however, is one only of sleepiness, confusion. Sam can tell that there's a slight undercurrent of distress trying to work its way through the fog.

Sam wonders if this is what it feels like to keep tigers.

"Dean?"

No answer. A little more confusion. A little less drooling.

Sam approaches the bed. He cards his hand through Dean's hair and lets it rest there. The warm weight seems to snap Dean out of it slightly; his pupils visibly retract, and he slowly stops his search through the room to stare sleepily at nothing, face slackening. His eyes seem to lose most of that preternatural scarlet glow; the structure of his irises is now visible through it again, which are now an odd brownish-maroon color. 

"Go back to sleep, Dean," he murmurs, soft and low, and tries unsuccessfully to hide the sadness  in his tone.

Dean's eyelids grow heavy and the alert tension drains out of him. His head burrows into the pillow and a soft, utterly self-unconscious exhale of breath escapes his lips. He falls back asleep almost immediately.

Sam has wished since before Dean's deal that he would accept the comfort he obviously needed, but not like this.

Falling asleep so easily... It made him look like a big kid. Sam welcomes the choking love for his brother, so absent this past year.

He stays by the bedside for a long time.

--- * \ \ * \ \ * ---

Castiel shows up at dusk a few hours later, a sizeable jar of demon blood held to his side, furtively, like contraband. As usual, there is no expression on his face, but his body language seems uncomfortable. It's something he must have scavenged from Bobby's pantry which, strangely, makes it look for all the world like a harmless half gallon of blackberry preserve.

The fact that it isn't for Sam doesn't make him feel any better.

Castiel ignores its presence entirely and gets straight to the point. The moths returned shortly after Dean fell back asleep, but if Castiel is surprised by them he doesn't verbalize it.

"How is he?"

"He woke up for a few minutes a couple hours ago, but he didn't seem..." Sam's face screws up. He tries again. "It was like he could tell there was a... A source of blood in the room, but he wouldn't focus on anything. Didn't respond when I tried to talk to him."

Castiel is staring at Dean all the while, head tilted in that way of his when thinking hard. Usually, it seems as though he's scrutinizing the space between atoms, but there's a line of frustration in his brow that makes it seem like he can't see anything. Sam wonders if he paid any attention to what he'd just said.

In that moment, Dean's head lifts from the pillow, drawing both their gazes.

Sam would've thought that having his pupils less dilated would make Dean's gaze feel less... animal, but it didn't. The glow had returned, making his owlish irises shine with a smooth, ruby iridescence.

The moths surge up from behind his neck, piling over each other, restless. Sam can actually hear the agitated titter of their wings this time.

He doesn't think he can watch this.

[lunamusings]

Gravity Well

Chapter 9: Ruin and Preservation

A Loki x Lithium Fanfiction (CanonxOC)

Set before the events of Thor, Loki receives as large mysterious crate of alcohol the day before his birthday. What seems like a strange yet benign gift from an anonymous person ends up being more than he, or the woman at the bottom of the crate bargained for.

Chapter Warnings: mentions/aftermath of torture, Odin being awful

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Who knew oblivion would be made of deep void, sticky humidity and volcanic temperatures?

And gnawing thirst.

Loki was in the depths of this tailor-made hell when he heard the voices.

Not the voices of those who held him here, the ones that stripped him of every dignity and left him to rot here until they needed him to enact parts of their plan. Not the one in his head that solidified all his doubts and fears into tangible darkness in his mind.

Frigga's gentle bell-toned voice pierced through first, but Lithium's strong gravely words followed, both settling in his chest more than his ears. Hope and alarm bloomed in there with the reverberations of their astral voices.

"He’s in here, but there is much interference. I cannot say exactly where."

He felt a pull, like the very fibers of his being were coaxed forward.

"I can. I smell him."

"Scent should not work when projecting, not for a human."

"But I do smell him. I feel him. Trust me."

Then they appeared, silvery-tinged phantoms, glowing almost blindingly in the utter darkness before him.  As much as his heart cried out in joy to see them, he could not show it.  There were eyes in the darkness, eyes that saw beyond sight as his mother did. They would see them and there was nothing he could do to protect their astral projections should they attack. His state was far too weak to do battle in the astral plain, his powers in relative tatters.

His resolve lasted until he saw the looks are their ethereal faces, his face breaking as completely as theirs.

Lithium choked back a startled sound. "Loki, what the hell did they do to you?"

"You have to leave. It's not safe here."

Frigga found her voice. "If he says its dangerous, we cannot linger long. We must hurry. I will discover what I can."

Lithium's projection floated to him, kneeling, though he knew it was not necessary when walking in different plains. Still, it was a small comfort as her ghostly eyes met his. Her hands went through his face when she touched it, but he could feel her soft presence fill his mind, the cooling tingle of magic she pressed into her touch.

"When did you-"

"Shortly after we lost you."

"What are you-"

"It's better you don't know so it's harder to be undone."

Frigga returned  to them. "There's another walking the Plain. Remember you cannot battle here yet."

Lithium's face fell as she pushed more magic into him. "I'm sorry we can't do more."

For a brief moment, cold spread across his forehead as she pressed hers to it. She slowly retracted her hands, one hand lingering on the surface of his cheek. "I missed you."

As the unseen door burst open, all but blinding him, Lithium and Frigga disappeared, not doubt retreating back to their bodies in the material plain.  But something lingered in the residual feeling of her spectral hand on his face, something he pulled further into himself, a thin thread of life in the wasteland that he had barely lived in for…well he did not know how long he had been there.  It settled where he put it, like the echo of his pulse, small and subtle.

What spell could this have been and for what purpose?

Having thought that, he realized he did not care. His mother had found him. Lithium had come with her. That was all that mattered. While there were times, in his lucid moments, that he knew there were things to discuss with Frigga, seeing Lithium had been only joy, as short-lived as it was.

For now, as his jailer stated as his men pulled him from his chains, the plan was ready to begin.

He hated it with every bit of hate in him., but his mind, broken as it was, was not about to give up without a fight. He would do as he always did; adapt, survive and turn this in his favor. Let them think they had him under their control more than they did.

His body ached from the effort of standing before the Other and Thanos. But he would be their perfect little puppet. He already knew how to do that, it had been his life so far. Make it a good show and they would be none the wiser that he was not so completely theirs.

The Other cast his gaze at him as they finished his marching orders. He had already told him failure or treachery would leave him begging for pain instead of what they had to offer. What more could he possibly add?

"Remember, we do not just have to exact punishment on you to do this.  How long will the woman last under our care? Or the girl? Do not think for a moment we did not know they found you."

Loki schooled his expression into appropriate passiveness, though his knuckles went white around the scepter he was handed, the last piece of the puzzle he needed as the man they had been pushing him to influence put the finishing touches on the Tesseract portal generator.

I cannot say this was what I had planned to do in Midgard, but if it keeps them away from Mother and Lithium,  I can just make throwing Bart through a window a side-trip.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wrapped in several blankets with an enormous pot of tea beside her earthenware cup and an equally huge magic tome, Lithium hunkered down on her bed, more than happy to rest while Frigga informed all those who needed to know that they had successfully found Loki, and due to the magical thread Lithium had connected to him, they knew he would not be staying where they had found him. She knew Frigga had her work cut out for her in delivering this news, as Odin had moved on with life with barely even a spare two seconds to what was thought to be Loki's suicide, and she did not want to be there for it. Sweet Frigga already stated, as they came out of the Astral plain, that she would insist that Lithium go with whoever was sent to retrieve him, which had the potential to cause problems.

Odin never had been particularly fond of her, especially after she managed to fracture his nose the day Loki let himself fall off the Bifrost. At best, he thought of her as a short-life, at worst…well, she had heard some unappealing comparisons of herself and undersized farm animals, when Odin thought she was too far away to hear him.

Good hearing from more than one source in her genetics was a mixed blessing,

She took a sip of tea and burrowed a little further into the blankets. Though she had been warned of the side effects of astral projection, she had not expected the intense cold to be bone-deep. The tea was helping, but only with her physical cold.

“Worth it." She took a bigger sip of tea and flipped the page in her book.

After the first few days of mourning, Lithium was going stir crazy on top of the emotional upheaval, so she went to Frigga for something to do. She would have taken menial labor at that point but the queen had other ideas.  The magic tome was but one part of said ideas. Even if she had never been able to cast magic like her two favorite Asgardians, she would have found the theory fascinating. While it did require a great deal of study, it was as much an art as it was a science, and given that that was the case for her anatomical drawing skills, it was not too much of a mental leap to make.

As it turned out though, Lithium had a natural affinity she was completely unaware of that she could only attribute to that mysterious "Other" category in her genetic profile. Frigga believed it to be latent magic ability that humans used to possess the last time she had been there. Either way, she threw herself into studying with all the hours she had to herself, taking reams of notes when not doing practical work.

While a magic user could learn all the many and varied disciplines, each had certain ones that came more easily than others. Frigga had been a practitioner long enough that she had become a master of nearly every discipline, though she started off with divination, while Loki blended transformation and illusion magic with his combat spells most of the time, tossing in the heavy-cost teleportation spells when needed. Lithium had found that healing and defensive magic were her strengths and utility magic seems to be on its way to that status as well, as she worked through that section of the book.

Or at least it would be once she stopped reading the same page for more than an hour and comprehending none of it due to anxiety over the conversation she knew was happening in the throne room.

She snapped the book shut and stuffed it back in her bag, pulling out a stack of sketches instead. She wandered over to her desk, still swathed in her blankets and pinned the sketches to a plush corkboard she had made when she found out Asgard had its own version of cork and the seamstresses had scraps of cloth that even they could not find use for. She stood back and admired her collage of obviously-drawn-by-someone-smitten-with-Loki sketches, confirming with herself once more that it was better not to take them with her when she left to find him.

This is probably going to be rough situation, no need to make it worse by having to explain THESE.

It was a struggle to keep her skin on when Thor burst in her door, speaking in his usual manner for the first time in months. That was the silver lining in him scaring a large amount of daylights from her.

"TINY LITHIUM, YOU MUST HURRY! FATHER HAS AGREED TO SEND YOU WITH ME BUT YOU HAVE ONLY FIVE MINUTES TO GET READY!"

Lithium tossed her blankets back on the bed and shouldered her bag, almost positive that Odin set the time limit to exclude her. One thing she had learned shortly after she woke up from her three-day grief nap was that not only was Odin a questionable father, but likely a misogynist on top of that, at least when it came to women other than Frigga. Women took forever to get ready for anything, right?

She rolled her eyes as she smoothed the front of her incredibly simple tunic after pulling her Asgardian-style boots on. "Good news, I'm ready now."

She grasped her bag in both arms when she suddenly found herself tucked under Thor's arm as he ran back to a secluded courtyard behind the throne room complex. She accepted that this was her fate when it came to living in Asgard. Even the ladies in Asgard had, at times, lifted her and put her elsewhere, though that was usually for clothing fittings from the sweet seamstresses. Still, the number of times she had been moved about in such a manner was growing by the day. Thor did not even bother to put her down when they found Odin, though this was probably for the better, because it redirected her withering glare to the ground instead of right to Odin's face.

Odin did not even bother to greet her, merely raised his hand and began his dark transportation spell. "If the power tears you into minuscule shreds, girl, do not blame me in the afterlife."

Lithium sighed. "I'll keep that in mind, Majesty."

If the sarcasm she could not entirely contain came through, Odin did not show it, aside from casting the spell almost immediately afterward. The dark power did not bother her at all as they were taken apart and put back together by it, just as the Bifrost would have had it not been in multiple pieces. Arriving in the middle of a Thor-induced storm, in the sky just above an all too familiar style of mid-sized aircraft was far more jarring.

She felt the tug of her spell immediately linking her to the aircraft below. She yelled as Thor shifted her onto his back with surprising ease has Mjonir pulled them toward the craft. "He's in there! In the back, probably a cargo hold!"

Thor nodded and dropped below the clouds. "I'll set you down in a safe place and go back for him."

Lithium nodded, even though she would have rather been there with him. There was sense in leaving her behind for a short time, though, if only because they did not know who else was there with Loki. She sat down on a large rock and watched Thor take back off into the sky. She twiddled her thumbs in the literal sense, watching the place where Thor disappeared.

In hindsight, she should not been surprised when Thor slammed Loki into the ground mere feet from where she was perched, yet she fell off the back of the rock with a less than dignified squawk. The contents of her bag spilled all over the ground as the hook popped open on impact. She scrabbled to gather her things and popped back up to find out what the yelling was about.

"Now listen here, brother-" Thor went flying sideways with a blast of smoke by some strange red and gold blur.

Loki tilted his head slightly. "I'm listening."

Lithium stifled both the laugh that bubbled up and the sob that competed with it. He was there, both of them in the same place, on the same plain of existence. It had been far too long.

"Loki?" She slid out of the shadows, irrational nervousness stilling her approach. She ran one hand across the other, unable to keep going until he turned to face her.

"Lithium? You're here?" His mildly amused expression broke when his eyes met hers.

Her feet did what her mind could not, carrying her right to him. She threw her arms around his chest, but stopped just short of squeezing him too hard. Despite her rolling emotions, she remembered the heat of the room he was in, the injuries she felt as she connected her astral self to his, and held him gently.

"Of course I am here." She looked up at him, her tears falling freely.

Several emotions flashed across his face, but settled on the most tired smile she had seen before he returned her hug. His embrace was far tighter than hers had been, his arms shaking around her.

[javistg]

One Victor. CH 18. P1.

I don’t know about you, but I’m super excited to be writing again! Camp NaNo is going much better than I expected, and my writing sprints have been paying off. 

Here’s the new scene I finished for Chapter 18. You can find the rest of the fic HERE. 

As usual, this snippet is un-betaed and subject to change. 

Enjoy!

Chapter 18. Part 1.

Katniss hid her face behind her scarf and picked up her pace. Temperatures were dropping fast.

Her little trek through the woods had taken longer than she'd anticipated, and the sky was already turning dark. 

She knew she had at least an hour before curfew, but she didn't like the idea of being out in the woods after dark.

After stashing her weapons in the hollow log, Katniss headed for the fence. She was crouched on one knee, prepared to enter the Meadow when she heard it again. The low hum of electricity —as dangerous as the buzz of a tree full of tracker jacker nests— that indicated the fence was alive.

In an instant, her feet backed up until she blended into the trees. What now? She asked herself, already feeling the shot of adrenaline coursing through her, setting her senses on high alert. 

Katniss looked around, anxiously trying to determine whether there was anything amiss on the other side of the fence. She saw nothing. The wire hadn't been disturbed, and there were no footprints on the snow. Everything was just as she'd left it. 

The lack of movement around the Meadow eased her worries. This wasn't the first time she'd been caught outside of the district by an electrified fence. As long as the Peacekeepers didn't see her, she'd be OK. 

I've never been alone, though, a scared inner voice reminded her. 

That was true. Gale had always been with her. Together, they would just pick a comfortable tree to hang out in until the power shut off. It never took more than a couple of hours for the hum to stop. Once it did, the hunters climbed down from their hiding places and went back home.  

Sometimes, when Katniss was running late, Prim went to the Meadow to check if the fence was charged --to spare Mrs. Everdeen, and herself, the worry. But that wasn't going to happen today.

Because Prim doesn't know where I am. Katniss tightened her fists, wanting to slap herself for her carelessness. Nobody does. 

She had told Prim and Gale she'd be in Victors' Village, and Peeta probably thought she was at home with Prim. 

What would happen once the curfew alarm rang, and she was nowhere to be found? Would Prim come looking out for her? She certainly hoped not. 

But her most immediate worry was that Thread and his men had probably powered the fence off for repairs, and there was no reason for them to disconnect it now that it was working again.

So that was it. Katniss was stuck. Trapped in the forest and looking for a way in. After spending the last few days longing to escape, she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. 

 Straightening up, Katniss peered through the trees, past the fence, into the Meadow. All she could see was the wet snow illuminated here and there by the light from the windows on the edge of the Seam. There were no Peacekeepers in sight, no signs of a patrol or surveillance team. 

A faint flicker of hope sparked in her chest. She could still get back inside the fence unseen. But how?

Any contact with the chain link or the coils of barbed wire that guarded the top would mean instant electrocution. And burrowing under the fence wasn't an option either, not with the ground frozen hard underneath it. 

Katniss looked up. There was only one choice. Somehow, she was going to have to go over it. 

Under cover of darkness, she began to skirt along the tree line, searching for a tree with a branch high and long enough to fit her needs. 

After about a mile, she came upon an old maple that looked just about right. But the tree's trunk was much too wide and icy to shinny up —and there were no low branches for her to hold on to. So she turned to look at the neighboring trees. 

She was trying to figure out how she could climb onto one of those trees and then leap into the maple when the distinctive sound of snow being crushed under someone's feet made her turn.

A stocky figure, bundled against the wind and snow, went barreling down the deserted street headed straight to her. 

Panicked, Katniss jumped behind the tree and hoped, with every frantic heartbeat, that the thick trunk would conceal her. 

The figure reached the fence and, leaning as close as they dared, hissed, "Katniss!"

Even in its urgent, angry tone, the familiar voice was like music to Katniss's ears. Smiling in relief, she stepped away from the tree. "Peeta? How… What are you doing here?" 

Peeta crossed his arms over his chest. Part of his face was covered by a scarf, but there was no mistaking the fire in his eyes. "Shouldn't I be the one asking that?"

Ignoring the bite in his words, Katniss walked towards him —stopping so close to the gate separating them that she could almost feel the electricity vibrating off the chain link. "The fence was off." 

With a shake of his head, Peeta turned to look behind his back. As if out of thin air, Gale's tall frame materialized by his side. 

Startled, Katniss jerked back. 

Gale chuckled, the sound softer than the flutter of wings. "Hey, Catnip!" 

Wide-eyed, Katniss watched as Gale unzipped his coat and, with Peeta's help, began untying a length of rope which had been coiled around his torso. 

With quick fingers, Peeta curled the rope into a ball and gave it back to Gale. 

"Step back a little," Gale instructed.

Katniss did as she was told. 

Gale took a couple of steps back, took aim, and with one graceful pitch threw the ball over the fence. 

Katniss picked up the ball. "What now?"

"Untie the rope, swing it over the branch, and use it to shinny up." Using his finger, Gale indicated her movement along the branch and over the fence. "Once you're inside, drop the rope again, and climb down."

"Alright." Katniss walked up to the tree. The branch was high, but it only took her a couple of throws to swing the rope over it. 

Moving quickly, she climbed up the rope and reached the branch. The slippery bark almost made her lose her grip, but she managed to get a hold on the limb. After twisting the rope back into a ball, she slowly inched her over the barbed wire.

Once she was safely inside the district, Katniss looked down. There was a reason why she and Gale waited in the woods rather than try to tackle the fence. Being high enough to avoid getting fried meant being at least twenty feet in the air. Her branch was at least twenty-five. 

It was a long way to drop, even with a snowbank to cushion her landing. Luckily, she had her rope. 

Working as quickly s she could, Katniss untangled her rope and looped it around the branch. 

Below her, Peeta grabbed the two ends of the rope and pulled at them until they were even. He looked up. "It's a bit short, but I can catch you."

Katniss nodded. Holding on to the branch as tightly as she could, she dropped her legs down, reached for the rope, and used it to slide down.

She hadn't reached the end of the rope yet when she felt Peeta's strong arms reaching for her hips. 

As Peeta's warm hands tightened around her, Katniss let go of the rope; allowing him to bring her down the rest of the way. 

Her feet had barely touched the ground when Peeta's arms enveloped her in a fierce embrace. 

As a rule, Katniss wasn't used to being touched. Other than Prim, no one really hugged her. The few quick hugs she received from Gale or his family on her birthday or New Year's were little more than pats on the back, but this was different.

This was like being wrapped in a warm blanket after spending a lifetime out in the cold.

No one had held her like that in a long time. Not once, since her father died, and she stopped trusting her mother, had someone else's arms made her feel that safe. 

Instead of pushing him away, --like she normally would have-- Katniss threw her arms around Peeta's neck. 

The spicy-sweet scent she recognized as his, filled her lungs --invading her senses. She closed her eyes, blocking the world away, and losing herself to the comfort and tenderness of the moment. 

Feeling Katniss's body relaxing against his, Peeta pulled her in close and buried his face in her hair. His anger was gone, but she could still hear the worry in his voice. "You promised, Katniss. You said you'd stay safe."

"I know, I'm sorry," she whispered as she tightened her hold on him. "I didn't think I'd be gone that long."

Peeta nodded. His lips brushed over a spot on Katniss's neck where her scarf had gotten loose. Warmth radiated from his touch. Light-headed with a sudden, ravenous need, Katniss stretched her neck to let it spread through the rest of her. 

Temporarily lost to time and logic, Katniss held on to Peeta, basking in his warm embrace as if it were a joyous summer day, and stubbornly refusing to let go. 

In the cold winter night, the sound of Gale clearing his throat was what finally broke them apart. 

Peeta was the first to pull back. With a hint of mischief in his smile, he reached for Katniss's scarf and wrapped it snugly around her throat. "We should get going."

Fighting the blush creeping up her cheeks, Katniss turned to Gale. "Got everything?"

"Yup." Gale patted his coat. He had wrapped the rope around his body once more to conceal it from curious eyes.  

Slipping her hands into her pockets, Katniss began to walk with Gale and Peeta flanking her on either side. 

Once the group had left the Meadow behind, Katniss leaned closer to Peeta. "How did you know where to find me?"

"I asked around." Katniss's annoyed scowl almost made him laugh. She was clearly not satisfied with his answer. If they had been back in his house, he would have teased her about it, making her suffer a bit for the way she'd made him worry earlier, but they were in the middle of the street, and they weren't alone. Gale had been pleasant enough, but they had only met that afternoon, and Peeta had more sense than to get on the wrong side of Katniss's hunting partner. 

"I got worried when you didn't show up this afternoon," Peeta explained, "So, I went over to your place. Prim already knew the fence had been turned off. We came out here to check and, when we saw that the fence was on, again, she took me over to Gale's."

"Prim knew the fence was off?"

"Yeah, I told her," Gale said.

Katniss turned to glare at Gale, irritated by the fact that he hadn't mentioned anything about the fence when she'd seen him earlier. "How did you know?"

"Come on, Catnip! You're not the only one who goes past it every day. I thought about going under myself, but the school was almost out, and Peacekeeper patrols were going on their rounds. I guess I figured it would hold until tomorrow."

"Yeah, well, …surprise!" Katniss grumbled.

 Gale shook his head, he knew his friend had taken an unnecessary risk, and he was dying to call her on it, but he wasn't about to do that with Peeta mellark in tow. Besides, deep down, he understood the need that had driven her to sneak under the fence that afternoon. "Did you catch anything, at least?"

Looking almost embarrassed, Katniss placed a hand over her empty hunting bag. "I did but…."

It was Peeta's turn to be curious. "But what?"

Katniss stopped walking. Her hands flew to the strap of her hunting bag, and she began twisting it in her hands. Her little adventure in the woods had been nothing like what she imagined when she sneaked under the fence, and she was dying to talk to Peeta about it. 

Actually, if she was honest, she also wanted to tell Gale. 

Her two companions stood in front of her. Two pairs of very different eyes waited expectantly for her words. 

"I need to tell you something but…" Katniss looked around anxiously. As far as she could tell, there were no cameras or surveillance equipment on that street, but this was Panem. Someone was always watching. 

Understanding Katniss's trepidation, Peeta slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the small signal scrambler Portia had given him. At first, he had thought it only worked to distort telephone conversations, but Cinna had explained that the little device created a white noise screen that interfered with any microphones within listening range.

Peeta pressed his thumb to the small disc and waited until it vibrated in his palm. "You can talk now, no one will hear us."

"Those are real?" Gale asked, unable to hide the excitement in his voice. 

"They are." Peeta turned the disc in his hand to show it to Gale. "I got it from my stylist." Before Gale could ask any more questions, Peeta slipped the activated scrambler back in his pocket. "Katniss? What happened out there?"

[d3-iseefire]

Fathoms Deep (the remix)

Writing Prompt Taken From WritingPrompt.com: https://twitter.com/DailyPrompt

Prompt: You’re the only one who sees the robber’s face and you recognize each other.

(This prompt idea is an original story variation based loosely off a fanfic idea I have called Fathoms Apart. You can see that one if you want (just an idea, not a full story)here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1207729/chapters/14344504

Sera huddled in the corner of the tank, arms wrapped around her tail and head down.

She couldn’t believe how stupid she’d been.

You’re too reckless, her father’s voice rang in her ears. You’ll find yourself in over your head one day if you’re not careful.

She’d always scoffed at him and rolled her eyes behind his back. She was seventeen after all, practically an adult and she knew what she was doing. She could handle herself.

That’s what she’d used to think anyway.

She raised her head, and promptly burst into a fresh wave of tears at the sight of the glass walls surrounding her. The water they’d dumped her in was pristine, but almost painfully empty. No gentle currents to push her back and forth, no fish zipping about, no near buzz in the water signaling the closeness of other mermen and women.

Nothing.

She’d never felt water so utterly dead.

Her tail, usually a mass of vibrant gold and silver scales was faded and dull and the ebony mane that passed for her hair hung limp about her head.

She would die in here.

Already, she could feel the gnawing hunger in her gut as her stomach protested a lack of food. Her limbs were shaking, and weak and she felt achy and tired as if ill with a cold.

Her captors had tried to make her eat, dumping all manner of fish into the tank, but the mere sight of it made her want to throw up. She’d done little but cry since being locked in here, and had no intention of stopping any time soon.

Mermaids were not made for captivity.

Her captors didn’t care. She’d heard them talking about it, saying that once she died they’d simply put her corpse on display and garner just as much interest. That it’d actually be easier to have her dead, more cost effective in the long run.

As if they needed to worry about cost.

The barest flicker of movement caught her eye through the glass and she turned dull eyes in that direction, wondering what fresh torment they had planned for her.

The tank had been placed in what she privately referred to as the ego room, showcasing weapons and furniture and other things encrusted with gold and jewels and all manner of pretentiousness. During the day people were marched through, some clearly wealthy, others not, to marvel and exclaim over how magnificent it all was.

When they saw her their eyes would bug out and they’d rush over, banging on the glass and shouting to try and get her to do tricks like some sort of trained dolphin. She’d ignored them thus far, choosing to stay curled in her corner. She’d been threatened over it but, really, what more could they do to her?

At night everyone would leave and the lights would be shut off, leaving her alone until the next day when it would start all over again.

It was night now, meaning she should be alone and yet here was the dull flicker of a wraith light moving among the pedestals.

Sera watched it a moment or two, and then buried her face in her arms again. She didn’t care anymore. Let them do whatever it was they wanted and then go away and leave her alone.

The darkness over her closed eyelids brightened and she tensed, tightening her arms about her tail. She hated this. She wanted to go home. Why couldn’t they just let her go home?

A light tap sounded on the glass.

Sera flinched and burrowed deeper into her arms. Go away, she thought desperately. Just leave me alone.

A second, equally light tap on the glass. It was different than the usual. She’d grown used to the harsh banging, the sounds of shouting as people demanded her attention.

This was just the lightest of taps, polite almost, and then silence as whoever it was waited for her to respond.

She didn’t really know why she did. Perhaps she just thought that, if she gave them what they wanted, they’d finally leave her in her misery. Or perhaps somewhere, in some deep, almost forgotten recess of her mind there was still the smallest, bit of hope that stubbornly refused to die.

She turned her head so it was still resting on her arms, and opened her eyes. For a few seconds the light blinded her and she squinted, struggling to see past it. Then whoever was holding it moved it lower, and she blinked rapidly as her eyes adjusted.

There was a man standing on the other side of the glass. He was tall and powerfully built, and dressed in breeches, cavalier boots, a loose fitting shirt and vest. There was a cutlass and a pistol strapped to his waist.

He looked like a pirate she thought absently. Then she raised her eyes to see a young man a few years older than her with dark brown hair tied back in a low ponytail and vibrant green eyes and a bolt of pure electricity ran right through her.

She knew him.

Or, at least she knew him as far as any mermaid could know, or should know, a human. His ship wandered the waters near her home and Sera often liked to play in the wake left by its passing.

Had…had liked to play.

It wasn’t unusual for Mermaids, and even some Mermen, to play in the wakes of passing ships but most weren’t particular about the ship, and they did it at night when they wouldn’t be seen. 

Sera had found she liked the wake from this man’s ship. She wasn’t sure why, she just did. She had tried to stick to just playing at night, but he didn’t always come at night, so eventually she’d started going during the day as well. This man, along with an older one she assumed was his father, and a few others always appeared at the railing to watch her.

He always stayed the longest, even after all the others had left to return to work. She’d waved at him a few times and he’d waved back but she’d never spoken to him.

The young man moved away from the tank and Sera moved so she could press her hands against the glass to watch him go. He was a thread, a tiny glimpse of all that she’d lost and it felt like something inside her was tearing, bit by bit, with every step he took away.

He vanished, taking the light with him, and she crumpled to the bottom of the tank, forehead resting against the glass. Her hands slid down slowly and she stared dully at the opposite wall of the tank. It was so cramped she couldn’t stretch her tail out to full length, and so short she’d hit her heat if she tried to push up more than a few feet.

She’d watched the humans dealing with their dead a time or two on land. They put them in boxes, narrow, confined things and then buried them in the ground. That’s what this felt like, as if the humans had put her in a box and buried her.

An unearthly white light fell over her once again and she raised her head in surprise. The pirate was back, and he had two other men with them. One carried the wraith light while the other carried the small stepladder her captors used to dump unwanted food into the tank.

The ladder was set on the floor and then her pirate easily leapt up it. Sera watched in confusion as he produced a key and unlocked the heavy padlock keeping the lid of her tank shut. Then he was sliding it off and carefully  handing it to the two men who’d come with him. They carried it a few feet away and knelt, setting it gingerly on the floor.

A light tapping on the glass drew her attention up to the young man on the ladder and she saw that he’d reached his hand into the water toward her. Given how small the tank was, he could have simply grabbed her had he chose, but he was reaching instead…asking.

What was he doing?

Sera hesitated. The last human she’d trusted…the only human she’d ever trusted…had betrayed her in the worst way, had taken everything from her.

So what do you have to lose?

The words passed through her mind unbidden. Sera steeled herself, and then reached upward.

His hand closed around hers, fingers sliding along the fine bones of her wrist, and pulled. She followed obediently and, a few seconds later, her head broke the surface of the water. Cold air surrounded her and she shivered, but ignored it as her eyes locked on the young man.

“I was wondering where you’d gone,” he said. “How the hell did you wind up here?”

Sera didn’t entirely know what she’d expected from him, but it hadn’t been that. The same treatment she’d received from the other humans perhaps, or the rejection she’d get from her people if she dared return after being contaminated through contact with land dwellers…anything like that perhaps, but not this.

Not kindness, and in the face of it she responded the only way a scared, teenage girl could respond. She burst into tears. She then slid her arms around his neck and buried her face against his shoulder, inhaling the scent of the sea, tar and everything she’d barely noticed, or cared about, until they were gone.

One of his arms came around her back, but only for a quick moment before he was gently disentangling himself. Sera gripped the edge of the tank, the cold metal cutting into her fingers.

He cupped the side of her face in one hand and Sera couldn’t help pressing into it. She hadn’t touched a living creature, or been touched in return, in what felt forever and was startled at just how starved for physical contact she was.

“The prince had a party on a ship,” she managed to get out. “I thought the lights were pretty so I went closer and he saw me--” here her voice wavered and she had to pause to try and get her breathing under control lest she break down again. “I thought he was nice,” she finally said, her voice barely a whisper.

Like you, she thought.

“Turned your head did he?” he asked softly. His eyes went unfocused, looking off in the distance at some unseen point, before he refocused on her, sighed, and said, “All right, come on then.”

He pulled her arms back around his neck and bent forward to wrap his arms around her upper body. Sera started in surprise, but didn’t resist as he, awkwardly, pulled her out of the tank.

He jumped off the ladder and she tensed, convinced he was about to drop her. Instead he landed easily on the floor, with her held securely in his arms.

 “What do you say we get you back in the water?” he asked. “I’ve missed watching you.” His eyes narrowed. “That sounded weird, didn’t it?”

The words elicited a surprised, almost laugh from Sera, the first since this entire ordeal had started. Then the rest of his words permeated and her vision blurred. She did want to go home, even if home would no longer want her.

“We should get moving” one of the other men who’d come in with him said in a low voice. “The missing guard won’t go unnoticed for long.”

Her pirate grinned at her. “You ready to get out of here?”

Sera gave a hesitant nod. She didn’t know if he truly planned to let her go once they reached the ocean again, but it was better than staying here. She tightened her grip around his neck and settled more firmly against him.

Her rescuer, hopefully, nodded toward the others. “All right, let’s get out of here.”

“What about your share of the treasure?” one of the men asked. For the first time, Sera noticed that both men held sacks over their shoulders, and a check around the room revealed many of the treasures were missing from their cases and pedestals.

The young man holding her, whose name she still needed to get she realized, grinned even broader and tightened his grip on her. “Pretty sure I’ve already got my share, gentlemen.”

Sera felt her face heat and slid the hand she had on his chest back up to link around his neck again. Maybe...just maybe, things were looking up. Maybe.

One thing she did know for a fact, however, was that if that prince ever showed his face on the water she was going to sing his ship right onto a sandbar.