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bikerjongho · 3 years

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the library of wonder | ateez ot8

genre: historical fiction, horror, adventure, fantasy

characters: warrior!ateez ot8

description: Religious radicals in the Joseon Dynasty, the self-proclaimed Anti-Rhythm Riders cult does everything in their power to destroy anything and anyone that violates their sacred Code of Conduct.

word count: 5.8k

warnings: violence, murder, maiming, ableism, graphic description of a dead body, radical religion, blood

author’s note: what happens when you combine the library of alexandria with ateez? this fic. this is the third addition to the ateez music video series whose masterlist (which lists the rest of them) is here. Also to note that this is part 1 of a series that I will continue later. The subsequent parts will be connected to different music videos.

taglist: @itsapapisongo @mangomingki @irehlevant @blueprint-han @doievoir @bvlnoriyas

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Weapons were a way to show the power of a king. Mounted and gleaming, the spears of King Yoongi of the Joseon Dynasty stood on either side of his elegant and golden throne like guards at the ready. On the walls that surrounded the throne from the left and right were an impressive display of bows and an array of fine arrows to accompany them. On the floor, King Yoongi's head lolled, blood pouring out of its severed end as Hongjoong sheathed the King's sword that was on his wall only moments before.

Beside the King's head and body on the floor, his recently deceased personal guard lay with him. This was thanks to Hongjoong's two best short-distance fighters, Mingi and Seonghwa. The two of them eyed the royally red blood that gushed out of the King's severed neck as they sheathed their swords. The three of them wore nothing more than simple blue hanboks and had their long hair tied up in a topknot at the top of their head, traditional for common men of this age. But with the corpse of the most important man in the Dynasty at their feet and the smell of civil unrest in the air, the plain clothing and ordinary hair was far from an appropriate look for these men in this moment.

The King's sword was now sheathed at Hongjoong's side, but he was not yet finished with the king. Bending down to the severed head, Hongjoong ripped out all of the intricate pins and ties that the King's servants had put in his hair that morning. The King's luscious black hair spilled out at his feet, mixing with his blood and turning it burgundy. Hair was a symbol of status and power. Now that the King was dead, Hongjoong assumed he no longer needed his power. He extracted a dagger from a pocket of his hanbok and began cutting at where the King's scalp ended.

The hair obliged with the blade. Soon, the King's heap of hair rested in Hongjoong's hands, and he promptly tied it to keep the strands together. "Proof," Hongjoong whispered and shoved the hair into his hanbok. "Proof that the wretched King Yoongi is dead."

"May he rot in many Hells," Seonghwa murmured and bowed his head. Mingi followed suit, and then Hongjoong last. There was a method to their madness. They, along with a few other men, were leaders of an ancient group called the Anti-Rhythm Riders. They did no harm as long as no one provoked them. Their laws, while more modest and tight than most groups, religions, or cults, were mostly fair. But the Anti-Rhythm Riders were a bloodthirsty and arrogant group of people that took pride in their faith and murdered anyone that refused to also follow.

"You must understand," Hongjoong had said calmly to a screaming woman only weeks earlier. Despite his attempts to convert her, she wouldn't budge, leaving Hongjoong with only one choice. His eyes had darkened to a lifeless grey as he had stuck his hand into her abdomen and twisted her gut. "This is a death far more merciful than if The Chariot returned while you were still alive and not following Him," he had said, digging his nails into her body while she screamed. "Feel blessed that I have chosen to kill you and spare you of his wrath that is worse than this by tenfold."

The dead King at Hongjoong's feet was one of many who had been adamantly against the Anti-Rhythm Riders. But besides their penchant for murdering those that were not like them, their strict code of honor shaped them into contributing and positive members of society. Their code of laws requested that each member of the group brought forth the best version of themselves at all times. This included dressing appropriately and being able-bodied, so all Riders were in peak health and dressed like they respected themselves. But on the same side of the coin, it was imperative to closely follow the code of honor as a Rider, lest they be murdered in the same way a non-believer would. The Riders, no matter how devoted they were to their cause, could not step out of line.

Top physical health included never becoming blind, deaf, mute, or immobile, except in the cases of old age or a sickness, but even then, those members were socially separated from the rest of the Riders. Old believers and ill people dressed from head to toe in black clothing in order to not bring attention to themselves and their misfortune of owning a frail and weak body.

But King Yoongi had not perished because of his non-belief. Despite his non-belief, most Riders saw merit in a hierarchal leader. They had, with their teeth grit, kept him alive. What had caused his downfall was not a snap decision by a lone Rider. It was caused by The Library of Wonder.

"A man that has lost his way chooses to walk the path to eternal hell," Mingi quoted a founder as he kicked Yoongi's body as he walked by towards the exit of the throne room. Hongjoong gripped the hair in his pockets, then followed Mingi. Seonghwa followed last, shutting the doors to the throne room with a smile on his face.

When they walked outside, they were met with thunderous cries and applause. The rest of Hongjoong's elite and higher-up group stood waiting in the front of it all. Yunho, man with a spear and a smile that was a bit too comforting and cozy; Yeosang, a solemn man with a sword strapped to his side that was anything but that; San, producing an ugly and terrifying grin on his face as Hongjoong removed the King's ponytail from his pockets; Jongho, with his sharp eyes and sharper reflexes, infamous bow and arrows strapped to his chest and back, and Wooyoung, who thrusted his permanently bandaged and bloodied fists into the air and let out a cry of victory that seared across the mass of Riders and raised the temperature of their spirits.

"The King is dead, Riders," Hongjoong bellowed above the roaring crowd. "And now, we ride to the Library of Wonder." He was met with shouts of disapproval for the Library, and Hongjoong's lip curled upward. There was a section for arts and music in The Rider's code. It was allowed, but certain teachings of it, such as allowing it to manipulate emotions, was forbidden.

"There is a disease in the heart of man," The Riders heard all too frequently in their sermons and speeches. "The disease is human emotion."

The Library of Wonder promoted this diseased music. For years they had tried to defund the Library, encourage the King to focus his spending elsewhere, to change the Library so it did not promote these blasphemous ideas, and none had been successful.

"We can't have a King that has allowed such a violation of our code for this long," Hongjoong had said only a month before the assassination, neck deep in plans for the kill. His face had darkened against the flickering fire that was nearby, casting inhuman shadows across his features. The Anti-Rhythm Riders were not a majority in the Joseon Dynasty, and their following was hardly recognized as a religion at all, let alone the Dynasty's main religion - but they were a potent and loud minority.

And over the course of a year, Hongjoong had been collecting and persuading commoners with his silver tongue to join The Riders for the purpose of having an army. An army that would not only be large, but also be relentless and unstoppable. And as Hongjoong stood in front of these thousands of people fueled with anger for The Library, he believed his work to collect them all had been a success. San took over with controlling the crowd, his loud voice carrying over all of the chatter and yelling. He dictated to certain groups in the crowd to certain tasks, such as loading wood onto the backs of their traveling cows or oiling up weapons and lighters. Fire, Hongjoong had decided, would be the ideal move to destroy the library. It would burn all of the texts that he and so many others hated with no hope of replicating them.

Amidst the screams, Yunho saddled up next to Hongjoong. One of Hongjoong's most efficient and silent warriors in the team, he was an asset that had carried them far. He couldn't stop smiling. Hongjoong knew that this day was huge for him - huge for all of them. Killing the King had been a goal point of their plan. Now all that was left was to destroy The Library of Wonder.

"Do you have any hangwa?" He asked, and Hongjoong was mildly bemused at how casual he was. He had just seen him slice the arm off of a palace soldier only fifteen minutes prior.

"I do," Hongjoong answered anyway, shuffling around in his bag before pulling out a packet of hangwa, assorted Korean cookies. He pushed it towards him, and Yunho happily dug in. "Time to rally the troops," he said, starting up a conversation.

"Well, it's easy to do that when persuasion rolls off of the tongue like leaves blow in the wind," Yunho said, mouth full of cookie. Yunho was referring to The Riders' way of persuasion and how it borderlined with magical coercing. In many ways, it was magical. Hongjoong theorized it had to do with how devoted and powerful many of The Riders were. It was The Chariot's doing that allowed his followers the ability of masterful persuasion.

It was also the reason why they had amassed so many people for their invasion so quickly. Many of them had knocked on doors and preached in the streets. As long as someone could hear them, people joined their cause.

The Riders left immediately after their supplies and weapons were loaded into traveling bags and onto the backs of animals. Hours after they had left on their journey to the Library, Jongho was ready to rally the troops for a special tradition. Having just climbed onto a travelling horse, he was raised above the crowd. His long and dark hair flickered around his face as he assessed the mass of walking Riders. The time must have felt correct to him, for he then raised his arms over the crowd, a move he had done many times.

This move caught the attention of many Riders, but his projecting and powerful voice was what roped in the rest. Jongho sang a mid-range note that silenced what little noise was left from the crowd. The Riders stopped what they were doing in order to match his note. Hongjoong and Yunho followed suit out of habit. The earth rumbled with the thousands of voices of the Riders.

There was an air to the main vocalist now that all of the attention was on him. Something lurked in the darker hues of his eyes, something that looked like power, and it showed itself through how he now moved and sang. His voice, still louder than the crowd's, rose up a note. The dissonance of the pitches only lasted for a moment before the crowd went down a note, creating a harmony. Jongho closed the fingers on his left hand into a fist and the women of the Riders adjusted their note. A minor harmony emerged from the chord.

None of the voices were completely perfect, except for maybe Jongho's. But all voices bowed at the command of Jongho's hands that were, in a way, conducting an old vocal ritual created by and for their religion. The choir was used to grab the attention of all Riders, but it was used equally as a morale booster. Hongjoong glanced at Yeosang, his sword gleaming with menace at his side, and raised his eyebrows.

Yeosang caught his eyes and sifted through the crowd to him. "Why is Jongho doing the Chariot Chant?" He hissed under the singing as the swordsman came close to him. He had seen Jongho and Yeosang together only a quarter of an hour prior. And while the choir was mainly for enjoyment, it was sometimes used as a distraction from something that the higher-up Riders didn't want the rest of their group to know about. Hongjoong feared something had come up despite his meticulous planning, and he assumed that Yeosang knew about the problem if there was one. "We didn't plan one. What is he diverting?"

Yeosang, in charge of the artillery, looked at Jongho on the horse. "Some of our artillery is failing," he said, his eyes the color of stone. "Some of our men and women notified me of a few issues our cannons are having. I inspected them myself and have found that they are correct. I assume this was the throne's last stand against us." His frown deepened. "I theorize our original plan for the Library can't be used now."

A smile appeared on Hongjoong's lips, mirroring Yeosang's disapproving frown. The original plan was to partially blow up the library before burning it, suggested by Yeosang, but Hongjoong had been against it. He wanted the library to be aflame as soon and for as long as possible, but he had been outnumbered by most of his group. Hongjoong's method would endanger more Rider's lives at the expense of his selfish love for fire. Unprecedented death of Riders was certainly a reason for Jongho to begin a distracting chant. He wouldn't have started it if he had thought Hongjoong's plan would go to fruition.

"So we go with my plan," Hongjoong smirked at the artillery leader. Yeosang pursed his lips and, for a moment, said nothing.

"I will think about our other options," Yeosang murmured. "Ones that will, perhaps, be less taxing on us. Don't think for a second that Jongho's calling to action means your plan will now be enacted," he said with a hint of irritation. He said no more, sweeping himself back into the crowds towards the animals helping carry the artillery, leaving Hongjoong with his thoughts and a smile still plastered to his face.

Hongjoong was the unofficial leader of the Riders, but he still wanted to deal with decisions diplomatically. So, after an hour of caroling with Jongho, Hongjoong rounded up the seven of them to talk about their plan of attack on the library.

They formed a line as they walked and saddled beside the cattle and horses that carried the artillery. Seonghwa and Wooyoung gravitated towards Hongjoong in the line. The two of them had been the members to agree with Hongjoong's less rational plan of setting fire to the library immediately upon arrival, but they had ultimately been overruled by the other five that had agreed to Yeosang's safer plan.

"So, fire immediately?" Wooyoung asked everyone once Hongjoong explained to them their situation, but his eyes were locked onto Hongjoong. Yeosang raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"Not quite," Hongjoong said evenly, turning his attention to Yeosang, who now had his arms crossed. "Let's see what our artillery man has to say."

"If the First Army successfully purged the library of people," Yeosang said, referring to a subset of the Riders that had left for the library a day earlier, "then we should have a clean and easy shot to do whatever we want to the library. Word won't spread that we invaded it until it's already a pile of rubble." Some of them bowed their heads in appreciation for that statement.

"That being said," Yeosang continued, "we have about half the amount of cannons I'd like to have. We still have swords, but that won't do much against the hard material of the building." He grabbed the hilt of his sword at his side instinctively. "We still have torches and the building is flammable."

"And bow and arrows," Yunho cut in, lifting up Jongho's bow from his back. Jongho glared at him.

"Arrows that can carry flame," Yeosang sighed, and Seonghwa's lip curled up. "I truly have exhausted my thoughts and exhausted them some more. Many weapons from home could have been used for a different attack, but we're too far to turn back now." They were all experienced enough fighters to realize where Yeosang was going.

"Fire," Hongjoong smiled, and Yeosang looked weary.

"Fire," he sighed in agreement.

Wooyoung and Seonghwa exploded into hisses of victory. Wooyoung punched his fist into the air. "Hell yes," he said, shaking his bandaged wrist in front of him.

"Should we tell them?" Yeosang asked, gesturing to the entire herd of Riders that were traveling with them as a few of the members dispersed from the group. Yeosang meant the increased danger that came with their sudden change of plans. Hongjoong adjusted the bag on his back and grinned.

"They know what they're getting into," Hongjoong smiled. "But even if they don't, they'll do it anyway. They love The Chariot too much to refuse to do something." Hongjoong flicked a cocky smile at Yeosang, who could only sigh and nod. While it was not his favorite plan, it was a plan that still accomplished the destruction of the library, which was a goal all of them wanted to achieve regardless of the means.

And while Riders didn't like injuring other Riders, self-preservation overtook any feelings they had for their lower Rider acquaintances. If Yeosang could remain without burn scars and seared lungs while someone else did, then it was simply a means to an end. The library was destined to go down by the careful hands of the Riders, one way or another.

It took another day for the riders to reach The Library of Wonder, and when they did, it was a wonder to behold. Sculpted with stone and wood, it was an incredible feat of architecture in the Joseon Dynasty. Great stone columns supported the front of the building, and a stone statue of a beautiful woman with long hair and a scroll in her hands greeted library goers at the entrance.

Wooyoung yanked out a club from the pockets of his blue hanbok and swung at the lady without warning. He took off part of her chest and her entire left arm and was met with roars of approval and laughter. "At the ready!" Hongjoong yelled over the laughing crowds, and Riders began fishing their weapons out of their pockets. These weapons were mostly bows and arrows, but like Wooyoung, a few clubs were seen. Jongho was among those with bow and arrows, slinging his trusty bow from around his shoulder to the front of his body.

But bow and arrows weren't the correct term for the weapon Jongho and many of the other Riders had. His bow and arrows were of a narrower Korean variety called the singijeon. The singijeon worked much like traditional bow and arrows, but gunpowder was held in the arrows.

He now had his bow cocked and ready and his hands clutched a wooden arrow with a ball of gunpowder nestled close to the tip of the arrow. Jongho pulled back with his left hand and released the arrow. The Riders watched as it soared through the heat of the sun and made contact with the middle of the entry wall of the Library. As soon as the arrow hit the wall, the gunpowder activated and blew a hole in it.

Many more singijeon became useful and created more holes in the Library and smoke in the air. It was almost too easy to destroy the Library. It crumbled more and more with each hit like it was destiny for the great building to fall. Soon enough, the wall was completely gone and the Riders rejoiced in their work.

Mingi appeared at the front of the crowd, a tall presence marked even more visible by the torch of fire he held in his hands. Behind him, Yeosang carried a similar torch and was passing the fire to other torches held by other Riders, who were then passing the fire to others around them like believers in a church service would. There was no fire in Yeosang's eyes despite the lit torch in his hands.

"Riders," Mingi shouted and stepped over the rubbled wall that the Riders had just destroyed. He tilted his head down and grinned while surveying the crowd. Then, he elegantly walked over to the first shelf of the Library and let his torch make contact with the last book on the shelf. It took the fire with no issues, becoming an incendiary in moments. The book was quick to share the flames with the paper around it, and soon the entire shelf glowed with fire. Mingi was quick to exit the library as Riders poured into the Library with their torches and began setting the books aflame.

Yeosang, though his eyes were grim with the disapproval of how the Riders were proceeding, was smiling. While their method wasn't the safest or most practical, the Library that had been up for so long was finally being destroyed. The eight Riders watched a safe distance away as their lesser brethren raced into the Library like packs of overexcited hyenas. Many of them likely didn't know what they were fighting for, but they were moths drawn to flame, entranced by the beauty and cruelty of destruction.

Wooyoung smiled while the fire casted red and orange light on his face. "The Library is not exactly a slow-burn, is it?" He said softly as the fire ravenously ate through the texts.

"It's not," Yunho agreed with him. "Especially with the leftover gunpowder from all of the singijeon. Gunpowder revels with fire."

The eight of them watched the Library eat itself in the flames from a safe distance away. It was comical how some Riders passionately drove into the collapsing Library with a torch in their hands and emerged with burns and much less enthusiasm. Sometimes they didn't reappear at all. That feeling caused a bit of discomfort to some of them, but Hongjoong reveled in their discomfort. It just showed how dedicated they were to The Chariot, and Hongjoong was proud of them for their dedication.

It took a half an hour for the great stone Library of Wonder to turn into a charred and wasteful hunk of rock. The papery books had succumbed too easily to the flames and all that was left on the inside of the Library were ashes and the remnant memories of books lost forever. The fire was less of a roar and more whispery and trapped now, only burning the book it was on and not passing its flame to other books.

San was now on top of a horse and rallying the troops to receive medical attention if they needed any and congratulated them on their efforts. "The Chariot is proud of us, Riders," he said, beaming. Some Riders returned a smile, others were too hurt to acknowledge San. "As our great laws say, the disease in the heart of man is human emotion. These books would have spread that harmful message had we not burned them down. For that, He is eternally grateful for your efforts."

San hopped off of the horse and joined the other seven Riders in preparing for the return trip. Behind them, the last of the flames were dying out. Riders still in the Library were stumbling out of the burned rubble. There were likely bodies of Riders that were dead inside of the Library and others that were alive but had succumbed themselves to imperfections of their physical features. And while they had given a valiant effort in destroying the Library, that was a violation of The Rider's code. They would have to cover up if they wished to remain a Rider.

But something else lurked in the rubble as well. All Riders wore blue, but a man in red was now present behind a collapsing and charred bookshelf. His ethnicity, like the Riders, was Korean, but his skin and eyes held heavy years and knowledge of many more cultures and lands that the Riders could only dream of touching. His long black hair was knotted at the back of his head, and beneath his bulging arm muscles was a lengthy silver sword with a red hilt.

But perhaps his most distinguishing feature was the long scar that travelled from his left eyebrow, through his eye, down his cheek, ending right at the tip of his lip. The scar made the left side of his lips permanently downturned. Such a scar directly violated The Rider's code, but this man was above that religion and the laws that it held. This man was Ares, the god of war. And Ares, who thrived in bloodshed and carried the spirit of warfare wherever he walked, was not impressed with the warfare that had gone on at this library.

Yunho noticed him first. He was surveying the Library's remains when he saw the man's hulking figure amidst the ashes like a phoenix. "Hongjoong," he whispered and nudged him. He nodded his head towards the Library.

Hongjoong, who was overseeing a group of Riders, looked over at the Library. Ares locked eyes with him and Hongjoong's blood ran cold. He had no idea who this man was, but he was someone that could send shivers down Hongjoong's spine. There weren't many people that could do that.

Hongjoong took a step forward to address this man, but Ares was already ahead of him.

"So-called Riders," Ares boomed across the land, his voice easily the loudest in the vicinity yet there was no visible effort on his face to make himself heard over everyone. His thigh muscles rippled as he stepped over what was left of the wall. His face was flooded with unfiltered rage.

The rest of the Riders, who had been focused on returning home, froze in their efforts. All eyes were on the giant and muscular man seething in front of them.

Seonghwa grabbed the knife at his side and glanced at Hongjoong for permission. In any other circumstance, Hongjoong would have let him have it. Instead, he softly shook his head, and held his hand in front of Jongho when he realized he was drawing his bow. There was something about this man that Hongjoong did not want to provoke, but the steam coming from his head was proof that he had already been provoked enough. Hongjoong gulped and tried to calm his racing heart.

"I'm Ares, the God of War," the muscled man thundered, and no one was brave enough to disagree with him. He certainly looked the part. Now that he was closer, Hongjoong could see the long scar across his face and wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"You-" Ares began, but he was cut off as a singijeon arrow flew through the air directly towards his face. Hongjoong turned and saw that it was from a young and male Rider, gripping his bow so tightly that his knuckles were white.

Ares didn't flinch at this unexpected attack. With a practiced and weathered hand, he caught the arrow between his fingers. The Riders were stunned. His hand twitched and the arrow snapped in half. "Cute," he muttered, letting it crumble to the ground in his hands. He turned towards the teenage Rider who had shot the arrow and gave him a smile.

Hongjoong began to step forward. He wasn't sure what he was to do for the boy, he wanted to help - but Ares was too quick. With a flick of his hand not unlike the motion he had done with the arrow, the teenage boy jerked inhumanly backward with a loud crack. With his spine completely in two, he toppled over himself backwards onto the ground. His face was lifelessly frozen in shock, and the clear God of War smiled with satisfaction at the work he had done.

A few muffled sobs prevented silence. "Let me speak," Ares said carefully to the crowd, his eyes traveling over them all like he was sizing them up. This time, no one argued.

"Riders," Ares began. "You've burned down The Library of Wonder and all of the wonders it contained. Do you even understand the weight of that action?"

Ares looked directly at Hongjoong and he felt obliged to speak. "The books hold untrue and unsafe messages," Hongjoong spoke to Ares, his knees quivering underneath his pants. He didn't remember his voice sounding so small. "We had to rid them of this world. They have no place here except as smoke and ash. It is The Chariot's wish and creed."

"And your Chariot is nothing more than a weak and ailing minor god," Ares said cooly back to him. It took everything in Hongjoong's power to not curse him out for insulting his god - but he didn't want to end up like the young Rider.

"I know him," Ares continued. "He laughs at the lengths you do for him. He himself knows he is pathetic, but he enjoys seeing humans like you quiver and worship him. And I normally don't bat an eye to his or your shenanigans, I have better things to worry about, other worlds that are far more entertaining than this one," Ares said.

His eyes darkened. "But burning down my wife's Library broke her. So, in turn, you have to deal with me."

Hongjoong realized in horror what he meant. He idly thought of Wooyoung's gleeful act of smashing the statue of the goddess at the front of the Library. He wanted to throw up. Wooyoung looked like he wanted to throw up.

"So I've made it my personal game to make your lives a living hell," Ares said with a smile. "Because no one hurts my wife." He shifted his attention, not just towards Hongjoong, but to the other seven of his teammates crowded around him. They all froze. Hongjoong felt Mingi tense beside him.

"You Riders are simply too vocal for my taste," Ares glared. "The Chariot gives you the power of persuasion because it amuses him, so you all go around recruiting mindless humans to follow your so-called religion. But it is not funny in the slightest." His eyes swiveled to Jongho and his smile widened. "Doesn't this one sing?"

Hongjoong heard Jongho intake a terrified breath. He heard a sudden movement, and then Jongho had taken off running in the opposite direction as Ares. But Jongho was an ant and Ares was a stone. Hongjoong blinked and Ares was in front of the singer.

Jongho was strong, but he was nothing compared to a god. He began screaming as Ares picked him up by the throat, crying out to the Chariot, to his mother, to Hongjoong, to anyone that was listening, but he received no answer. Tears ran down his face and he kicked to be set free. Only his scream, which vastly contrasted his usual mesmerizing singing voice, cut through the air, and then he was abruptly silenced by Ares.

Ares dropped Jongho to the ground at his feet, and the boy continued his sobs in a crumpled mess. But his sobs lacked the voice, no matter how anguished it would have been right now, that the Riders had grown to love.

"He has no more use for his vocal cords," Ares smiled, and Hongjoong's heart dropped to his feet. Jongho had loved his voice. Everyone had loved his voice. Ares looked at the rest of them, and he realized with horror that he was not close to being done with them. "A shame, isn't it?" Ares laughed and stepped over Jongho's shaking body. "Your law says you are to never become mute, lest you want to remain a Rider. Seems like a bit of an issue, does it not?"

Hongjoong tried to move his legs, but he found himself frozen in place. He wasn't sure if it was his own body trying to protect him from harm or Ares immobilizing him, but he could only stare in sickening awe as one by one, Ares stole the voices of every Rider present. For some, he waved his hand and an entire group of people were silenced. Others, like those in Hongjoong's close team, had a solo maiming in front of everyone. No one was spared from Ares' destruction, especially not Hongjoong.

When he was finished, the sea of Riders were silent.

"Now I won't be interrupted," Ares said cheerfully, worlds happier than he was when he first arrived at the library. The hulking man had taken it upon himself to move Jongho's limp and shaking form back to the other seven of them.

"You eight are especially troublesome," Ares whispered, because there was no voice that could be above him. "For that, you have a special place in my personal hell. And now, I will take you to your own personal hell."

Ares raised his hand, and the library in the horizon vanished from view. For a moment, Hongjoong could see nothing, and then a beige wall of a house clouded his vision.

Hongjoong opened his mouth to cry out, but the attempt was fruitless.

"Your own personal hell," Ares said softly, suddenly beside him. The god placed a hand on Hongjoong's shoulder, a soft gesture that a father might do to a son. "You and your seven other friends are in, what I call, a timeout mansion. It is a place that you cannot leave or escape from, so I advise you to not even attempt that. You will sit and you will gaze at the fine art and architecture that this mansion has to offer," Ares said, his words puncturing. "You will be in aching emotional pain because all of this art is, as you call it, a disease to your human heart." Ares rubbed his back while Hongjoong held back tears. "And you will grow to love it."

The god stood up from beside Hongjoong. "That is your answer to escaping. An answer that you must vocalize and preach if you are to ever leave here." Ares smiled at him, and the scar that touched his eye, cheek, and lip curled up with it. And then he was gone, and Hongjoong's hope left with him.

For a few moments, Hongjoong stared at the floor. Then, shaking, he raised his right hand.

There is a disease in the heart of man, Hongjoong thought and touched his chest over his heart. His heart was racing like he had never felt before.

The disease is in me.

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drabblesanddreams · 5 years

Text

Old life, new world - Chuuya Nakahara x Reader

Hey everyone, this is a commission that i wrote for the lovely @moonlittxger :) I hope you like the way it turned out! If anyone wishes for a commission please send me a pm and ill text back with more details :)

If you wish to support heres my Kofi

Word count: 2.3 K

TW: slight form of Self harm, depressing thoughts, angst, read at your own risk

Summary: When you get hit by a bus and end up in a new world, Chuuya is the one who saves you and over time you find your disdain for the man turn into something more warm and tender- a story over 6 months.

Six months

“Hey,”

Though the sudden greeting managed to break you out of the despairing thoughts that managed to fall one after another in the alignment of your mind, your body barely budged an inch. You slowly blinked, (E/C)’s becoming hazy once more as you lost yourself between the stone crevices of the prison wall and the deep, growing fissures of your own sanity.

You easily fell back into dwelling around the concept of what was now and what was then.

You replayed the facts over and over again in your head.

You had been struck by a bus, no one's fault but your own for rushing across the street without looking at all in upmost urgency so that you would make it to work on time and hopefully, avoid the wicked wrath of your boss.

You remember the hot rush of pain that flooded your senses and every nerve before blacking out, courtesy of your head hitting the asphalt.

When you woke up, you half-expected to be in a hospital room. But instead, you were back on the roads, lying on your back as your eyes became lost in the too-blue sky above. It was serene, peaceful even.

And then someone was honking for you to ‘get the fuck off the roads you dumbass!’

Reality slid back into place and you wondered what the hell just happened. But you didn’t have the time nor expense to be dwelling over it because one look at your watch, you blanched and realized you were late of work.

However, when you arrived at your workplace, your manager stared at you in pure confusion, wondering why you were trying to clock in. When you returned her comment with equal confusion, her eyebrows stitched together in annoyance as she pushed you out of the door muttering about “stupid brats and pulling their pranks again,”

Safe to say you were defiantly perplexed and thought to yourself that this must be her way of firing you.

It only got worse and more harrowing afterwards, for when you made your way back home you were stopped in place by the big blue sold! Sign outside your estate. When you tried phoning your mother about what was going on, your heart raced ever so quickly and nearly stopped in its thundering mission when you heard the voice on the other side, proclaiming that the number was disconnected and no longer in service.

Afterwards, you shut your eyes tightly and tugged hard at your head of hair, hoping to wake up from whatever the fuck was happening. You remember the emotions lurching throughout your body then. The tears that threatened to escape the corner of your eyes, the feeling that you were suffocating as if you couldn’t get enough air.

It wasn’t until you were walking in the dark of the city that you had no idea where to go or what to do. When an older gentleman had cornered you in an ally way, you completely freaked as he attempted to lay his hands on you. Until a moment of pure panic, something worse seemed to have happened.

A foreign pressure on your back, like you had an extension of some limbs. When you looked back, you felt like you were going to blank out, which you then did within the next thirty seconds.

Because there, on your back was a translucent pair of chrysanthemum blue wings, butterfly in shape.

The older man then growled at you, a ferocious sound from the bottom of his throat as he grabbed your head, muttering “ability user,” then smashed it against the ally-way wall.

Back in the prison cell, the wound on your head was now healed, and that’s how you figured your pair of wings came with the ability of slight regeneration. You didn’t forget the way your attacker muttered ability user like it was some sort of disease. He mentioned to his colleagues that they had to be very careful so that dammed detective agency didn’t figure out of their plans to traffic you out of the city.

You put two and two together afterwards and realized the exact sort of hell you were in. You hypothesized that you must’ve died, or must’ve ended up in one long, freakish dream.

For the first bit in the prison cell, you amused yourself half-heartedly by digging your nails into your palm, deep enough to draw blood and severe enough that your new-found abilities would take over and repair the torn skin, centimetre by centimetre in the expense of about a minute.

You were still trying to come to terms with the fact that you were never going to see your family again. The burden of this thought weighed on your soul like an anchor pulling down the mass of a ship.

“Hey,” he called out again this time more … Get the fuck up, we’re leaving.”

This time you spared the stranger a glance.

He was flanked in black dress pants, a vest, and a long black coat. From underneath that black hat peaked out orange hair, long enough that it curled slightly around his pale neck. He was short, petit even as he buried his hands in the pocket of his trousers, scowling at you with disdain.

What a joke, Chuuya Nakahara was here.

You gazed up at him for a moment longer, a thousand questions billowing in your mind but instead you remained quiet.

He kicked the cell bars, now fully annoyed, “I said get the fuck up,” he ordered, and you snorted, rolling your eyes as you lolled your head over to him.

“Or what,” you couldn’t help but say sarcastically, “You’ll put me in prison?”

He huffed, drawing a key from his pocket and easily unlocking the chain door as he made his way over to you, harshly grabbing you by the arm and pulling you up. You did little to protest this, no longer finding the will to fight back any longer. You would accept whatever fate had in store for you with open arms.

“Haha, very funny smartass,” he rolled his eyes as he dragged you out of the prison cell and out the corridor.

As the both of you made your way down the corridor, you caught sight of some of the guards who had previously been tasked with watching over you, now on the ground and slouched over their stomachs, chin resting on their chests, sleeping away.

It then struck you with the harsh realization that these men weren’t sleeping, they were unconscious, you thought as you caught sight of a dribble of blood here and there.

“Wait,” you said, stopping in your tracks as your eyebrows furrowed. Chuuya stopped as well, looking at you in annoyance and he tugged at your arm, “I said wait.”

You examined him for a moment before voicing your thought out loud, “Are you…saving me?” you asked.

He snorted loudly, rolling his cerulean blue hues as he said, “Wow, princess you sure are a genius,” you scowled at this before harshly pulling your arm away from his grasp and crossing your arms over your chest. “Yes, Mori-san requested that we take you back and join the Port Mafia,” At this your eyes widened, and you gaped openly at him. The… Port Mafia?

“Hell fucking no am I joining the fucking mafia you short, ginger cussing asshole!” you proclaimed loudly as you took a step back, placing your hands on your hips.

2 months later, you were now under the ranks of the mafia. It was quite logical to join them, after all, you had absolutely no place to go.

Although the effects of depression never failed to take a hold of you, the thoughts of how worried your mom must be now that you had been missing for so long, you found yourself growing accustomed to your wings.

The healing bit was a perk too.

But over the two months you found yourself squabbling with Chuuya on a daily, the backbiting that occurred between you two was fierce, ever since you called him short.

“Are you done yet? Hurry the fuck up (Y/N) I don’t have all day!”

At Chuuya’s call you rolled your eyes as you searched around your room for your report, the one that the both of you had to report to Mori-sensei.

“I’m hurrying holy shit calm down!” you called back out to him through the door. You heard a bang on your door and didn’t doubt for a second that he must’ve kicked it again, hot-headed as he is.

You wondered just how much your poor door could take before it would cave into the splintering pieces of wood that barely managed to hold itself together.

Reaching under the covers of your bed, your hand grasped the file folder of your report and you pulled it out victoriously before making haste in sprinting across your room.

You pulled the door to your room open, meeting Chuuya’s eyes. What a pretty colour they were, even though you did hate the guy you could admit that he was…hot, for lack of a better term.

But you would never admit that out loud, so instead you thrust the folder into his arms, “Here.”

2 Months later

“Who the fuck did this?” Chuuya hissed at you though his actions didn’t carry the same malice as his words as he ran his thumb over the cut on your face.

“Fuck Chuuya I dunno, doesn’t matter though we gotta go,” you groaned at the pain in your body, slurring your words as the earth tilted down slightly. The slight sound of gunshots down the street sent your heart racing, the both of you had to scram before getting caught in the crossfire, otherwise, it’ll be too late.

You felt the brush of wind against your exposed shoulders as your wings stuttered for a moment before folding in back on themselves, too weak to have energy wasted on them folded out.

“C’mon,” he muttered and wrapped a hand around your shoulders and the other around your waist, hoisting you up.

You moaned in pain as you rested your head against his shoulder, already feeling the slow regenerating effect of your ability kicking in.

That day, you saw Chuuya look at you with something a bit different than the usually anger and hate…worry.

2 Months later- present

“No no no idiot, Baileys is the one you can eat with ice-cream and all that shit, Concha Toro is good for admiring its taste in just itself,”

You eyed Chuuya’s explanation of the two brands with faint interest from the couch, you laid your head down on the arm of his couch as you took in your explanation.

“So, which one are we drinking?” you asked. Ever since Chuuya had heard that the only wine you’ve had was from the grocery store, he freaked and demanded that he take upon the role to educate you on his hobby, which was, of course, drinking wine.

“Concha Toro,” he stated, walking over to you as he uncorked the bottle and filled the two glasses up. He handed you one and you gingerly got up as he sat next to you on the couch. You took a small sip of it before cringing, “It’s way too bitter,” you gagged and Chuuya rolled his eyes as he made for a reach for your glass

“No!” you stated in possessiveness as you brought the glass closer to your chest, “Mine,” he raised an eyebrow at your antics.

Soon, through the small, mindless chatter with Chuuya you found yourself finishing the glass and swiped Chuuya’s own, draining that as well.

“Oneeee more!” you begged holding out your glass. You felt fuzzy and light like you were drifting on a cloud.

“Hell no, you’re drunk already you lightweight,” he stated back in return and you pouted, swaying towards him on the couch, “Please?” you slurred.

He shook his head and just as you swayed a little too far, your body lurched forward and he caught you in his harms. You immediately wrapped your arms around him and giggled, “Okay, I think its time you go to bed,” he stated at your antics.

He hoisted the both of you up and you stumbled forward, “You know I died once?” you stated, referring to your accident with the bus that seemed a million years ago. “Uh huh,” he said obviously not believing you, “It’s true!”

He gently pulled you forward but it seems as if the alcohol was really hitting you as you could barely walk, “Fuck my life..” he muttered and you stared at him as he wrapped his arms under you, pulling you up so he could carry you bridal style.

He was so pretty, god, you might even want to kiss him if you didn’t hate him so much. Humming you asked, “Chuuya do you hate me?” he stopped in his tracks and looked at you. “What the hell? I may detest you, but I don’t hate you, princess,” he called out that nickname. Whenever he called you princess, it always infuriated you, but you always felt a rush of warmth in the pit of your belly.

Reaching your head up, you nuzzled his neck affectionately as you tenderly kissed the spot underneath his ear.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, and you tilted your head up as you took in the blush creeping up his pale cheeks, “Loving you,”

“Chuuya,” you said, “Let’s not hate each other anymore, ‘kay?” he looked at you and grunted in amusement.

“We can talk about this in the morning, now just go to bed dumbass,”

“Promise?”

“Yeah, I promise,”

Maybe with the promise of a new life, you’d be okay again, hopefully enough that you could find your way back home.

But was losing everything newfound worth it?

You’ll just have to see.

#comission #bsd #bsd imagines #bsd chuuya #bsd imagine #bsd x reader #Chūya Nakahara #Nakahara Chuuya #Chuuya #chuuya imagine #chuuya x reader #bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs imagine #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs imagines #bungo stray dogs headcanons

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therealjammy · 7 years

Text

An Old Friend, A New One

For @pota-totoo. This fic was totally inspired by one of your tweets in which you said Shaw would outlive Bear. So I had to write a little something on it. But there’s a surprise for you in here and I hope you like it!

Warning: Major character death.

Bear was perched by her leg, his chin resting on her boot and chocolate, watery eyes wandering from person to person and dog to dog. His tail thumped happily and his tongue lolled from his mouth, getting droplets of saliva on Shaw’s shoe. He hadn’t been in a mood to chase his ball for a little bit, but Shaw could understand that. Like him, her body was slowing down too. But that didn’t stop her from going on missions and shooting bad guys and getting to blow things up. With Bear, it was a little bit of a different story. He couldn’t walk as far and slept for hours on and off during the day. He was getting arthritis in his joints. There were patches of white fur on his chest and snout and around his eyes. Shaw teased him from time to time about having grey hair and he would look at her as if to say you have some too.

They walked home together, Shaw slowing her pace so he could keep up. He was wobbling a bit but looked happily up at her. When they were home she scratched behind his ears as he lay in his dog bed, eyes closed and head pressing into the touch. He liked to hear how good he was; each time Shaw murmured the phrase his tail would beat against the side of the bed or the bookshelf.

“Get some sleep, buddy. You look pretty tired.”

In his last days, he was as loving as he was the very first time Shaw had met him. He slept between her and Root on the bed, head pillowed on one of their legs for most of the night. He greeted them when they came in the door, wobbling over and nearly stumbling into things because of a cataract in one eye. His appetite was as big as Root’s. He rotated between them on movie nights for pets and ear scratches and still begged for people food even though his stomach wouldn’t be able to handle it. But towards the end of his life an illness befell him, resulting in many trips to different vets across the city in order to diagnose it.

“Unfortunately,” said the fifth vet, clipping more X-rays to the lightbox, “your tough guy’s got cancer. It’s already spread to multiple places, as you can see here,” she pointed to the stomach and the liver. “Surgery is an option but there may not be much we can do otherwise.”

Root chewed on her nails. Her left hand was buried in his warm ruff, shaking slightly. Shaw was studying the X-rays, arms crossed over her chest.

“I can give you some time to think things over,” the vet said gently. “I’ll come back in a bit.”

The door shut softly behind her and Root let out a shaky breath.

“We can afford the surgery and the other bills,” Shaw told her. “I think it may be worth a shot.”

“Okay,” Root said, nodding, pressing her lips repeatedly to Bear’s head and letting the tip of his tongue grace her nose. “Yeah.” She hadn’t expected to love him this much, so overwhelmed with the thought of him leaving forever. Everything aged but if she had one superpower in the world it would be to make him immortal.

The vet came back five minutes later, her black uniform covered in orange cat hair. “Wild cat back there,” she commented, making Root smile a bit. “So, have you made a decision?”

The surgery was scheduled for Tuesday of next week. The Machine cleared their schedules for two weeks in case things went amiss. She told Root the odds of survival in elderly dogs to make her feel a little better and promised to watch over him while he stayed at the vet for two days recovering. By the end of it the vet—whose name they now knew was Autumn—gave them a call and said he made it out okay and was coming around from the anaesthesia. Would they be free to visit him tomorrow morning?

By the time they made it the office was filled with waiting people with cats, dogs, and even parrots that squawked and repeated phrases. The resident cat, Lucille, jumped in Shaw’s lap and made herself at home until she had to get up to go to the room where Bear was waiting for them. The shut door blocked out the noise and they were enveloped in a quiet, cool room, Bear’s tail wagging despite the cone fastened around his neck to keep from licking the stitches on his stomach.

“Hey bud,” Shaw said. He licked her palm and nuzzled his nose into Root’s elbow. “You doing okay?”

Autumn came in a moment later, looking pleased. “He can go home tomorrow,” she said. “I’ve prepared some ointment that you can rub on the stitches and given you antibiotics to mix with his food or treats. Just make sure he doesn’t lick them.”

Root pored over the vet bills and wrote checks to pay them off, taking from the bank account she’d set up a while ago for normal expenses. Her hand shook when she signed each one with a cover signature, one the Machine had made sure was completely thorough. Bear’s condition had worsened slightly and after several back and forth calls between Shaw and Autumn the conclusion was reached that there wasn’t much to do except keep him comfortable and try to keep his pain level down.

Shaw had set up an air mattress on the floor by Bear’s bed so she could keep an eye on him during the night. Sometimes the mattress would bounce and wake Root up and other time she would wake up during hours where Shaw soothed him through pain or dreams. But even if he was losing weight and looking worse for wear there was still that spark in his eyes, that happy look in them like he wouldn’t want to be with anyone else.

There was a day where he couldn’t get out of bed. Autumn did house calls as well and came bearing a travel kit, red hair up in a bun and blue latex gloves on as soon as she’d stepped through the door and into Shaw’s apartment. He was calm throughout the examination and, when it was done, moved his head closer to Shaw and Root’s hands, pressing into their touches. Soft whines escaped his throat.

“He’s hanging on,” Autumn said, packing away her stethoscope, a solemn look on her face. “He’s in pain, though. I don’t know if you want to let him hang on a little bit longer or…” She trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished. Her eyes darted between Shaw and Root, taking in the thoughtful expression on Shaw’s face and the upset face of Root, who was biting the inside of her cheek to keep something inside.

“Let me make a call,” Shaw said, rising from her crouch. She went into the bedroom to call Lionel and John, telling them the news and asking their advice.

“I’ll be there in a few,” John told her. Rustling on his end was a sign of him rushing out the door.

“Yeah, of course I’ll be there,” Fusco said. “Gotta say goodbye to the big guy, right?”

When they arrived it was early evening and the sun was beginning to sink lower in the sky. It cast golden light in Shaw’s living room, shining warmly on Bear’s bed. His tail wagged and wagged when he saw John and, when Lionel gave his ears a scratch, he licked his palm. Autumn introduced herself and explained the process of putting an animal under, keeping an impressive composure even though there were tears making her hazel eyes glassy.

“He’ll go right to sleep and the heart will stop in two minutes or so. I’ll need you to put some towels down; often the bowels release.”

Once he was comfortable Shaw spoon fed him a bit of peanut butter. “One for the road,” she said, scratching behind an ear as he eagerly licked the stuff away and smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. She set her hand on Root’s leg and fingers wove between hers. Root kissed his head several times. John pet the base of his skull. Lionel got licks to the hand. He was looking at all of them with his happy eyes even after the stuff was administered via IV. He gave Root a last kiss on the nose and leaned his head into Shaw’s hands.

Life was significantly empty for a little while. An absence of colour existed and maybe a lack of love, too. The world felt strange when Bear wasn’t there to greet them at the door after the end of a long day, wasn’t there on their walks in Central Park or in the backs of cars when they were meeting John or Lionel at a dog-friendly restaurant to sit outside in the city ambience. The loss was equivalent to losing a good friend. You didn’t know what to do with yourself for a little while but you had to move on somehow, bury yourself in things that would take your mind off the loss, but not forget about anything. Remember all the good memories, laugh at the stories.

“Remember when he nearly bit that guy’s arm in half?”

“Or dragged Root across the subway because he saw a rat?”

“That was once, Sameen.”

“I remember messing up commands and having him jump on my desk and then knock everything off when getting down.”

I have memories of his loyalty and love, the Machine chimed in. I grew attached to him too.

It was a rainy July day, the heat from earlier still present in the air despite the cold droplets that fell from the sky. Shaw had just finished a mission where she and Root destroyed a leftover Samaritan server farm with bullets and plenty of C-4 and a few scratches to take home as souvenirs. She’d requested dinner from the Chinese takeout place down the street from her apartment and a short walk in the park by herself.

“Take your time, Sameen,” Root had said when there was a lull in conversation from the other side of the phone. “It’ll be here when you get back.”

Shaw settled herself on a bench on the walk path. This time of night the park was relatively deserted save for joggers enjoying the cool and rainy weather and lovers strolling underneath black and blue umbrellas. The rain created a soothing ambience, reminding her of quiet nights on missions in different countries and of quiet nights with Root, with Bear lying at their feet. He’d lived a good life, spoiled until his last moments, surrounded by people who cared for him and filled with so much life and love. Shaw closed her eyes and leaned her head back to the rain, letting it kiss her face. If there was an afterlife, she thought, she hoped he was chasing balls and Frisbees and rats and eating all the peanut butter and bacon cupcakes he pleased.

When the sky was significantly darker she headed home. There was a strange feeling swimming inside her chest, one that was familiar but unnameable. The rain was soaking into her hair and clothes and her stomach was growling.

Warmth enveloped her when she returned home. She wrung her hair out in the shower and changed into dry clothes, a tank top and sweatpants. She kept her socks on to keep her toes warm. She emerged from the bedroom with her hair down and was met outside the door by a wriggling creature. It took her a moment to realise it was a puppy, whining and clawing at her leg. She stared at its eyes, happy and brown like coffee, the little pink tongue and little wet, black nose. The little stubby tail wagging back and forth.

“Root,” Shaw said, not looking at her, “what is this?”

“He’s a surprise.” She was tearing open cartons of Chinese and opening a new bottle of bourbon that they would christen in new glasses. “It’s been a few months. I figured it was time.”

Shaw bent down and picked the puppy up. It licked at her chin and mouth and nose, yipping happily. A little collar dangled around its neck, the gold nametag already bearing a name. Hugo.

“Did he come with this name?” Shaw asked. The puppy wriggled in her arms and she scratched behind its little ears.

“I named him. You know,” Root added, “like the author who wrote Les Miserables.”

Shaw snorted. “I doubt you’ve even read the book.”

“Part of it.” Root handed Shaw a glass of bourbon when Hugo was placed on the floor. He scampered after Shaw, little claws scraping the wood floor. “It was when I was a PhD student for a week.”

Later that night, Hugo’s warm body was nestled between their shoulders, already curled up and sleeping. His breathing came in slow quarter notes, warm puppy breath caressing Shaw’s shoulder. She wondered if Bear looked similar as a puppy.

“Do you like him?” Root asked.

“I think so.” Shaw stared at him a little longer. “He better not chew my boots.”

“I already got him a brand new pair to sharpen those teeth on,” Root smiled. “And puppy training pads.”

Shaw reached over to cup Root’s face. “You didn’t have to, you know,” she murmured.

Root kissed her palm. “I know. But I wanted to. We were missing him and I know Hugo won’t be the same, but I’m sure we’ll care for him just as much.”

The next morning warm sunlight streamed through the large windows and Shaw woke up with Root’s head on her shoulder, her arm thrown over her waist, and Hugo sleeping soundly on her stomach. He sensed that she was awake and cracked open his eyes. Somehow he looked at her like she was familiar.

#root x shaw #tumblr fic #fan fiction #person of interest

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