this blog: the point

okay girlies i am fighting back against years of internalised misogyny and not-like-other-girls-isms and finally indulging my latent interest in dating sims/visual novels. i'm completely new to the genre, with the exception of that one time i went fucking feral over mystic messenger for like three months when i was seventeen, but those were dark times 😔✊

i though it'd be fun to blog my journey, since from my brief foray into the mysmes fandom it seemed like people in this sphere of the internet are honestly lovely. i'm planning on starting with the obey me series, since i know it's pretty popular at the moment, maybe do a bit of live-blogging, but if anyone has any suggestions i'd be happy to hear them!!

At My Weakest - three

rated: m, mature | word count: 4.4k | story page 

“I am summer... yearning for a drop of your rain.” 

   - Gemma Troy 

“Fucking finally,” Harry growled, his body shooting forward to press Gianna against the kitchen counter.

She was equally fervent, gripping into the collar of that god forsaken polka dot shirt like her life depended on it, tasting his kiss like it was her first meal after starving.

That’s what it felt like; like she was starving for him. For the sounds he made, for his skin under her palms, for that excruciating push of his cock inside her. Every single part of him only made her crave more.

“Thought she’d never leave,” Gianna gasped as her head fell back on her neck.

Harry’s mouth took no pause in finding its way to the soft skin of her throat, sucking kiss after kiss to her racing pulse.

He squeezed her hips tightly, pulling her even closer as his mouth trailed down her neck and chest. She felt like the most comfortable blanket, soft and pillowy in every way, every single curve of her body driving him mad.  

When she slipped out from his insistent crowding, and her fingers latched into the open buttons of his shirt, he followed her without thought. Let her lead him down the hall, fingers still gripping to her, mouth still attempting to find any piece of skin he could.

“This shirt is ridiculous,” Gianna flippantly commented on the oversized pink polka dots as they stumbled into his bedroom, Harry slamming the door closed behind them.

Her fingers moved at lightning speed to get every button open, pushing the pink fabric from his shoulders as soon as she could. She could pretend like she really thought it was ridiculous all she wanted, but she knew deep down that he could wear anything and make it look good.

That wasn’t something she either noticed or cared about before. It was unnerving the way she looked at him now, how the sliver of his chest caught her eye the moment she saw him, how it sent a blazing spike of heat down her spine just from a glimpse of his skin.  Maybe it was because she knew what it felt like beneath her fingers now, the feel of his skin overtop the supple yet firm expanse of his chest was now ingrained in her mind with nowhere to go, no outlet, no escape.  

Harry shook his arms loose from the fabric and no sooner did the shirt hit the floor did he have both hands gripping her - one on the smallest part of her soft waist and the other wrapped against her jaw, angling her face up to his.

“That why you were eyeing me up back there?” The words were spoken low in Harry’s throat, timbre deep as he looked down at her with blazing eyes.

It was amazing really, the way the green would change right before her eyes. She’d noticed it before. It was as if every time he looked at her for more than a few seconds, his irises would dilate and the green and gold specks would illuminate so bright she had to look away.

Except for now. Now she bathed in it, silently begging for it to swallow her whole.

She didn’t bother with a response, instead leaned up slowly, eyes steady on his as she torturously closed every inch between them. Until her lips were encased in soft pink warmth and her body melted.

He wrapped her up in him, pulled her so close she felt like she could barely breathe, like she was suffocating from the scent of his shampoo and buttery softness of his lips. And she welcomed it. Adored it, longed for it, begged for more. She couldn't get close enough, and it felt like a sin to have to separate long enough for them to pull their clothes off. Her shirt, her pants, his pants, her bra, his boxers, all falling to the floor one after another until he was mercifully tugging her underwear down her thighs as his tongue slipped along her bottom lip.      

Gianna’s squeal of a giggle was rambunctious in comparison to the growl that escaped Harry’s throat when he practically tackled her onto his bed, immediately sinking into the mattress - sinking into eachother’s warmth and eagerness.  

Her hands raked through his hair when he kissed across her jaw, nipping softly on his way down her chest. She arched into him, back curving off the mattress in an attempt to get closer, until his mouth circled her nipple so delicately she felt like her skin could crawl off.  But when his warm tongue smoothed over her nipple, flicking the peak over and over again, she was all breathless moans and gripping hands.

And that was the thing about Harry, he loved it. Wanted more sounds slipping from her perfect lips, wanted her to tug on his hair harder, wanted her hips twitching off the mattress more than she could bear.  

He looked up at her, enamored with the way her chin was tilted back, her neck and jaw tight and on display, her breath visibly escaping her heaving chest when his hand slipped down her body to find its way between the hot skin of her thighs.  

Her moan was like a song he couldn’t stop playing, a melody he hummed to himself without even noticing, that’s how much it was intricately rooted in his brain.  He wanted to hear it as much as possible, over and over, louder and louder. He got inklings of it when he teased her, snippets when his mouth tormented her, and a smooth, keening noise fell from her lips when his middle finger slipped inside her.  A hook, a twist and a steady, slow pump had her hips moving with him, following every movement like a carefully choreographed dance.  

“You’re so fucking sexy,” Harry murmured against her chest, his tongue sweeping out over her nipple once more.  

Her nails scratched against his scalp in response, her moan sending another wave of fire across his skin.  He pushed himself up onto his forearm, eyes entranced with every curve of her body, flicking wildly from the blissful look on her face to the way her hips rolled against the mattress as he eased another finger inside her.  

“Please…” she breathed, one hand gripping to the bed sheet while the other squeezed tighter to a handful of his roots.  

Her back arched further, her hips stilling for a moment as he curled his fingers deeper and stopped, hooking them in a way that had her head going fuzzy.  He remained completely still, breath caught in his throat as she swirled her hips before angling down on his fingers further.  He was mesmerized, watching in awe as she practically grinded down on his fingers, her hips making patterns against his mattress.

“There you go,” he encouraged her softly, eyes trained on every move she made. “That’s it, love. Mhm, there you go.” His voice was so low he didn’t even recognize it. It was like he could barely get the words out but couldn’t stop from saying them.      

It was like something switched for him in that moment. He’d give this girl anything she wanted, fill any desire she had, if it meant keeping her there. He’d never had that before; to have someone in his bed and be thinking about how he could get her to stay within his sheets after the high had been chased.

A whine crawled up his throat at the thought, completely taking him off guard. He pressed his forehead into her sternum, somehow feeling her heart hammering through her skin. Maybe it was his imagination - his foggy, desire filled thoughts playing tricks on him.

Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he could feel her heart beating for him in a way that was more than just lust, more than whatever pleasure he was giving her.

“Harry,” she breathed, her voice like honey whenever her lips caressed his name.

He pressed his forehead into her chest more, tongue languidly lapping out to taste her skin. He couldn’t stop from planting wet kisses against her trembling frame, his laps laying her heart for a moment, as if he could absorb her rhythmic heartbeat to match his own.

And then all he could do was slither down her body, catching the way her hips arched up to him to meet his greedy mouth, tongue licking fully through her wet folds with no preamble.

He moaned when she moaned, tasting her fully and breathless asking for more.

“Yeah, go on,” he mumbled against her clit, groaning harshly when her hands pulled tighter on his hair, her hips rolling on their own accord.

“Oh my,” she breathed, her words cutting off with a gasping moan.

Harry gripped Gianna’s hips in his hands, encouraging her to grind against his mouth more. “Fuck my face,” he demanded, his words coating her sensitive skin like a promise.

“God, fuck,” she cursed under her breath, shaking as he licked against her once more.

She lifted her head from the mattress in time to see him pulling away, a small whine emitting from her throat as he moved away.

“Come on. Do it right,” he spoke eagerly as he laid back, his hands grabbing at any part of her he could. “Fuck my face.”  

The devilish smile pulling at her lips did nothing but ignite the fire in the pit of Harry’s stomach, every inch of his skin tingling as he watched her pull up from the bed to crawl over him, legs straddling his waist for a moment as her face hovered over his.

“Who are you,” she murmured, obviously not really caring for a reply before her full lips were pressed against his in a slow kiss, her tongue sweeping against his only to taste herself.

Harry’s hands smoothed over her waist, trailing down her hips until he could grip the supple flesh of her thighs, his fingers digging in harder than ever.

Everything she did made him hotter than the moment before, his body blazing beneath her as he guided her up his chest until her knees planted on either side of his head.

He couldn’t take it, she was moving too slow; he needed her on his tongue again. So with a gentle squeeze and tug against her hips, her knees slid apart the inch needed for him to lift his head from the mattress and find her delicate skin, warm and wet and waiting for him.

Her gasp was all the encouragement he needed to pull her down fully on him, until every inch of his mouth and chin was covered in her desire. He gripped her hips tighter, lapping across her clit over and over as she moaned.

One hand pressed against the small of her back, the other splaying out across the soft skin of her lower stomach until his thumb could find her clit and his tongue could press into her fully.

“Shit,” Gianna gasped, one of her hands pushing roughly through the top of his hair as the other gripped at one of his wrists.

“Mhm,” Harry hummed against her core as she found her perfect rhythm - until she was rolling her hips without any second thought, grinding against his mouth and chin, chasing her high.

Maybe this is what real bliss was, he thought.  A woman doing exactly what she wants with you.

He could tell when her high took over, ripping through her body until she was trembling over him, legs twitching and shaking as she pressed him further into the mattress by his hair, the sounds slipping from her throat paired with her orgasm coating his tongue only making him throb harder.

She practically collapsed over him, one of her hands still in his hair as her other caught her upper half from falling completely. She eased onto the bed beside him, and like a moth to a flame, he followed, rolling onto his side, his face in line with her stomach.

“Fuck,” she breathed as he pressed his lips just below her belly button, sucking kisses being planted on her overly warm skin - her hip, her waist, her breast, her neck - making his way up her body until he reached her face.

She kissed him when his lips found hers, sucking his plush bottom lip into her mouth easily as her hand cupped the side of his neck.

“Your mouth is…” she started as her fingers trailed down his body, leaving goosebumps in their wake. And she may have finished her sentence, but Harry couldn’t be sure with the ringing in his ears just as her hand found his length.

He may have been embarrassed by the noise that escaped his throat when she wrapped her fingers around him if he was in any stable state of mind. But he wasn’t. All of his thoughts were of her and the pleasure coursing through his body.

He couldn’t get enough, and he couldn’t keep up with her - completely overwhelmed.

No sooner was she kissing his mouth before she was kissing his tip, a groan pulling from deep in his chest as his back met the mattress and her warm mouth encased him.

“G,” he breathed, his fingers fisting through his own hair once and twice as she bobbed on him. “Love,” he moaned as she sucked, one of his hands finding the back of her head weakly, fingers scratching against her scalp to pull her attention back to him.

She pulled off his length with a gentle pop, looking up at him with swollen, overly bitten lips and dazed eyes.

“You’re gonna make me explode,” he chuckled weakly, begging his eyes to stay open and on her. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and somehow she was in his bed, giving him more pleasure than he deserved.

Her lips curled into a self assured smile as she crawled up his body. “That’s the point,” she whispered as her lips found his once more, her core lining up with his length perfectly.

He kissed her back with a moan, heat prickling his skin everywhere she touched. Her wet core brushed his length over and over again as her lips smoothed over his, until he couldn’t take it anymore, reaching down to guide himself into her when she pressed back into him again.

It was slow, the way their bodies connected fully as they moaned into each other’s mouths. They both ached for that feeling in the same way, gripping hands and contented sighs falling from their lips as they melted into each other with ease.

“I’ll never get enough of you,” Harry whispered against her mouth, the words spilling from his lips without thought.

Gianna moved over him with a lazy roll of her hips, wanting nothing more than to let herself infinitely mold to him.

“Good...” she moaned as she pushed herself up, her hands planting themselves on the strongest part of his chest, her hair curtaining around her face as she rode him harder, “don’t.”  

Her words were simple, but they didn’t need to be any more than that. Harry could hear it in her tone; he knew that she was guarded and working against it. And how could she not be. He understood. But when they were like this, she didn’t feel closed off. It was like she couldn't stop herself, like her ribcage opened, exposing her vulnerable, overly beating heart.  

“Fuck,” he groaned, gripping her sides, her hips, the fullness of her ass, eyes traveling over her in awe. He reached up quickly, grabbing the back of her neck to pull her down to him and meet her mouth with needy lips.  

She kissed him feverishly, moaning into his mouth with every thrust of her hips. Her hands found his throat, cupping each side lightly at first, before her grip tightened a bit, and then a bit more, and then a tiny bit more than that.  

He gasped around a groan as his eyes rolled closed, his hips helplessly meeting hers as he came, a sound similar to a muffled shout slipping past his lips.  She watched him ride out his high, his face relaxing from crinkled brows to a lazy, blissed out smile.

He was gorgeous.    

She smothered him completely, his arms instantly wrapping around her waist to keep her close.  

“You’re fucking amazing,” he murmured into the skin of her neck, the scent of her shampoo making him feel like he was high. Maybe he was... completely and totally high on her.  

She hummed as she raked her fingers through the side of his sweaty hair, the contentness of his arms around her that tightly doing more than she knew it could.  

When Gianna cuddled further into the soft sheets that surrounded her, she expected a warm body to also be encasing her.  

Instead, the sheets were crinkled beside her, empty, the room still dark from the night.  She could hear muffled voices coming from the apartment. Harry’s bedroom door was cracked open, the light from the kitchen visible.  

She creeped out of his bed, tip-toeing across the room to stand by the door and peek through the opening.  

He was arguing, she could tell by his rushed words without being able to make out what he was saying.

“Don’t be stupid, Harry.”

That was Gemma, and for whatever reason, her words made Gianna’s heart plummet. She knew they were talking about her, how could they not be.

Gianna never slept in his room, for the weeks that their thing was going on, she always snuck out of his room at some point. And for this exact reason.

“Okay, Gem,” he said sarcastically. “Gonna go to bed now, if that’s alright.”  

Gianna moved away from the door, rushing back into his bed, purposely facing away from his side of the bed when she laid down.

He crept in moments later, a sigh escaping his lips once his door was pushed closed. Gianna tried to even her breathing despite her racing heart, listening as he walked over to the bed, a couple of beats passing before he was sliding in beside her. He released another sigh once he was laying down, the bed moving as he presumably turned onto his side.

It was quiet then, Gianna keeping perfectly still as she breathed softly, her thoughts racing still even as her heart slowed. She didn’t need to know the whole conversation to know Gemma didn’t like what was going on between them. She assumed the protective sister in her came out, and Gianna couldn’t really blame her. She had baggage, and a lot of it. Nothing good could come from this, whatever it was.    

But even though Gianna knew she was playing with fire, she wanted to be burned.  

And then Harry’s arm wrapped around her waist to pull her into his waiting chest, as if he could hear her thoughts.  

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry eased when she startled at his touch. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered as she settled against him, his knee finding its way between her legs as he held her close, his body easily melting against hers once more.

Harry fell asleep almost instantly. Gianna took quite a bit longer before her drowsiness finally pulled her under.  

“Friday?” Gemma asked with wide eyes. “That’s so soon, babe.”  

Gianna nodded from where she leaned over the kitchen counter, finishing a piece of pizza over the open box, still in her work clothes sans heels.  

“I know, but it was available now so I figured I should jump on it before someone else did.”

After the night she overheard Harry and Gemma arguing, Gianna couldn’t find her own place fast enough. It was time - she had overstayed her welcome on Harry and Gemma’s couch.

If anything, she thought maybe she overstayed her welcome in Harry’s bed, too. 

As an easy fix, she went on the hunt for her own place and luckily enough, found something she liked that she could afford on her own and could move into in less than a week.  

She didn’t want things to get weird between her and Harry, or her and Gemma.  Gianna had known them for a long time, and they were there for her through everything with Steve - took her in with no questions.  She would be lucky to sneak out of all this with no damage.  

So she signed a lease and would be moving out of their place in two days. She knew it was fast, but truly thought it was for the best.

“Did you tell Harry?”  

Gianna internally winced, careful not to show a reaction as she brushed her hands together over the pizza box before turning her back to Gemma to wash her hands.  

“Not yet, I haven’t seen him the last couple days. Work’s been crazy busy.”  

The truth was, Gianna was actively working late to avoid him. By the time she got home the last few nights, she would be so tired that she passed out on the couch. It was effective - Harry usually went to bed early and was up way before her in the mornings - making their paths uncrossable.

“Well, you should let him know soon.”

Gemma’s features were soft when Gianna turned back to her. There was something behind Gemma’s eyes, like she had a secret, but she didn’t expand any further.

And Gianna thought about the look on her face for the rest of the evening. While she cleaned up the kitchen, while she showered, while she got herself situated on the couch at nearly 1AM.  

Harry’s bedroom door hadn’t even cracked open, not even a sound coming from the room since Gianna had gotten home. She contemplated going in there, sneaking in and just slipping into his bed and his warm embrace. But she stopped herself. Soon enough she wouldn’t have that luxury anyway so she might as well just get used to it.  

The truth was, and she wasn’t sure why, but she was afraid to tell Harry she was leaving. Maybe because she knew their little arrangement was coming to an end and she wasn’t ready for that to be a reality yet. Maybe deep down she knew she had let herself get too deep in it and now had to climb her way out. She liked Harry, she liked him too much.  

That was the thing about secrets, wasn’t it? They always found a way out.  

So two days later, after still having not told Harry that she was moving, Gianna felt like her stomach could fall right out of her body at the sight of him in the doorway of his room, quietly watching her collect the few random things that had found a home amongst his.

She was completely unaware that he had stood there for more minutes than he was even sure, watching her attach a hair clip to the bottom of her shirt, picking up her current read from the nightstand she had wordlessly taken over, a chapstick that she hadn’t minded sharing. He watched as her fingers slowly drifted over a stray tee shirt that hung from the back of his desk chair, seemingly lost in thought, before she decidedly plucked it from its place to claim it as her own.

She had claimed a lot of things hers in the time she spent hidden away in his bedroom.

Her small gasp seemed genuine, somehow not sensing his presence. That alone had Harry holding back a cryptic laugh, because he could feel her even when she was in a different room.

“You scared me,” she breathed with a hand over her chest.

“Sorry.”  

They wordlessly stared for a moment, eyes attempting to say things that neither of them had the courage to utter.

“Going somewhere?” Harry finally spoke, his tone cooler than ever.

And she hated that it effectively caused a chill to roll down her spine.

“I found a place.”  

Silence again, a small nod of understanding from Harry. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans before casually leaning against the door frame.

“Cool. Do you like it?”

He looked completely indifferent, making conversation like any other day. Except that they didn’t make small talk like this anymore. Many conversations had been held in his bedroom, some funny, some serious, some sexy, some dreamlike, and some so open that they practically hurt.

“Yeah, it’s nice.”  Gianna fiddled with the sleeve of her blouse, subconsciously pulling at the loose thread that hung from the seam.

“When do you move in?”

Gianna tried not to outwardly cringe. “Tonight.”  

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting… resistance? She couldn’t even explain why she should expect that from him other than simply wanting it. There was a part of her that just wanted him to want her to stay.

“That’s great, G. Congrats.”  

The resistance was surely nowhere in sight. Emotion, yearning, pensiveness - also nonexistent.

Gianna knew it wasn’t fair to want a reaction from Harry, but his passiveness was a stark difference from what she had seen from him as of late. But they did what they did, and now it was over. It wasn’t something that could have lasted forever, and that was never the intention anyway.

But as much as it was the right time for Gianna to move forward, she couldn’t help feeling like she was leaving him behind, regardless of him being okay with being left. He helped her in more ways than she could have explained, and for that fact alone, she’d miss their time together.

That wasn’t the only reason.

“Well, thanks for… everything.” Gianna watched every minute movement he made.

“Come on, I didn’t do anything,” Harry countered with a wave of his hand, eyes trailing across her face.

Gianna forced a small smile before choosing that moment to walk towards him and his bedroom door. Harry stood up straight in the doorway - that was as far as he could will his body to move. He wanted to give her a hug at least, he wanted to tell her that he would miss her, but all he did was stand there.

When Gianna leaned up to press the softest kiss to the corner of his mouth, lips like a flower brushing his skin, Harry’s breath caught in his throat, his heart beating so roughly that he was sure she could hear it.

“I’ll see ya around,” she murmured, her perfume caressing him the way her skin once had.

Harry moved into his room, silently sitting on the edge of his bed with a lump in his throat as he listened to the jingle of her keys lifting from the entry table bowl, his head hanging and his eyes drifting shut by the time the heavy door closed behind her.

a/n: Welcome back! I should be saying that to myself, I know lol. I’m honestly so happy I could get something out of my head. I really hope you enjoyed it. The literal biggest thanks to my girls @oh-honey-styles​ @andwhenshesays​ for inspiring me daily and giving me their unconditional support I love you both so much. Clink clink! Thank you to anyone that reads, it’s greatly appreciated. I would love to hear your thoughts!  

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Hi, I just finished SV and I Loved it! I have a question though that irks me and I'd love to hear you opinion on it. It's said in the novel that LBH knew no kindness except from his mother and then NYY & SY!SQQ. It seems to me a little like he fell in love with SY's kindness and not really with his personality. He didn't fall in love with NYY's kindness so it could also be an authority thing. My q is, do you think LBH would fall in love w any other Shizun who showed him the slightest kindness?

Okay bear with my nonsense here for a minute because, aside from making fun of everyone and everything, SVSSS is a pretty good study of what happens when reader expectations meet real situations and real flesh and blood people, and just how unrealistic most of them turn out to be. We see PIDW and LBH in SVSSS via mirror of only SY’s perception and his preconceived notions, but we’re also bound to only see SVSSS and SY via mirror of our own perception and with our own preconceived notions (and boy, do a lot of people miss that about SVSSS completely even though SY the judgmental reader and all his baggage are right there). How many chapters does it take for SY to admit that he hasn’t been really viewing LBH as his own person, but a fictional character he had only gotten to know through airplane’s bad writing? I remember how fucking frustrated I kept getting the first time I read SVSSS because SY kept that picture of LBH (the one we never met bc we never read 300+ chapters of airplane’s novel like SY did) firm in his mind despite all evidence that they were not the same person. Who is it that said “compared to the dullest human being actually walking about on the face of the earth and casting his shadow there, the most brilliantly drawn character in a novel is but a bag of bones?" SY’s whole issue with PIDW is that the novel sucked. That most of the characters were one-dimensional and unrealistic, and that even his own scum-villain character had no story/background that would justify his attitude or behavior towards LBH. We only get to see SJ as a person with a history, and grievances, and a boatload of unaddressed trauma because SY digs up and improves all those storylines that airplane had left out. But even knowing that, SY still keeps seeing LBH through the lens of his own preconceived notions, and keeps assigning him motivations that LBH clearly doesn’t have. So I guess my thing is, if it took SY nearly a decade of flesh and blood contact with LBH to figure out that all of his expectations were wrong and inaccurate, can we (the readers of SVSSS) ever view LBH accurately? 

Anyway, not to write an essay (too late) but I guess if I were to speculate on the subject via my own subjective interpretations, I would say that airplane wrote a pretty shitty stallion novel for $$ during which LBH fell for NYY for her “kindness” but right off the bat in SVSSS, we see that NYY does very little except managing to make LBH’s life harder. Still, despite being a character that solely consists of bouncy breasts and questionable life choices in PIDW, she does seem to harbor genuine affection for LBH, and PIDW LBH, who has not gotten affection since his adoptive mother passed, is likely to have latched on to any affection, no matter how destructive it turns out to be, for some self-preservation of his self-esteem and self-worth. Obviously not the healthiest way to obtain either, but hardly unexpected (and we see him doing the same thing with literally every female character in PIDW - Freud would have a field day with just a quarter of this novel). Again, we only know PIDW LBH through SY’s perception, and SY is clearly not the most objective witness, but I find it hard to believe that PIDW LBH ever truly loved any one of the 300+ women in his harem. There is no indication (in what we get from airplane’s writing) that he trusts any of them, and it even seems as if all the harem infighting served as a means to keep them from focusing too hard on LBH as anything other than a prize to be obtained. I mean clearly, PIDW was not meant to be that deep, and we don’t get to read it, so there’s no use speculating much. (I’m sure you noticed my theories are all psychology/trauma centric, which is my bread and butter, and subjective as fuck, so there’s half my point made).

As to whether I think LBH would fall in love with a different shizun who showed him kindness? If kindness is the only factor, I don’t think it’s likely. After all, the 300+ women in his harem in PIDW have all probably showed him some kindness at one time or another. In that respect, SY is certainly not special. There are theories about LBH not actually being sexually attracted to women in PIDW at all, extrapolating on the idea that a more supportive and loving environment during his development years has allowed him to grow up without repressing many things he has clearly repressed in PIDW, his sexuality included. That theory, I suppose, could support the idea that LBH could have just as easily fallen in love with a different man in his immediate vicinity who showed him kindness?

Idk how much I buy into any that; like I said, PIDW was never meant to be that deep, and SVSSS is just full of loose threads I love to yank on (always aware I’ll never see where they lead without an access to MXTX’s brain). I think we’re meant to view PIDW for what it is - a poorly written story for $$ with cardboard cutout characters that, once permeated with “real flesh and blood humans,” turns out to be nothing like the story that the reader (SY) expected to find. And since there’s the same degree of separation between PIDW and SVSSS, as there is between SVSSS and us (the readers), speculating on who LBH might attach himself to if SY was someone else, and how his story might go under any other circumstances, is bound to be as accurate as SY’s predictions concerning PIDW LBH, which turned out to be (as we clearly find out in SVSSS), inaccurate as fuck :)

Mafia!NCT 127 Reaction to You Coloring Their Tattoos

Hyuck + Mark in the Dream Reaction

not proofread yet

[ posted 09 / 10 / 2020 ]

Taeyong

He had no hesitation letting you color his tattoos. "Have fun, babe." He pinched your cheek and relaxed under the big tree you were both sitting under. Today was a cool and relaxing day as Taeyong had thrown all his plans away to be with you all day.

The dragon on his bicep was now stained in hues of purple and green with accents of neon yellow creeping up his shoulder. "So, besides today, how have you been lately?" His gaze swayed from you to the inside of his eyelids as he was drifting to sleep slowly. "Okay, I suppose. Work is annoying." You laughed and his heart twinged with love. "My students are definitely taking advantage of the wedding to slack off with their work." You chuckled and Taeyong took notice of the cool metal ring that laid on your left hand. It had never looked more magical than right now. The wedding was a fairytale story to think about in another time and place. It was the talk of the town. There wasn’t a reason the students shouldn’t be talking about it.

"They're kids. They're going to goof off for a while." He laughed and looked down at his arm. The color stuck inside the lines and stained your hands wildly. Your yawn brought his attentive eyes to your sleepy frame. "Tired, already?" He laughed as you could only shrug with a sheepish grin stuck on your face.

"Come here. Let's just rest for a little bit then." He pushed the markers into the grass and his arm wrapped itself around your waist as he pulled you down and into his side. You couldn't fight it as your ear was filled with the sound of his mellowing heartbeat. His fingers danced in your hair and danced along the curves of your cheekbones till he knew you were fast asleep.

He stayed awake just looking at your angelic features as the sight of his multi-colored arm shifted his focus. It was so meaningless to you but he loved it as he knew that it came from your heart and mind.

It was you-- perfect.

Taeil

"If I have to sit through one more of these stupid underboss meetings then I swear I'm going to go ballistic-" Taeil cut you off with a laugh. "I don't want caviar and fancy fish with wine! I want chicken nuggets shaped like dinosaurs with a coke!" You whined as he walked in the bedroom, one hand shoving the dress shirt underneath the hem of his dress pants.

"I know, cutie. Just a couple more meetings this week then I promise I'll take a week off and we can go and take a vacation." He pulled your hands and guided you to the bathroom where an elegant dress hung on the hooks of the door. Matching with Taeil was something you looked forward to with events like these. Yet, the event itself was throwing you off.

You got dressed and stared at yourself in the mirror. The thin red spaghetti straps danced on your shoulders as it contrasted with your dark black tattoos. The heels were uncomfortable as they carried you through the door and to the base meeting house.

You sat between Taeil and Johnny who decided to come alone and without his wife. 'lucky bitch' you thought. Taeil's hand protectively gripped the inside of your thigh. The stares of the foreign feeling underbosses littered across the room. Their aura made a shiver go down your spine as Taeil read out the news from Neo Culture's territory.

Your hand rested on top of his as your thoughts drowned out your husband's usually sweet voice. You traced the tattoos on his hand lightly with your finger. You grabbed an extra pen from Johnny's seat place and started to add onto Taeil's tattoos. The red and blue inks clashed with each other even though they laid right by one another.

Taeil gripped your wrist harshly to get you to stop but the spiteful feeling sparked in your head. You grabbed his hand with your other hand and forced it on your lap. You continued drawing and coloring the shapes and words with a vengeful attitude coursing through your veins.

A break was reached and all the underbosses were dismissed from the meeting room to the dining room where food was going to be served. Yet, once the room was cleared he grabbed your wrists once more. "What the hell are you doing?"

You automatically started to pout as you deemed that this wasn't fun anymore. "I was just trying to get your attention." You mumbled as you got up and walked out of the big wooden doors. Taeil sighed and took a deep breath. He looked down to see hearts of blue and red around your initials he had tattooed on his thumb. Tiny cartoon characters danced across his hand and he realized he was overreacting.

He got up to go after you and caught you walking slowly to the dining room. He came up behind you and slipped a hand on your lower hip. "I'm sorry, baby." Taeil sighed and kissed your cheek warmly.

You shook your head and leaned into him. "No, I shouldn't have kept going when you said to stop. I'm sorry." You confided as you both turned into the room where everyone was already seated. "Here, how about this," he whispered. "Eat a little bit of food then me and you can go out for burgers after everyone leaves." He said and the look on your face gave him the energy to get through the next hour and a half.

"Really?" You asked and he nodded. You grabbed his face and gently kissed his cheek. "Now you have my seal of approval." You laughed as you rubbed the faint mark of lipstick off of his face.

You sat down ready to shove down the nasty fish eggs and wine that was about to be served.

Johnny

Nobody understood how Johnny got you to be his wife. Everyone thought that the differences would've drowned out the connection. Yet, anybody who doubted was silenced when they spent an hour with you both. The strongness of Johnny seemed minimalized whenever you walked into the room. It was quite magical.

You and Johnny sat on the 127 squad jet, bound towards New York where you both would be staying for 3 months for protection. The family was threatened with the wives and partners coming under the harshest threats.

Johnny took you and didn't look back. You were working an 18-hour shift at the hospital and he came with no warning. Just grabbed you and left.

Jaehyun and his wife were on the way to Connecticut while Mark and his girlfriend were on their way to New York too. Johnny, Mark, and Jaehyun were to meet in New York in their respective spaces to set out a plan of action. After that, Mark would spend a month in New York, then go up to Toronto, spending his last months in Vancouver. Johnny is splitting the trip up into half in New York, the rest in Chicago. Jaehyun was taking his chances by staying in Connecticut. Yet, he said he wouldn't hesitate running West if needed.set out a plan of action. The sudden news threw you off guard.

You sat with Johnny in the back of the plane in dead silence. "I'm scared." You admitted. "Why?" He asked as he turned his phone off and threw it on the table in front of both of you.

You curled up on the couch next to him, latching onto his arm protectively.  "Nothing is going to happen, sweetie." He came up to twirl your hair calmly as your heart started to race more. It was too quiet.

"Here, let's find something to do." He sighed and stood up, rummaging through the closets and storage of the plane. In a moment he returned with a pack of markers. "No paper." He frowned and sat back down with a tired sigh.

You reached forward to bring the thin cardboard box into your hands. You felt his hand rest on the small of your back as you pulled the markers out and twirled them in-between your fingers.

You looked to him to see his head leaned back and eyes shut. You grabbed his suit jacket and tugged. His head snapped up and it took him a minute to understand what you were getting at. "Oh." He sighed and shook the material off of his torso.

A simple t-shirt had been hidden underneath his blazer as you laid your eyes on his tattoos. He didn't have any hesitation as he rolled up his already short sleeves and got comfortable.

He was preoccupied with his phone as you hummed to yourself. You traced the sunflower in green and made tie-dye art on his forearms. Johnny was content with the silence and the fact he knew that you were okay and occupied.

"Wanna listen to some music, babe?" He asked as he opened his music app. "Duh." He clicked the playlist you had made for him and laughed as he watched you sing terribly into the marker. He studied your figure and facial expressions as you got caught up in coloring again. "This dragon is now going to have whiskers." You nodded but stopped quickly. "Or a mustache?" You looked at Johnny and he shrugged. "He'd look cute with some whiskers." You took the idea and plopped whiskers on the face of the dragon.

An associate who tagged along for the trip came into the back room with refreshments for the two of you. You both gladly accepted and were left alone again. "Gummy bears?" These are perfect. He threw the package at you but it went untouched as you kept drawing.

He could only laugh to himself as he opened the package for you and pulled a singular bear out. Johnny held it to your lips and was happy to you take it without much thought. You finally were happy with your artistic decisions and showed Johnny the finished piece.

"It's so nice, y/n!" He smiled and it felt like your brain was mush. You sat next to him with a content smile and a small yawn.

"Tired already?" at which you could only shrug as a response. "Then let's just watch some videos and relax." He kicked his feet up and pulled you so you were on his lap.

Johnny's phone played random videos as you latched onto him and went to sleep. He took some photos to set as his wallpaper and ultimately decided to join you in a nice nap.

(rrruuudddeee)

~~~

Yuta

"Yuta!" You called as you stepped into the large house. "I believe he's in the gazebo or his office, Miss." One of the worked associates greeted you at the front door. He grabbed the bags from your arms as you bowed politely. "Thank you so much." You were off towards the back of the house to find your husband.

"Yuta-!" You called as you rounded the corner of the house and into the back yard. The gazebo that laid just beyond the wood bridge that sat above the koi fish river-- was empty. You stopped and stared for a moment. You were sure that this is where he'd be.

"Up here, my love." A voice made you jump as you looked up to see Yuta at his office balcony. "Oh. Hi!" You waved as his eyes squinted in a smile. "How was your day out?" He asked as he brought his teacup up to his lips. "It was wonderful! I have something to show you!" You called and held up a small shopping bag in your hand. "I'll be right up!" You raced back into the house and up the stairs to where he already stood waiting for you in the doorway to his office.

"What's so amazing that you found today?" His eyebrow raised and you opened the bag quickly. "But first-" He interrupted you as he grabbed your face gently and gave you a passionate kiss. "What's this for?" You asked as he continued to stare at your face lovingly. "Just happy to see you is all." He smiled as his hands found their way into his pockets.

"Now, show me." He motioned to one of your hands that was stuck in the bag you held. You were brought back to reality and pulled the plastic package out of the bag.

"...Markers?" He asked and his tone of voice made you laugh. "Not just any markers. They're tattoo markers. They're safe for the skin." You corrected him and he rolled his eyes. "You're still on this?" Yuta asked with an amused expression. "Of course I am! This was the deal." You said shoving them into his hands so he could inspect the box.

He read the back and he had to admit...you were right.

"You said I could color your tattoos IF I found tattoo markers. Safe for the skin and everything!" He knew you did it...and that he had to hold up his part of the deal. "Okay fine." He sighed as he handed the package back. "Yay! Thank you!" You jumped and laid a gentle kiss on his cheek.

"We can do it later before dinner." He agreed and watched you skip happily down the hall.

---- "Finally! You take forever." You sighed as you moved your sunglasses up your nose. The grass tickled your bare legs as Yuta sat next to you. "I couldn't help it. Taeyong didn't want to hang up the phone." You stood on your knees and moved behind Yuta. Your hands gently rubbed his shoulders as his head fell in an exasperated manner.

"I hate to burst your bubble, Yuta. But, I called you out here for the deal. Not a massage." He whined as he flopped down on the grass, his t-shirt lifting on his back. His head rested on his folded arms as you silently cheered.

"If this stains, I will make sure to throw out all color in your life. Your life will be a dull kaleidoscope-" "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, you big baby." You laughed and opened your pouch full of the tattoo markers.

You lifted the back of his shirt more till the full picture was revealed. A full mural was printed on his back with black ink that curved and straightened out into different objects. A dragon with demons following was the full picture...a dark reality...that you were going to make colorful.

You sat on his lower back and got to work filling in the different parts of the dragon. Every once in awhile he would spasm and try to make you mess-up. Yet, with a tug on his hair, he would become limp and obedient again.

"I'm almost done." Was the phrase that almost made him weep with joy. "Finally." He let it slip and he felt a tug on his hair again. "Ow." He rubbed his head. He could feel you draw and move the felt-tipped weapons on his back.

"Finished." You cheered and grabbed his phone to take a picture. You showed it to him and ombre scaled decorated the dragon with the demon's faces were colored red and blue. It looked nice. He saw a couple of smiley faces hidden in there and felt like everything looked complete.

"Okay, my turn now!" He yelled and grabbed your arm. He pulled you to the ground and grabbed the black marker that was in your hand. "Yuta, no." You tried fighting him. "This wasn't apart of the deal." You thrashed but he pinned you under his body weight. "Excuse me? Sorry, I don't speak Japanese." His Korean rambled off quickly from his tongue. You decided to just deal with it as he took his time drawing a mustache on your face along with random doodles he could think of.

He finally stopped his antics and took a picture with his phone to look at afterward. "You look so cute, look!" He pulled up the picture and shoved it in your face. "I look gross man!" You ridiculed but he wrapped you up in his arms quickly,

"My gross man."

Doyoung

"I thought they were going to be here already." You whined as your head hit the wall behind you. "Oh, can you stop whining for once?" He groaned as he took off his bulletproof vest. The air seemed to be getting thinner as the seconds ticked past. He stretched his legs out so they touched the opposite wall of the tiny bank vault. The velvet flooring seemed sticky as it felt like your chest was getting heavier.

You stood up and went to the closed door. Kicking and banging seemed like the only viable option. You pounded and kicked as hard and as much as you could with no luck. Tears stained your eyes as you turned around to look for another option out of here. "It's getting smaller." You whispered and Doyoung took the opportunity. "You're right, y/n. I can feel the walls pushing in!" He yelled and started to thrash and roll around on the ground. You could swear that the walls were shrinking and coming closer together. You dropped to the floor with your hands over your head, ready to be crushed by the vault walls.

Doyoung was pissed and vengeful in the beginning but now he just felt bad. You sat there silently crying as you rocked yourself back and forth. Doyoung sat opposite of you and just stared, waiting for you to snap out of it, yet, there was no hope as he watched you bring your legs closer to your chest.

He pushed your shoulder and you backed away from him quickly. "Calm down. You're wasting our air." He deadpanned. You could only nod and wipe the tears away from your eyes.

"Wanna play tic-tac-toe?" He asked and you looked around, surprised he was asking in a moment like this. "Um-" He didn't wait for an answer and grabbed your legs-- pulling you closer to where he sat.

Doyoung reached into your vest you were wearing and pulled an assortment of permanent markers out. You wiped the rest of your tears and grabbed the orange marker out of his hand. He lifted the sleeve of his long shirt and created the grid in black ink. "Wanna go first?" He asked and you took the opportunity to land an 'X' in the grid.

He followed soon after you and in no time-- he won.

Another game and another and another till no space was left. An hour had passed and you were still stuck in the bank vault.

"Fine. You win this tournament. But, I know I'll win next time." Doyoung said laying back and closing his eyes. The sweat from his bangs dripped down the side of his face.

The bottom of his shirt lifted and you could see the familiar black ink on his side. "Stop staring at me like that, pervert. I have rights." He pulled his shirt down and you let a laugh rip through your chest.

"Chill. I was just looking at your tattoo." You said and he shrugged. "What about 'em?" He asked as his eyes closed once more. "Nothing. Just looking," you sighed, "I wanted to be a tattoo artist before all of this." You motioned around the velvet interior. One eye peeked open and he looked suspiciously at your figure. "Are you any good?"

You stood on your knees and lifted your shirt so he could see the piece you were in the middle of finishing. Dragon and koi fish laid on your ribs in red ink.

"Woah." He lifted himself closer and gently touched the healing ink. "You did this yourself?" You nodded as he inspected it for a good minute.

"Give me one!" He said and shoved the red sharpie in your hand. He didn't give you time before laying on his side in a straight line. He lifted the side of his shirt and waited patiently.

You shrugged, finding nothing else better to do. He already had black ink staining his skin so you decided to add on. It was another simple dragon but it fit his character and personality perfectly.

Time seemed to slow as he tried to take a sneak peek of the masterpiece you were currently working on. He planned to take a picture later and get it done, yet, it would have to be in secret.

All of a sudden, the door popped open and cool air filled the small compartment. "Welcome back to Earth." Chenle greeted. You capped the marker and grabbed your vest as quickly as Doyoung.

You both high-tailed it out of the bank and into the street where the van was waiting with open doors. Doyoung and you jumped and rolled onto the back-ground of the van and the door was slammed shut by Jaehyun.

"Sorry about that. Jungwoo spilled Sprite on the control panel." Jaehyun explained and a guilty-looking Jungwoo sat in the passenger seat, not making eye contact.

"Woah. You got a new tattoo?" Jaehyun lifted Doyoung's shirt up more to see the red dragon you had drawn.

"Eventually."

(tf is this?? i’m not even correlating the gif with the story...because what in the actual fuck is THIS????)

~~~~~

Jaehyun

He was a very demanding man with particular tastes. You sat by yourself in your underground shop when a swarm of men came in all at once. They lead the way for a man in a sharp business suit.

I'm about to get shut down...aren't I?

He looked at you for a moment before looking around and coming towards you. "Are you the shop owner?" His voice was smooth with undertones of threatening. "Depends on who's asking," I answered honestly, "If it's for ink work or compliments: me. If you have any problems then I'll turn you over to my manager, Lucifer." You wiped down the glass counter in front of you. His chuckle rang sliced through the thick tension.

"Lucifer." You sang and made kissy noises. A long black haired cat hopped onto the glass counter next to you, hissing at the men and laying on its back. His back stretched as his paws grew long and pointy nails only for a moment. "Oh be nice, Luci." You called and picked the cat up in your arms.

"So how can we help you today?" You smiled and the man looked at you and sighed. "This will do." He called over his shoulder and you heard a bang of your shop door. Men walked around you to your workroom and began going through your papers. "Do you have any affiliations with any gangs in the local or surrounding areas?" The man asked as you dropped the cat onto the glass.

"No." You blurted and it was met with a smile. "Well, you have caught the interest of Neo Culture-" "Oh hell no." You shook your head and came around the counter. You pointed towards the staircase that was capped with the 'exit' door. "Leave." You demanded, yet, he stood still.

"I don't think you understand how this works." His smile made you shiver. "You were picked. You can't just...refuse." He motioned to the room. "You are on Neo Culture property and territory. You will work for us in exchange for a pretty...hefty amount of cash-" "And a bullet in my head if another gang comes by?" You questioned with your arms crossed over your chest. "Well, you don't need to worry about that till they show up...do you?" His reasoning made you angry.

"I just want a simple fill-in today. And if you do well, then you'll be taken care of." He went into his coat pocket and pulled out a stack of paper. "Rent, bills, groceries, and spending money. Not to mention guaranteed protection from the most feared crime family in the Asiatic continent." He smiled as he handed over the piece of paper.

You looked at it and it was of a dragon that needed to be shaded and filled in. You knew that you needed to do this...or say bye-bye to your shop and dreams.

You sighed and looked at Lucifer who sat grooming himself.

"It's all clear, sir." One of the men popped his head out of the back curtain. The man smiled at you and stuck out his hand. "Do we have a deal?" He asked and you regretted the decision as you felt your hand reach itself out in front of you. "Deal." You sighed and you lead him back to the workroom.

He made himself comfortable as he draped his jacket across the waiting chair and unbuttoned the bottom of his shirt. He lifted his business shirt until a blank tattoo was shown on the front section of his ribs.

You got yourself ready off of what the paper described. Black and red shading with a black streak thrown across the dragon's eyes. 1-2-7 was bent across the dragon's stomach as 5 stars surrounded the head of the dragon mimicking a crown.

"Lucifer. Out." You called and the cat meow'd before walking out of the curtain. "Want to listen to music while I work?" You asked and he shook his head 'no' as he preoccupied himself on his phone.

You worked quickly and efficiently as he didn't dare look at your work.

2 hours went by and you were done. "Finished." You said standing up and disposing of the used needles. He stood up and looked into the body-length mirror on the other side of the room. "Woah." Was all you heard.

"This is good work." He said and you awkwardly smiled while coming closer to him with saniderm and healing gel. "Take off the saniderm underwater, so I suggest a shower and apply the gel gently. Change the saniderm at the same time tomorrow then after that you can wait up to 6 days after to change." You explained as you rubbed the gel on the tattoo and stuck a big square of saniderm on his torso.

"Why, thank you,-" "y/n." You cut him off and you could see him smile as you turned away.

"Nice name." He smiled, "Thanks...I guess." You shrugged. "Well, some other members will be in for some days to come. Money has already been left under your counter." He redressed as you cleaned up your station.

"I hope to see you soon, y/n." He smiled and walked off in an eerie aura. You heard your shop door open and close.

You rested your hands on your counter and let a huge sigh escape your chest. Meow.

You looked over to see Lucifer peeking his head in.

"I know. He was really weird."

(back tf up?? in the middle of a pandemic??)

~~~~~

Jungwoo

"Stop running away from me you tree!" You leaped from the couch and onto your boyfriend's back. "No! You'll never catch me!" He tried to shake you off of him, yet, you latched onto him as tight as you could.

"Damn your koala grip." He tried to swing his body around and throw you to the ground. Your hands went to cover his eyes as you began to panic. "Quit moving so fast!" You pleaded and he stopped abruptly. You scrambled off of his back and just sat with your legs outstretched on the floor.

You looked up at him with a look that could kill. "Just let me have fun." You pushed yourself off the floor and pointed a finger in his face. "You can. Just not on me." He moved your hand away from his face.

You groaned and sat on the couch in a huff. "You're no fun, Woo." You muttered and he couldn't help but smile at your pouty nature.

"Sure. Whatever you say, cutie." He said excusing himself down the hall. You heard the door to the bedroom close and you were left alone. You were going to color those damn tattoos even if it killed you. You turned on the TV and watched some shows. 40 minutes had passed and you knew that Jungwoo had to be asleep.

You snuck to the closet by the kitchen and threw the door open to find the bucket of markers. You grabbed your favorite out of the selection and were off down the hall.

The door was silent as you swung it open quickly. Jungwoo laid passed out on top of the sheets. His arms were folded underneath his head as you watched his chest rise and fall slowly...in a serene manner...but it was too calm. Chaos and fun were needed.

Tip-toeing was your best option as you swiftly made yourself over. You watched his eyes roam the inside of his eyelids as you realized he was completely knocked out.

You crawled on your space of the bed and uncapped the marker with a slight struggle. The pop made Jungwoo's eyelids squeeze and release quickly.

Your heart was filled with a mischievous attitude as you softly traced along the stars that were placed on his inner bicep. Pinks and oranges were plopped onto his skin as he laid unconscious.

A couple of cartoon characters and messages later you were bored. "Guess you are right. I really do have the mind of a goldfish." You mused quietly as you closed the marker and shoved them off the bed.

You laid across Jungwoo's torso and rolled onto him so he could wake-up. "It's like watching a toddler, I swear." He groaned as he grabbed you and didn't let go.

"I could've sworn that coloring would've kept you busy for at least an hour." He sighed and you just looked at him as if he had grown 5 heads. "I'm not stupid, y/n. Don't look at me like that." Jungwoo laughed and pinched your cheek.

He held onto your waist with one arm as he examined what you had drawn on the other. "Awe they're so cute." He mused and you looked at your work once more.

"Can I get a tattoo?" You asked and he only looked at you. "Do what you feel is right, but please...please think it through." He sighed and held onto you with both hands.

"Deal."

(ooo...fluffy looking jungwoo)

Hiraeth - I.X: Was it Worth it in the End? Part Two

pairing(s): Hybrid!Im Jaebeom x Reader, Witch!Mark Tuan x Reader, Werewolf!Jackson Wang x Reader, Vampire!Park Jinyoung x Reader, Supernatural!Got7 x Reader

genre: Supernatual!AU, Dark Magic!AU, very heavy Angst, eventual Smut

warnings: Mature language, violence, explicit descriptions of fighting and injury, weapons, blood and gore, brief mention of a mutilated animal corpse, minor character death, description of trauma and mental illness, brief mention of suicide, mentions of murder, satanic themes and ritual, etc. 

Trigger Warning: This chapter does contain graphic and explicit themes regarding violence, trauma, and death. Please do not read if this will harm you. This is your final warning.

word count: 10,6k

synopsis: How far are you willing to go to find out the truth about Moon Dye Bay?…

chapter directory

The nighttime is hushed, almost anxious as Minho maneuvers his way past gravestones and overgrown shrubbery. It’s almost like nature itself is too afraid of accidentally provoking the witch, sensing the torpedo of dark magic and violent sorrow stirring through his veins. He peers up at the crimson moon, grateful for the illumination it provides, and continues down his path—ignorant of the cold air bleeding into his flesh. 

Minho knows this is probably not the best time for a visit, aware that his ex-covenmates are likely plotting some sort of mission to overthrow him, but he doesn’t care—he can’t care anymore. A part of him, the shameful, guilty part of his mind. actually hopes they will succeed, at least then, he would no longer have to endure the pain that comes with bearing this black magic. He can feel its poison rushing through his veins, seering his body from the inside out, killing his soul over and over and over again… 

But isn’t this what he wanted? Revenge? Retribution? Minho performed that spell to hurt the very friends that hurt him—to hurt Mark, and he got his wish… so why does it feel like the world is caving in around him, swallowing him whole? 

Once he reaches his destination, Minho collapses to his knees, unable to bear the weight of his burdens. His eyes burn with tears, but he doesn’t allow himself to cry. A silent gust of wind strokes his cheeks, painting his skin red with bitterness and anger. He welcomes the cold air, accepting the punishment, before lifting his hand to splay his fingers against the even colder surface of the headstone. 

“I’m sorry…” Minho whimpers, “It didn’t have to be like this…” 

The silence heightens his anguish—deepens the wounds in his heart. 

If he could take it all back, he would… but he can’t. 

“I wish you were here, noona…” 

His murmur is lost to the wind, but it doesn’t matter. He climbs back to his feet before sparing one final glance at the burial place of his lost friend. After a deep inhale and a wordless goodbye, Minho turns and hastily begins back toward the mausoleum. 

He was allowed this one moment of weakness—now he must get back to the horrible reality he manifested for himself. 

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

“Can you be any more obvious…?” 

Mark quickly awakens from his mindless trance, discovering, to his dismay, Dahyun looking down at him with a single raised, all-knowing eyebrow. He fakes a cough into his elbow before shrugging his shoulders, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You’re kidding me, right?... You literally haven’t taken your eyes off of her since we met up in the forest.” 

Heat immediately rises to Mark’s cheeks. As if on instinct, his eyes trail back to his subject of interest, watching as you wipe the sweat from Jaebeom’s girlfriend’s forehead and neck before shifting to do the same to Felix. It’s such a simple action, but you somehow look so ethereal—almost like an angel sent from heaven. 

He curses himself for his own cheesiness, then releases a defeated sigh. 

“We got into a pretty big fight earlier.” 

“Then don’t you think you should—I don’t know—talk to her instead of staring her down like a creep?” 

“I think the last thing she wants to do is talk to me.” Mark drags a hand through his hair. “I… said some really stupid shit in the heat of the moment. She probably hates me.” 

Dahyun scoffs, “God, you are such a fucking idiot.” 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

“It means you need to get your ass over there and apologize to that girl.” 

Her harsh tone doesn’t falter beneath his glare, nor does her tenacious expression as the two proceed with their silent staring contest. After a minute or two, Dahyun breaks off the competition with a long, heavy sigh. Her eyes are soft when she looks back at him, and suddenly Mark finds the dried mud on his shoes a lot more interesting. 

“Mark, anyone can see how much you care about her—how much she cares about you.” Even when a gentle hand caresses his shoulder, the witch keeps his attention to the floor. “(Y/N) could never hate you—no matter how much stupid shit you pull.” She snickers, “And you pull a lot of stupid shit, so that has to account for something.”

He can’t help the amused chuckle that falls from his own lips. 

“Thanks, Dubu.” Mark says, tilting his head to finally meet the warmth of her gaze. 

“She’s a good one—a really good one, Mark.” The wolf hums, “Don’t let it be your fear that pushes her away.” She doesn’t give him a chance to reply further, pacing to a nearby corner to join a conversing Bang Chan and Yugyeom. 

Sparing the wolf trio one final glance, Mark musters up the remaining courage he has left and pushes from his perch against the kitchen countertop. He forces himself to walk in your direction—each step releasing more butterflies into the confines of his stomach. Once he reaches you, close enough to touch your turned back, he almost chickens out, content with spending the rest of the night watching you like hawk, but the sound of Felix’s breathy voice locks him in place: 

“—Channie-hyung and I have always wanted to go to Chicago… Is-Is it as windy as they say?” 

“Even windier.” You say with a laugh. “I can’t tell you how many scarves I lost, and don’t get me started on how freaking cold the winters are.”

Felix laughs too, although it resonates as more of a wheeze than anything. 

You shrug, “It’s a gorgeous city though—probably my most favorite place I’ve ever lived.” 

“Then why did you leave? If you loved it so much?” 

Mark’s interest piques when he notices how your figure grows tense at the young boy’s croak. He’s heard his fair share of stories of your heartfelt time in the Windy City, but he never quite figured out why you ultimately decided to move to Moon Dye Bay. You’ve always been reluctant to reveal certain details from your past, especially regarding your time in the foster system, but even then Mark has been able to pry the worst memories from your brain. 

This subject, however, has been a brick wall. 

“Because I couldn’t stay.” You finally answer, “It’s complicated, but something happened and basically I—” 

“(Y/N)?” 

He silently cusses as Felix interrupts your explanation, but his annoyance dissipates at the panicked expression etched along the teenager’s sweaty face. 

“What is it, Felix?” You shift your position on his bedside to better face the boy, leaning forward to place a gentle hand on his forehead. Mark can only imagine how hot the skin is to the touch. 

Felix’s words crack as they leave his lips, slicing at the witch’s heart like a dagger: 

“Am… Am I gonna die?”

“Of course not.” You immediately say, but Mark can sense the uneasiness in your tone. “Everyone is doing everything they can to help you, okay?... You’re gonna get through this, and one day you and your brother are gonna go see Chicago yourselves and try not to get blown away into the next century.” 

Felix sleepily chuckles, “Thanks, (Y/N).” 

“You should get some sleep.” The moment the command leaves your lips, Felix is already closing his eyes and diving headfirst into dreamland. Not wanting to startle you, Mark waits a couple seconds—partly to give you time to regain your composure, and partly to give himself time to think of what to say. However, he doesn’t have much of a choice when you suddenly turn, growing aware of his presence. A frown overtakes your face, and he instantly regrets ever leaving his countertop. 

“Did you need something?” 

“No—yes, I mean—shit.” Mark buries a hand in his tresses to tug at his roots, attempting to juggle between putting together the right spoken words and reminding his body to breathe. “(Y/N), I—” 

“If you came to apologize, I don’t want to hear it.” He helplessly watches as you rise from the bed before tossing your used rag on a nearby table. “I think you made yourself pretty clear back at my apartment.” 

“I shouldn’t have said what I said—” Before you can storm away, Mark latches his fingers around your wrist. “—please. Just give me a chance to explain.” 

Your shoulders rise and fall in a heavy sigh, but you make no move to tear away from his grip and he takes it as a chance to continue: 

“After my mom died, I was so fucking angry…” Mark notices your surprised gaze when you lift your head, but he doesn’t meet your eyes. “I was angry at the world, at her, at myself… and when my magic began to show up, things got a whole lot worse.” He shakes his head, “I thought about just ending it—jump into the bay or maybe drink myself to death—but then I met…” 

“Then you met Jackson.” 

“He taught me how to deal with the anger—to use it as a tool, not a weapon.” His eyes begin to burn at the countless memories that reel through his mind. “It was because of him I learned how to control my powers, and I was able to bring the coven together—hell, he was the one who told them to nominate me as Regent, which right now, seemed like the worst fucking decision on the planet.” 

Mark takes a moment to blink away his tears before taking a seat on an empty cot. He still can’t find it in himself to glance at your face, keeping his eyes trained to the wooden flooring. 

“But when Jackson had an idea, there was no stopping him.” He chuckles sarcastically, “The bastard was as stubborn as a goddamn mule.” 

“What happened to Jackson, Mark?” Your voice is both a sweet lullaby and a screeching siren against his ears. “How did he die? Really?” 

“The initial plan was to infuse enough magic into Jackson’s werewolf form so his venom would be lethal to the Primes, or at the very least, to Jinyoung. It all went smoothly in the beginning, I was able to channel enough power to complete the transformation… but something went wrong—

“—Jackson was different when he shifted. He was ruthless… He didn’t want to just kill the Primes—he wanted to slaughter every vampire along with those who protect the secrets of their existence… no matter if they were witch, werewolf, human—they all deserved to die…

“The combination of his determination and the bloodlust drove him fucking mad… If Jaebeom hadn’t ripped out his heart, there’s telling what he would have done—who he would have killed…” 

Mark leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, attempting to hide his shame beneath the curl of his bangs. “—Jaebeom may have dealt the final blow, but Jackson died because the dark magic I used turned him into a monster—he’s dead because of me…” 

Silence encompasses the room like a vice grip to the throat. For a moment, Mark believes you left him, too disgusted and ashamed to even breathe the same air as him, but the entrance of your worn boots into his vision proves otherwise. The image is replaced by your face when you kneel in front of his broken figure, laying your hands over each bicep. He notices your touch is gentle, but not hesitant, and warm—always so warm. 

“You can’t blame yourself for his death, Mark.” Mark doesn’t realize he’s crying until you wipe a tear from his cheek. “How could you have known what that spell would do? You couldn’t have—”

“Magic always comes with price—especially dark magic.” He whispers, unable to hold back more liquid sadness as it trails down his skin. “(Y/N), if I ever lost you the same way I lost Jackson, my mom, I—” 

Mark’s voice cuts out into a sob, and once your arms wind around his form, he completely breaks, releasing every ounce of repressed sadness and despair and pain into the crook of your neck. He knows he’s selfish for melting into your embrace—for consuming your comfort like a demon expelled from the heavens—but he doesn’t care. 

When you guide his eyes to meet your own, Mark can spot the glassiness of your own orbs in the artificial light—along with enough compassion and ardor to send another flood of tears down his face. 

“I’m not going anywhere, okay?” You affirm, your tone unwavering and stern. “I’m here—and no matter how many times you fall, I’m gonna be here to pick you up…

“I’m here, Mark… Do you understand me?” 

He nods with a sniffle, tightly squeezing your hands between his own. 

“I’m sorry.” 

You smile at his apology. 

“I’m sorry too… for everything.” 

“Just… No more secrets. For real, this time.” 

“For real, this time.” Mark’s heart rate picks up when he suddenly notices how close his face is to yours. From this angle, he can count the constellations glistening within your eyes and map the delicate curves of your facial features. If he were to lean just an inch closer, just one tiny inch, his lips would be on your own—

“Sorry to interrupt, but we have an issue.” At Yugyeom’s statement, you and Mark immediately wrench away from one another, almost as if having been caught engaging in forbidden territory. Mark pretends he doesn’t miss the weight of your hands inside his own as he rises from the cot, making sure to put an appropriate amount of distance between his and your shoulders. 

He clears his throat before humming, “What’s going on?” 

“Chan wants to go and find Chaeyoung’s body.” Although Yugyeom’s face remains neutral, Mark can see the sadness lingering within his eyes at the mention of his fallen packmate. “He doesn’t remember exactly where she was, so him, Dahyun, and I are going to search the forest.” 

You immediately shake your head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Sunrise isn’t for at least another hour, and we have no way of knowing Youngjae broke the curse yet.” 

“I’m with (Y/N) on this one, Gyeom.” Mark agrees, “We’re safest here in the bunker.” 

“We can’t just leave her out there. I mean, she—” Yugyeom cuts himself off with a heavy sigh, before continuing in a softer tone, “You know how it feels to lose someone, hyung… Chaeyoung is—was… our family.” 

Mark takes a moment of silence to ponder, conflicted between his common sense and Yugyeom’s pleading gaze. As you said, sunrise is an hour away—but Youngjae, the coven and the Primes should have overthrown Minho by now, right? Plus, he literally blew Changbin’s head off with that shotgun. There’s no way his body could regenerate that quickly… 

“We’re all staying together.” He finally says, moving toward the kitchenette to grab his weapon from its perch on the counter. “And if anything seems shady, it’s an immediate retreat.” 

Yugyeom delivers a nod before heading off to gather the other wolves. Mark moves toward the bunker exit, but is stopped by your form. A heavy sigh cascades from his lips—just from your expression, he knows this conversation isn’t going to go his way. 

“(Y/N)—” 

“If you’re gonna tell me I can’t go with you, don’t even bother.” 

He shakes his head, “It’s too dangerous…” 

“If someone tells me that one more goddamn time—” He can’t help the tiny smile that spreads across his face at the sassy way you roll your eyes. And he doesn’t protest when you move to follow Dahyun up the ladder. 

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

Youngjae inhales a deep breath, taking the moment to feel his lungs expand, before releasing the air in an even deeper exhale. Even with the relaxation attempt, his body remains tense and his thoughts disorderly. He can’t help but feel as if Minho is waiting somewhere in the darkness of the crypt, ready to pounce on him like a predator to its prey. 

Would he toy with his catch first? Or would he skip the pleasantries and go right in for the kill? 

A hand appears on his shoulder, wrenching Youngjae from his morbid daydream. He angles his head to meet Lia’s concerned gaze and immediately tries to mask his fear beneath an expression of indifference. Unsurprisingly, the female witch sees right through his facade:

“I’ve known you practically my whole life, Youngjae. Whatever it is, you can’t hide it from me.” 

His shoulders sag in defeat as a sigh blows past his lips. 

“I’m just… worried about Mark-hyung. He’s powerless out there.”

“Mark is smart—he’ll know what to do if he finds himself in trouble.” 

“And if he doesn’t?... I-I mean, what if Minho or Changbin found him before he could warn the pack? He could be dead for all we know—” 

Lia silences his desperate quip with a shake of her head, “You shouldn’t think like that right now—” 

“What else am I supposed to do?” Youngjae runs a frustrated hand through his hair before gesturing toward the main exit of their underground penitentiary. “Even with yours and Jisung’s energy, I don’t have enough power to take down the barrier spell.” 

“Help is on the way—” 

“How do you know that for sure?” 

Lia remains silent, simply continuing to stare at Youngjae. He feels almost uncomfortable beneath her gaze, resisting the urge to shrink back and become one with the shadows. 

“I don’t know… but I have faith.” She murmurs after a brief moment. “We’ve lost a lot, but I still believe that we’ll all somehow manage to come out of this alive. You should try doing the same.” 

With that, Lia leaves to speak with a dangerously quiet Jisung. Youngjae spares the pair a single glance before heading toward the crypt entryway. A single beam of moonlight illuminates the exit stairway, almost as if mocking him about his inability to escape the dingy prison. 

Youngjae knows Lia is right—of course she’s right. Worrying about the possible pitfalls of this plan won’t help him, or Mark, or anyone. He can only pray that his mentor safely found his way out of the cemetery and is sending backup right this very moment. 

He needs to have hope, if nothing else. 

“What if we somehow lure Minho down here?” Youngjae’s thoughts quiet at Lia’s suggestion, angling his head to meet her gaze. “Technically Youngjae just needs to touch him to siphon his magic… so why don’t we bring him to us?” 

“Minho-hyung won’t step past the barrier.” Jisung dissents, dragging his fingers through his already tousled hair. “He probably knows we’re planning something against him, so there’s no way he’ll believe whatever ruse we try to pull.” 

“Then we have no choice. Youngjae, are you sure you can’t take down the spell?” 

Youngjae sullenly shakes his head. 

“Is there something else you can siphon? Maybe the crypt itself?” 

“The crypt was built by humans.” He answers, “I can only draw power from the supernatural—”

“Then it’s a good thing my dear brother and I weren’t turned into superwolf bait.” 

Youngjae, along with the other witches, nearly leaps a foot in the air at the sudden voice. He whirls around to face the stairwell, which to his surprise, is now occupied by the last person he ever expected to see: 

Im Jaebeom. 

Jisung chokes, scurrying backward into the shadows as the hybrid approaches the trio. After taking purchase against the doorway, he offers his signature sly smirk. 

“Evening, Harry Potter and friends… Funny meeting you down here.” 

“Now is not the time for games, hyung.” Youngjae breathes a sigh of relief as Jinyoung’s voice echoes throughout the stone walls. Seconds later, he comes hustling down the staircase before shoving Jaebeom out of the way. The vampire then peers into the crypt, his gaze burning with the determination of a man at war. “Is anyone hurt?” 

“No. We’re okay.” Lia steps forward. “If you’re here, I’m guessing Mark reached the wolf pack?” 

“Your guess is correct.” Jinyoung nods, placing a hand against the invisible doorway. “My brother and I will do everything we can to help disarm the rogue, but I think it’d be best to free you all first.” 

Youngjae joins the conversation. “I can take down the barrier spell, but I’ll need to draw energy from one of you to do so.” 

“Let’s do this quickly then.” Jinyoung goes to roll up the sleeve of his white shirt, but is halted by his immortal companion. Surprise filters through Youngjae’s veins as Jaebeom shrugs the leather jacket from his shoulders with a huff: 

“With my luck, he’ll drain you dry and I’ll have to deal with this voodoo fucker myself. I think it’s best we use my energy—sorry not sorry.” 

“Alright, then.” Youngjae hums, “I’ll need you to push through the barrier just enough that I can touch you… It’s gonna hurt. A lot.” 

“Good thing I’m a sadomasochist.” Jaebeom snickers at his brother’s unamused expression, “Too much?” 

“Move your hand through that goddamn barrier before I throw you to the superwolf myself.” 

The hybrid rolls his eyes, but follows Jinyoung’s instructions and proceeds to force his limb past the invisible blockade. He remains silent, but Youngjae can spy the uncomfortable twitch of his eyebrow and the tension along his stone-cold features. Blood begins to bud along his knuckles like a patch of blooming roses before flowing down his pale skin the more he presses against the barrier.

The siphoner raises his hand in preparation. “Just a bit more.” 

A mere couple seconds later, Youngjae feels Jaebeom’s bloody flesh brush against his own. The skin-to-skin contact is slight, but enough, allowing the hybrid’s energy to spread through his veins like wildfire. Youngjae almost cries in relief as the magic conquers his entire body—a new kind of hope sparking somewhere within his chest. 

“Phasmatos Siprum… Emnis Abortum…” Youngjae murmurs, positioning both hands against the invisible wall. He feels it crumbling beneath his fingertips, unable to withstand the power flowing through his figure. “Fasila Quisa Exilum San… Fasila Quisa Exilum San…”

A proud grin stretches along his features as the barrier buckles, then completely shatters. With Lia and Jisung in tow, Youngjae beelines out of the crypt and into the stairwell where Jaebeom, who’s cleaning the crimson from his knuckles, and Jinyoung reside. The latter nods, which Youngjae is quick to return. 

“‘Kay, they’re free… Now what?” 

“Now we find Minho and end this once and for all.” Lia answers, not sparing the hybrid a glance as she dashes up the stairs. Youngjae and the rest of the group try to keep up with the female witch as best as they can, not faltering until they reach the surface. The cemetery is quiet when they emerge from the crypt, Youngjae notices—almost too quiet. 

He takes a short moment to breathe in the fresh night air before turning to a tense Jinyoung, “I need to get close enough to siphon Minho’s magic to perform the counterspell. You think you and your brother can find me a way in?” 

Jinyoung nods. “You can count on us.” 

“Stay close…” Lia warns with a sigh, “I wouldn’t be surprised if the bastard already knows we’re free—” 

Lightning suddenly strikes a mere few feet from where Lia is standing, earning a chorus of screams and surprised gasps from the witch trio. Youngjae watches as Jinyoung speeds forward, grabbing Lia just in time to avoid being burnt to a crisp by a second bolt. With Jisung at his side, Youngjae quickly takes shelter underneath the overhang of a nearby tomb as even more lightning bombards the earth. He surveys the area, searching for the perpetrator responsible for the weather abnormalities. 

“Minho!...” Lia screeches from behind a large tree, her tone far less than friendly. “Quit being a fucking coward! Come out here and face us goddamnit!...” 

Youngjae huddles closer to Jisung as the wind suddenly picks up, ripping at his hair and clothing like a vengeful spirit. He moves to speak to his younger companion, but his words die on his tongue as the subject of the hour waltzes into view. The heavy gusts don’t seem to affect him, though that’s no surprise since the wretched weather is his doing. 

Minho smirks, “They say lightning never strikes one place twice… You must be really special then, Lia.” 

“Oh fuck off! We’re tired of playing your stupid games!” 

“This only ends one way, Minho—” Jinyoung says, cautiously moving from Lia’s side to approach the powerful witch. His steps, however, are halted by another vicious bolt of electricity. Youngjae attempts to make out Jaebeom’s form through the blurriness of his wind-induced tears, but the hybrid is nowhere to be found. “—so we can do it the easy way, or the hard way! The choice is yours!” 

“Last I checked, this isn’t your fight, Prime.”

“It became my fight the moment you threatened my family and my friends!” 

Minho snickers, “Trust me, I had every intention of ridding this town of you and your brother’s filth.” 

“Was it also your intention to kill an innocent werewolf girl!?” Youngjae’s heart drops at the vampire’s following statement. “Son Chaeyoung is dead because of Changbin—because of you!” 

“Every war has its casualties.” 

“And what of Felix!? Will his death just be another trivial loss in your obsession for revenge!?” 

This time, Youngjae notices the cockiness melt from Minho’s features into something akin to trepidation. The wailing of the wind picks up to a screech, nearly drowning out the dark-haired witch’s weak inquiry, “What are you talking about?”

“Felix was bitten… and is dying as we speak!” Jinyoung shakes his head frantically. “Do you believe he deserves this, Minho!? Do you believe Chaeyoung deserved to die!?... You can fix this—make this right!” 

Minho remains silent, and for a moment, Youngjae wonders if the witch will actually come to his senses and call off this whole ordeal. But just as soon as it appeared, the pained look along his features transitions into something more sinister.   

“We’re all gonna die someday, so what does it even fucking matter!?” 

“Are you hearing yourself!?” Lia screams from behind a nearby tree, “Look what you’ve become, Minho! How would Nayeon see you right now!” 

“Don’t bring her into this!” Minho’s hiss blends with the moans of the wind. Massive raindrops begin to pelt down against the earth, immediately soaking Youngjae to the bone. For the first time, he notices the dark witch’s position in relation to his own. Realistically, Youngjae can be at Minho’s side in mere milliseconds, before he has a chance to blink. If only he can get him to move a bit closer… 

As if reading his thoughts, Jinyoung attempts to coax the witch another step forward. 

“Please, Minho… I don’t wish to hurt you.”

The latter shakes his head with a chuckle. “It’s too fucking bad that you think you can.” 

Minho raises his hand, harshly forcing the vampire down against the muddy earth. Youngjae watches in horror as Jinyoung’s limbs begin to contort and rearrange against his own will—the sound of cracking bones and the vampire’s pained groans filling his ears like a haunting melody. He forces his gaze away from the gruesome sight and prepares to advance on the dark witch, but Jisung stops him with a hand to his shoulder: 

“Not yet, hyung.” 

“But Jinyoung—” 

“Trust me.” His eyes are wide with determination—Youngjae can’t remember a time he’s ever seen Jisung so fierce. “I have a plan. Wait here until my signal.” 

Though filled with confusion, Youngjae does as the young witch requests and stays in place while Jisung himself carefully maneuvers his way through gravestones and buildings, attempting to remain out of sight. A sudden burst of lightning cracks through the atmosphere, and at first, Youngjae fears Jisung has been caught, but quickly realizes Minho has his sights set on another party: 

“I was wondering when you’d join the fun—I looked forward to tearing your bitch-ass apart.” 

“I would say I’m flattered, but I rather like my ass.” Jaebeom saunters across a nearby rooftop. In the midst of the storm, he almost reminds Youngjae of a superhero—or more likely in his case, the psychotic supervillain. “Look, you’ve had your fun, kid. Now I suggest you release my brother and cut out all this petty-teenage bullshit before I break your body in places you never thought possible.” 

“That’s it?... And here I thought you’d want the antidote?” 

Jaebeom’s face darkens. 

“...So there is a cure?” 

“Of course. Every spell has its loophole.” Minho finally lowers his hand, ceasing the painful reconstruction of Jinyoung’s skeleton. Youngjae watches in confusion as the former retracts something from his pocket—some sort of vial, it seems—and offers it toward the hybrid. “The blood which Changbin drank to turn—it’ll heal anyone fallen victim to his bite.” 

“You better hand that over before I rip your teeth from your skull.” Jaebeom growls darkly, hopping down from his overhead perch.

The witch shakes his head, “Not so fast, Mr. Wolf… See, there was only so much left—enough to heal one lucky soul.” 

“You’re a sick fucking bastard,” Jaebeom spits. “You wanted this to happen—”

“Your little bloodsucking girlfriend is dying, isn’t she?” Minho tosses the vial toward the hybrid, who effortlessly catches it between two trembling fingers. “If you want to save her life, then I suggest you go before the venom does its job.” 

“Jaebeom-hyung, don’t—!” Jinyoung gasps, slithering across the muddy earth like an earthworm lost to the world. 

“You know she doesn’t have much time—” 

“We can’t do this without you—we need you!... I need you, hyung!”  

Jaebeom, staring at the tiny container in his grasp, doesn’t reply to his incapacitated companion. Youngjae curses the smirk that spreads across Minho’s face—a sign of victory—and attempts to spot Jisung and Lia somewhere between the ferocious raindrops. He has no such luck, and instead decides to pray for a miracle instead. 

“If you hadn’t fucked around with the few people I care about, I might have actually liked you.” Jaebeom murmurs with a sigh before tucking the vial into his pocket and sending the dark witch a malicious sneer. “Well isn’t that too fucking bad.” 

Youngjae leaps almost ten feet in the air as lightning strikes for what seems like the millionth time, although this time, it’s inches from where Minho is standing. After searching the area, Youngjae discovers Lia and Jisung across the way, hands clasped, eyes bright with passion, uttering some sort of offensive charm. Minho attempts to sprint in the opposite direction, but Jaebeom easily tackles the witch before he can get far. 

“Now Youngjae-hyung! Do it now!” 

At Jisung’s cue, Youngjae takes off into the rain. The bitter feel of Mother Nature’s tears against his skin quickens his movements, wanting nothing more then to end this hurricane, both literally and figuratively, once and for all. He reaches Minho in what seems like hours and hurries to grab his wrist—but just like the tides during a storm, the tables quickly turn. 

At the wave of Minho’s hand, Jaebeom goes flying across the cemetery, crashing into a stone statue and collapsing into the resulting rumble. White-hot pain spreads through Youngjae’s veins like a poison, freezing his muscles and immobilizing his limbs from any further movement. He collapses to the ground, where mud immediately clings to his clothing.

Minho rises to his feet before stepping on Youngjae’s hand with a cackle, “Don’t you fuckers get it!? I’m untouchable! You can’t fucking win!” 

“That’s where you’re wrong, Minho…” Youngjae chuckles, curling his fingers around the tread of the dark witch’s boot. Minho realizes his mistake as soon as the former’s hand begins to glow, foolishly attempting to squirm from his touch. 

Thunder roars in the distance as Youngjae grins in triumph: 

“Because unlike you… we’re not alone.” 

The last thing Youngjae sees before he loses consciousness is a flash of white and the bewildered face of the dark witch as he collapses beside him.   

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

“I take it Mark apologized?...” You nearly leap out of your own skin at the sudden inquiry. With a less than agitated frown, you turn to acknowledge the culprit for your almost heart attack. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear some of these supernaturals have powers of teleportation or something… 

“Goddamnit, Dahyun. Not all of us have superwolf hearing.” 

“Sorry, dearie. Force of habit.” The she-wolf offers an apologetic smile, moving forward to hook her arm with your own. She allows Yugyeom, Chan and Mark to gain a bit of distance ahead before repeating again, “So Mark…?” 

“We both talked it out and apologized… so everything’s okay now.” You hum—the tiny fib leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. 

Truthfully, your encounter with Mark left you conflicted. Of course, you’re more than glad he finally opened up about his past, and even more glad that he trusts you enough to reveal his lingering feelings of trauma, but there’s still a pretty big fucking elephant in the room—one involving his dead best friend and the fact you can talk to him beyond the grave. 

You should have told him then and there—right after you promised to abolish all secrets—but something inside you couldn’t do it… and you don’t know why. 

“Why are you so interested in Mark and I’s relationship anyway?” You utilize your curiosity as a distraction from the guilt breathing down your neck, angling your neck to peer at Dahyun’s side profile. “Is there… history between you two?” 

“No, no—nothing like that. Mark and I have just known each other since we were kids. Our moms were close friends, so Mark, Yugyeom and I pretty much grew up together.” 

“He never told me that.” 

“Don’t take it personal, sweetheart. Mark doesn’t like to talk about his past—” Dahyun sighs, “—too many bad memories between his dad and the bullshit that happened with his mom. He’ll come around eventually… he just needs more time.” 

“I know his mom passed when he was a teenager, but Mark never actually mentioned how she died…” You bite your lip, sending a curious glance to your wolf companion. “It’s really not fair to ask you, but—” 

“Mark found her in their own kitchen with her entire throat ripped open.” Dahyun’s blunt answer leaves your throat dry, unable to speak another word if you wanted to. “The sheriff ruled it as an animal attack, but I’m sure you’re smart enough to figure out what really happened.” 

Your heart sinks, and you choose not to say anything further. 

“Dahyun! (Y/N)! Don’t get too far behind!” Chan’s voice echoes from somewhere up ahead. With the black of night beginning to fade, you can just make out his, Yugyeom, and Mark’s silhouettes a couple dozen feet away. Dahyun gives your forearm a gentle squeeze before releasing your conjoined limbs to catch up with her packmates. You do the same, meeting an armed Mark about halfway. 

His eyes glitter with concern underneath the fading starlight. 

“Everything okay…?” 

“Yeah, Dahyun and I were just catching up.” You inhale a deep breath before releasing it in an even heavier exhale. “But there is something I need to talk to you about—about Jackson and the whole resurrection thing.” 

Mark shakes his head, “You have every right to make your own decisions, (Y/N), but I wish you and Youngjae would have come to me.” 

“I know that, but it was more complicated than that—” You try to gather your thoughts while also attempting to make sense of your words. “I couldn’t tell you because, well—because Jackson told—” 

“Mark-hyung! We’ve got an issue!” Yugyeom’s warning immediately cuts off your explanation. Mark shoots you an apologetic glance before hurrying the two of you forward to join the wolf trio. It only takes seconds for you to distinguish the cause of the beta’s distress. 

A deer carcass lays precariously on the forest floor, and albeit it’s practically torn to shreds, you can just make out a single word carved into its bloody flesh: 

Die. 

“Shit—we need to go. Now.” 

“We’ve already come this far. Chae should be around here somewhere.” Chan ignores Mark’s directive, stepping over the animal corpse to traverse further through the forest. He barely takes a step before the witch is grabbing his wrist. “Let me go, hyung.” 

“Don’t be an idiot.” 

“Don’t tell me what to—”

“Shut the fuck up. Both of you.” Dahyun quietly hisses, “Listen.” 

You try to do as the she-wolf says, but all that meets your ears is the combination of your own labored breathing and uneven pulse. Judging by the confused expression along Mark’s face, he’s probably dealing with the same situation. 

“What is it?” 

“We’re being watched.” Yugyeom answers Mark’s inquiry in a whisper. “Mark, you and (Y/N) need to find somewhere to hide right now—Chan, Dubu, get ready to fight—”

As soon as the command leaves Yugyeom’s lips, Mark takes you by the arm and drags you behind a broad tree trunk. You fish Jinyoung’s pocket knife from your pocket while Mark cocks his shotgun in preparation. Who knew the day would come that you’d actually be grateful for the presence of two dangerous weapons…  

“If anything goes wrong—you run like hell, got it?” 

You shake your head at Mark’s demand. “I’m not just going to leave you—”  

“Yugyeom! Above you!” At Chan’s warning, you’re suddenly shoved to the ground by the witch, watching in horror as a deranged Changbin descends from the treetops onto the beta himself. His skin is a sickly ashen shade, and his black veins so prominent it would make a nurse weep. There’s no human emotion left inside his dark eyes as he strikes Yugyeom over and over again with his lengthy sharp talons, tearing open his skin like a birthday present—he’s a complete animal. 

“Bin, stop!” Chan throws his arms around Changbin’s shoulders in an attempt to pull him from Yugyeom, winding a tight arm around his throat before thrusting a knee against his spine. “Think about what you’re doing!” 

With Dahyun’s assistance, the two wolves manage to separate the dark wolf from that of Yugyeom’s wounded self. Even so, Changbin clearly does not appreciate being stolen away from his prey. He easily escapes from Chan’s hold, landing a couple heavy hits against the latter’s nose before shoving him to the ground. Dahyun takes the moment to strike, bringing the dark wolf to kneel with a harsh kick to his knee, but the action does minimal damage. Changbin punts the she-wolf a dozen feet away as if she weighs nothing. You wince as Dahyun connects with a nearby tree trunk with a vocal thud before dropping to the ground with no movements of rejoining the fight. 

“Shit…” You curse to yourself, “They won’t be able to take him down by themselves—he’s too fucking strong.” 

“Watch your ears.”  You notice Mark aiming his gun toward the dark wolf, waiting for an opportunity with his finger on the trigger. At his discretion, you cover your ears just in time for him to fire a first and second shot. A ferocious growl echoes through the trees, spreading goosebumps across your flesh like wildfire. 

You watch both Chan and Yugyeom take advantage of Changbin’s distraction. The alpha delivers a swift, yet heavy hit against his wounded shoulder while the beta goes for his legs. Similar to Dahyun, they manage to pin Changbin to the forest floor. For a moment, you almost believe the fight has concluded in your team’s favor—but the tides shift. In the blink of an eye, Chan is impaled with a large jagged branch and sent tumbling into some foliage whereas Yugyeom is dealt punch after strike after kick, unable to escape the barrage of Changbin’s wrath. He eventually, like the former two, collapses to the earth and makes no move to rise. 

Changbin cracks his neck before stalking toward where you and your companion stand. 

“Mark—” 

“I got it!” Mark quickly feeds another couple shells into the shotgun barrel, cocks the weapon, then aims down sight. He manages to sink a bullet into your target’s abdomen, followed by another in his bicep, but Changbin merely releases an annoyed snarl and continues charging forward. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—(Y/N), move!” You leap out of the way just in time to avoid a powerful strike. Changbin’s hand splinters the trunk of the tree, sending pieces of bark in every direction. A particular shard catches the bridge of your nose, causing blood to warmly cascade down your skin. You quickly wipe the liquid from your right eye, ignoring the nausea fluttering inside your gut, before focusing back on the situation at hand. 

You look up in time to watch Mark swing his shotgun harshly against Changbin’s skull. Taking advantage of his disorientation, you rush forward to stab your pocket knife into the wolf’s back. Changbin practically roars in fury, angling backward to land a hit to your face before you have time to react. The force of his strike throws you to the ground, a sharp pain lingering in your left cheek. 

“Don’t fucking touch her!” Mark throws himself against Changbin, delivering hit after hit to anything and anywhere. Still, Mark’s human strength does little to outbeat the dark wolf, and you watch in horror as Changbin effortlessly pins the witch against his chest with a bloody hand around his throat.  You desperately search for something, anything, in hopes of saving Mark from whatever deadly fate awaits Changbin’s bloodlust, but fate doesn’t seem to be on your side.

“Changbin—please don’t do this!” You cry, praying to some type of deity that the wolf is sane enough to understand your words. Even so, your confidence is low, seeing as talking clearly had no effect during your last encounter, but you’re fresh out of options at this point. “You know this isn’t who you are!” 

To your surprise, Changbin actually answers, “You don’t know anything about me.” 

“Maybe not, but I know you don’t actually want to hurt anyone…” You cautiously rise to your feet with a shake of your head, wary of the tight hold Changbin currently has on Mark’s jugular. “Your thoughts are all sorts of fucked up right now because of the dark magic, so why don’t you just let Mark go and we can—” 

“Don’t you fucking get it! This fucker—” He yanks at Mark with more force than necessary, “—took everything from me! He took my pack, my alpha—the only people I ever felt safe with!” 

“I understand you—” 

“No, you don’t!” Changbin wails, “You can’t even imagine how I feel! How fucking hard it is to wake up in a world you know you’ll never belong! How much it fucking hurts just to go on and pretend like everything’s normal when it’s fucking not!” 

“Tell him it’s okay to feel angry—” You whirl your head around to find a seemingly exhausted, yet wild-eyed Jackson Wang at your side. “—but none of this was Mark’s fault.” 

You’re mortified at first, having never encountered the ghost anywhere outside your bedroom—but whether it’s the desperation etched along his features, or the flush of purple that overtakes Mark’s complexion—you quickly transfer back to reality: 

“Changbin, it’s perfectly normal to feel angry and cheated, but this wasn’t Mark’s fault—deep down, I think you know that.”

“What does it fucking matter anymore? I’m all alone anyways.” The pure agony etched along his face has your heart splitting in two. 

You’ve never seen a creature so strong and so powerful look so… vulnerable. 

“You said the exact same thing to me when we first met…” Jackson murmurs softly.

“You told Jackson you were alone at one point too…” 

An obvious wave of tense silence washes through the forest, making the beat of your heart that much more prominent in your ears. 

Changbin’s whisper is dark—dangerous. “How the fuck do you know that?” 

“Because… Because he’s here, Changbin.” You say, your eyes meeting Mark’s as the words leave your tongue. “You’re not alone because Jackson is still here.” 

You don’t know what kind of reaction you expected from your revelation, but it certainly is not the heinous laughter that spills from the dark wolf’s lips. 

“You must have lost your goddamn mind… Jackson-hyung is dead!” 

“Maybe physically, but his spirit still remains.” 

“You mean—” You turn to discover a bewildered Yugyeom unsteadily leaning against a tree, “—his… ghost? You—You can see his ghost?” 

You nod.   

Changbin sneers with a low growl. “I don’t fucking believe you.” 

“There’s a cliffside back along the bay about twenty miles from the lodge,” Jackson begins, his tone a blend of nostalgic and sorrowful. “Changbin and I used to go there to watch the full moon rise before we turned into our wolf forms… I-I’ve missed that so much…” 

“You and Jackson would always watch the full moon rise on a cliff overlooking the bay before you transitioned,” You repeat. “He says he misses those moments with you…”

“Stop it!” Changbin frantically shakes his head, “You’re lying!” 

“He’s here, Changbin… He’s really here.” You move forward again, more confidently this time, and raise your hands in a sympathetic gesture. “And the last thing he wants is for you to make the same mistakes he did, so please—let Mark go and let us help you…” 

It’s as if time freezes for a moment. Changbin seems to fight a battle with himself—countless emotions rushing through his teary eyes. You watch the dark wolf glance toward an unconscious Dahyun and Chan, then to a silent Yugyeom, before finally setting his focus back to you. You can only pray your face reflects the hope swirling throughout your veins—pray that Changbin will do the right thing. 

To your delight, the blackness of his veins gradually begin to fade and the sharp claws protruding from his fingertips recede. You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until Changbin finally retracts his hold from Mark’s neck. You’re quick to take the unsteady witch in your own arms before sending the now normal wolf a thankful smile. 

“Thank you, Changbin…” 

He nods shyly before wiping a couple tears from his cheeks. You watch as Yugyeom cautiously makes his way toward the younger boy, murmurs something, then tugs the latter into a tight embrace that pulls even more liquid sadness from his eyes. The sight has your heart melting into a puddle of warmth—the emotion doesn’t last though, not when Mark’s dark croak enters your ears:

“You… can see Jackson…” 

You shrug sheepishly, “I wanted to tell you, but he said not to… He didn’t want to hurt you anymore than he already had.” 

Mark remains silent. You try to search for his features for some kind of anger or disappointment, but are only awarded with his surface level blank stare. Worry flooding through your veins, you look to Jackson for any possible guidance, but the ghost merely shakes his head. 

After a couple tense seconds or so, Mark finally murmurs, “Jack… I—I’m so sorry. For everything.” 

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Jackson says immediately, “If only I had listened to you, then maybe things would have played out different.” 

“He says it wasn’t your fault—he should have listened to you.”

“We both made some pretty shitty mistakes.” Mark hums, “I miss you, man. So fucking much.” 

You don’t wait for Jackson to reply, already knowing his answer. 

“He misses you too, Mark. Just as much.”

“How is this even possible…?” You and Mark turn to find the shocked gaze of Yugyeom, who is closely followed by the despair of that belonging to Changbin. “Supernaturals can’t even see spirits, much less mortals…” 

“We never exactly figured that out. Jackson said he felt drawn to me from the Other Side—he kind of just showed up in my bedroom the night after Mina and Momo died.” 

“Any contact with the dead usually requires some sort of spell or medium.” Mark bites his lip in confusion. “I’ve never seen anything like this before, not even in any of my mother’s grimoires—”

“Jackson!” Your body grows rigid as Jackson suddenly collapses to the ground with a pained groan. You hurry forward, kneeling next to the man, and reach for his shoulder. The realization of his phantom existence hits you like a bag of bricks when your fingers phase through his form. You settle for calling his name again instead, “Jackson—what’s wrong?” 

“What the hell is going on?” You hear Changbin stress from somewhere behind you, but your focus is completely on the ghost in question. 

Jackson lifts his head with a gasp, revealing a line of blood dripping from his nose. “I-It’s the witches!... They know about our plans—they’re trying to force me back to the Other Side—”

“(Y/N)?” 

You shake your head feverishly, “It’s, uh, it’s the witches on the Other Side—they don’t like Jackson crossing over, so they’re trying to bring him back…” 

Mark nods. “Witches, dead or alive, will do anything to maintain the balance of nature.” 

“(Y/N)—shit—I don’t have a lot of time—” Your chest tightens at the urgency behind Jackson’s words. “I know so much just went down, but—” 

“Don’t worry, Jack. I won’t let you disappear again.” You affirm before climbing to your feet to face your new subject of interest. “Mark—I need you to perform the resurrection spell.” 

“Woah, wait—” Mark shakes his head, “(Y/N), I can’ t—” 

“If we don’t resurrect him now, then Jackson is gone forever!” Your warning spreads a new tension across the atmosphere, manifesting in the form of sullen and panicked expressions. “Please, Mark—we have a chance to bring him back!” 

“I can’t do the spell because I don’t have any magic…” Your heart sinks at Mark’s revelation. “Minho absorbed all my magical energy back at the graveyard… I’m so sorry, Jackson…” 

“Hold on, you told me that there’s different types of magic…” You push, “Can’t you draw energy from something? Like the forest, or the moon, or, or—”

“Or me.” You turn, discovering the speaker of the response to be none other than a determined Changbin. “Minho-hyung’s spell may be gone, but I can still feel the magical energy lingering through my body.” 

Mark hesitates, “I-I don’t know if it will work… and if something goes wrong—” 

“Do you want Jackson-hyung back or not?...” 

A moment of silence passes after Changbin’s question. You keep an eye on a repeatedly wincing Jackson, and the other on the witch’s face, attempting to decipher his thoughts inside the glow of his gaze. For a moment, you wonder if Mark will even provide an answer, until the words finally leave his lips: 

“Fuck the balance of nature. I’ll bring you back, Jackson—I promise.” 

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

Jinyoung stares at the sun as it gradually rises past the horizon, bathing his skin in a warm, celebratory light. His gaze wavers across the cemetery to the notorious mausoleum, where he watches Lia and Jisung carefully assist a barely conscious Youngjae past the doorway. After this crazy night, the siphoner definitely deserves a good, long rest. Then again, so does everyone else. 

He releases a heavy sigh before shifting away from the witch trio. After sparing one final glance to the sunrise, Jinyoung allows his feet to carry him through the early morning glow, past countless tombstones and other structures, and settles beside a second figure in front of a particular burial site. He silently reads the engravings along the headstone before addressing his companion without so much as a glimpse: 

“I assumed you would be halfway back to the bunker by now.” 

Jaebeom doesn’t respond, not that Jinyoung really expects him to. He peers at the hybrid through the corner of his eye, attempting to seek meaning beyond his blank features. Centuries later, Jinyoung still can’t predict the workings of Jaebeom’s inner thoughts. Especially when it comes to the situation at hand. 

“Mark called. Changbin is no longer affected by Minho’s spell.” He explains, “They’re also preparing a ritual to resurrect Jackson Wang—” 

“Tzuyu…?” 

Jinyoung’s chest tightens as the name falls from Jaebeom’s lips. 

“Their youngest, Ryujin, is looking after both her and Felix.”

“So she’s still alive…?” 

“It seems so.” 

A brief moment of silence passes between the pair. The earth grows brighter and brighter as the seconds roll by, reminding Jinyoung that time is a friend to no one. 

“Hyung, did you… truly switch off your humanity?” 

“I did, at first.” Jaebeom’s answer is quiet, and Jinyoung can detect the subtle hint of vulnerability hidden beneath his gruff tone. “But I guess I can never completely turn it off.” 

“It’s alright to feel, hyung—be it anger… or passion… or fear…” 

Jinyoung notices Jaebeom shift uncomfortably before glancing down at the glass vial in the palm of his hand. For once, he can actually distinguish the emotions present within the hybrid’s dark eyes. The knowledge only jabs at his heart. 

“Everything is taken care of, right?” 

“The night has ended, and Minho is safely sealed away in the crypt.” Jinyoung nods, “We live to see another day.”

He watches his companion tuck the precious vial into the pocket of his jeans before turning away from the headstone. Jinyoung is not sure where the urge comes from, but he abandons his perch, grabbing Jaebeom’s shoulder before he can leave the cemetery. He ignores the hybrid’s confused expression and pulls him into a tight embrace. 

“Thank you for staying, hyung…” Jinyoung’s murmur is slightly muffled against the fabric of his jacket, but he knows his companion heard them loud and clear. 

Jaebeom hesitates for a moment, clearly taken aback by the sudden act, but eventually winds his arms loosely around Jinyoung’s back with a gentle murmur of his own:

“You will always be my family, Jinyoung… Always and forever…”  

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

“I’ve never used magic like this before, so I can’t promise this will work.” Mark glances to where he assumes Jackson’s spirit is located inside the white circle makeshifted out of a bag of flour Dahyun managed to find in a bunker cabinet, before glancing to the companion at his side. “You sure you’re up for this? It’ll feel like I’m literally sucking the life force out of your body…” 

Changbin nods, “If it means bringing Jackson-hyung back.” 

“Okay, then.” Mark turns to the surrounding crowd next, “In order to do this, I’ll need to lower the veil to the Other Side. This will create a temporary door that Jackson can pass through to physically enter our realm. Once he crosses over, he should become mortal again.” 

“Seems easy enough.” Dahyun snickers, although the sound is dry and forced. “Anything else we need to know?” 

“Whatever happens, do not enter the circle.” His eyes drift from the she-wolf to your silent form. As if sensing the scrutiny, your gaze connects with his own, and knowing he has your attention, Mark continues in a darker tone, “Just as spirits can pass into our realm, we can cross to the Other Side… so for the love of god, don’t do anything stupid.”

Your and Mark’s staring contest ceases when your head snapes toward the circle. Seconds later, you break the tense silence with a soft murmur, “Jackson says it’s getting worse. He can feel the witches trying to drag him back.” 

“Then I guess that’s our cue.” He sighs before nodding toward the circle one last time, “I’m gonna do my best, Jack. Just hold on.” 

With one final glance to the grimoire you gave him earlier, Mark inhales a deep breath and takes Changbin’s outstretched hand into his own. He closes his eyes, focusing every part of his brain on the electrifying sensation of the magical energy coursing through the wolf’s body. Bit by bit, he feels Changbin’s power bleeding into his own veins, awakening the slumbering supernatural nature of his soul. Once he’s sure enough he’s acquired enough magic, Mark opens his eyes and begins the incantation: 

“Vita mortem, mortem vita est… Partis inferioris velum, partis inferioris ante illum vetum…” Almost instantly, the wind picks up while the air grows uncomfortably cold. He ignores the violent shivers wracking through his limbs and proceeds to repeat the words as the temperature continues to drop. With each spoken syllable, Mark’s head becomes dizzy and his flesh feels as if it’s being scorched off, but he continues. 

No amount of pain could ever dull the hope of seeing his best friend alive once more.

“Holy shit—it’s actually working!” 

Mark doesn’t realize he had shut his eyes until he opens them, nearly yelping in delight when he discovers the image of said friend standing in the center of the white circle. Jackson looks no different than the day he last saw him, and he can’t decide if he wants to laugh out of irony or burst into tears. 

“The veil is down! I’m gonna start the spell to cross you over!” Mark yells over the howling of the wind, clutching Changbin’s hand tighter as he transitions to the next phase of the spell. “Ohto eestanay as vazat esvet ohnaz eespalit… Ohto eestanay as vazat esvet—fuck!” 

A brutal force comes down against his head, almost resembling that of a punch, before spreading hot fire down his neck and to the rest of his body. Mark doubles over with a wheeze, attempting to fight against the painful sensations by grounding himself in Changbin’s touch. However, as soon as the first wave concludes, a second, even more excruciating one follows. He feels as if someone is trying to crush his brain—to kill him from the inside out. 

“Mark-hyung! What’s wrong!?” 

“It’s the witches!...” Mark is thankful that Jackson answers Yugyeom’s panicked inquiry, “They’re trying to break the spell!” 

“Like… hell they will…” Mark hisses, righting himself with a pained groan before grabbing Changbin’s other hand. “I’m not going down without a fight—hold on!...” 

He jumps back into the spell, weakening the manipulated pain through the absorption of more of the wolf’s energy. Borderline high off the power, he pushes everything he has into the ritual, determined to see it through to the end. After a minute that passes like a decade, Mark detects a shift in the atmosphere, indicating the near completion of the spell, and shouts: 

“Jackson—get out of the circle! Get out now!” 

As if in slow motion, Mark watches Jackson quickly move to escape the white border. But just as soon as his toe brushes the edge, he is wrenched away and lifted from the ground. 

Dahyun cries, “What the hell is happening!?”

“They won’t let me cross over!” Jackson squirms and writhes, attempting to escape whatever invisible grip is holding him hostage. His efforts are futile, and he continues to rise higher and higher off of the ground. 

“Hang on, Jack!” Mark releases Changbin’s hands and raises his own palms in Jackson’s direction. However, the same torturous pain from before returns once more, hitting his nerves like a sledgehammer to a brick wall, and throws him to the earth. “Shit—no! H-He has to pass through the circle!” 

“(Y/N)! Don’t!” 

Mark raises his gaze at Dahyun’s shriek, only to watch in horror as you rush past the flour boundary and grab hold of Jackson’s hand. A blinding light immediately erupts from your clasped palms, expanding through the area until all Mark can see is white. 

After a long moment, his vision eventually returns, and he finds the forest completely silent. The temperature is no longer frigid, he notices, and the strain within his brain is gone. For a moment, Mark is filled with prowess, victorious at the fact he successfully carried out an ancient resurrection ritual, however, his triumph is temporary, especially when he notices your form laid motionless in Dahyun’s arms. 

“(Y/N)—fuck!” Mark hurries to where you lay, stealing your figure from the she-wolf to cradle you in his own hold. “Shit, shit, shit—she’s not breathing! Fucking goddamnit!” 

His panic only grows tenfold when he hears the murmur cascade from Dahyun’s lips: 

“Mark… where’s Jackson?”

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

Jaebeom scales the final rung of the ladder before making his way toward the corner where the snoozing trio resides. He moves cautiously, mindful not to awaken the young werewolf caretaker, yet eventually finds himself perched on the edge of a familiar cot. His heart thunders inside his chest, and he cannot tell if it’s out of anxiety or hope. Though at this moment, Jaebeom can really care less to find out. 

“It’s about time you showed up…” He winces at the broken husk of his companion’s voice, attempting to keep his expression as neutral as possible. “I thought you were actually going to leave me to die in the hands of a neurotic teenage wolf…” 

Jaebeom doesn’t respond to her quip—he can’t find it in himself to do so. 

Tzuyu raises an eyebrow, “What’s with the face? Did you take down the witch or not?” 

“We did.” He hums, “The spell is broken.”

“Good thing—” The vampire pauses to cough, and the sound is like broken glass against his ears. “—you and your brother are safe for the eternity to come.” 

“Tzuyu… I found the cure.” 

“What are you waiting for then? My consent?” She snickers playfully, “We fuck for over a century and this is the most gentlemanly behavior I’ve ever seen from you, Beomie.”

Again, Jaebeom remains silent. 

Recognizing the obvious tension in the room, Tzuyu’s face falls. “But… I guess it’s more complicated than that, hm?” 

“There’s only enough for…” He’s unable to finish his sentence, not when his companion’s eyes are gazing at him with such sullenness and sympathy. Jaebeom has to look away for a moment, though the action does little to relieve the tightness of his chest. 

“Ah, I see.” Tzuyu hums, glancing across the way to a slumbering Felix. Her pale lips twitch, as if attempting to upturn to a smile, but it instead appears as a weak grimace. “You know, I really never meant to hurt (Y/N)… or you.” 

“Tzuyu—”

“I’ve known you for decades… but I’ve never seen you look at someone the way you look at her.” Another violent cough wracks through her body, expelling a mass of dark blood past her lips. Jaebeom is quick to wipe the splotch from her skin with the blanket, trying not to dwell on the fact that her skin is ice cold. “I’ll admit, I was jealous at first… I’ve always wanted someone to look at me like that… 

“I know you’re afraid to care—to love, Jaebeom.” Tzuyu murmurs sadly, lifting a hand to rest against the hybrid’s cheek. “Especially someone like (Y/N)… and you’re right to. She’s too good… too human. 

“One misstep and you could lose her forever.” 

“I want to be selfish…” Jaebeom whispers, “I want to be selfish so fucking bad—”

“But you can’t be, Beom. Not with her.” 

“Then let me be selfish with you.” 

Tzuyu smiles. 

“I’ve lived over three lifetimes, and he is barely a ways into his one—so you’re going to give the cure to that damn kid, Im Jaebeom.” He leans further into her touch as she caresses the apple of his cheek. “Promise me that you’ll stay away from her—to keep her safe?”

He nods.

“Good… Can you hold me for a moment? I’m cold.” 

“I’ll hold you as long as you want me to.” 

And so Jaebeom takes Tzuyu into his arms. However, it’s not until the vampire grows still does he allow a single tear to cascade from his eye, staining the bloodied bed sheets with the agony of a heart that has been broken too many times to count.

Request from Anon: Oh? Did you say Peter B. Parker- can you please do one where the reader accidentally call him Dad? It just sounds like a really funny scenario

A/N: One silly request coming right up! Also, I hope you don't mind the route I took with this-- The idea kinda just came to me when I read this prompt. Basically, the reader is also a spider-person, and will essentially take Peter B places in their universe. So Peter has taken it upon himself to be your "wise" mentor. Either way, I took a wholesome approach to this- Don’t kill me-----

"I think you're ready," Peter sighed as he sat on the ledge of the building.

New York, as usual, was nothing but hustle and bustle. Peter watched the rush hour traffic come to a halt, the evening streetlights flickering on, and he found himself wondering if the city would ever replace the bulbs. What an odd, mundane string of thoughts to have. Guess that happens when you get old.

"I'm not ready." you sat next to him, "I'm definitely going to mess this up." 

"You think I didn't?" Peter looks at you from the corner of your eye.

You were still a kid. He felt terrible, knowing that you were forced onto this pedestal with him. You had told him that you had aspirations of being anything else, but unfortunately fate had other plans. Peter wanted nothing more than to tell you to just go home and to forget about it all, but he also knew that deep down you had already made up your mind.

You were very stubborn in that sense. When your mind was made up, there was no changing it. This city, this world even, needed you to become the next hero. You knew Peter was getting old too to keep going. You wanted him to go home and be with MJ. He deserved it. He earned the right to have a decent life now. 

"I messed up a lot of things." Peter said, "Hell, I probably did more damage than I did good, but..."

You looked at the mask you had in your hands. All of this somehow felt meaningless and meaningful at the same time. It was overwhelming, to say the least.

"Guess that's just how life is." he continued, "You gotta roll with the punches." 

"That's terrible advice." you laughed quietly, still looking down.

"What can I say?" he smiled, "I wasn't exactly prepared to this. Which just proves my point." 

You looked forward, to the horizon. The setting sun was still bright, and the city was drenched in a golden light. Maybe Peter was right. You shouldn't be so worried, because this is just how life is. He did screw up a lot, like a lot, a lot-- But look at him now. Him and MJ are together, they even managed to get a nice place together, MJ has a good job-- Things just work out.

"The universe always has a way of righting itself."

"You really think I'm goin-"

"I know you're going to be fine, kid." He sighed with content, “I know you.”

Peter looked at the same horizon, yet it felt different to him. He was sad that it was time to let go of his alter ego, but at the same time it was peaceful. He had faith that you'd protect this city no matter what. You had told him every story you had about this place. He was absolutely certain that the universe had made the right choice. 

Without thinking much of it, Peter patted you on the shoulder, "You'll do great things for this city." 

"You really think so?"

"I know so." 

You figured that the conversation had come to a halt, so you were about to get up when Peter pushed you back down. You looked over at him with obvious confusion on your face. He moved away and it felt like he was hesitating a little.  

"You good?"

He grabbed your wrists and took off your web shooters.

"Hey!" you protested, "I just made those, old man-"

"They're no good."

"No good? They're brand new."

"Close your eyes." 

You did nothing but stare at him, which caused him to pause. You rolled your eyes and closed them tightly, "There. Happy? Can I have my web shooters back?"

You heard the familiar click and immediately withdrew your hands. You opened your eyes and looked down at your wrists. Instead of seeing your bright, shiny, brand spanking new web shooters, you saw old ones. They had scratches, the latches were a bit loose, the metal was dull and was obviously worn from use.

These were Peter's. He always bragged about how much cooler they were than yours. They were like his pride and joy when it came to his beat up suit. He wanted you to have them? He trusted you that much? 

You couldn't form words.  It's almost like your brain had frozen solid. Every train of thought had come to a screeching halt. 

"I can't take these." you said.

"I want you to have them." Peter sounded proud, "It's only right." 

You, for the first time in a while, surprised him by throwing your arms around him in a huge bear hug. It took him a minute, but he returned the hug. Is this what it felt like? Having kids? Maybe it wouldn't be so bad-

"Thanks, dad."

"You're welcome, kidd-" Peter pulled back, "Did you just call me dad?" 

"What." you did. You quickly stood up and stumbled back, "No way. I think you're hearing things, old man." 

Peter stood up, doofy smile still on his face, "I heard you say 'Thanks, dad.'" 

"I clearly said, 'Thanks...Dude.'" 

"Uh huh." 

"I did." You tripped a little as you got up onto the ledge of the building, "I totally did. Not my fault that you can't hear- I gotta go...Like, right now."

"Of course." 

"My mom's...Totally called me, y'know. I have ...Homework." You walked along the ledge, "And I did not, totally did not, call you dad."

"And I'm the king of France."

Much like a moody teen, you stopped and crossed your arms, letting out a huff, "Why would I call you dad anyways?"

"Because," Peter mimicked you, right down to the way you speak, "You totes see me as one. Just admit it. I'm actually kinda flattered." 

"Pfft. Alright, okay. Whatever helps you sleep at night, old man." 

You wanted to change the subject. You were far too hard headed to admit that you had called him dad. 

"You didn't give me my web shooters." You leaned forward and held out your hand, "Gimme."

Peter rolled his eyes and chuckled as he walked over and put the gadgets in your hand, "You totally did call me-"

You were just embarrassed now, "I did not, man. C'mon." 

"Heard it. Clear as day. Can't fool me." 

You huffed again and adverted your eyes to the gadgets in your hands. You hadn't meant to slip up, but you really did see Peter as a dad. You, again, were way too stubborn to ever say that to his face.

You copied his eye roll, which didn't go unnoticed, "Alright, so what if I did."

"So what if you did." Peter repeatedly slowly. 

"I still have to leave." You shot a web off into the distance, "I'll see you tomorrow. Same time?"

"Actually," Peter cut in, "MJ was wondering if maybe you wanted to go out for lunch with us?"

"Me? Lunch with the both of you? Wouldn't that be..Weird..?" 

"Not unless you make it weird," he replied, "So don't make it weird."

You looked off into the distance at where you web had landed, "Uh, sure. Okay. Just, text me the place." 

Before Peter could respond, you swung away, shouting, "See ya later, old man!”  

"See you later, kiddo." 

Peter turned around and started his journey home, but something completely blind sighted him. Something had crashed into his back and had wrapped its arms around him. He looked down and saw the sleeves of your suit and laughed to himself.

Into his back you muttered, "Okay, bye, dad. Love you." 

Just like before, you quickly disappeared. Peter shouted in your direction, "You did it again!"

A few buildings away he heard your voice shout back to him, "What are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going to appreciate it!" He shouted back, laughing, "Thank you!" 

"You're welcome!" 

Your voice was even farther away. 

Peter smiled the whole way home. 

He was right. The universe does have a peculiar way of righting itself.

The Mind of  a Broken Soldier (Leave Me Be, Chapter 2 )

Hello People of Tumblr ! It’s ya girl Hazel ! I am back again with another chapter which i am 100% sure NOBODY request it because nobody requested this story in the first place but i’m still continuing it because i feel like it. I was planning on continuing this story and give sly nods to WandaVision and The Falcon and The Winter Soldier here and there along the way. Not in this chapter but... maybe on future chapters. But I’ll see how this one goes and where my idea leads me to.

So you need to read Chapter 1 to be able to understand this chapter properly because this chapter is solely Bucky’s point of view of the reader and some random thoughts. I love reading novels and love their style of writing hence i aspire to write a decent and proper story fanfiction. I mean when you read some books, there will be several chapters viewed from that other characters’ perspective so i decided to implement that style to my story. 

So once again, thank you so much if you decided to pop by, read it and love it. Don’t be shy to pop by my message box to share some ideas you have or maybe you just wanna vibe together, I’d love to do that with you guys too. But please please please don’t be mean if you don’t like it. FYI, this chapter is slightly shorter than the first chapter. Love, Hazel .

Disclaimer: No disclaimer or any warnings. But definitely do me and yourself a favour and check out Chapter 1 so you can properly comprehend this chapter with ease :) 

Characters : Bucky x Reader; teeny weeny mention of Sam :)

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Look man, I know we don’t really see eye to eye but I call to check on her…How’s she doin’?” Sam heaved a sigh of empathy from across the line.

I tightened my grip upon the thin, slick and smooth communication tool which now known as smartphone that I hadn’t had the chance to acquaint with. I let out a sigh of desperation, desperate of ways to haul her from the rabbit hole she’s now falling into. My fingers combing through my unruly long hair that’s bundled up in a disheveled bun. A bad habit of mine when I’m in desperation and anxiety.

“It’s been a week since Steve walked out from her life and if I’m being honest, Sam, she’s not doing very well. She’s…she’s been nestled up in her room since then.” I heaved another sigh of despair, my right human arm gripping the kitchen counter tightly in effort to prop myself while the other man-made hand still latched onto the phone.

“I even had to force feed her just to keep her alive for god sake.” I asserted whilst rubbing my right eye with the heel of my right human hand and quietly strutting towards her door. Leaning my side against the stark beige wooden door, plopping my ear against it to silently eavesdrop, just like how I had done countless times to check on her well-being without having to barge into the door. Soft whimper gradually shifted into muffled sobs. I closed my eyes, let my head hung low as if my neck was already tired enough to brace the weight of obstacles and desperation that merge into one and let out a long exhale.

“Gotta go, Sam… I’ll call you back.” I lowered my voice into mutter and hung up.

Even though I had known Steve for so many years, sometimes I still couldn’t decipher what’s in head. Recalling back to the 40s, way before he and I even considered enlisted into the army, women would always prefer me over Steve to take me out as their dancing partner when we’re at the bar. I felt bad for him and he’d sometimes complained that if only there’s the one out there who would see him through his frail and tiny stature. Seventy three years later, he abandoned the woman who’s been through with him through thick and thin, put up with his stupid decisions and god knows what more for eight years, for Peggy.

The woman whom he knew for only two years and only dated briefly.

The woman whom he’d share his infatuation and obsession with.

The woman he met at the army who didn’t even spare him a glance…not until after he’s gone through physical changes then eventually decided to give him a chance.

I wouldn’t even consider that as official if they only exchange flirting and longing glances at the office…

bar… 

and even Howard Stark’s Lab.

Clasping my hand upon the door handle, I levered it down and pushed open the door generating soft creaking from the hinge. I tiptoed my way in and left the door ajar. There she was… dressed down in only white camisole and panties while curled up in a fetal position upon the bed which was a bit too spacious now for a single person. Her back facing towards me, shoulders quivering from muffling her own sobs into whimper. 

Oh Steve… what have you done…

I slowly crept my way towards her and slowly sank myself on the bed. I was hesitant to lay next to her but I tried to push that thought away considering her mental health was already at stake. If I left her untended, she might eventually spiraled into deep depression and she’s already halfway there. So I laid next to her, draped my arm over her frail, delicate and small body to hold her close as if sheltering her from her own whirlpool of emotions . While offering her the comfort of silence, my mind wander off to how on earth Wanda dealt with her own grief… poor kid not only lost her significant other but also her twin brother and parents as I was informed by Sam. My train of thought was halted when I heard her croaked a rhetorical question, 

“H-h-he’s not coming back, is he? Did that prick even try second guessing his decisions?”

I wish I could do more than being her shoulder to cry on and dragging Steve back by the ear. That punk really took all the stupid with him. I contemplated whether I should say something decent to comfort and lift her spirit but I retracted. “I’m sorry, Doll… “ Were the only words I could muster from my still-healing disrupted mind. After Hydra’s infamous torturous events and being sent away to Wakanda to get my mind fixed. I found that I had difficulties of expressing my thought and feelings emotionally from the years of being over-electrocuted and memory-wiped conducted by Hydra, more strenuous than my old self. Not that I couldn’t do it but I realized it took more time to do so.

But even so I still try to rack my brain, dig deeper to find something nice to say; to make myself feel a tad better for at least doing something good in my life for once after the horrendous past, to at least counteract all those gruesome dirty work I unconsciously did to the others.

“I tried talking some sense into him, but he was very adamant of his decision. That punk…I’m really sorry…” i tried to string those words together carefully, worried that one step further or slight wrong move might set the fire ablaze even more. At this point, I was scared considering I had never connected to women emotionally. Sure I’d dated many women back in the 40s, but never considered them seriously… Now I know how it felt to wear their shoes, to know how it felt to be ditched and forgotten, even though I didn’t experience it firsthand.

Running out of options and words to say, I scooted closer whilst tightened my embrace and inhaling her scent, a hint of fresh bed linen and lavender; Steve hates it when women used too much perfume to the point it’s suffocating. I remember he’d always complained about the atrocious penetrating smell of perfume whenever we walked past the women at the bar.

“Doll… tell me what to do… I can’t bear seeing you breaking apart like this and I am running out of ways to numb your pain…” I consoled.

I used to be a good pep talker, a great one even; constantly spewing encouragement and lending a piece of advice or two to Steve. But I guess I had to shift my roles and be the good listener instead.

I did not expect her to open her heart and confide everything, as if she was confessing everything to me. I could only fervently listen to her anguish secrets that had been tormenting and keeping her awake. I felt really bad for the insecurity and self- doubt she had to endure these past years. Constant comparison with Peggy and doubting herself; nevertheless, she still fought her way to prove her worth… such strenuous and tenacious effort just to keep Steve’s attention to her…

Oh Steve… if only you’re in my position now, you’d know how much effort it took for her to keep up with your fantasy. They said love is full of sacrifices but not as much sacrifice from one side, both sides needed to make equal sacrifices to make things work, if one sacrifices too much, they’d weaken because they’re giving out too much and eventually died, just like her.

I knew Steve was always oblivious with things, but never as horrid as this. My heart sympathized and mourned for her. Eight years of relationship that she fought so hard to keep slipped out of her hands just like that.

“I-i-i-it h-h-h-urts, Buck… it hurts…He’s my first love, first kiss and…”

I felt her body shook under my embrace. No longer able to withstand her emotional suffer, I tried to soothe and lull her to sleep.

“I know, Doll. But I promise you’ll get through it, I promise to be with you every step of the way. We will get through it. I am not going anywhere. I am not going to walk out this door, not until you kick me out because you’re so sick of looking at my face. You have my word, Doll. I am staying.” I promised.

I promised myself I’d be there to pick up the pieces regardless of any circumstances, because it’s the right thing to do. I’d be there to hoist her up when no one else could. i’m doing what a good friend would do... It’s the right thing to do … Right? 

The Secret We Keep - Pt. 5

Part 1|2|3|4  - MasterList -

I was going to wait until tomorrow to post this, as I just finished it a few minutes ago. But decided not to make you guys wait any more than you had to. Your comments get me through the hell that is my job right now.

Hope you guys like it! Please, tell me what you think! Check out my MasterList(link above) to see other stories and One-Shots if you haven’t already and feel free to BuyMeACoffee while you’re there if you’d like. Thank you for your continued support!

I woke to the sound of a soft knock at my door. I jumped, my knees smacking against the table where my head had just been laying. Cursing quietly under my breath, I wiped the drool from the corner of my mouth and ran my hands through my hair.

What time was it, I wondered. Not dawn, as there was no light coming through the cracks of the trapdoor in the ceiling. The rain seemed to have stopped, and I blinked stupidly as I tried to sort myself out, pulling my shawl tighter around my shoulders.

I belatedly remembered what had woken me, and rose quickly to my feet, staggering over to the door. It took me a ridiculous amount of time for my half asleep brain to figure out how doors worked again, but soon I managed to pull it open.

The soft sounds of night greeted me, but my doorway was empty. I stared at it for a long moment, wondering if I was just missing something. Perhaps I had imagined the knock? I took a step out, looking around my small yard.

A large, hulking shadow moving by the cooking pit-turned-pool gave me a start. But as it turned, I saw dark blue eyes flash in the moonlight.

“Hans?” I called softly, and even to me my voice sounded heavy with sleep.

Slowly, he lumbered back over, and I tilted my head back to look up at him. In the dark, I couldn’t quite make out his face, but I saw him reach up and rub at the back of his neck with one large hand. I gave him a sleepy smile, stepping back to make space for him to enter the house. He gave a soft grunt, hunching his shoulders and haltingly slipping through the door without a word.

“I wasn’t sure if you were coming back tonight,” I told him, my voice barely above a whisper in order to preserve the stillness of the night air, “...Is everything alright?... I was worried.”

He gave another quiet grunt, pausing in the center of my place, looking around at the long shadows. The candles weren’t lit; I must have fallen asleep while stringing the herbs at the table before it had become too dark to work. So the only light was from the hot coals of the still open clay oven, and as I closed the front door and turned back to consider him, I found his edges bathed in a pale red glow.

I saw him shift slightly, shuffling his feet. I gave him another shy smile, though I wasn’t sure if he could see it, and rubbed at one eye. Resisting the urge to yawn. Instead, I wrapped my shawl tighter, turning back to the door.

“...Please, make yourself comfortable,” I said, sliding the latch into place and grabbing a small log from beside the door, “...Are you hungry? O-or perhaps you want some gin?”

He caught my arm with his big hand as I moved to pass him. I froze at his touch, and felt my pulse ricochet beneath my skin. I wondered briefly if he could feel it. His grip loosened quickly, hesitantly, until his fingertips were barely trailing against my flesh. I saw him shuffle again, could almost hear his faltering breath as he turned towards me. I felt my grip on the log slacken, threatening to let it slip from my hand. But I found I really couldn’t care less.

Slowly, his other hand came towards me, tentatively grazing up my hip. I swallowed and turned to face him properly, and as he smoothed his palm along my waist, I let the log drop to the floor with a clatter. Gently, with the slightest of pressure on his fingertips, he eased me closer to himself, so close I could smell the damp rain and mud on his clothes. I tilted my head back, looking for his face in the darkness.

“... I only want you,” He murmured, his voice as deep and quiet as the shadows around us.

His fingers trailed slowly up my arm, then over my shoulder and along my neck. I felt my eyelids tremble and my breath hit the lump forming in my throat that took the distinct shape of my heart. I swallowed hard, feeling his fingers rise with the movement as I did. Finally, bit by bit, his hand came to my jaw. I closed my eyes, enjoying the feeling of his warm, calloused palm smoothing against my cheek even as goosebumps scattered across my skin. I reached up, covering his huge knuckles with my own hand and leaning into his touch.

My eyes shot open at the all too familiar sensation that met my fingertips, and I drew in a sharp breath. Quickly, I curled my fingers around his hand, pulling it away from my face. I cupped it in both of mine, turning it towards the faint light.

“By the Gods, Hans!” I gasped.

He pulled his hand away, but not quickly enough. I picked up the discarded log, tossing it into the oven to coax the flames back to life. I didn’t wait for it to catch, dragging a candle over as well as my striking stones. I had it lit the first try, and turned back to the big orc.

“Let me see.” I demanded, holding out my hand. 

His rumbling reply was lost somewhere in his broad chest, and he seemed hesitant. I didn’t drop my hand though, so with a shallow sigh, he reached his own back out to place in mine. I turned his palm over, considering the backs in the light. I scooped up his other hand, the weight of both taking all my strength to hold before me.

“Are you alright?” I asked anxiously, tracing my fingers lightly over his bloody, bruised knuckles, “What happened??”

He gave only a soft grunt in response. I turned, picking up the bowl of water I kept by the oven and the candle. Bringing both over to the table, I gestured for him to sit while I fetched a clean cloth. Again, he only had a grumble to answer me, but obediently sat where I directed. I dipped the cloth in the water, picking up his hand again to gently run it over his knuckles. He didn’t flinch, watching me work quietly.

I felt a strange itching worry in my breast, settling about my bones. What exactly had happened? Where had he gone in the few hours since I had last seen him that had him returning with bloody knuckles? A dozen possibilities ran through my mind. The other orc had said it was an emergency of some kind, I remembered. Though that was hardly any kind of clue to aid my ponderings. If anything, it only raised more questions.

But I found that, despite my racing thoughts, I was no closer to an answer than when I began cleaning his hands. And I knew getting answers from the quiet orc would be harder than pulling teeth from a bear. I dropped the cloth back into the water upon finishing, stepping over to cup his face in my hands. I pushed his hair back, studying every inch. I was pleased to find that it seemed his beaten knuckles were his only injuries.

I felt my face flush when I suddenly realized how close I was standing to him, his huge head gently cradled between my hands. He looked up at me with his big, dark blue eyes, his heavy brow soft. I gave him a shy smile, tracing my fingers along his temple lightly. I saw his lips twitch, and felt his hands return to rest delicately on my hips. I dropped my gaze timidly, and heard again that soft, purring chuff bubble up from his chest. My cheeks grew hotter, but my smile grew a few inches as well.

We stayed like that for a breathy moment, his thumbs tracing small circles on my hips, my fingers skimming the scruff of his beard at the edge of his cheeks and jaw. I found my eyes dart to his thick lips, tracing along his large tusks. I saw his throat flash as he swallowed, felt his grip tighten ever so slightly.

“Can you… Can you stay for a while?” I asked softly with bated breath.

I felt his head move beneath my hands as he nodded. “..Til morning.”

I think we both stiffened at the implications of that phrase, and I felt him shift anxiously before me. I somehow found the courage to lift my head and meet his gaze again, and I watched the candlelight flicker in its depths. The sight was entrancing, so much so that I hardly noticed his big hand come up, sliding into my hair. Curling around the back of my neck.

He slowly guided me down, and this time, there was no resounding knock as our lips pressed together.

He tasted like sweat and rain, but I decided I had never tasted anything better. Though we brushed together hesitantly at first, as soon as I felt the heat buried in the curl of his lips, my shyness dropped away. I pressed closer to him, burying my hand in his own hair, opening my mouth to invite him in. He responded willingly, his thick tongue tracing along my lower lip, his tusks scraping against my cheeks as he leaned into my kiss. I cupped his cheek with my opposite hand, feeling his muscles move as he worked his mouth against mine. His hand on my hip slid until his bulging arm was fully wrapped around me, pinning my body against his damp armor.

The deep rumble of pleasure in his chest vibrated against my hips and left me quivering with delight. I felt like I couldn’t get enough of him, even with our mouths working at a feverish pace to feed our urgency. Our pent up desire. But I couldn’t breathe well while we were crushed together, and eventually had to pull back to gasp at the air.

He didn’t seem to mind, and instead pulled me lower to trace his lips over my jaw as I panted. Down my neck. Licking and sucking until a soft sigh of pleasure rolled from my lips. His hand in my hair tightened, and I felt his weight around me shift. Slowly, he stood, carefully curling over me, his shoulders hunched, his back bent. Surrounding me with his bulk.

I was painfully aware of my thin slip then, and my shawl slipped off my shoulders as he leaned over me, pooling on the ground at my feet. He unwrapped his arm from around me, undoing the clasp of his riding cloak to let it join my shawl on the ground. I reached up, standing on my tiptoes to fold my mouth back against his. He kept his hand at the back of my neck, still kissing me passionately as his other hand clumsily undid the buckles to his armor. Slowly, he guided me, spinning me and forging a path towards my bed in the corner. Every step punctuated by a piece of his armor hitting the ground.

My heart thudded in my chest like a caged bird trying to escape, and my knees felt weak. I almost fell twice, stumbling as I backed towards the bed. But each time his muscular arm darted out to steady me. The second time, he kept it curled around me, the last of his armor gone with just his tunic and trousers remaining.

We staggered together the last few feet, and when the back of my legs hit the bedframe, he released me. I let myself fall back, catching myself on my outstretched hands and looking up at him with quivering breaths. He looked down at me through his dark lashes, and I saw him hesitate. I was even sure that his cheeks flushed a little darker, though it was hard to tell in the low light. I couldn’t resist biting my lip at the sight of his huge body; his broad shoulders and burly thighs. His wild hair and heavy brow. The way his muscles bulged as he flexed his arms. I saw his eyes running over me as well, and in a bold move, smirked, scooching backwards on the bed and letting my slip hitch up my thigh as I did.

That set a hungry look into his slate blues, and his fingers found the edge of his tunic. I relished watching the way his thick, toned torso rippled as he pulled it up over his head. He dropped his hands down onto either side of me, and I heard the bed groan a soft protest as he pressed his lips back against mine. I reached up and buried both of my hands deep into the mane of hair pooling around us. Pulling him closer to me as I started to lay back towards the headboard. I heard the bed give another loud groan, but ignored it. Especially as he brought one knee up to balance himself to free his hand to clutch my thigh, pushing my slip up. Following me further up the bed.

Suddenly, there was a loud snap, followed by a resounding CRACK. I cried out loudly in surprise as we fell, plummeting the short three foot drop to the floor with a thundering BOOM. Dirt and dust spun up around us, and I realized I had squeezed my eyes shut. Letting out my breath in a whoosh, I slowly snuck them open.

The force of the bed breaking had sent a gust of air spinning through the room, blowing out the candle and leaving us in relative darkness. It had also sent a few splinters of wood flying, and had effectively hit both the bowl of water on the table, the tin pot by the stove, and the far side wall. I blinked a few times as the dust began to settle, and Hans pushed himself up, staggering to his feet. I looked around, finding the bedframe in shambles about me, the straw filled mattress pooled in the middle, the blankets and furs slowly sliding towards me nested at its center. The pot teetered from where it had been struck, then fell, hitting the ground with a clang. Breaking the sudden silence that had dropped on the room like a lead brick.

When I looked back at the big orc, his brow was furrowed, and I didn’t need the light to see his whole face was more than several shades darker. Perhaps he was scowling as a defensive mechanism, to save his pride, but it made him look absolutely betrayed and completely offended. The dark glare he shot the broken shambles of wood left little question as to where his ire was directed.

The laughter bubbled from deep in my stomach, leaving my whole frame shaking within a few moments. I fell back against the ruins of my bed, clutching my belly with one hand and my forehead with the other. The absurdity of it all, coupled with the late hour and the abrupt halt to our previous antics, proved too much for me. I was soon in tears, and my side in stitches.

Hans shuffled awkwardly, turning and considering the mess. I saw him reach up and rub the back of his neck, and his scowl deepened. He spun, reaching for the nearest piece of armor in a bustling, hurried manner.

At this, I quickly jumped up, grabbing his elbow before he could try to retreat further. The orc froze, but didn’t meet my eyes. Even when I pointedly tugged his arm with both my hands. I straightened, sliding around to his front, ducking into his line of sight.

“...Stay,” I murmured, reaching up and running my small hand along his square jaw, “It doesn’t matter…just... Please stay.”

He snorted loudly, but as our eyes met, his face softened. His scowl unwound, his brow smoothed. I rested my opposite hand on his bare chest and felt the deep sigh fill its cavernous expanse. His cheek was hot against my palm, but I didn’t care. I stretched up onto my tiptoes and lightly kissed him again. Just a quick brush of our lips. But it had him leaning forward, following me as I pulled away.

I went back to the destroyed bed, dropping into it with an amused smile. I pooled the blankets and furs in the middle, and turned to be sure that Hans was still there. He considered the heap again, and I saw him chewing his lip hesitantly.

“... You must be exhausted,” I offered, reaching out, beckoning him closer, “... Please?”

Another deep sigh, and he took my hand, dropping to his knees beside me. Slowly, I lay down on my side with my back to the wall. Hans followed suit, hesitantly curling his big arm up to pillow his head. Our eyes met again, and I smiled sheepishly. I could feel my pulse beginning to accelerate again, laying so close to him. Tasting his breath with each one I drew. I noticed his nostrils flare slightly, then his tongue tracing the inside of his mouth. I wondered what I smelled like to him, and drew in a deep breath to assess his own deep, musky scent. 

He reached out then, delicately tracing the backs of his fingers along my jaw. I leaned towards his touch, encouraging him, letting my eyelids droop. The soft chuff came from his chest again, and he shuffled, sliding closer to me. I felt his arm catch my waist, and let him pull me towards him. I let my hips fall idly against his torso, leaned forward until our noses almost touched. Breathing in more of his heavy scent.

I ran my hand over his thick neck, tracing my palm down his collarbone, smoothing it over his chest. I felt him relax beneath my touch, and rolled even closer. He titled his head, resting our foreheads together. I closed my eyes, sighing and feeling my own body slowly relax as his thick fingers ran up my back, rubbing between my shoulders.

“...You’ll need a new bed.” He grumbled, his deep rolling voice sending shivers down my spine.

I gave a short laugh, my face splitting into a smile. “I’m sure you could make me one… one for both of us…”

His responding grunt was affirmative and husky, and I felt him brush his lips against mine again. I didn’t bother to open my eyes, simply pressed my mouth deeper into his. His tongue came out, and I fed a pleased sigh to him as I willingly parted my mouth to let it trace against my own tongue. This kiss was tender, less fervorous and demanding than before, but no less passionate. I melted against him, wrapping my arm around his shoulders as far as it would go while the tips of my other hand lingered on his thick throat. He rumbled against me, like distant rolling thunder vibrating against my body. Sending goosebumps trilling across my skin.

Slowly, he broke the kiss, leaning in to plant his lips delicately against the inside of my neck. Meanwhile, one of his hands fished for a free blanket, pulling it up over us. I nestled down into his chest, burying myself in the crook of his neck with a final, tired sigh.

I suddenly noticed a sound, and frowned, trying to place what it was. I curled back a little, tilting my head to the side.

“Hans, do you hear that?” I asked him softly. I felt him stiffen beside me, but he gave a grunt, sounding less than interested. I frowned. “It sounds like it’s coming from the yard.”

His big hand smoothed over my shoulders, lulling me back to rest my head against him again. I felt his lips and tusks against the top of my head, and let my eyes flutter back closed.

“Don’t worry.” He murmured against my hair, though he sounded a little distracted.

Reassured, I filed it away as weird nighttime sound, and let myself slowly drift off to sleep. Cocooned against his warm chest.

...

UPDATE: Part six HERE

logan lark’s adventures in trying to appease his parents

CHAPTER 7: you matter to me (the terrifying tales of the grimm monarchy)

Summary: Logan Lark is a fairly average high school student. By all means, he should be impressing his parents on all grounds. Except...he doesn’t exactly have a social life. So after his parents give him puppy dog eyes, he decides to join the local theatre's youth production. Good grief...His life is about to get weird isn’t it?

Warnings: Potential ooc behavior, Mr. and Mrs. Grimm’s A+ parenting, panic attacks, unconventional sibling problems/dynamics, very brief disappearance (If I miss something please tell me!)

Notes: This fic is based off an idea from @under-the-blue-moonlight. If you wanna be tagged in chapters, please ask!! All feedback is very welcomed, I didn’t have anyone to beta so *sighs loudly*. This chapter is kinda angsty and opens up some fun new plot relevant strings. I also want to make it clear that I will be demonstrating Roman putting in work to fix his mess ups in later chapters as well! He’s got some loose ends to tie up, and he will do so. 

Pairings: Intrulogical, Eventual Rociet, Creativitwins

Tagslist: @under-the-blue-moonlight @why-should-i-tell-youu2 @im-actually-ok @hauntedturkeycalzonedreamer @croftersjam15 @rainbowsixth @snaketho @wasinotwantedatthisexactsecond @a-soul-among-the-stars @sweet-razz-tea @the-cactus-lord @genderlessfish

Janus’ eyes move to Logan, they seem to communicate without a breath between them. Logan takes nothing but his phone with him when he heads into the hall, but it’s far too late. Remus is nowhere in sight.

Roman takes a shuddering sigh, places his head in his hands, and leans against the makeup counter.

“I’m-I’m sorry-I don’t-I don’t know what that was-”

“Yes, you do.”

The room feels so uncomfortable, the tension could be cut with a knife. Roman knows Janus well enough to know his glare cuts sharper than any weapon could ever. Especially to him. His face stays firmly planted in his hands, hiding from the truth he’s been avoiding for far too long.

“Roman, look at me,” Janus orders. 

He listens and keels back in shame at the look of anger and disappointment on his friend’s face.

“Tell me the truth, why are you doing this?”

It’s a good question. For all it’s worth though, he doesn’t know. Which seems like the cop-out of the century, but truly...he has no clue at the moment. That, however, is not an answer Janus will accept and not one he will accept of himself. 

With a deep breath, he thinks “Alright, Roman. Be honest. Why are you doing this?”

Within moments he gets it and it is the easiest conclusion he’s ever come to. The twins have always had a very sturdy dichotomy. Remus was a messy and wild child growing up, while Roman was clean and polite. When they played, there was always a good and just prince and an evil conniving duke. There were good marks and bad marks. Good ideas and bad ideas. Clean and messy. Good and evil. Something nice and something terrible. Even in the eyes of their parents. It didn’t matter to them as children, Remus even seemed to enjoy it on occasion. Looking back, he only ever liked being “bad” when he got to choose it. When they played in their yard and there was a choice between swimming in the pool and scooping water onto the grass to “drown the bugs”, he was the happiest child in the universe. When the school called their father and told him that Remus had been in another fight, he looked like someone had ripped his soul from his body. It didn’t matter the reason he was fighting, he was “bad”. Roman had always thought the merit of the fight was dictated by why you were fighting in the first place, but apparently, he was wrong. 

The dichotomy they played into was fun! It was! For a while, at least. Then Roman began being berated by everyone around him for acting similarly to his brother. Then Remus was the new social outcast months before they hit middle school. Then it wasn’t fun anymore. Being “good” was stressful and lonely. Teachers, classmates, friends, family, everyone equated “good” with perfect. Perfection is a hard burden to bear alone and twelve years old. Roman’s mind drifts to when they split up. When the dichotomy became less of a two-person game played for fun, and more of an ugly sweater from an aunt that they had to wear to every formal event. It was hard, it was always much too hard. It hurt him. Recently, he realized the much heavier burden of being “bad”. The stress and loneliness must be tenfold when everyone beats into your brain that you are the perfect example of the “Evil Twin” trope. Even your own brother. Your twin. 

“Everyone told me,”

They had been a pair once.

“‘Roman, you’re such a good kid, you’re good at everything.’”

They were a good pair. Even now. He’d worked with him just a month ago to put something together and it was amazing.

“‘There is nothing you can’t do!’”

A few months ago, he was doing something he hadn’t thought possible and making amends with his brother.

“To them, I was independent and self-sufficient,”

He wasn’t either of those things, not then and not now. He had always been a pair.

“I was perfect. I had to be.”

The catch is that he gave up the only person who didn’t care if he was perfect.

“I thought it was true, I-”

The catch is that now his actions dawn on him fully like a wave over the shore.

“I needed them to be right.”

His breath shakes, “Who am I if I’m not that?”

The wave of grief and guilt crashes into him, and all he can think about now is how much he wants to take back every single mean thing he’s ever said about his brother. He feels the sea of emotions that he’s held back take him in and drown him with ferocity. Janus sighs as Roman stares at him through watery eyes.

“Roman. You were doing so well with Remus.”

He’s right, Janus is always right about these things. Two months ago, he had been doing so much better. He and Remus were still bickering in public, but it was fun to him. Though when Remus had “glue-and-feather’d” his makeup bag, he had thrown a little fit, he laughed about it later. Remus had laughed with him. It was light and fun. May, June, and most of July were the most fun he’d had with Remus in years. They’d spent time together, helped each other with chores, ridden to the theatre together. Little, minuscule things. Things that made such a tremendous difference in Roman’s confidence. 

“What happened?”

The same thing that always happened. His mother came home

There was always something different about his mother. When he and Remus had befriended Janus in elementary school, they met someone else's mother for the first time. He realized the day he had met her what made his mom so different. Lillian Devine, or as they called her Mrs.Lilli, was quite possibly the strangest woman they had ever met. The first time they saw her, Janus had seen her outside the school and made a beeline for his mother’s arms. She took him up into her arms, gave him a spin, and hugged him tightly. Roman doesn’t remember much from being that young, but he can remember the first moment he felt jealousy was when Lillian took Janus into that hug and loudly announced that she missed him. Only gone a day at school, and she missed him enough to announce it to the world. He remembers going home to a very big, very empty house. He was grumpy, clutching Remus’ hand like a lifeline as their nanny ushered them into their room and told them she would collect them at dinner time. When she collected them, Roman asked if she had missed them. She said, “I’m not your mother, am I?”.

His mother was different. When she came home, she would offer Roman a hug and give him a big kiss on the cheek. Every time, even the most recent. Like clockwork. Roman, sometimes accompanied by Remus, would wait outside the door for his mother’s car to arrive. She would exit and her heels would clack along the stone pathway. She would kiss him on the cheek when she got up the steps, offer him a quick hug, then begin to speak about her latest adventures in Paris. If Remus stood with him, she would give him her coat. Roman would always take it from him, hang it up, and follow his mother wherever she went. Recently the thought of their mother handing Remus her coat made Roman want to puke. 

They’d had dinner together one night in July. On her most recent visit, she told stories of her new revolutionary fashion line. He told her all about the newest theatre show. Remus made an effort to sit with them, and it was a labour for Roman to look at his mother when he spoke instead of Remus. He was there for all his anecdotes but he would still hang off of every word just to find something to prod at. Remus stood, and his mother’s words echoed in his brain.

“Remus, dear,” His mother begins in her shrill voice, “If you’re not going to eat with us, at least go and shower. Your smell is unbecoming.”

He latches onto that conversation, that’s really when the downfall started. 

“Mother, that was quite rude…” He says softly, keeping his eyes on his plate.

“Sometimes you have to tell the truth, my darling.” She laughs then, and Roman wants more than anything to get up and chase his brother.

“Speaking of your theatre production,” He turns his attention back to her, “Your father is thinking of coming this year.”

All thoughts of defending his brother leave his brain entirely. His mouth dries and he feels the onset of excitement and pure panic. At that moment he is consumed by selfishness and tries to push away the panic and think only of this dream come true. 

“He’ll be happy to hear you got the lead again,”

“But Mother, I told you, I’m only-”

“Yes, the understudy. You’ll change that, won’t you, my darling? I didn’t raise you to get second place, did I?”

He was good. What he was doing was good. He couldn’t disappoint his mother, let alone his father. Truth be told, he barely even spoke to the man except for their short and brief calls on the major holidays. He hadn’t seen him in person in nearly two years. He’d outgrown the excuse of him being busy but hadn’t outgrown the fire that a visit from his father lights inside him. It became even worse when after two feeble attempts to be rid of Logan, his father called him. Unprompted, unscheduled, and entirely without cause. He buzzed when he picked up the phone. 

“Roman.”

“Hello, father.” He can barely contain the happiness buzzing around in his throat.

“I have made time in my schedule to come to see your stage performance at the request of your mother. She has told me you landed the lead role again, I can’t say I’m not impressed. This is the sixth year in a row she has asked me, you know. I hope there is some merit to your casting director’s choice.”

He can barely keep himself sat down, the urge to jump around is so intense that he nearly dies. “Oh, certainly! I won’t let you down! Oh! And neither will Remus, he’s entirely spectacular in his role this year, I really think you’ll love-”

“I am not attending this production to see your brother. I trust you won’t let me down, because unlike him, you are not a failure. I will see you then, goodbye.”

In one fell swoop, his father had crushed his mood and strengthened his resolve. 

“My father is coming to the production. He called me himself to confirm.”

“The man who talks to you on average thirty minutes a year is coming to our show? Please tell me you’re joking.” The shock is evident in Janus’ voice as he searches Roman’s face desperately to ensure he’s lying.

“I’m not. My mother, she-she told him I got the lead. He told me-He told me that he was impressed with my track record. Then I-Well I started talking about Remus’ spectacular performance and he...He said he wasn’t coming to see Remus and that I-” Roman is on the verge of tears, he feels the urge to crumble like a war-torn kingdom.

Janus places a hand on his shoulder, meant to be a comfort, “That you what?”

Tears track down Roman’s face as he sits and slumps over to physically display his guilt, “That I’m not a failure like him, so I won’t let him down.”

“I am internalizing so much anger at the moment, please give me a second.” Janus takes a deep breath and screams angrily out loud. Roman takes it as initiative and screams as well, but much more wet and sad. 

Janus pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. 

“You didn’t think to tell anyone any of this?” Roman shakes his head and sniffles.

Janus mutters to himself, “Right. Of course, you didn’t. You fool.” 

“We all know you’re not an absolute prick Roman. You’d obviously just pick on Logan for no reason you’re totally not super stressed or something.” He recoils at that, Janus’ face falls.

“I’m just-Roman-You can talk to me,” Janus speaks with an air entirely too soft for him.

What gets Roman’s attention is the tired and slightly sad, “Lord knows that neither of you does enough.”

“I’m here for you, even if you do some very morally shifty things. Especially if it’s all because you’re all stressed out and your daddy issues are taking centre stage in your mind.” He sits beside him now, taking Roman’s hand in his.

“I know how passionate you are, and I can tell that this isn’t how you want to do it. So, you don’t have to. You have...lots of things to make up for and apologize for. But there is still time. As long as you mean it, and you want to do better.”

Weakly, he mutters “I do.”

“Then find a way to apologize and fix it the way you always do.”

“And what way is that?” He asks with a soft smile, to which Janus chuckles under his breath.

“Facing every and all challenges with courage and honesty. Obviously,” Janus raises a thumb and wipes the tears from Roman’s cheeks with a genuine smile. 

So it was settled then. Roman needed to apologize. To everyone. He was already thinking of ways to express his sorrow and regret properly, his brilliant brain spitting out lavish and somewhat laborious ideas. Janus can tell from the way the passionate light returns to his eyes and he smiles. There is work to be done. 

The door slams open and an entirely too panicked Virgil stands in the doorway, “Janus-”

Work to be done later. Virgil’s breath is coming in whooping waves, his body is shaking, makeup smudged from anxious tears rolling down his face. Janus moves with purpose, approaching Virgil like a particularly protective guardian. Virgil grabs the fabric of his hoodie and tries to breathe.

“That’s it, Virgil, you’re alright,” He coos, gently placing a hand on his head.

“We can’t-” Virgil speech is messy and laboured, “We-We can’t find Remus-He’s-He’s not picking up his phone-I’m-We-”

Roman’s blood runs cold. Remus has done this before, sure. But it’s always been silly and fun and not motivated by weeks worth of stress and terrible feelings. Roman knows his words were the cherry on the cake, and nearly slaps himself for still being sat there while his brother was who knows where.

Roman grabs Remus’ bag from the floor, opening it to find his phone. There are almost fifty missed messages, most of them from a contact labelled “The Sexy Kind Of Spider” who he can only assume is Virgil. 

“His phone’s still here,” He sifts through the bag some more, “Along with his jacket and his car keys.” 

“Well, I’d say he can’t have gone far, but we all know how crafty Remus is,” Janus says with a drained expression on his face which only inspires Virgil to clutch his shirt even tighter.

There’s a fire in Roman now, an urge to find his brother’s newest hiding spot and somehow make it up to him. He slings the bag over his shoulder and approaches the pair.

“No need to fear, Virge! I’ll find Remus and bring him back to us as quickly as I can!”

Virgil only nods in response, prompting Janus to gently ruffle his hair. Roman leaves, knowing that the Virgil situation is in very capable hands. On to finding his brother. 

He sends a quick text to Thomas debriefing the situation, playing it off as a “typical Remus situation”, and leaves the building. If Remus had been outside the theatre, he certainly wasn’t anymore. Potentially unfortunately from Roman, a certain nerd was out there looking instead. When they made eye contact, Logan approached. He looked...frazzled. Much more so than Roman had ever seen. 

“There you are. I was wondering when you would come help. Remus is missing and hasn’t answered his phone.”

“He left it here, but I’m going to go and look for him.” 

Logan mutters something under his breath about the inefficiency of something-or-other, but Roman does not have the time to care. Him and Logan talk for another minute, Logan even gives him his number to call when he finds him. Logan says he’s going to get more people to look, Roman only nods. He’s focused in, there’s hope for a new start still and he’ll be damned if he loses it to Remus randomly disappearing forever. He piles into his car with Remus’ bag and starts his search.

Hope turns to fear after the third hour with no signs of his brother. He had checked his house, all the old spots Remus used to love, their whole neighbourhood, Janus’ house, every department store near the theatre. Nothing. It was like a magician cast a spell to make his brother disappear. He’s on the verge of panic. His hands are shaking like a bitch and his breathing wavers with each word he mutters to himself to ease his anxiety. He has to pull over into the parking lot of the convenience store near his home. It wouldn’t be safe for him to drive anywhere anymore. He wonders for a moment how in the hell his brother disappeared so quickly. He only had about thirty minutes on foot ahead of them, how had nobody found him? He almost cries sitting at the wheel. What if he’d been kidnapped? Murdered? Taken for ransom? Wait, that’s the same as kidnapping, isn’t it? God, it didn’t matter now! His brother was gone. For nearly ten minutes he lets the situation hit him hard. Tears roll through his body and he sobs. If Remus was gone forever, what would he do? What could he do? 

A worker from the store comes out from the front. They see Roman and Roman sees them. Roman couldn’t care less that they now look incredibly uncomfortable. They move to the back of the store and from Roman can see, they’re talking to someone. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t know why he’s watching. He’s still crying like a baby. The thought of having lost his brother to the universe is still making his head pound. The worker gives whoever they’re talking to a smile, walks back inside the store, and from the till inside they give Roman a reassuring smile as well. He gives them a thumbs up. He takes a deep breath. He needs to pull himself together and find-

When Remus turns the corner from behind the store, Roman goes for the door handle before he can think. The sight of his shivering, tear-stained, obviously upset brother has him moving. He rips the door open and scrambles out. He trips over the edge of the car door and it doesn’t even matter. His palms and knees scrape against the concrete, ripping the skin on his hands and hurting his knees. He doesn’t care. It stings and he doesn’t care. The second he’s on his feet again he bolts at Remus and throws his arms around his chest. His head is firmly locked between Remus’ neck and shoulder, he’s grabbing at his shirt like a lifeline. His breathing is erratic, the tears are back now and back with a vengeance. His knees are shaking. He hadn’t even recognized how terribly and horribly scared of losing his brother he even was. Feeling it now was like the first breath of autumn air in your summer lungs. Remus stands there, just stands there. For a moment, the buzzing of his mind recognizes someone saying his name. Then there are arms around him. He’s being squeezed within an inch of his life. He doesn’t mind. He will never mind again. 

All Roman’s scared voice can squeak out is a loud and cracking, “I’m sorry!”

They stand together in the chilly late-august afternoon air, in full sight of any neighbours or employees at the store, for five minutes. They sway slightly. Remus doesn’t say a word. Not one passes through his lips. Remus pulls away, only to take Roman’s hand and drag him to the car. 

“C’mon you crybaby, let’s go home.”

Roman just nods and doesn’t comment on the tears on Remus’ cheeks. Remus takes the driver’s seat and Roman piles into the passengers’ side. He holds his brother’s bag in his lap, he squeezes it tightly. The drive home is only a few minutes, but Roman’s breathing calms enough to the point where he can rationalize texting. Janus, Logan, and Virgil all get a very simple text, but it’s enough to explain the situation.

‘Found him. We’re going home. He’ll call you in a bit.’

They pull into the driveway, shuffle into the house, take off their shoes. It seems weirdly unreal. It’s like Roman has entered some twilight zone where he and his brother get along. A twilight zone that Roman hopes to make a reality. Like he’s an upset kid again, he takes his brother’s hand and remains resolute in not crying again as he leads him through their empty house. The maid is there, she sees them pass. She doesn’t say a word. She watches the obviously upset twins make their way down the hall and into Roman’s room. Remus lets Roman take him by the shoulders and sit him on his bed. They stare at each other for a moment, unsure of what to say. 

Roman takes the first step, “You scared me, Remus.”

Remus looks away, “I didn’t think you’d care, really…”

“Of course I’d care! Remus, I-I always cared! And I meant it when I said that I am truly sorry!” He’s crying again, and frankly, he feels a little stupid. 

“I kinda figured when you ran at me crying like a crazy person,” His brother picks up the end of his blanket and wipes his face with it, “You’re crying a lot today.”

“I’ve had a quite terrible afternoon, I think a little emotional distress is warranted.” He huffs and crosses his arms over his chest, Remus smacks the blanket gently across his cheek. 

Remus ushers him in again, nudging his head against Roman’s stomach and wrapping arms around his back. Roman stands between Remus’ legs and holds his head like the precious thing it is. 

There’s a shudder of a breath from each of them. Both of them are so painfully aware of how long it’s been since the last time they sought out each other for comfort like this. There’s something so familiar in it. The warmth that Roman remembers from a childhood spent at each other’s sides. They used to be so close that they shared a bed by choice. He spent nights asleep and calm holding onto his brother. This feels like that. Something so personal and so old. Remus starts to cry again and it’s a messy sob that makes Roman’s ears ring. He squats down to look Remus in the eyes, taking his hands in his. 

“I didn’t mean it, Rem. I don’t think you’re a failure-I-” Remus cries harder, he does his best to wipe the tears with his fingers.

“You-You mean much more to me than I’m sure I've let on in recent years.” There’s a tenderness and honesty in Roman’s voice that feels good and right.

“Mother and Father have been driving me insane, pressuring me to say and do things that I frankly don’t believe in.” The feelings he’s sharing now are lightening something in Roman’s chest, and from the look on Remus’ face, his words are more than on the right track. 

“Not anymore. I promise to you that from now on I am going to do everything I can to make up for the terrible things I’ve done.” 

Remus smiles at him, teary-eyed and covered in snot. It’s not gross to Roman, not right now, because Remus looks better. 

“Can you start by getting me some water?” Remus’s hoarse voice coughs out, Roman is on his feet and goes to the kitchen as quickly as he can. 

With two glasses in hand, he hurries back. He stops at the door. Inside, he hears Remus talking. He’s on the phone with Janus, who sounds more than upset. He goes in, gives Remus the glass, and turns to leave for privacy reasons. His brother grabs at his wrist and tugs him back. He sits beside Remus and they drink their water. He keeps his mouth shut and listens to the ways in which other people love his brother. Janus is angrier than anything else. The heart-palpitating rant that ensues is wildly emotional. He talks about how much the incidents of this afternoon scared everyone, goes off on tangents about the risks of running off and not telling anyone, tells him with the most love in his voice that he was worried about him. Remus promises not to do it again, Janus only sighs in a loving way. Janus brings up his talk with Roman, emphasizes his support of both of them, and lets Remus be on his way. Virgil is next, and he’s quiet. The call is full of little silences, Virgil takes breaks between sentences. Stops mid-word to take a breath and keep his wits. He tells Remus that he scared him. Tells him that he cares about him, no matter what. That he loves him and wants the best for him. He doesn’t use those words exactly, but Roman reads between the lines. 

They’re fairly average calls considering the circumstances and their relationships. Roman sees Remus hesitate as his fingers ghost over the call button under Logan’s contact. He’s saved as “Boobear” with a blue and green heart. It’s by far the most normal of the names on his list. It’s by far the sweetest as well. 

“Something wrong?” He asks, and Remus gives him a shaky smile.

“I’m worried about what he’s going to hate me now or something,” 

It’s almost the stupidest thing Roman had ever heard. He might not get along great with Logan, but he’s not blind. The little nerd is wrapped tightly around Remus’ finger. He’s seen Remus hang off of Logan and say all kinds of crazy and vulgar things, only to get a small reprimand or occasionally an annoyed-but-loving smile. Remus can spout off in a rant about nothing in particular, only to have Logan hang onto every word and provide commentary and factual corrections. There is nothing in the world that could shake away the Logan Lark who was smiling and dancing in a field with his brother only a month ago. 

“With the way he looks at you,” Roman chuckles, “I wouldn’t be surprised if this made him love you more.”

Remus blushes furiously, and instead of dignifying Roman with a response, he hits the call button.

Logan picks up the second it goes through as if he was waiting by his phone for Remus to call him. The intense emotion in his voice makes the twins do a double-take. He’s normally so straight and narrow. Measured. Collected. There is an air to the typical Logan that has vanished now. Roman wonders why he couldn’t show this side on stage more often. 

“Remus? Please tell me this is you.”

To cover up his anxiousness, Remus flirts terribly, “Heya hot-stuff, what’re you wearing?”

There’s a relief filled laugh on the other side of the phone, “There’s my answer. Are you alright?”

“M-hm! You’ll never guess who made me feel better with a shit ton of groveling!” There’s an air to Remus’ voice that conveys humour.

“Remus.” Logan sounds so serious, Roman watches Remus sigh and roll his eyes at the care.

“Yeah, Logie. I’m okay. I mean it.”

Logan speaks again, that same serious voice, “I’ve been worried all afternoon.”

“Yeah...” 

It’s quiet for a second, there’s a tension of the unspoken affection the pair have for each other floating in the room. 

“I feel this is as good a time as any to tell you that I don’t think you’re a failure at all. You-I...In truth, I find you quite interesting to be around. You...You are...immensely talented in my humble opinion. I...While I understand we haven’t been friends for long- I hope it is not presumptuous to say that we are friends-But our relationship is...important to me. I enjoy your company and all you do for me. It...It is a true pleasure to be in your company, Remus. I-” 

Despite the blushing on Remus’ cheeks, he softly mutters “You’re ranting again, Lo-Lo.” 

“My apologies,” Logan nearly whispers out, there is affection seeping from his voice, “However, I meant everything I said.”

“I think you’re the shit too, babes. Sorry for worrying ‘ya.” There’s that affection again, Roman has never heard his brother sound so affectionate.

There’s another pause, Remus speaks again “I’ll make it up to you.”

“If you make a sex joke at a time like this-” Logan scolded, they could almost see his grimace.

“No, I mean it,” Remus laughs, “We can do something together. To make up for it.”

“I’d like that.”

Roman looks to his brother, the phone, and then his brother again. To him, it sounded as if Remus had just asked him out on a date, but he knew well enough that Remus and Logan were probably too dense to understand the implications.

“I’ll uh-I’ll talk to you ‘bout it later then, kay boobear?” Remus asks while staring at Roman, confused about the ‘oh-my-god-you-totally-like-him’ look he’s getting.

“Alright. Goodnight, Remus.” Logan’s voice drips honey and roses as he wishes him goodnight, there is so much Roman can hear wrapped up in that simple sentence and it’s a wonder to him.

“Goodnight.” 

The call ends and Remus lets out a dreamy sigh. 

Roman winds back and smacks Remus with a pillow in excited fervour. 

“You did not tell me you were that in love with Logan!” 

“Wha-You asshole!” Remus takes the pillow and smacks him back, “I am not in love with him!”

“Yeah right! That was the gayest conversation I’ve ever heard!” He nearly shouts, getting up and grabbing more pillows from the collection at the head of his bed.

“We didn’t even say anything juicy!” Teases Remus, grabbing pillows at lightning speed, preparing for what he knows is coming.

“It was in the tone! And don’t say juicy like that you dolt!” 

Remus hits Roman with a pillow to the face. With an excited cackle, Roman launches an attack, throwing as many of his numerous pillows at his brother as he can. There is an all-out war within seconds. Both boys are shrieking and laughing. By the end of the pillow fight, they’re breathless and more joyful than they have been all day.

“How do you feel about a sleepover?” 

Good. Remus feels very good about a sleepover. That night while laying in Roman’s dumb red sheets, cuddling up to his brother in the way that little kids do, he feels happy. Really happy. Genuinely happy. Logan had told him that it was hard to love somebody when they didn’t act as if they loved you back, and he was right. The smartass was always right. Now though, he felt it. His brother had cared, ran for him like he was the only thing that mattered to him in the world. He loves Roman. Apparently, Roman loves him too. His brother hugs him closer in his sleep. That’s more than enough for his brain to quiet tonight. 

Addendum; August 20th -

Remus went missing this afternoon. It worried me greatly, but he turned out alright. Things between the Grimm twins seem to be better. On August 21st, they arrived to practice bickering but holding hands. They both appeared near ecstatic all day, needless to say, it was tiring. There will be no more need for the “Roman Incidents” section of this notebook.

Circled in red pen, written largely at the bottom of the page, underlined three times over. 

Note: Investigate your true feelings for Remus Grimm.

absolution, a oneshot

Yeah, not my usual content, but I wrote this a while ago and I figured it was short enough that I crosspost it from Ao3 to tumblr. ‘Twas inspired by a Dead Apple prompt on the Chaos Cult Discord server: What if when Dazai died (for a little bit ofc) he got to see Oda again one last time and Oda got to see who Dazai became?  -- -- -- -- 

In the top floor of a tall, abandoned building, there are three figures all wearing white in some strange facsimile of purity and innocence. Innocence, for these three, is as far away a dream (a nightmare?) as flight is for a dog. They exist somewhere out of time, displaced entirely. 

The demon, the sinner, and a corpse. The demon is smiling as he fingers the knife in his pocket, hidden from view. He knows that his plans are unlikely to bear any fruit, but he bites from the apple of knowledge anyway and revels in the taste. He is God, after all. What was forbidden for Adam and Eve is his to create and his to take. 

The sinner looks on with a cold, dead gaze, because he is not surprised. He is never surprised. The world ticks on, every second that passes takes him closer to his story’s inevitable conclusion. Perhaps he has forgotten where he came from, but he could never forget where he is going. After all, he lives on borrowed time.

How funny that the man who considered himself least human, of the three, is the one with the most humanity.  

“How could you?” Dazai asks, his eyes starting to close, but the question is entirely rhetorical. He has expected this ever since he made his last move, sitting in a bar surrounded by ghosts. His plans are out of his hands now, and it’s not up to him anymore. All he can do is trust, but if he dies here, it will have been worth it. 

Odasaku, was I a good man?

The roaring in his ears is getting louder but he can barely feel the knife in his back. The floor presses into his cheek, and it’s as cold and unforgiving as the darkness that sweeps over him. He murmurs what he knows might be his last words. 

“This feels great.” 

He is smiling.

—

Dazai is sitting in a dimly lit bar. The amber paneling of the walls are dusty and scarred, but in the end, it contributes to the overall aesthetic. The bartender is in the corner as he usually is, wiping absently at a glass in his hand. The air is dry and still. 

He looks at the clock on the wall. The time is 10:32, and the hands of the clock are not moving. He realizes that he’s wearing his tan coat, and the bandages wrapped around his wrists are a familiar comfort. Something about this feels wrong. Shouldn’t he be in white? 

What an odd thought. He never wears white. He’s at the Bar Lupin, so he should be in black. Why isn’t he in black, and why has the clock stopped ticking? 

“Dazai.” 

He whips his head around to the right, and his eyes widen. “Odasaku,” he says, smiling. His colleague is sitting a couple stools away from him, wearing his usual beige blazer and dark button down. He has a glass of whiskey in his hand and he swirls it gently. He takes a sip. 

There is a matching glass of whiskey in front of him, Dazai realizes. Has it always been there? He feels slow and stupid, as if his brain is moving through molasses. It’s an uncomfortable thought. “Ango’s late,” he finds himself saying, and Odasaku sets his drink down. He stares at something far away. 

“Ango’s not coming.”

The words echo strangely in Dazai’s ears, and he lifts his glass of whiskey. The light refracting through the amber and the cut glass casts liquid shadows on the bar top. “I see,” he says, though he really doesn’t. He wants to ask why Ango isn’t coming, and why the clock has stopped ticking, and where his black coat has gone. But something stops him, and there is an odd feeling rising in his chest. His mouth suddenly tastes like fear. He puts his glass down, the bottom of the glass making a hollow noise against the bar.

Instead of asking any of the questions on his tongue, he makes a humming noise and drums his fingers against the bar. His fingertips make small pattering noises against the wood.

His hand is covered in blood. 

No, it isn’t. Dazai blinks down at his hand, and it looks normal again. He turns to Odasaku, who is sipping at his whiskey. “Where’s Ango?” he asks finally, and while Odasaku’s face doesn’t change, he imagines that something in it becomes sadder. “I figured you’d ask that,” he says, and Dazai turns toward him. 

“The clock,” he says. “The clock and my coat and Ango.” 

Odasaku nods. For a moment, he isn’t wearing his usual work uniform. Instead, he has his pistol holsters hanging empty at his sides. There is blood on his clothes, and somehow, Dazai knows it’s his own. 

“You remember, don’t you?” he asks, and Dazai does. His hand fists uselessly on the bar top, and he looks away. There is a well of directionless fury inside of him and he does not know what to do with it. “I remember,” he replies. Something makes him open his mouth again. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he can’t remember the last time he said that to anyone. But hasn’t Odasaku seen the worst of him already?

He remembers stained glass, a sunset, and a deep river of loss to drown in. 

“Don’t be,” says Odasaku, and Dazai lifts his head to look at his coworker—no, his friend—in surprise. He is smiling, quiet and fond. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

“You died,” Dazai says, and it takes all of his considerable willpower to keep his voice from shaking. He feels eighteen again, irresponsibly young and so, so stupid. Stupid enough to believe that Odasaku would be spared. That the optimal solution Mori found didn’t involve getting rid of an annoying mafia member, one with something as foolish as principles. His hands are covered in Oda’s blood because Dazai should have protected him. 

“So did you,” Odasaku points out mildly, and suddenly Dazai remembers why he should be wearing white. 

His hand twitches. He wants to grab at his back, pull out the knife whose ghost he can still feel, but it’s a phantom pain. Here, in the bar with its dim lighting and still air, there is no fruit knife. There is no demon with flashing eyes. There is no Tatsuhiko Shibusawa, whose pain and misery can be felt just by occupying the same room as him. 

There is only the bartender, Odasaku, and himself. 

He takes a sip of his whiskey to give his hands and mouth something to do. He hates the taste and the burn of the alcohol as it goes down, hates the feeling of glass between his teeth. It’s why he’s always refused to drink anything he ordered when he went out drinking with Ango and Odasaku. That, and alcohol makes him slow.

Back then, he couldn’t afford to be slow. He can’t even afford to be slow now, but something about this place forces stillness upon him. The bar calms his ever-whirring mind and beating heart, as quick as the flutter of a hummingbird’s wings, to something more normal. More human. 

Dazai hates the irony. 

“Did I fail, then?” he asks, turning to Odasaku. “Has Yokohama burned to the ground?” 

Odasaku takes another sip and makes a negative sound. “Not yet, at least,” he adds, and the revelation causes panic to rise inside him. 

“Then what am I doing here?” he demands, and he’d forgotten how grating it is to be the petitioner. Dazai doesn’t make a habit of being the one asking, instead of the one answering. The loss of control is almost enough to make him shatter his whiskey glass. He can’t remember the last time he had let himself just be carried along by the currents of someone else’s agenda. 

No, he could. A reminder of the consequences was sitting two seats down from him, drinking his whiskey as if he didn’t have a care in the world. 

“You’re dead,” Odasaku reminds him, and something in his face softens. “For now, anyway.”

Dazai nods. While he had suspected as much, there had been enough uncertainty to throw his entire thought process into disarray. With that out of the way, the storm inside him quieted momentarily. 

“Nakahara-san, was it?” Odasaku murmurs. “He’ll come through.”

Dazai smiles a little. “He always does,” he says, and Odasaku smiles back at him. 

The two of them sip at their whiskey in companionable silence. It’s almost comforting until, after what could have been minutes or hours, Dazai feels a tug. As if a small child has latched onto the hem of his coat and is pulling at it to get his attention. He looks down, but there is nobody there. 

“Your time’s up, Dazai,” says Odasaku, and the simple phrase hits him with the force of a sledgehammer. He lifts his head to look at his friend, and Odasaku is still smiling. It’s not even a sad smile, like Dazai expected. Is that...pride?

“I do check on you, every now and again,” Odasaku admits. “Because I’m curious, and it can get boring here.”

Dazai can’t speak around the lump in his throat, and he doesn’t even try. Odasaku gets up from his stool and walks over, hands in his pockets, before reaching out. He ruffles Dazai’s hair. “The answer to your question,” Odasaku says, “is yes.”

That single word is absolution and penitence and everything he has been running towards since he threw off his black coat. Dazai opens his mouth to say something, anything, but he is ripped away from the bar and back to the living world with a punch to the jaw that sends him reeling. He is wearing white, and he is floating. Above him, Chuuya floats with his fist outstretched and a savage snarl twisting his face. Part of him is disappointed, and the other part of him is relieved. 

He can still feel the wound in his back, which throbs with every passing second, but he also sees the droplets of blood hanging suspended in the air like tears. He lifts up a hand then, even though it hurts, and touches Chuuya’s cheek. The activation of his ability feels like a cool wind rushing through him. 

“You used Corruption, believing in me?” he asks, though it’s a herculean effort to speak. His tongue feels like lead and his head is still spinning from being yanked unceremoniously back to consciousness. But he has enough energy to smile wryly and say, “How beautiful.”

“Yeah, I did,” says Chuuya, as blunt as he always is. “I believed in your disgusting vitality and craftiness.”

The words sting a little, but it’s nothing more than he deserves. It is, after all, his disgusting vitality and craftiness that keeps him from drinking whiskey with Odasaku, in a bar removed from time. The thought doesn’t depress him like it should. 

Because it will annoy Chuuya, he widens his smile. “That was a somewhat violent way of waking Snow White.”

There is violence in the tension of Chuuya’s shoulders and his narrowed eyes, but he just used Corruption. Dazai figures he can barely speak in his current state, let alone move. His jaw throbs anyway, because Chuuya hadn’t pulled his last punch at all. 

When he gets to the ground, with Chuuya collapsed on his thigh, Dazai allows himself to close his eyes for slightly longer than a blink. He leans against the rubble and tilts his head up to the sky. His hand is on Chuuya’s head, fingers resting lightly on his hair. He’s exhausted, but he cards his fingers gently through Chuuya’s hair anyway. 

“Ne, Odasaku,” he murmurs, and fancies that wherever he is, his friend can hear him. “You were right. You always were.”

With his face still tipped up to the sky and fingers still combing through Chuuya’s hair, he smiles. “I even forgot to say thank you.”

—

“Be on the side that saves people. If both sides are the same, become a good man. Save the weak, and protect the orphans. Neither good nor evil means much to you, I know…but that'd make you at least a little bit better…”

“How do you know?”

“Of course I know. I know better than anyone. Because…I am your friend.”

-- -- -- --  A link if you want to join the server: https://discord.gg/wGfPdaV

“I’m Sorry..”

Fandom: Ginny & Georgia

Characters: Ginny, Georgia, Ellen, Clint, Marcus and Max. 

Words: 1513

Summary: Ginny and Marcus apologize and discovers that there’s more to him then meets the eye. 

Warning: Swearing, implied masturbation (it’s very slight though. More of a blink and you’ll miss it sort of thing.), dead character reference, parental caregiver terms (Ex: “Mama”). 

Author’s note: I know you're probably thinking, "WTH did I just read?" But hear me out! I wrote this because I wanted to give more depth to Marcus' character, and of course I had to do that with age regression. Hah! And to have him apologize since we didn't see that yet in the show. (Plus while watching the show I got some kind of vibe. Not really sure how or why, but I did for some reason.) Anyways, I'm planning on turning this into it's own fully fleshed-out story. And I would love to hear y'all's feedback and opinions in the comments. As always, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy! 

    Ginny was lying in bed, unable to sleep. Her mind was racing as she recalled the events of the past week. Breaking it off with Hunter, Marcus and his bullshit, Georgia (as always), and how she managed to push all her friends away over 2 dumb guys. She sighed, trying to take her mind off things, she picked up her toothbrush from her nightstand and slumped under the covers. “Great. Your life's falling apart and all you can think to do is masturbate? Lovely, Ginny. Just lovely”. As the brush slowly made its way down, she then had to go to the bathroom. Sighing even harder this time, she put the toothbrush back on her nightstand and left the room.

“Mom! It’s Marcus! Your idiot, stoner, “Kyle Scheible” wannabe son! Of course I’m pissed and betrayed as hell that my so-called “best friend” was cheating on her boyfriend with my brother! God! Everything is the worst!” Max equally signed and exclaimed to her parents, angry like a wakened bear. “Well I’m sorry! I’m sorry I don’t know anything because my kids don’t tell me shit anymore!” Ellen replied. “Well I’m telling you now mother dearest!” Max said, stomping up to her room. Slamming the door behind her, she flopped on her bed and scrolled through her pictures. She stopped when she saw a picture of the 4 of them together at the Sophomore Sleepover.“Ginny, why couldn’t you have just talked to me?” Her voice broke as she started to cry.

Downstairs, her parents discussed the situation and what they could do to help. “I just don’t get it Clint. Ginny is a good kid, much better than our own. If we're being honest. How are we gonna fix this?” Ellen asked her husband. “I don’t know dear. But, it’s probably best if we stay out of it. I think we can trust the kids to work it out themselves. Besides, all we can do is watch and intervene when it gets too serious, right?” Clint replied. “Yeah, you’re right. Thanks. I love you.” “Anytime, Ellie. I love you too”.

Marcus crossed the street towards Ginny’s house in hopes of doing one thing, apologizing. If there was any time to do this, it was now. Hopefully. That day, after hearing what Ginny said he realized what he was doing. He finally broke things off with Padma, stating how he had been a dick to her and that she deserved better, to which she agreed. He took time to look at himself and think “Why? What’s wrong with you? Climbing up to the window he reached for the latch and lowered his hand. He instead climbed back down, knowing how inappropriate and weird his entrances are. “You’re not J.D, idiot.” He joked to himself, while inside he was terrified.

Hearing the door knock, Ginny went downstairs. She looked through the window and jumped. “Jesus fucking Christ. Why is he here?! And at the door of all places? Well, at least it’s not my window, ``she whispered. Her mind began racing again. She wished she could go back to her room, but now she could not. “Peach, who’s at the door?” Georgia called from the other room. She halted for a moment,”No one mom!” “Okay! I must’ve just been hearing things then. Aw shit! That means I’m gettin’ old!” “Georgia Miller’s one adversity, aging!” Ginny said. “Oh hush!” Georgia said, fake offended. Ginny sighed, opening the door. She leaned on the door frame, ready to face whatever was gonna come out of the teen’s mouth.

”What do you want, Marcus? Because frankly, I don’t want to hear it”. “Hey can we talk outside? Please? I just don’t want your mom to hear, if that’s ok?” “Yeah cuz she hasn’t heard everything already about us! But, whatever. I guess we can talk”, Ginny glared at him. “Look, I just wanted to say, I’m sorry. You deserve so much better and should’ve just stayed out of everything..” “Yeah you should’ve. That would’ve helped. My life would have been a lot less shitty, y’know.” “I-I know..and I told Padma about everything a-and broke things off. I mean, it was the least I could do. And I’ve also started to evaluate myself and realize, I am an awful person. Like, what the hell dude? What’s your problem?” Marcus said.

Ginny looked at him surprised, “He actually went and acknowledged his mistakes? Huh, things are certainly changing for both him and I”, “I.. that’s.. I’m really proud of you Marcus. And yeah, you are an asshole, but I’m glad you took the time to realize that. Especially after all the things you went through.``''And I know that doesn't excuse what I did. Someone’s past or whatever they're going through doesn’t excuse them for doing something wrong, but thanks Ginny. I’m not asking for you to forgive me for what I did, I just want you to know that I am truly sorry. Also I’m seeing someone! I forgot their name, but they work with Abby’s Dad, I think. And after this, I’ll stay out of your way so I don’t hurt you or anyone else.” Marcus said, turning to leave.

Ginny gasped, “He’s truly pouring his heart out! He is sorry! Do I want to lose him? Cus I really don’t think I do” Her thoughts swirled in her head. “Marcus, I-I don’t know what to say. You’re right. But, I think that since you’ve taken the time to talk to someone and help you evaluate yourself, you know better than to play with people’s hearts. A-and I don’t want to lose you because you’re more than just hot. Y-you’re nice, introspective, and caring. I don't think I’m ever going to find someone who’s impacted my life like you. I-think I forgive you,” Ginny choked out, crying. “Wow..Seriously! Well, thanks Ginny! Is it okay if I hug you?” Marcus said, surprised. “Seriously. And yes! !”Ginny laughed. “Okay!” He said, wrapping his arms around her. After a minute had passed, Marcus took that as his cue to leave. “Well, I should go,” He said walking to her door. “Yeah. I’ll see you later, creep”. He smiled and left. And Ginny, for the first time in a while, felt relieved.

The next day, Ginny walked to the cafeteria hoping that her friends wouldn’t loathe her entirely. She planned on apologizing to them today for all that happened, especially to Hunter. She was about 5 feet away from the door and saw Marcus on the floor with his head buried in his arms. “Marcus? Are you okay?” She asked, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Marcus had not had a good day so far. For one thing, Max was still mad at him, his head was screaming, he couldn’t stop thinking about his best friend, and he failed an english test. And his secret almost got revealed when he dropped all of his stuff on the floor trying to get into his locker. So yeah, you could say today was a shit day. So, when he went into the lunchroom and noticed all the people, he turned around back into the hall. For the second time in 12 hours he started to cry. And when Ginny asked him what was up, his head felt fuzzy and couldn’t say anything.

Ginny looked at him in concern waiting for him to answer. He looked up and she noticed his eyes were all red and puffy from crying, “I-I’m sow-sorry. I’m not supposed to... “Supposed to what?” “Be small!” He sobbed, hiding his face. “Aw buddy, it’s okay! But, can you explain? I don’t understand?”

He took a deep breath and began to explain, “So, ever since my y’know accident, my brain goes to this space where it’s kind of like I’m a little kid? Y’know? I know it’s-it’s weird. And ever since my best friend died, I feel a lot younger than I am. So, basically I’m a little kid when I have bad days or get really upset. Which explains what “being small” means, I guess”.

Ginny looked back at him processing this, and if she was being honest, it made a lot of sense. It was his way of dealing, and who was she to judge? “Well, that makes a lot of sense. And I’m guessing it helps, but why were you so upset to tell me?” “Because I was worried you were going to think I’m gross or more weird than I already am.” She chuckled, “You’re already one of the weirdest people I know Marcus. SO, there’s nothing you can do that can make you more weird to me. Now, quit crying! I’m not really in the mood for you to crash into a ditch again, y’know? Lol.” “Heh, yeah. Thanks Ginny.” “Anytime, Marcus. Now come on, the floor’s pretty gross.” She said, standing up and pulling him off the floor. “Okay, mama,” He said, feeling better than before. Ginny gushed and the 2 of them walked back into the cafeteria ready to face their friends.

7. H O U R G L A S S

Moodboard // Content // Masterlist

Disclaimer:

All characters and situation in this story are fictitious. Resemblance to any person living or dead is only God knows.

Previous chapter :

“I'm close, H! I'm close.”

“Cum with me, baby. Cum with me.”

Y/N cried out when she releases, arching her back made her breast went up in the air. Harry moaned when he spurted his load inside her, filling up her warm cunt. Yet they were riding out their high together, Harry's length still hard and stiff inside her. He rested his forehead against her, giving her small peck on the swollen lips. Harry collapsed next to her, Y/N snuggled to him – hugging his body. They were silent for a moment, letting their lungs gasping for oxygen.

7. HOURGLASS

Her eyes fluttered open, looking at the empty side next to her. She sat up right away, averted her gaze around to find Harry. Y/N wrapped the comforter around her naked body before lowering her feet to the floor. She smiled seeing at small note latched on the nightstand.

I'm on the kitchen if you wake up and find this note. You can wear my shirt if you want to. I hung it in the closet. H x

She put down the paper. When she was about to go to his closet, she was shocked to see how messy his room was. The sheet was sprawled open, her panties were thrown away from the bed whilst her bra was nowhere to be found. The cushions was laying far in the corner. Were they that wild last night?

No, last night was nothing wild. They didn’t damage the bed nor the linen. She was pretty sure Harry could go wild anytime more than last night if he wanted. Her stomach growled from hunger, the sound made her laugh. She had to get out and meet Harry in the kitchen once she finished dress up.

Her legs were a bit sore when she walked, yet she brushed it off. This wasn't her first time wandering around his massive walk-in closet, she remembered the first time she was in there, her jaw hung open due to the large and luxurious his closet. That day, Harry asked her to get his tie. She got confused since there were so many drawers and wardrobes he had. Well, she would laugh if she remembered that.

Y/N instantly spotted his plain white shirt which was too big for her. Nonetheless, she still wore it. She liked it more than her own shirt since she didn't keep her baggy shirts here.

She did keep spare her clothes in Harry’s wardrobe. Of course, it was Harry idea. Y/N often spent her free time at Harry’s house, and most of them ended with her stayed a night or two. He thought that it would be better if his girlfriend kept some spare clothes.

Screw the bra. There were a few of them in the top drawer but I want freedom this morning.

Y/N didn’t want to snoop around, but seeing Harry's clothes hung neatly was such a sight for herself. Her nose smelt Harry's familiar perfume around the closet – made her want to stay a little bit longer.

Her boyfriend was such a neat freak. Harry arranged his clothes according to the brands, the purpose, and colour. He had two wardrobes dedicated to his favourite designer. Yves Saint Laurent and Gucci. He really loved those two brands, and had a good relationship with their designers. It wasn’t a surprise there was plenty of custom outfit from them that Y/N had never seen before.

Then, her eyes caught a shabby leather journal laid on top of his tie drawer, written an H 1994 in front of it with a picture a child embedded. That must be Harry.

Her curiosity about Harry's childhood pictures made her grabbed the journal. Y/N giggled over his photograph; little Harry was so cute with his brown hair. In the picture he wore a blue shirt underneath the cream coloured overalls, his smile was so big showing his bunny teeth. Sitting at the velvet chair, she opened the journal – hoping to find his childhood pictures. But all she found was writings. At first, she wanted to return it back, but the dates were written made her curious. All of them.

January 11th 2003 I didn't know where is my fault. They keep to hate me

January 15th 2003 Friends are horrible

This wasn’t a photo book. This was his childhood diary.  She shouldn’t have opened Harry’s diary, surely it was a secret.

There was no way photo album is in a journal, you stupid girl! Her inner goddess scowled.

Her mind told her to return the journal to its previous place, but her inquisitiveness was too high. She gathered her determination before continuing to read.

February 1st 2003 My birthday and no one knows, except mum

February 9th 2003 Everyone hates me

March 12th 2013 Why he hates me and mum so much?

March 29th 2013 He hurt mum

April 3rd 2013 He hurt me

May 1st 2013 I don't like him

August 18th 2013 Football is nice

August 25th 2013 They love my football

September 1st 2013 Dale was awful. I was crying. Everyone was laughing. Mum was sad.

September 12th 2003 Who was the abusive one? Dale? Father?

September 13th 2003 He kicked me

September 14th 2003 He punched my tummy. It's hurts

September 20th 2003 Dale hit me everywhere. But why I couldn't feel it?

October 1st 2003 That feels nice

October 9th 2003 I can't feel my face

October 25th 2003 Poor little pigeon

November 6th 2003 He's stronger than ever

December 1st 2003 What happened?

Y/N closed the journal harshly, too many conclusions was spinning in her brain. The more she thinking about it, the more theories that emerge. Y/N couldn't just draw a conclusion, her brain urged her to ask Harry about that, but her heart holding it back. She didn’t want herself to fall deeper into his confide, she had to stop before curiosity killed her. With various questions raging inside her head, Y/N returned the journal to its original place and immediately went out to meet her boyfriend.

She could see Harry was cooking from the way he held a pan. His upper body bare due to lack of clothes, his fern tattoos visible due to sweatpants hanging low in his hips. Her eyes went down to his happy trail, reminded her of how good he pounded into her last night. Just imagined it made her shudder.

Y/N smiled of how focused he was when he made breakfast, forehead wrinkled while his tip tongue was sticking out. She was busy adoring him with her body leaned to the door frame. Felt like someone was watching him, Harry averted his gaze. He found his girlfriend watched him with a smile on her face, standing cutely in his shirt that way too baggy for her –exposing her delicate legs. Harry was sure she only wore underwear beneath since the shirt fell on her thighs and she was wearing no pants. Harry saw her semi hard nipples through the fabric. He shook his head instantly, if he glanced at it longer than intended, he might have Y/N as his breakfast.

“Good morning, love. I'm making pancake, should be ready in ten minutes. Do you want anything else?” He asked while flipping the pan.

“Pancake is good.” She hummed, walking towards him. “Be careful, we don't want the pancake to fall, do we?”

“Don't underestimate my ability, baby. Go take a seat, and sit there beautifully.”

Y/N shrugged, pulling a seat near her. A moment after, Harry turned off the stove and put the pancake on her plate. She gave him a quick thanks then laughing when she realised her pancake had a shape of a bear's head. She took a quick glance of Harry's plate, finding one with a shape of frog's head.

“What do you want to put on top of it? I have… berries, honey, maple syrup, powdered sugar, err... jam?” Harry asked with his head dug into his massive fridge.

“Berries will be fine.”

Harry pulled out his head with a bowl of berries and a maple syrup in each hand. His foot closed the fridge door. Y/N thanked him for the berries. She looked at Harry who was pouring maple syrup to his pancake and slice the banana on top of it.

“I didn't know you have this cute pancake mould.” She giggled, “This is too cute to eat! I can't even bear to cut it.”

“I found them when I was opening the top drawer. I forgot that I had it because I never used it.” He shrugged, cutting the pancakes. But, her shrieking made him jump and dropping the knife.

“What's wrong?” He asked while taking the knife, put it on the end and took a new one.

“You destroyed the frog's face!” Y/N gasped then laughing softly. Harry stunned in his seat, then looking at his frog pancake which has been split in two.

“Don't shock me like that, baby. Just eat them. I can make more if you want to keep it as a collection.” He laughed, scooping a piece into his mouth.

“This is delicious but I can't stop thinking about a bear head inside my mouth.” Y/N spoke while chewing her pancakes. Harry just shook his head over the silliness of his girlfriend.

They ate in silence, only the sound of the television and soft noises of cutlery clashing with plates were audible. Their attention was directed on the TV that was broadcasting the graphic of company shares in U.K. Y/N was stunned when she saw Machtig's stock chart that went quite far, almost balance with Erskine at the moment. Both of them are in the top five. She looked at Harry who seems unbothered.

“Polygram did that.” Is all he said, nothing more, like answering the look from Y/N. “It's common in the business world.” He added. Then her mind rolling to a few days back, when Harry told her something about Dale bullied him. And, his writings on that journal about him that made her sad.

“Harry, darling.”

Harry smirked at the way Y/N called him with pet names. He knew very well that his lover wanted to ask something that possible worrying her, because that was starting to become her habit.

“Go on, love.”

“I remember the day when you told me that Dale Jespersen was bullying you when you were a child. Is that... is that true?” She asked softly, “I understand if you don't want to talk about it.”

Harry just stared at her, his face was flat with no emotion. She didn’t know if this is a good or bad sign. She cursed her foolishness deep inside her heart when Harry said nothing.

“Dale Jespersen was my school friend when we went to same primary school in Birmingham – before I moved to Manchester. I used to be the nerd one in my class.” He said, “I never really come play with them. Since one thing I knew that time was... I have to get good grades so my mum would be happy. Apparently, some kids think otherwise. He and his friends always said I was arrogant. Until one day, I thought it was never hurt to try... play with them. I began to open up, sparing my time to play football after school ended – before coming home, even though it just a quick play.”

Y/N silently heard Harry's explanation, want nothing than be a good listener. Harry paused for a while before continuing. His head, which had been looking down, slowly looked her up. His eyes became dull, seemed like he just told her something sad.

“It's okay if you don't want to go forward, darling. I don't have to know the whole story if you feel uncomfortable.” She said with concern. Her hand stretching out to rub his hand. But he just shook his head, ready to continue.

“I became an idol in the field because I could show them my skills in football. He didn't like his attention was taken by me. He made up a story that I beat my mum because according to him, he saw my mother was crying in our yard when he passed by. I confront him, and long story short, he made me his punching bag.”

Y/N gasped, her palm covering her mouth in disbelief. “You didn't do that, did you?”

Harry chuckled, “Who do you believe? Me or him?”

“Of course, i believe you, Harry. I just... didn't expect something like that.” She murmured, “But you're okay now, no grudges yeah?”

Harry leaned back, looking at her with a subtle smirk on his lips. Laughing silently at how clueless this girl in front of him. If only she knew.

Y/N didn't realise that the person who had been talking about Dale's cruelty, have different eyes to someone who made her breakfast this morning. Little did she know, every single word that came out from his mouth, the eyes getting darker than usual.

. . . .

Harry only could curl up, hugging his knees every time his back received a whipped from someone who should protect him. His mother was out, so clearly he couldn't ask anyone for help. He really wanted to cry, but he couldn't. If he cried, the whipped would get stronger.

“You fucking little bullshit!”

Deep inside his heart, he prayed his mother come home soon.

God listened to his prayer when he heard the front door being open. He immediately ran to his bedroom upstairs when the whipped stopped. Harry was breathing rapidly, he must quick search a safe spot in his room. Although he wasn't sure that would protect him well. He locked the door, moving his whatever in his room that he thought was heavy enough to hold the door.

He looked at himself in the mirror, slowly lifted up his shirt. He whimpered when he saw the scar on his back, still fresh and red. He blinked his eyes to let the tears rolling down his cheek. Harry wanted to tell his mother, but he didn't have any bravery.

How could a father do that to a nine year old child?

Harry didn't understand.

Sunday morning was supposedly being fun because you could have quality time with your family. Apparently not for Harry. He woke up when he heard her mother screaming, his feet quickly take him downstair to only find his father was grabbing his mother hair until her head tilted. She looked in pain, his knuckles grip tightly to her roots. Harry was frozen in the stairs, eyes widened to a sight in front of him.

Whatever would happen, he must help his mother.

Then, he ran and yelled. Kicking his father in the legs, made the older man stumbled a bit. Harry hurried to his mother, asking if she was okay, and hug her. But, the father didn't like it. He grabbed Harry's collar and dragging him to the floor. His breath choked up when he felt the father's hand circling around his neck, putting pressure in it.

Her mother was screaming in tears, watching her husband strangled her son. She tried to let go of him, but he shoved her back and slapped her head.

She must be able to protect her child, and herself. Ignoring the burning sensation on her face, she pulled her husband and took him out of the house.

“You fucking whore! Your little bastard must be taught a lesson!”

She crinkled her face when the scent of alcohol and cigarettes wafted from his mouth. “Get out! Don't come to me and my son again!”

The father looked at her and the small boy next to her in disgust. He spitted to the asphalt and went away. Harry was silent, but not with his mother. He could hear her sad cry. The only thing he could do now is; hug her. As he did now. Didn't care if they look pathetic in their front yard.

Two weeks was nice without his father. He didn't come home, and Harry prayed he wouldn't be. Until the nightmare paid them a visit as his father show up in their door, looking for his mother. The pathetic man was asking for some money to his wife. But of course she wouldn't give him. She was struggling enough to work and get a nice pay job, how the hell she gave him money from her hard work for free?

Everything went fast. Harry defended his mother, but end up his father beating him up in their yard. His mother was laying unconscious in the living room due to punched she got. Harry accepted every hit, every jab, every punch. He wanted to fight. But he didn't want his mother to be next his target if he did that. He could only surrender.

What could a small child like him do? He didn't know.

Every kick, every smack, every pain. He absorbed well. Until he only could feel anger, hate, hurt. No, he wouldn't let this pathetic old man beat him again. Not him. Not his mother. He smiled through the pain. No, he couldn't feel the pain. He didn't feel any pain. He felt numb. It was like a tickle to him. He rose, holding his father's hands.

How came?

He endured effortlessly. The last thing he remembers was, he gave the man in front of him – who was confused, a flat smile before pinning his father's hand to the opposite direction. A small crack made him screaming in pain, but made Harry smile in satisfied.

Harry felt strange, his father still tried to make his mother and his life miserable. Yes, he was abusive. But a few days back, he only threw things when he mad, didn't do anything physically. He should have be relieved a little, but his little head had some questions.

Harry didn't know why his mother did not leave him already. If they were hurt, why they should stay?

Once abusive, would still abusive.

His father was acting up again. Harry was in his room, doing his homework when his father broke down his door and rummaged the room – like was looking for something.

“Where is it?” Voice hoarse, hands opening every single drawer in the room.

“What are you looking for?” Harry asked.

“You should be keeping some money from Anne, right? Where?”

“I won't tell you. I need them to buy some books.”

Hearing what his son just said, it did something in him. He didn't like the answer. Then, he stomped to Harry, pulling his shirt. Harry was scared, his body trembled so badly.

“I need them more than you! Fuck that stupid books, I want the money!”

Harry shook his head, his mother was working her ass off to be able to provide what he needs. An education, for a better future. There was no way he would give up the money for his father's unnecessary wants. He cried in pain when his father hit his head, throwing him to the corner, and kick his legs. Over and over again.

In the blink of an eye, his father was shocked when he felt pain in his head. He looked at Harry in disbelief, his palm felt wet – and realise it was blood dripping from his back head. Harry in front of him was panting hard, his face was showing no emotion, with the hand gripping a brick. How come he had a brick in his bedroom?

Both of them heard a gasp from the door, finding Anne standing right there. Harry could see his father ran to her, and yelling about what he did to him.

“He hit my head with a brick! Your fucking son keep bricks in his room to attack me!”

Anne averted his gaze towards Harry, looking for evidence. “Is that true, Harry?” Her voice quivered. Harry shook his head, his expression was flat, no guilt at all. “No, I'm not holding anything in my hands. See?”

He stretched out his bare hand, no bricks were seen. His father yelled again, accused him of being a liar because he was sure that Harry hit him with bricks. Anne sighed and led her husband out. Leaving Harry alone. She didn't know who to believe. But clearly, Harry never lied to her.

Little did they know, Harry was laughing right after them both gone. His eyes glanced at the corner of his bed, where the brick was laid.

After that accident, his parents never talk about it. Either Anne did believe him, or his father really thought he was hallucinating. Harry really didn't care.

Christmas was only a few days. When other families worked together to decorate their house, it wasn't for Harry. His father's drunken face was somewhere they didn't know, only Harry and his mother were ecstatic about the eve. His favourite moment was when its snows in the morning and at night. If people sometimes complain about the thickness of the snow, Harry liked it instead. He liked that white – soft thing.

He ran outside when realising the snow was showering that morning, his thick clothes protected him from the cold weather outside. He sat on the snow in his yard, looking at the empty streets. Then, he saw a white pigeon sheltering under a tree from the snow. It was alone, without a friend. Harry barely recognised it if only he wasn't under a tree, its colour was almost like snow.

Without him knowing, his feet brought him close to it. He squatted in front of the pigeon, and strangely the bird was not afraid. It let itself be lifted by Harry, feeling the warmth from the hands of the human who was holding it.

“Why are you alone? Where's your family?” Harry hummed, stroking its feathers. “You must feel sad because you're alone.. in this cold morning.”

Harry kept stroking its feathers, patted the small head. “You're with no family, are you?”

Then, his hand stopped – but still holding the pigeon, as aware of something. He lifted the pigeon so its parallel with his eyes. “You better be with your other friends and family up there, not here. In here.. is cruel. Too cruel for small things like you.”

Harry didn't remember anything until his flustered face looking at the pigeon in horror. It was laying stiff with blood almost covering its small body. The blood staining the white feathers. He gasped when he found a bloody knife not far from his feet. Both of his hands also were covered by the pigeon's blood.

What did he do?

His heart was racing, hands trembling, tears were falling down to his face. He was so scared.

Harry could hear his mother screaming from his behind. He glanced back, saw his mother standing there with a shocked face, scared.. he couldn't even describe it. Then he saw the lifeless pigeon again in his hand. He did kill it.

. . . .

“See! Your fucking son is a murderer!”

Harry whimpered in the corner, his father was back and now having an argument with his mother. They didn't even have proper Christmas celebration since his father step his foot in the Christmas morning. He heard Anne confronted Harry about killing the poor pigeon. That was the worst morning for Harry, how could his mother bring it up in the Christmas morning!? They should gather around to open the presents instead of accusing him of something like... that.

“I was asking Harry, not you.”

“Now you believe me. Once, he hit me with brick. Second, he killed an animal. What's next? Burning this fucking house on fire?! This psychopath's little shit must be taken away before he harms others!”

Harry just shook his head, palms covering his ears. He didn't want to hear it.

No.

“How could you call your son a psychopath's?! He's just a child. He did know nothing!”

He couldn't take it anymore. He didn't want his Christmas turned into a nightmare. He got up, running to his room, slamming the door and locked it. He cried and cried. He didn't know why he killed the pigeon. The last thing he remembered was.. patting its head.

Christmas walked so the new year eve could come closer. He didn't have anything to celebrate. After the Christmas incident, his mother was keeping a distance from him and talked to him as needed. It broke his heart. Every night before he went sleep, he always wondering.. why his mother didn't believe him. Why he did that. Why God always makes him sad.

It was the morning after the new year, last night he spent the count down with sitting on the roof. Waiting for fireworks to appear in the night sky even he didn't like the sound of it. It was better than the sound of silence.

He bet his father was out last night, probably went to a local bar and downing for alcoholic drinks there.  He didn't care. Yet, then he heard screaming from the kitchen, he saw her mother try to shove away from his father.

“Give me that money, Anne! I need them!”

“No! I don't have any. Go away!”

“You fucking liar!” He saw his father hit his mother with cutting board to her head. Harry scared, really scared. Didn't what to do. But, the time he saw blood dripping to her face, he felt anger burned into him. He ran to them, taking the vegetable knife from the counter and stab his father's arm.

His father was screaming in agony, while his mother stared at him with utter shock – still gripping her bloody head. Harry was standing there with a knife in his hand, watching his father grimacing in pain. His mother could see the flat emotion in Harry's face. No scared look. No anger look. Nothing.

Harry was locked up in his room after that. He didn't know what his parents would do with their bloody wounds. He did care about his mother, but no with his father. He just sleeps, waiting for whatever would happen tomorrow.

It felt like he had only slept for a few hours when he woke up forcefully, he was dragged from his bed by someone.

Who else was if it wasn't his father?

Harry tried to run away, but he felt weak because he cried all night in his sleep.

Where was his mother?

He was forced into the car, both of his hands were tied together. His body was held by the safety belt in the back seat. His eyes were covered with cloth, so he didn't know where he was going.

He felt the car stopped after one hour drive, he thought. He heard the door opened, following by harsh tug of the cloth covering his eyes. His father untied his hand and pulled his out from the car.

Harry was looking around. There were lots of little kids here, but where it is?

He really wanted to run away, but he didn't dare because he didn't want his mother to get hit again because of him. His priority now was his mother safety.

“His name is Harry. I found him was crying in front of his parents grave. So I think it's best to take him here, so someone can take care of him.”

His head lifted up, looking at his father in disbelief. What did he mean?

“Of course. Did you relate to him?”

“No, I was asking him if he has a family. But he's alone himself.”

The lady who was speaking with his father, crouching down to his level. She seemed nice, smiling at him. But his smile faltered when he heard those words that crashing down his life.

“Hi, I'm Elis. We will take good care of you. Don't worry, Harry. You will get a new family in this orphanage.”

. . . .

“What are you planning for Christmas?”

Last night, Abbie called Y/N if she could get breakfast together this morning since both of them wasn't so busy at the moment. Of course Y/N glad to hear that, it had been a while since she met her friend. Now here they were, having meals in the little breakfast cafe near the Battersea Square. Harry drove her here since she was staying at his house for the weekend.

“I'll go home as well as Harry. We'll spend the time with our own family before heading to Sorrento for New Year together.” Y/N answered before taking a sip of her hot chocolate. It was an early day in December, and London weather was getting colder every day. So, she needed something to warm her body.

“Italy? How nice! But I prefer to go there in Summer, you know? Warm sun, warm air..” Abbie squealed.

“Harry was the one who had the idea. It was more than enough for me. I can't complain anything to him.” She shrugged, “How about you?”

Abbie just laughed, “My mum wanted to come here, so I guess I'll spend Christmas and New Year in here.”

The rest of the time they just walked about the time together when they were at school, playing back memories that memorable for them. The clock was ticking at past eleven when they decided to go. Besides, Y/N really didn't want to lave Harry for too long. Abbie offered her a ride since she would be passing Lots Road, so she would dropping Y/N off there.

When Y/N arrived at Harry's penthouse, Suzanne was in the kitchen. She bid a quick hello to her before heading to Harry's bedroom. She let out a small shriek when her eyes found Harry sprawled out in his bed just in his briefs, laid out like a starfish.

“What are you doing?” Y/N giggled, crawling to his side. Harry tilted his head towards her, “I was running while you were meeting Abbie, now I'm exhausted.”

“Why you don't take a shower?” She asked, her finger brushing off his baby hair on his forehead. She gasped when Harry flipped her body so she was on top him, hands gripping her bum.

“I was waiting for you. Maybe we can take a shower together?” He wiggled his eyebrow. Y/N snuggled to him, smothering his neck with some kisses. “I already taking the shower. Now, take your ass to the shower. And wash the sticky sweats off your body.”

“Didn't you realise you get the sticky sweat from the way you plopped down on me, darling?”

Harry let out a humoured laugh when his girlfriend whined after she had just realised. He shoved her body away gently, and walking to his bathroom. “I will be happy to waiting for you under the shower.”

And after that, he vanished into the bathroom. Y/N then sat up, looking at her both arms that now wet from Harry's sweat. In fact, she didn't want to complain because his sweat smells good. And yeah, she should take another shower because how sticky her body from his sweat.

When she walked into the bathroom, Harry's naked figure clearly visible. Although the hot steam covered the glass wall, she could see Harry's standing under the shower with his back facing her. Y/N closed the door slowly, not making any noise. She stripped down her clothes until she's naked, and join him in the shower. The way her sneaking arms hugged his torso made Harry didn't flinch at all. Like he's already expecting it.

Y/N peppering kisses on his neck, shoulder, all around his back with her fingers rubbing his stomach. She gave him kitten licks to his earlobe before sucked it, made Harry whimpered. His hands pumping his length slowly. Y/N brushed her wet hair from her face, so it wouldn't block her eyes. She bit her boyfriend's shoulder to expect leaving marks on there. She loved to claim what she had.

Her hand went down to his V-line, before grabbing his length and help him to pump it while her other hand slid up and down his nipple in teasing way.

That's it. That's the last strike. Harry couldn't let her.

Y/N squealed when Harry flipped them both, pushing her body against the wall and grab her legs so they wrapped around him. She quickly put her hands around his neck. Luckily, her back was against the glass and Harry holding her bum, keeping her legs around his waist. If not, she could slip on the slippery tile. Both of them panting quickly, she could feel her hard nipple pressed onto his toned chest. Meanwhile, his length resting it limb between her thighs.

“Thought you would come, darling.” He whispered, booping her nose with his. “What was that behaviour?”

“I just want to help my boyfriend.” She shrugged, fingers curling his back hair. Since the shower was no longer right above their head, Y/N could see Harry clearly. His soaked wet face made her fantasy went wild. She gulped as Harry pressed down his length to her centre, rubbing his tip up and down.

“Do you feel that? This is what you've done, baby.” He mumbled in her ear, “Hard and ready, only for you.”

“Only for me?” Y/N asked for recognition, her fingertips digging to his shoulder. She looked down to find Harry's length was ready. Hard, erect on its glory. Harry nodded, licking her earlobe. “Only for my baby.”

She brought his head to her, so she could crashing her lips on his. It didn't take long for their tongues to wrestle with each other. The only sound they heard was their lips ravishing each other, even the sound of the shower only sounded faint to their ears. Their body was hot, burning in flame. The hot steam made everything getting more intense.

He ran his finger over her centre, only found her sticky wetness. Harry smirked, his ego was getting high.

“You're so wet, bet it taste sweet too.” He mumbled in her lips.

Harry detached his lips from her, so he could suck her nipple while the other one being rubbed and pinched by his finger. His grip was strong enough to keep her only in one his arm. Y/N felt her centre aching, shaking... need someone to take care of it. Her moan was Harry favourite sound in the world, nothing else. She whimpered, arching her back when Harry blew air to her hard and stiffened nipples – making her grip on his hair tightened.

Without her knowing, Harry pushed his index finger inside her centre. Rolling out slowly, yet slammed hard into her. His index fingers curled up inside of her, with his middle finger joined afterwards.

“Oh, Harry. Oh!”

Harry groaned, moving his fingers in and out faster. He smashed his lips again to her, to muffled her loud moan. He could feel his length getting harder than before. His girl was trembling under his touch. He kissed her cheek before pulled his fingers out. But, her pleasure still going strong.

“Harry..”

“Not finish, baby.”

She cried when Harry teased her, rubbing her entrance with his tip. Her legs shook terribly. She wanted him so bad.

“Harry, please... please I can't– ”

“Please what, baby?” He hummed on her neck, leaving marks on his favourite spots.

Every whimper, every moans...

Harry left his marks on her neck, throat, shoulder, chest, breast...

“Beg for me, and I'll give you what you want.”

“I need you, please. I need you inside of me, right now, baby.”

“Uh-huh, you forget something.” He shook his head, smirking.

“I need you to fuck me, ravish me, do whatever your heart desire.” She whined.

“Oh, fuck!”

Y/N choked when Harry slid in his length in only one move. Sometimes it surprised her; the way her body quickly adjusted to his size inside of her, he was huge and thick, it was never enough for her to feel him. Harry paused for a moment before moving his precious length.

“Tell me if you want to stop.” He hissed, placing his forehead on her with hands gripping her bum.

“Move, H.”

Her words always being his command. It was what always Harry said to her.

He slowly rolled in and out, palms still gripping her bum. They both moaned wildly. Y/N clutched Harry's shoulder while he dropped his head to hers. She cried every time Harry was pulling out then slammed into her, pushed his length deeper as he could.

Y/N felt she was getting close, her full cunt trembled from the way Harry rolled his length. She squinted her eyes, breath panting wildly.

“I'm close, H. Oh my god.. Oh!”

“You wanna cum? Cum for me, baby. Cum on me, please.”

Harry still rocking wildly into her, meanwhile, the girl in front of him was shuddering. From the way Y/N arched her back, he knew she was about to come. In just a few seconds, he felt she came on him. He could feel her wetness smeared on his length.

“Harry...”

He groaned, hearing her soft yet exhausted voice whispering into his ear.  His brows furrowed, mouth parting. He shut his eyes closed, feeling himself getting close. Y/N cried out of the how fast he rocked her, the way he slammed back and forth made her wanted to pass out anytime. Before Harry got the chance, he slid out of her on time – seeing his thick cum squirted from his tip all over her and him. Slowly, he lowered Y/N legs, quickly support her body because he knew how weak her legs were.

“Thank you, baby.” He smiled, kissing her cheek. “That was amazing.”

“It was.. better than the one we had in the bathtub.” She sighed, “My back was sore due to clashing down the bathtub tile.”

“So, looks like bathtub sex is the last on the list?” Harry just laughing, “C'mon, let's clean our body.”

“I can't even stand properly, H.” Y/N pouted, hand still on his shoulder. Harry looked down her trembling legs, “All right, just hold onto me.”

. .

Please excuse some errors.

A Little Audience Participation Can Tip the Scales (2/?): Hunting Blind

Genre: GenFic - Action, Mystery, Humor Rating: Teen and Up Story Summary: There’s a strange group living at the old Markiplier Manor. They’re the villains of their tales, they’re looking for information, and they need your help putting Mark’s scattered egos back together to get their lives back. And stop Mark and the Entity breaking reality. Small goals. (Second Person POV, vaguely fem-coded Reader) Chapter Summary: The one where you gin up the courage for some minor trespassing Word Count: 5810 Author's Note: Decided to cross-post from my Ao3! The next three chapters are already up, and I try to post every Tuesday. :3

Interested?

Read on Ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30510852/chapters/75668213

Hunting Blind

With the Manor’s heavy gate behind you, you tug your shirt back into place and loop your bag to hang securely across your body before beating a quick path up the driveway toward the Manor. There’s no real point in trying to be sneaky about it - with the dusk wrapping around you and the nearest neighbors seemingly out, there isn’t much to try to sneak around. Regardless, your nerves push you onward at a steady pace up to the large front plaza, your thoughts roiling. Jonah had seen to that, giving you just enough to be suspicious of, to drive you onwards in his absence.

What could be bad enough that a decade after Mark’s death, and even longer after whatever might have happened actually happened, that the boards of practically every paper in the state would nix any mention of him? What could he have possibly left behind at what was likely the scene of his crime that would unveil the truth?

Most importantly, what or who would you find when you made it inside?

Shaking off the thought, you dig out the little collapsible nightstick your parents had insisted you carry when you’d moved into the city proper. Thankfully, you had never been in a position where you needed to use it, but many where you had been grateful for its reassuring weight. You hold it now in your hand, thumb on the release as you make it up the annoyingly long and snaking driveway to the silent plaza. Shrouded by trees, the space is even darker than the rest of the grounds, all awash in strange, late evening shadows. It had clearly been meant for welcoming in guests, for hosting a number of their vehicles at a time, but now, overly quiet with the added dampening of the trees and without even a security light to cut through the shade, it was eerie. Lonely.

Again, you have to focus on the task at hand and keep your mind off these wandering asides. You’d always had an active imagination, but now was certainly not the time to let it run wild. You gather your wits about you (really, you just take a really deep breath and hope that’s what that looks like) and approach the large, wooden double door entrance. A built-in eaves houses it, and even in the gloom, you can see a family of spiders have made the nicely sheltered spot their home. Reflexively ducking your head just in case there are any low-hanging creepy-crawlies, you press close to the doors. They still gleam despite their disuse, well-burnished dark wood carved in elegant yet simple patterns.

It’s only when your hand finds one of their brass handles that you consider the Manor could be locked. You try it anyway, pressing on the latch with your thumb. It makes some downward progress but sticks halfway before popping back up to its original position. You curse quietly to yourself and try again, but the latch repeats its stifled motion. You start clicking the latch repeatedly, tugging on the door for good measure. You lean your weight into it, and a particularly good press-and-push combination sends the latch snapping suspiciously like you’ve broken it, and you stumble into darkness.

Catching your weight on the swinging door, you pull up short in the entryway, stunned by the sudden reveal of the yawning belly of the Manor. Although your eyes begin to adjust to the darkness, you don’t need them to be able to tell that the place is massive. You can feel it. A cool breeze of emptiness strokes your face, and you straighten up to get your bearings. Out before you is a massive room seemingly a little lower than the tiled entryway where you stand. Along with the vaulted ceiling directly above you, your stumbling footsteps echo back loudly.

“....christ on a cracker,” you breathe, then reflexively cover your mouth as you remember you’re meant to be sneaking around. After your entrance, though, you’re not sure if that’s a totally viable strategy. Regardless, you drop your hand from your mouth and retrieve your phone, turning on its flashlight and casting a somewhat shaky light around the core of the Manor. Just as Jonah had said, it’s still full of… well. Stuff. The massive room you felt before is filled with what seems to be heavy furniture, ornate shapes covered in white sheets and pushed around at strange angles. You swing the light around, catching yourself in the eye with it as it falls across and is reflected by a massive, cracked mirror directly to your right. Thankfully, you manage to stifle a hiss of surprise before it slips out between your teeth. Blinking through your self-injury, you move the light to the side, allowing you to see the rest of the surrounding area more clearly.

The mirror there is uncovered, spotted with age and covered in a thin layer of dust. You can see a few handprints on its gilded frame, but the massive, multifingered, spiderweb crack running along the center demands your attention. It looks as if it’s dented, almost, the rounded crack pressed inward from the force of impact. Your inwardly warped expression stares back at you - do you always look so much like a deer in the headlights?

The feeling of being watched strikes you again.

Lifting your unextended nightstick, you instinctively shine your light up to the second floor, illuminating a landing with dark wood to match the floors of the house. Emptiness is all that greets you, although you can feel a shiver hiding down in the muscles of your shoulders, now. There’s nothing enough to shiver at, but something in you knows, instinctively… something. You aren’t sure what to call it, but there is something there.

All the more reason to stop standing around like an idiot and look for what you came here for, your brain helpfully supplies.

Resolving to speed this process along, you shut the door somewhat behind you before easing across the tiled floor to keep your steps from echoing so loudly. An imposing statue of a woman in flight welcomes you to what seems to have been the main sitting room. Now, it seems more like the main workspace for whatever restoration crew was here last. The wooden floors, likely once as burnished as the exterior door, are dim with dust, cut through with work boot footprints. Your light falls across a far alcove, home to a dustcloth-covered piano that fits so well in its corner that you wonder if the house was built around it. Everything about the place feels intentional, if a bit over the top - the walls’ dark wainscotting connects to the interestingly arched ceilings above with intermittent, delicate strips of wood, drawing your eye up into its inlaid patterns. They feel designed to capture your attention and hold it, demanding of your gaze and keeping it there to let it dance through complicated tiles and curling designs that disappear as soon as you try to intentionally follow them.

But there’s nothing here along the lines of what you’re looking for, so you almost reluctantly pull your gaze away from the craftsmanship of the Manor and keep searching. The sitting room connects through to an intimate dining area and further on to a large kitchen, as far as you can see, so you turn back toward the main entryway. The passageways here, apart from the grand entrance to the sitting room, feel horribly narrow despite the size of the rooms they lead into. You wonder idly if it’s the size of the occupying furniture eating up space as you carefully move your weight across the old wooden floors, cautious of traitorously creaky spots.

Mindful of the cracked mirror, you swing your light to either side, realizing the entryway sits almost at the midpoint of the house. With the sitting room behind you, a narrow hallway to the right opens onto the dining room and kitchen and ends in a staircase. To the left is the cracked mirror and a winding bit of hallway that seems to open onto another, larger room. Unsure of what you’re looking for but knowing Mark’s personal possessions would very likely not be in the kitchen, you opt to head left, winding around the sharply angled walls and their shadowy corners. You realize, then, that the narrowness is intentional. It’s meant to make the rooms feel bigger - the hallways squeezing you before releasing you suddenly into a wide open space.

All it does is make you claustrophobic.

The larger room you’re let into is a bit of a let-down, clearly also meant for entertaining and barren of anything of note but another cloth-covered couch near the far wall’s fireplace and a sizable bar to your left. There are a few dusty bottles on the mirrored wall behind it, but some have been knocked over and most seem empty, their contents long evaporated. The barroom feels larger and emptier than the others. Although you’d think you’d feel less closed-in here, the air feels heavier. That creeping sensation of someone watching you only grows. You don’t feel much desire to linger - it’s already starting to feel like you’ve been in the house too long, even though it’s probably only been minutes since you broke through the door. You wonder if the realtor has a silent alarm on the place, the thought settling more of that desire to shiver in your muscles. Come on, come on. Just keep moving and stop getting all squirrely.

The hallway continues past the bar room, tight and dark except for the light of your flashlight which sends strange angles of shadow twisting across the walls and floor. It ends in a door, about where the far wall of the barroom seemed to end, but you find it locked tight. Because of course it is, you gripe. A massive suit of armor looms to your right, standing guard over a staircase that draws your eye up its tight spiral. The top isn’t immediately visible, and dread settles into a pit in your gut as you crane your neck and light in tandem to peer up its length. Of course the first abandoned house you end up exploring is absolutely massive and endlessly creepy. Not that you necessarily want more experience exploring abandoned houses, but. You shake the errant thoughts away, just pushing your feet to take you up the stairs, its once-rich carpet beaten thin and worn with age.

Where could his office have been? you wonder as you climb, assuming Mark might have left some suspicious letters or blank checks, maybe even a diary if you’re lucky. You reach the top of the quietly creaky steps to find that the landing here opens onto yet another sitting room -- really, how much sitting did people do back in the day? Putting your bewilderment aside, you notice it’s much darker up here - all of the curtains you can see are drawn so even the rising moonlight can’t creep in. It’s quieter and stiller, too, warmer as you check your surroundings. Another door to your left, which you test and also find to be locked. Swearing softly to yourself, you try to ignore how your breath shakes as you exhale. You’re starting to feel like this is all pointless, that you’re just scaring yourself for no reason or benefit to either you or Jonah. How did he even know the house was still full of stuff? Even if the historical society had left the furniture behind, surely they would have removed books, papers, things people could easily steal long ago. You had no reason to believe there would be anything useful here, beyond, what, Jonah’s hunch?

You kick the old door out of frustration, still leaning on it and rattling the handle. It immediately strikes you as childish, especially after your explosive entrance to the Manor, and you let go with a quiet mix of embarrassment and frustration swirling in your throat. You wish Jonah was here, he’d have some crazy idea about how you could get in, he’d break all this skin-crawling tension that threatens to suffocate you. He’d make you laugh, at the worst possible moment, and it would be just a stupidly big, dark, empty house and not the imposing darkness that felt like it was watching your every move. He’d…

Suddenly, a bone-chillingly loud creak comes from back towards the stairs. You turn in a rush, heart leaping into your throat. But as you do, you fumble your phone and lose your grip in your panic. The device uselessly flings light across the walls around you as it clatters to the floor. You’re thrown into darkness and your free hand reflexively scrabbles on the wall for a lightswitch while you shakily raise the night stick in your other. The release jams when you press it, and your chest tightens as you hunt in a blind panic. Finally, you feel a smooth metal casing and its switch under your fingers, and you snap it up sharply.

The switch was, apparently, connected to more lights than you had thought - practically every light in the hallway and stairwell bursts to life and briefly blinds you. You blink through the spots dancing across your vision, driven by fear to find whoever was creeping up on you. The hallway you’re standing in seems to follow that of the first floor, running the length of the front of the house - you can see clear down it even from your far position.

Or you could, if not for the man standing about twenty feet away on the other side of the narrow, cat-walk-like landing that winds around the entryway below. In a beige coat and dark pants, he occupies most of the hallway’s width with his broad shoulders, and is staring directly at you with...

… a thick, fabric blindfold, deeply stained with blood.

Suddenly, he’s advancing on you, catching the crooked railing to guide himself. He moves so quickly it startles the breath out of you - how can he see me? But you jerk into motion, scooping up your phone from the floor and rushing to the staircase between you. The man is fast, his mouth twisting in rage, but you’re closer to the stairs. In your rush, though, you stumble and almost throw yourself down the steep flight, only narrowly catching yourself against the heavy banister pole. The impact manages to shake loose a nearby picture from the wall and it crashes to the floor with your bum nightstick. None of this does anything to slow the man closing the distance between you, and you thunder down the stairs in what feels like broad daylight compared to the gloom you’d been in, begging your feet to stay underneath you where you need them.

He hits the stairs shortly after you, taking them quickly with heavy steps, so close behind that you can hear him muttering gutturally to himself as he goes. His voice makes that deep, horrible shiver that’s been building in your muscles all night finally burst to the surface and send your skin up in goosebumps. But you just push your legs harder, rushing down the hall toward the entrance. Finally able to see where you’re going with the ambient light from behind you, you clear the barroom and can just see the tiled entryway - your escape - when you hear a dull thwack and pain blooms across the back of your head and neck. Your balance lost, the floor rushes up to meet you and sends you back into the all-consuming darkness.

---

It’s darkness to which you awake, too, head pounding. Your ears ring, dully, and everything hurts - your neck, jaw, the side of your face… The memory of your skull bouncing on the Manor’s black and white tiles forces a soft groan from you.

“Oh, look, our little spy finally decided to finish her nap.” A deep voice echos around you, and you feel like you’re somewhere… low. There’s a distinct chill and stillness to the air that makes you think ‘basement’. You don’t immediately sit up, the effort of trying to lift your head feeling like too much all at once. Its weight isn’t something you’ve ever really considered, but now it’s all you can think about - it might as well be a sack of rocks. A firm tsk breaks the silence. “Come on now, we know you’re awake. No point in playing dumb,” the voice comes again.

It’s strange, a man’s voice, vaguely British although impossible for you to place. Stranger still, it’s as if he’s rather poorly practicing his enunciation, both overworking and mashing his syllables together into a dizzyingly paced patter. And despite its warm timbre, it’s clear this man has precious little patience to afford you.

“Sit up, little spy.”

You blearily blink your eyes open, although the darkness you’re swimming in is only slightly less than that behind your eyelids. You’re slouched forward, staring at your legs and sitting in a chair supported by some kind of restraint wrapped around your chest and arms. Your hands are bound behind you, tied together themselves for good measure. You can feel that whatever your captor used is digging into your skin the longer you stay curled over. When you lift your head and try to scoot yourself up in the chair, though, you only succeed in awkwardly bumping it around as if trying to escape. The motion messes with your balance and makes you sick, and you fall still, firmly secured. “Ah, ah, ah, none of that, stay right where you are… we’ve got a few things to ask you, don’t we…”

“Indeed, we do,” a second voice agrees. If you thought the first one was strange, this one defies explanation. Although it speaks as one, it is complicated, multi-throated, reverberating. It bounces off the bare walls of the darkened room as easily as it does around those of your mind. Like an agonizing accompaniment, the dull ringing in your head rises, as its owner seems to approach you. The sound of his steps across the floor partners with the ratcheting up of your throbbing headache. More pressingly, though, the voice’s tone is terse, focused, and has none of the lilt and implied smile of the first. A clammy, cold sweat breaks out on your neck. Fear coils in your stomach for the first time - whoever had spoken, whoever is so near you that you can feel how he displaces the dank air of the basement is not human.

You feel horribly small in the dark with these… beings. But you force yourself to look deeply into the shade and try to make them out, to know their faces should you get the chance to escape - as unlikely as that possibility seemed. Your throat is dry, and you croak out, “What… what do you want?”

“It would be simpler to ask you the same,” comes the multi-voice again. Despite its many layers, it is steady, assured. “Tell us - what, exactly, brought you here tonight.”

The ice it carries makes your mind seize up. How weak you realize your story will sound, in your creaky voice, in the face of such sharp intensity. You try to begin, anyway. “I. I can explain, it’s just. Weird…”

“Well ‘weird’ is pretty much our constant bedfellow at this point, my dear girl, give it a shot,” the first voice goads. Against the tight restraint of its companion, it’s like if a rainbow bouncy ball had suddenly stood up and spoken. It’s hard to tell if its lilt is earnestly playful or just hiding a crueler edge. You try to focus despite the whiplash between the two, pushing through the throbbing of your damned head.

“I… This friend of mine, he asked me to check the place out with him. We’re reporters, and he’d heard on his police scanner last night that a neighbor had seen, just, someone wandering around… Which isn’t super weird by itself, but when an officer showed up, there was nobody around and there were lights on inside, despite… I mean, it’s been basically abandoned for years. And… we just thought we’d look around, but he couldn’t come and he asked me… He really wanted to check it out, so. So I came in.”

You’re surprised you even got to finish your jerkily delivered explanation with how quickly the first man interjects. “Oh, a very likely story, ‘just simple curiosity, that’s all!” His voice goes a bit falsetto in a crude parody of yours before dropping sharply back to his original range and practically roaring, “You really expect us to believe such hogwash? For all we know, you could’ve killed this so-called friend of yours before breaking your way in here!” He’s so close to your face, you feel his breath across on your skin and despite your best efforts, your legs shake against the hard wooden chair beneath you. What is he talking about?

“Wilford, please, she isn’t one of your interviewees,” the second man sighs. “Control yourself.”

The first man, Wilford, retreats with a muttered exclamation, apparently trying to calm himself. “Let’s just get rid of her quick, Dark, she’s no better than the last one.” The tell-tale click of a pistol hammer being drawn back is bright and sharp in the close room, clearing your foggy head. Pain replaced with cold fear, your feet scrabble slightly on the smooth floor. From the sound of it, the whole room is tiled in stone.

Would anyone hear you if you screamed?

“N-No, I mean it, I’m serious, it,” your voice is strangled, too obviously panicked. You struggle to swallow, steady yourself. “It really was just… just curiosity, he’s so nosy, and… and he wouldn’t let it go, he practically twisted my arm, but I only came t-to keep him out of trouble. He just, we… please. Please, don’t kill me, I won’t tell anyone you’re here, that I ever came here--”

“Stop.” The being’s tone is slightly less terse than before. He allows silence to fall for a moment, only broken by your damnably shaky breathing. You try to calm it, but your body’s panic switch has fully flipped, short, ragged breaths echoing in the darkness. The ringing in your head reasserts itself, sharper in the silence, and you squint against the way it so easily exacerbates your wounded head. You wonder if you’re bruised, if you’re bloodied. Finally, he speaks again. “Nobody is going to kill anybody. Not yet, at least.” Somehow, that’s not as reassuring as he seems to intend it to be. “Who sent you here tonight.”

A weak groan creaks out of you unconsciously, although whether from pain or dread you’re not sure. “Nobody, I mean, Nobody but. But my friend, like I said, he was the one who wanted to come here, but, h-his car, it. Something happened, it practically exploded on him. He couldn’t afford a ride over, so. So he just asked me to come in and look around. That’s all…”

“And your friend, who is he, again.”

“Another reporter, we work together, we basically share a desk… He covers crime, I’m. I do politics…” Another pause, another almost unbearable moment with the ringing. Your stomach churns, everything awash in pain and just feeling… too much. The ringing is either steadily getting louder and that much worse, or your tolerance is rapidly declining.

“Nobody asked you to come here, apart from him? And nobody asked him to come here?” You shake your heavy head. “Answer me,” he suddenly growls, the ringing rocketing to excruciating heights. Your head feels like it might split open.

“No!” you cry. “Nobody asked us to come here! Nobody told us… nobody told us to…” After a brief moment where it sustains that splitting frequency, the ringing begins to recede, and your pain along with it. Although the pounding remains, it feels more appropriate to the blunt force trauma you’d been through. The relief is like sinking into cool waters and you do your best not to sob.

“She is telling the truth.” The first voice groans, clearly unconvinced.

“And how can we be so sure someone else didn’t put the idea in her little friend’s head and she just doesn’t know it! Someone up the line from them pulling the strings for Mark. We can’t trust her, Dark, and you’re just going to let her go-”

Wait. Mark?

“You forget yourself,” Dark interrupts, his voices losing focus, thundering in the small space as their unity unravels. He echoes, pitch dipping as if intentionally warped before returning to normal. “Did you not say yourself that you are a part, not the leader? I believe it was me you foisted that title on. So when your leader tells you that she is honest, I expect you to trust me.” Silence reigns for a moment. Dark seems to be putting himself back together in the silence, corralling. He sighs, quietly, then speaks, unified once more. “I did not say anything about letting her go just yet. Possess yourself with patience.” Wilford settles with a not-so-subtle harrumph, but seems appropriately chided for the time being. Shoes scuff quietly on the floor as Dark turns back to you. “My apologies. We are all a little… tense these days.”

Realizing he expects a response, given his pause, you look in what you think is his general direction. With how long you’ve been here in the dark, your eyes can make out a faint figure of what appears to be a man, standing tall with his arms clasped behind his back. His head tilts in your direction. You work your brain for something to say. Play along, keep them talking, don’t panic too much. “...It. It’s all right… I mean, I did break into your house.” It’s hard to tell with him, but it seems for a moment like Dark chuckles, albeit without humor. An acknowledgement more than anything.

“Yes. You did…” He pauses, considering you. “But I believe that you did not do so for any ulterior reason… apart from your own curiosity. Or, rather, that of your friend’s. However, you do now know of our presence here, and you’re somewhat of a… liability to our continued residency.” You swallow thickly. In the dark, you can see him twist, as if craning his neck to one side to crack it. It’s a tortured gesture, demanding its performance. Is he in pain? He returns his attention to you, moving on. “Now… Why should we allow you to leave? Alive, I mean.”

It’s you now, who pauses. Your mind is spinning, lost in the darkness and overwhelmed with new information. What had Wilford meant, ‘pulling the strings for Mark’? He was dead, why would a dead man need strings pulled on his behalf? Did this have something to do with whatever the actor had done and its cover-up job? More pressingly, what could you possibly give some… nonhuman entity and his paranoid partner to earn your freedom? And was his name really Dark? It felt too cheesy to be true.

It all seems beyond belief or explanation, but the silence between the three of you is only growing longer, and now you really feel watched. You push your mouth to move, to just start speaking - your brain promises to catch up.

“Well. Apart from me… not having anything to do with… whatever you’re doing here. I. I’m a reporter, I have connections. I can get you information that… that you might want.” You pause, letting the offer hang. The other two are silent, but they’re still watching you. They’re not disinterested, and that’s the best you’ve got right now. You swallow, trying to get your dry mouth to cooperate. “I. I heard you mention Mark.” The air in the room seems to go tight, but you soldier on. “Part of why my friend wanted to come here is because he’s been… paying attention, I guess. Any stories about Mark, even now, they. I mean, our board, at the paper, they kill them, nothing ever gets to print, not even puff pieces. Other papers have been doing the same thing, too. The most famous guy from this place, and we can’t even write about him. That. It’s weird.”

“I am failing to see the purpose of this explanation,” Dark presses, as if through gritted teeth. You keep going, your voice coming out in even more of a breathless rush than before.

“Our. Our editor, he keeps all the stories we put up, even the rejected ones. There was a big one my colleague did, nearer the anniversary of his death, I know she did a lot of work on it, did a lot of research into what happened after… after he basically became a recluse. I. I could get ahold of it for you. And more, if that… if that’s something you’re looking for. Or something else, just. I can get you something about anything. I swear.”

Again, the room falls silent with you. Your pulse thrums in your throat, rushing in your ears. It’s a thin connection, barely there, but it’s what you have. Jonah might kill you for offering to basically be a mole for god knows who these people are, Walker might have questions about why you suddenly want everything about the man, and, hell, this might put some invisible target on your back given how the board’s been treating articles about Mark... but that would just have to be a bridge you cross when you get to it. You have to be alive to approach that metaphorical bridge, and for now, this is the one card you can lay that you know has any value to your captors.

It was like the two men began communicating telepathically in the dark, debating back and forth the value of your offer. You can see them staring at each other and shifting ever so slightly, but they never speak. Time creeps by, and after what feels like an eternity, Wilford makes an irritated noise while Dark decidedly turns back to you.

“By when could you have these articles.” Yes. You feel light enough to float on the ceiling. You’re going to get out.

“The earliest, tomorrow evening, but it could be two or three days, depending on when my boss is in. The cabinets are in his office, and he locks up when he’s out.”

Dark hums. “Two days, then, to return with what you find.” You open your mouth to agree to the terms, eager to be freed, but Wilford interrupts again.

“You are letting her go. How do we know she won’t just skip town on the first train out of the station?” His tone is still blistering, but his ire is a shadow of its former self. “We don’t even know if she’s a real reporter. You know, little missy, I’m a reporter myself, and I’m just not sure you’ve got the--”

Thankfully, Dark asserted himself once more, sounding as if he was physically restraining Wilford from re-invading your personal space when he spoke again. “We will just have to trust her, won’t we. Something you seem to need a little practice with. Besides, something tells me she’s honest about that part, as well.”

Wilford rounds on him, then. “And if she’s not?” Dark however, doesn’t take the bait, maintaining his chilly smoothness.

“If she’s not… well. You always say you prefer a moving target, don’t you.”

A beat passes wherein all of Wilford’s suspicion and frustration seem to melt. He chuckles in pure glee. Although it doesn’t have a drop of malice in it, that sound makes you shiver in your restraints. “Ahh. You’ve got me there, old boy, you know I live for the hunt!”

Dark gives that barely-there chuckle again. “But we will handle that… business if and when it comes to that. For now… see her out, Wilford. Carefully, this time, she doesn’t need a concussion.”

“Fine, fine… All right now, dear girl, up you come.” Two solid hands take hold of your forearms and draw you up from the chair. You start to exclaim, but the ropes binding you fall away, like they had only been loosely draped around you. They had been digging into your skin only moments before, you were sure of it… Wilford places you back on your feet but stays close, and even in the gloom of the basement you can make out snippets of him - a loose mess of curly, dark hair hangs over a strong brow. Similarly dark eyes crinkle with a mirthful, massively mustachioed smile as he registers your surprise at being so easily freed. “No peeking for this part now, close those peepers for ol’ Wilford.” Before you can formulate any kind of response, one of the man’s hands covers your eyes.

“And… voilá!”

Suddenly, a cold night breeze swirls around you, and you can see again. Moonlight illuminates the quiet neighborhood street before you. You realize, blinking against even the dim light you’re now washed in, that you’re back to where you started: standing alone outside the locked gate to the Manor, bag hanging from one shoulder, cell phone in hand, staring up at the imposing building. The stars shine down brightly on you without the city’s light pollution to hide them, but the Manor is all dark.

...what?

If not for the remaining dull ache in your head and the ghost of Wilford’s touch on your face, you would be certain you had just had a very violent and vivid hallucination. But your head does ache, and you can still feel the callused touch of the man’s hands on your arms, on your face, clear as anything. Dumbfounded, you stare at the Manor for a moment before you hear the crunch of gravel. You jerk and look towards the sound - the Manor’s neighbors are home, a sleek car pulling into the driveway. Quickly, you move behind one of the trees ringing the Manor’s massive grounds and unlock your phone. Your rideshare app is still open, still waiting for you to select your driver. Without hesitating, you pick one and press the confirmation button.

You wait until the neighbors are well inside their similarly opulent house before you make your way quietly back down the street. Even with your head swimming like it is, you try to fix every detail of the experience in your mind, just as it had happened, fighting the blurring tides of adrenaline and, now, exhaustion. It’s hard to hold on to any one thing, especially with how much time you spent in semi- to total darkness, but by the time your ride pulls up, you are keenly, yet strangely, aware of one detail for certain.

Although his hair was dark, Wilford’s mustache was tinged with a rich pink.

Nikah: August

Story Masterlist

Nikah: noun, Arabic, meaning the contract of marriage.

Bucky marries Peter’s former tutor because her student visa’s about to expire and the government isn’t granting her a green card. Can she find a way to permanent residence by marriage, and if so, will it be at the cost of their hearts?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Violence, blood, angst, panic attack. Excessive metaphor usage. 

A/N: Written under the Arranged/Accidental Marriage trope for @mermaidxatxheart ‘s writing challenge. Guys, I had to Google the English word for coriander lmao. I literally had to search: dhanya vegetable english. How. Pathetic. Also, whew. This was hard to write, but I’m pleased with it, so I hope you will be, too!

In the climax of a week-long mission, everything changes. The world flips on its axis, the universe inverted such that those flaming stars he was admiring in that planetarium nary a month ago are now inside of him. Burning, searing, wicked torture, his body is bursting from the seams with pain. Exploding, the half-a-dozen poisoned bullets being pried out of his system by the field medic. How anyone managed to land not just one, but six round on him, none of them know. His teammates are still in the thick of it, several thousand feet down while he gets flown off.

The young man, green-faced but resolute, is doing the best he can as the poison takes hold. Soon - somewhere over Mexico, now miles away from the battlefield - the convulsions start, and so do the hallucinations. All of a sudden, it’s 1942, and Buck is buried in the Austrian snow, a hole where his arm should have been. The medic removing his last bullet becomes Zola’s cruel face, and Bucky roars. Lunges up as the death pill is extracted. Clint has to put the jet on auto-pilot for the landing, grappling with his teammate, the slick blood making it near-impossible to get a grip.

The latch hisses open and a medical squad is on him in seconds, tranquilizing him like an enraged animal. His mind goes numb, weightless, Hydra’s cellars and the infirmary of the Compound wrestle for the right to be what he sees now, on his way to salvation. 

Empty hallways, surgery, and the regeneration cradle are all stepping stones in the path to the bed he lays in now. The states of consciousness, unconsciousness, and subconsciousness dance devilishly in his mind. Fever dreams flirt with hallucinations until he is positive he can see his wife standing in the doorway.

Bucky jolts when she moves closer, because her shape is so vivid, although she is a dream. Must be, for how can she be real? Clad in shalwaar kameez from Friday prayers, the floral motifs blooming on the garden of her body. The personification of Eden, although part of him worries she is actually the angel of death. Most of him knows she is nothing but a fantasy, even when she speaks.

“Hey, Bucky. God, I was so worried.” Her brows furrow and even though he knows he should, he does not feel like a wild animal. The rabid dog waiting to be released behind his teeth. Until her hand covers his and the disorientation, the wheel of misfortune, comes to a screeching halt, reality the prize of the doomed game his mind was playing. 

Bucky nearly falls off the bed in his haste to get away, throwing off the sheets. A few of his stitches stretch to a point of discomfort, but he isn’t concerned about that. 

“Oh my God, what happened? Are you okay?” She asks approaching him slowly, and he backs himself into a corner, scrambling away.

“Stay away,” He says, chest heaving, and she looks at him, petrified. Something in his brain registers that the fear is not of him but for him, but he is in no state to acknowledge this perception.

“Bucky, it’s me. It’s just me,” She doesn’t come any closer now, de-escalation sounding desperate and frantic in both their ears. Bucky’s ring with misery, screaming, her screaming, and the notions of all the ways he could cause that cement his resolve to stay put.

“I’m dangerous. Can’t be trusted. You’ll get hurt. Leave.” His voice cracks at the last command, the reservoir of pain swelling.

“Bucky, you’re hurt. Please, let me help.”

“No. No. You- you’ll get hurt,” He reiterates brokenly. “I- I’m dangerous. You shouldn’t be here.” His breathing is coming in short pants now, staccato beat disturbing the oxygen supply in his blood. “I- you- we- oh God.” Bucky crumples like a house of cards, the dam bursting under the tsunami of agony it cannot hold, and she’s there. On her knees next to his paper ball body, creased with the hell of the past several hours, lungs starting to buckle like his legs just did.

“Hey, woah. Breathe, Bucky, come on,” She says, her hands - still painted in mehndi from last week’s Eid celebrations - rising to cup his face. Her eyes are bloodshot, like she hasn’t slept for a week, and his windpipe constricts. “Okay, you’re having a panic attack,” She mutters to herself. “Bucky. Bucky,” She calls again. 

“Buck, baby, look at me.” He does. “You cook, right? You’re good at it, you do it all the time. Focus on cooking. Think about your favorite recipe. Imagine making it. Go through the process, think about what you have to do.” 

In the muted haze of his subconscious, the distraction technique rings a bell, but his conscious is busy following her instructions. Food. He swallows the bile, chest still straining to breathe, and flips through the paperwork tornado of his mind to find: pakoray. The word is stammered from his chapped, dry lips, and if she’s surprised, he can’t tell. Isn’t in much of a condition to.

“Okay, Buck. Pakoray. We’ve made those a shitload of times,” She answers, urging him on, so he does.

“You need to cut the potato slices thinner,” She says, peering over at his work from the tomatoes she’s assigned herself. 

“Thinner than this,” Bucky asks incredulously, the ultra-thin French fry shapes in a small pile in a bowl on the counter. She laughs, reaching for his knife.

“Here,” She says, demonstrating the appropriating cut quickly, returning the knife to him.

“What else goes in these things?”

“These things are called pakoray, Bucky. And we have to add onions, coriander, pomegranate seeds, salt and red chilli. My mom adds a little spinach too, but I prefer not to,” She answers, finishing up the tomatoes and reaching for the onions.

“Let me do those, sweetheart,” Bucky says, trying to stop her.

“They’re onions, Buck, it’s okay. It’ll be over in a second,” She laughs, starting to peel them. “Besides, a wise man once said: tears are words the heart can’t express.”

“Are you quoting Bob Goff to me? About onions?” He asks, hurrying to finish the potatoes so he can help her. Her nose scrunches as she spills what she seems to think are very funny beans.

“Gerard Way.” Is her only answer, aside from the laugh she lets out after.

“Who’s that?” Bucky expect her to clutch imaginary pearls on behalf of another classical author he isn’t familiar with, in spite of his increasing education, but the response is anticlimactic. 

“Lead vocalist of a rock band.” She shrugs, and Bucky realizes he has so much to learn about this woman. 

The panic attack fades as he is reliving the scent of the deep-fried dish, heavenly, the fizzing of the oil in his ears, and she is so close he can breathe her air. The tension in his shoulders is released, but hers stiffen further, like she has taken on the load herself. Like his burden has become hers to bear, but she will do it with a pained smile and a bruised soul. Her forehead tilts forward to meet his, eyes closing for the first time in days as she lets the weight of his trauma settle, and he thinks: he hopes it’s over soon; he hopes she flies away on her angel wings.

Taglist: @suz-123 @mermaidxatxheart​ @buckyreaderrecs @shield-agent78​ @corneliabarnes​ @readerandcinephileingeneral​ @stevieboyharrington​ @notsomellowmushroom​ @veganfangirl5​ @mood-pancakes​ @lbuck121​ @starnight-charmer​ @redhairedfeistynerd​ @geeksareunique​ @samingtonwilson​ @alyxkbrl​

4 - Committed to Survival

Rather fix the camera in its hoister now, I’d wait until I wasn’t around the water.  The path out of this place felt long and oppressive, the sharp smell of mildew at this point drilling a painful ache in my head.  I shut the mesh door behind me and trudged up the stairs to the first landing, where a tolerable light source awaited.

MKULTRA program, CIA document no. 190691, p. 1, excerpt  To: File  Subject: Hypnotic Experimentation and Research, Febuary 10, 1954  On Wednesday, 10 Febuary, 1954, hypnotic experimentation and research work was continued in Building 13 of the Mount Massive Preserve in Colorado using the following subjects.

  <material abridged> 

1. A posthypnotic of the night before (pointed finger, you will sleep) was enacted. Misses Jackson and Pierce immediately progressed to a deep hypnotic state with no further suggestion.  Miss Pierce was then instructed (having previously expressed a fear of firearms in any fashion) that she would use every method at her disposal to awaken miss Jackson (now in a deep hypnotic sleep), and failing this, she would pick up a nearby pistol and fire it at Miss Jackson. She was instructed that her rage would be so great that she would not hesitate to “kill” Jackson for failing to awaken. 

2. Miss Pierce carried out these suggestions to the letter including firing the (unloaded pneumatic pistol) gun at Jackson and then proceeding to fall into a deep sleep. After proper suggestions were made, both were awakened and expressed complete amnesia for the entire sequence. Miss Pierce was again handed the gun, which she refused (in an awakened state) to pick up or accept from the operator.  She expressed absolute denial that the foregoing sequence had happened.” In the least my little souvenir was interesting.  Hypnoses to cure fears, or force a person to perform a desired function.  I read files on this but the fancy didn’t strike me, people liked to read those sorts of articles but I wasn’t prime on reporting them. I left the file on the landing and made the ground floor.  I exhaled a breath of relief to see my surroundings unchanged, whether good or bad.  At least the big fucker had left most of the building intact.  I made my uneventful trek back to the Security room, I didn’t like the idea of a gaping hole behind me at this point, but I wasn’t about to prop that heavy metal door up with that little rolling chair. Call me lazy, I just wanted to get the doors open and put a fuck lot of distance between here, and the remnants of my healthy psyche.  I wasn’t going to be normal after this, alright? The terminal looked like it would still function, some of the monitors seemed to be spazing out from the abrupt shut down.  The main root, system controls, was up and ready to go. I managed to type in the first half of Security before someone crashed into me from behind, I didn’t even hear them enter.  I tried to push back and throw them off but they had braced a knee into the back of my leg, the edge of the terminal bit into my bruised thigh.  I already knew who it was even before he braced his arms over my chest, pain rippled up my side as he wrenched my head up.  Something metal flashed across my vision.  A needle! It was jammed into the base of my neck, my vision flashed as whatever the hypodermic was filled with drowned my senses.  He released me and I collapsed against the desk, my forehead started to tingle and I immediately worried over what was in that needle.  I leaned against my arms struggling to drag my failing strength back, but it was impossible.  The blue chair rolled over the clean portion of the floor as he nudged it aside, and moved close beside me.  I turned my head to watch his movement, his foul black robe swelled along my peripheral vision.  Getting hard to focus.  Felt like my legs were turning into jello. “I’m sorry, my son, I didn’t want to have to do this to you.”  He revealed the needle and grasped my hand.  “But you can’t leave, not yet.”  I jerked my hand away from his clammy grasp and brushed him off.  I tried to turn, push him away.  I want nothing to do with you.  Nothing!  Just let me Leave!   Without the support of the desk my legs gave out.  The Priest caught me under the arms and lowered me to my knees.  My shoulder pressed into the side of the metal desk as I stared up into his face.  He was bald, with wild eyes that frightened me.  “There is so much yet for you to witness.”   Oh god. “Will you see it?  Can you?”  With one arm latched to my side, he used the other hand to turn my head towards a gray video feed.  My thoughts were muddled, it was a room.  Camera looking down in a room, with a desk, wall with windows.  Bright windows.  Everything in that room was bright.  A symbol.  Rings on the floor.  Sharp ovals.  People in the room.  Holding guns.  Looked like MHS cops.  The guy I watched die.  I tried to get out…. “Our lord the Walrider, tearing His truth into the unbelievers.”  They were dying.  My eyes drooped but I fought to keep focus, what was killing them?  Dragging them off, throttling them, blood everywhere.  This place was turning red, full of blood.  Blood up to my knees, I was running from my shadow.  What did they see?  What was killing them?  What did he put into me? “The only way out of this place is the truth.”  My head rolled back to him.  The drugs made me weak and heavy, and I couldn’t care less for what he was saying.  The lights dimmed and I sank to my side.  His last words rang through my mind.   “Accept the gospel and all doors will open before you.” The dark. There was safety in the dark.  There was comfort in the dark.  The dark was the unknown.  The dark was all encompassing.  The dark was unmovable. Unless there was light.  That terrible light. I awoke once, enveloped in white, everything was bright and painful to bear.  By my side was a dark shape, the Priest.  I blinked and he was outside the door, it looked like he was speaking to a man with ants crawling on his face. Maybe it was a dream.  The road was very long, and it was already night.  It didn’t matter what time visiting hours ended, I planned to snoop around the grounds anyway and pick up whatever looked incriminating.  But I had to film something concrete, or my contacts would just scoff. When I arrived, the patients were wandering the front lawn in white shrouds.  Something without form was tearing through them, tossing their bodies like broken toys against the walls, muscle and lungs were tangled in the barbed wire.  Amidst them was Chris Walker, the other patients had bowed before him.  It didn’t look like he cared.  His face was splint back in a cruel grin, but his eyes were milky and dead. Once I had gotten away from the Asylum, I collapsed in the woods.  Everything hurt, my body was broken.  Death wasn’t the punishment anymore.  I didn’t have to worry about paying the bills, a boyfriend, my next job - nothing mattered.  The fight was over.  I curled up in the wet leaves and sank into a deep sleep, the dead of winter closed in, but not even the cold could reach me.  There was just the indiscriminate black that awaited at the end of it all. A soft groan escaped me as I roused, clearing the short rest from my stiff lungs.  I opened my eyes to view murky shapes, odd lines in the white walls.  The damn light was too bright, I turned my head and felt the dull pain in my neck reminding me of the previous events.  Everything felt muggy and pointless to my mind, but at least I was alone.    It felt like I had slept on the world’s hardest substance, the material crinkled nastily as I shifted.  Smelt like a retirement homes bad day, but at this point I didn’t give a damn.  Same scenario if you were drunk off your ass, you didn’t give a damn where you passed out.  I put a hand to my collar and brought it back.  No blood.  Probably bruised like hell, but otherwise fine.  My brain was still working out the crap that guy injected me with, should probably be the least of my worries.   For a while I lay on that stiff cot, staring at the walls until they came into focus.  Crosses and words scrawled everywhere.  Some of it in blood.  I took it this was His cell. I didn’t feel ready to resume my personal vendetta for freedom, but options were a luxury I feared I was now banned from.  Time was my worst enemy, and my chances of walking out alive dwindled the longer I wavered.  Either way, I didn’t want to be here when He returned. Slowly I sat up, making mental note of the injuries that had set into my body.  I coughed a bit of blood onto my sleeve, but that didn’t alarm me.  But I would check in to the hospital first chance I had.  A real hospital. Very considerate of the Priest to leave the camera, but he had reinforced his desires into me that I was to be his Apostle.  I flipped the visor open and raised it to the walls. “The priest, FATHER MARTIN brought me here to show me something. Thinks I’m going to be a witness for whatever batshit crazy he’s trying to sell me. This DR. WERNICKE is at the center of whatever went wrong here. But he died more than ten years ago. ‘Rest in Peace,’ says the blood on the wall.“ Fuck the story, when I get out of here I was going to write a New York Times best seller.  “How I Survived the Worst Tip in my Career.”  By Miles Upshur.  In your face, Oprah. The door had no visible lock or latch mechanism.  How did I get out?  Maybe if I pushed. That didn’t seem to work, but as I peered out of the small window a face shot into the lens of my camera startling me.  A click echoed, and the figure darted off.  Though the door was now wide open, I waited.  I had no idea what was out there, let alone where the hell I was NOW.  I hadn’t seen much before he unlocked the cell.  But the question I needed answered immediately, where was I in this god awful place?  Far from the safest exit, of course! Tentatively, I crept forward, but what was I going to do if someone decided to come in next?  I wasn’t hiding in here. This was better than Disney land.  I think every ghost hunter in the world would donate a kidney, just to spend a night in this place.  It was the main ward of the asylum, its heart, where all the crazies hung out.   Below, I saw a few of the frequents.  One man patrolling, smashing his skull into blood stained concrete with bone cracking force.  I winced with each impact. “Back!  Get back!”  To my right a man lunged at a segregation gate rattling at the bars, shrieking his lungs out.  “Get the fuck away from me!  Rrah!  Huh…don’t look at me.  Don’t you dare….” I whirled away from him, relying fully on the doors capacity to withstand his violence, even if fate did not favor me this hour.  I walked along the bland and gray wall, glancing down to the people on the lower floor.  Had they been this messed up before Murkoff got ahold of them?  They were using dream therapy to alter their higher cognitive functions of the mind, didn’t look like these people had that treatment.  Even if they had, I still wouldn’t be able to distinguish them from your typical lunatic. I shuddered to think if Murkoff had been trying to cure their mental deficiency in order to use them for further experimentation later on. The smell.  Like all the filthy alley ways and slums in every city in the world.  I could hardly breathe without gaging, filth was everywhere.  It was a miracle these people weren’t dead from contamination.  Or maybe it was some sort of curse.  This was no sort of life for a human. The window parallel to my face burst open and a hand shot out, grabbing for my head as I ducked.  I smashed against the rail and stared up as the arm continued to grope blindly for nothing, then withdrew.  The shock wore off quickly and I stood up to gaze on the face that met mine. Skin had been cut and moved, tacked down in cruel areas.  It looked like his right eyelid had been removed, the eye now a shriveled sack in the socket.  Despite his earlier ‘attack,’ I think I felt sorry for him. I was still glad his door was locked. The next door was open, but I could change that. “Said he shouldn’t hurt you,” a voiced hummed from within. Inside, opposite to a blood splashed corner, stood a man pawing at his face.  He too had been mutualized by some form of surgery, one eye stitched shut and his face scarred by malpractice.  “Is what he said.” I glanced around, then turned back to him and raised the camera.  “Father Martin?” “Our Father,” he corrected.  “Told him not to hurt you.  But when the cat’s away….Hmmmm….Mmmmm.” Everything in me screamed, slam that door now.  But I didn’t.  Quietly, I backed away and left him as he was.  If he was a danger, he was the least of my concerns.  Shutting the door might agitate him, and there were people on the floor below that seemed to not have noticed my presence yet. I slipped around the pillar of the next corner and walked towards the metal door on this side of the level. “Who’s this?” I stopped in my tracks and stared at the speaker, cloaked by shadow.  That was all they were cloaked by. “Maybe…Farther Martin’s man.” “Maybe.”  The first seemed excited by my presence.  My hair stood on end and I knew without a doubt, I should not be near them. The thick metal gate stood between us and presumably was locked, but I couldn’t make that gamble.  Even without the NV I could distinguish their lack of apparel, their shapes were tall and sinewy, and they appeared to be identical twins.  Splattered with blood. “He looks nervous.” “I would like to kill him.” I hid behind the pillar a little more. “As would I…”  His voice made the task sound tedious.  I really didn’t want to be here at this particular moment. “The preacher asked us not to.” “It would be impolite.” “Not here.” They paused. “We give him a running start?” “There’s an idea.” “And when we kill him, we kill him slow.” “Such patience.” I was done.  I was gone.  I was staggering down the steps searching for a way out of this mad house.  “I want his tongue.  And liver.” “They are yours.” Was there a way out?  Not from down here, the only route I could see had the camera shy freak and my new fan club.  They were giving me a running start.  What the FUCK did that mean?! “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”  Said the man staring at a pillar.  I decided from this point on, for the safety of my psyche and my body parts I did NOT need to speak with ANYONE.  They could talk to me, I was not going to converse back. Someone darted from the group into an open door, and slammed it.  One less to worry over.  Two men still roamed, there was a third sitting in a wheelchair.  I didn’t trust anyone in a wheelchair anymore. The two rooms on either side of the stairs had nothing to offer, no tools or messages, or items of interest.  I had a fear of standing in the doorways, unless someone opened the door from the outside I could be locked in.  The man staring at his pillar, he had been the one to let me out in the first place.  I didn’t want to ask if there was a way out of this area. The Priest had brought me here, how the hell did he get out?  Unless, he was still here…. “Don’t trust them.”  I jerked away from the man in the wheelchair, I had given him his distance though it was doubtful he could do much.  His mutilation went beyond the laws of humanity, scars and broken flesh healed over.   I raised my camera and knelt down, but I refused to get too close.  “They’ll tell you it’s science but it’s not.  They were…waiting for us.  In this place.  Billy understood.  They’ve always been here.” I wanted to ask him about Billy.  About the experiments and the Walrider, and what he meant by ‘they.’  But I was frightened by what he might say.  If he said any more.  Uttering this information had seemed to exhaust him, and his head wilted to his shoulder.  Briefly, I wondered if he had fallen asleep or had he finally escaped this place. I shivered and stood.  A way out that involved my body and I escaping together, and in one piece.  That seemed like a naive dream. I didn’t bother with the door behind him, or the one after that.  Though, as I passed by a face appeared in the glass.  I stared, and ‘he’ stared back.  My mind was attempting to fathom how someone without a mouth could survive, unless there was a tube in his nose, but even his nostrils were compromised.  It looked like there was an opening in his throat, reminiscent to smokers that suffered cancer and had their larynx removed. This place was god awful.  I had to keep reminding myself that, the more I looked around, the more I felt.  Even for a clutch of crazy people, murderers, whatever.  I think the worst ones were the men and women that consciously decided they were going to mangle the part of them that wasn’t broken beyond function.  Then, crack their minds open and figure out to what extent they could fuck their thoughts up even more. I was between feeling terrible and feeling like bitter justice was served.  Everything was a whirling mess of gray with globs of black. One room I entered on the far side had a patient curled up on his cot, trembling.  I knelt down to film him through the nightvision feed, taking in the details of his misshapen face.  Many of the patients I had encountered thus far had scars or wounds of unknown origin, from experiments Murkoff was performing on them.  It was briefly mentioned in Chris Walker’s file, many of his injuries were self-inflicted, but the report indicated not all.  Were the patient’s the one mutilating their bodies, prior to Murkoff’s fall?  Not all of them shared these injuries, some appeared almost normal or unharmed.   It must have been a part of the process Murkoff was putting them through.  But what sort of process I couldn’t begin to imagine.  Some of the scars appeared almost like chemical burns in theory.  What sort of monster would give an order to maim humans? “Too many voices.  They followed me back.”  He stumbled into me as I swayed to get out of his way.  “No more sleep.”  He grabbed my collar and forced me aside, and then continued on toward a bloody spot on the wall without pause.  Wack. Smack! Crack! Clack! “They’re in my blood and they want to get out.  Can feel….” I continued to back away until I was a safe distance, concealed in shadows.  My back pressed against the cold wall and I slid down to sit. “We angered Him with our science.  He only wanted faith.” The voice sounded very close, but when I turned my camera to find him, he was a few feet away curled up tightly in a corner.  I sat there for what felt like a long time observing the habits of these people, lost in madness.  Eventually the man whom stared at pillar did move, at first leaning on his subject matter, then slipping down until he was on his side facing the cold concrete structure.  I turned my attention back to the man in wheelchair, but he had not yet moved since he spoke.  I wondered if he did indeed die.  It made no difference to me, not at this time, but I did feel a unique chill in my veins at the thought.  How many people have I watched die today? “Voices in my head follow me back!”  When the head banger made his third round, I decided it was time to find a way out. Without a word of farewell to the squatter, I crossed to the other side of the wall to doors that had not been examined.  I was beginning to despair, surrendering resolve to the idea of returning to the upper level, to the twins. It was very likely they would open the door only to murder me.  There was no place for me to run, or hide.  Especially with the two of them, they’d corner me with little effort if I tried.  My heart thudded against the stress, and that persistent pain in my chest.  I needed a doctor. A door I opened finally offered some promise, the back of the room was shattered revealing a crack into an open work space.  A shred of concern did remain in me to enter a room in which I could not open from the inside, but I didn’t give a damn at this point.  I squeezed through the gap and pulled up the nightvision, it sounded like someone was struggling. I wasn’t confident in facing the source, if I had someplace to run I might felt more assured.  Truth was safety was an illusion in Mount Massive, my only hope for survival was my capacity to elude danger.   There wasn’t much to see in the work hall, pipes for water, pipes for gas, I couldn’t tell which from the static green NV feed.  The noises were muffled but grew louder as I moved through the work space.  I didn’t like the sound of them.  Overhead the cement had been torn out, where the debris was removed to remained a mystery but it was a direction to take. I climbed onto a crate and made sure it was sturdy before leaping up to an overhead ledge.  For a span I was completely blind in the dark, the camera strap I stuck in my mouth rather the case so I could reach it quicker.  Once I had pulled myself onto the floor I knelt and took it up, looking immediately into the visor. A face covered in ants stared back. I gave a sharp yelp and toppled sideways, catching the jagged edge with my elbows before I fell through, my legs swung beneath me and I struggled not to drop the camera in my hand.  Groaning, I pulled myself back up and crawled away before checking once more. “Agh!  God damnit!  What the fuck is the matter with you?”  One of the patients had plastered himself against a wall and was fixing his shirt.  He wasn’t wearing pants.  On the floor across from him was a bloodied and decapitated body, nude, in a…suggestive position. “You weren’t invited to this, you god damned sicko.” Just….This place needed to go to hell.  Some of the people here did deserve what they got. “What, you like to watch?”  He pointed directly at me and reaffirmed his diagnosis.  “It’s sick.  You’re sick.” And thus my pledge, not to speak to any of these people, was solidified.  You couldn’t stage better propaganda. “Fuck this place. Seriously, just fuck this place. Dying keeps moving lower on the list of the worst things that could happen to me here.” I jogged down the hall, an otherwise good mood literally—No, no.  I needed to forget.  Positive thoughts, healthy thoughts.  I was terribly fucking lost, had no map, two naked men were admitted into my fan club, and dying was no longer top of the list of shitty ways to ruin this day. Or night.  I had no fucking idea. “Hey!  Hey!”  I stopped in an intersecting hall when someone called for me, and rattled a gate.  He was on the other side, which made me happy.  “You… Oh.  I….”  By the time I had my camera zoomed in he had already spun about and was running away.  The small event had me smirking despite everything, who did he think I was?  A friend? Lord give me strength, I was just mistaken for a loony.  And I thought it was funny.

Bear Witness Chap 5

Here we are, the turn of the story...

TW: Angst, lots of it, fear

Word count: 1,878

~~~~~~~~

 "Hunnigan? Why are you calling me?" Chris' voice was confused to say the least, having just got home from his last mission, he was slumped in the armchair in his living room, freshly showered.

        "Alan has gotten (y/n), Chris. I called Leon to tell him the information you have collected and they got her when his back was turned. He's still at their condo-" Chris was already standing up to gather the things he would need. "Chris, please listen...Leon has feelings for her." Hunnigan explained and Chris stopped what he was doing, eyebrows knitted.

        "You sure about that?" Hunnigan sighed, her eyes averted from his momentarily. 

        "Nearly positive." Chris nodded to himself. "I'll send you the address to where Leon is."

        "You mean if he hasn't already went after her himself?" He mumbled while disconnecting their call, going back to gathering his guns and ammo he needed, before hurrying to his room to put on his gear.

~~~~~~

       "Leon! You better still be here." Chris warned as he banged on the door loudly with a closed fist. He growled, stepping back, fully ready to kick the door in, when the latch clicked and the door opened to reveal Leon; his face was stern, a mix of sadness, fear and anger, and in his hand, clutched to his chest was a jacket. Chris gave him a once over, Hunnigan may just be right in her assumptions of how close Leon has gotten to (y/n), considering he isn't supposed to.

      "It's about time you showed up! She's running out of time!" Leon snarled, already fully prepared to leave, shoving passed Chris to make his way to the elevator. "If she's still got the monitor on, we can track her with my GPS." He rambled, trying to keep his mind as occupied as he could so he wouldn't begin imagining what Alan was doing to you. 

       Chris stood beside Leon in the elevator, periodically looking at him, watching how his hands kept wringing on your jacket over and over, bringing it up to his face absently, all whole having determination written all over his face and the thought of Leon loving you passed through his mind. If Leon was in fact in love with you, it could be good for him. Finally having someone to be there for him and help him through what he goes through. If that is the case, Chris is now also fully determined to find you and get you back safely. He squared his shoulders, getting himself ready for whatever they were going to find.

       Chris made a few calls to the BSAA to have backup meet them at the address where the steady blinking light says you are. Feeling that Alan has a crew waiting, they needed all the back up they could get. The virus he was trying to perfect, may just in fact be perfected now. The samples they had before, something seemed missing, and who knows if he found what he was looking for while he was MIA.

       "Leon, look at me." Chris finally commanded, and when Leon growled but finally looked at him he continued. "You need to stay calm, ok? We need to be as focused as we can."

        "You think I don't know that?" Leon growled aggressively, deep down, Leon felt extremely guilty of what happened. Of all the times you'd escaped him, you came back to him, unharmed, and the one time he took you outside for fun is when you got kidnapped. He had been there and couldn't stop what had happened. "This is my fault."

        "What? No, it's not, Leon. It's bastards like Reicherman, trying to take out humanity." Leon slammed his fist on the dashboard of Chris' SUV.

         "I should have never taken her outside! I should have kept her inside where it was safe. I should have never turned my back...I just wanted to help her feel normal again." Chris fell silent beside Leon, processing everything. They had to get you back unharmed.

~~~~

      "Nice to see you again, my dear." Alan said in mock happiness, a big sarcastic smile was on his face, the unveiled insanity bright in his beady eyes as he stood over you on the table where you were strapped down and wrestling to get free in vain. You grunted, yanking and jerking to the point of pain in your joints.

       "Fuck you, old man." You spat out in defiance, still jerking against your restraints. He laughed, shaking his head, placing his boney gloved hand on his forehead at your failed attempts to get to him. He knew you wanted to snap his neck, he could see all the rage burning through you, and he looked back down at you with fake sympathy.

       "Please, keep that fire burning, it will cause the virus to spread through you faster." You freeze, the words sinking in and fear chills you to your bones, shaking your head, the rage leaving to be replaced by abject terror. This man has poked and prodded you with needles too many times, getting your blood to help with whatever virus he was creating. Seeing how your blood reacted to different aspects of it. Figuring out what to tweak or add to his diabolical concoction.

      "Please no...don't inject me anymore, I can't take it." He laughed again at your begging, walking away from you to pick up a syringe, his assistant eyeing him warily, before looking at another unassuming syringe close by.

       "Don't you want to be Patient Zero of the Reaper Virus? Imagine how famous you'll become. It is a mixture of 9 viruses, 14 bacteria and 5 parasites, the main one called the jewel wasp, and it's all thanks to your blood." He paused, looking down at you, before leaning down to you slightly. "Do you know about the jewel wasp, (y/n)?" You didn't give him the pleasure of an answer, instead you just stared at the ceiling. "They inject a chemical in cockroaches brains that cause them to become submissive and zombie like. By itself, it causes no real harm to humans, after all, the wasps aren't concerned with us. But mix it with things like say, rabies, measles, Ebola...it becomes a problem." He held up his hand with the syringe, turning it this way and that, full of pride in his work. "Behold the Reaper Virus." He presented with a wave of his free hand towards the virus. "Everyone in America already has this lying dominant inside them. Thanks to all the people I have secretly working for me in water purifying plants. All it needs is the trigger. You, (y/n). Once you start showing the symptoms, it will be too late for everyone. It will spread like wildfire. Sure, like with all infectious diseases, some maybe immune. But, the bites of others will cause the infection to take hold anyway."

         Tears welled in your eyes, flowing like a steady stream from the corners. You were praying that Leon was going to come bursting through the door at any moment to save you.

        "You're going to die." You promised, false bravado in your tone, your entire body trembling with fear and anxiety. "Leon will come here and kill you." Alan raised an eyebrow at your words, humor tugging at the corners of his lips and after he didn't respond to you, your turned your face to him, confused.

        "Foolish girl. I left that tracker on you on purpose. I want him to show up. I want him to see what you've become." Your forehead knitted in confusion, why would he want Leon to show up when he knows it will get Alan killed? "You really don't think I'm just making another slow, easy-to-kill virus, do you?" He then reached into the pocket of his lab coat and pulled out a small vile of a blood red powdery substance. "This, my dear (y/n), is an incomplete version of the vaccine. Once you change, if you come into contact with this, you'll regain some of your motor functions. You'll remember how to use weapons, how to avoid being struck, even how to navigate subterfuge. All while still being one of the undead." Your eyes widened in shock over this news.

       "They'll be emotionless killers." You mumbled. "Unable to feel pain, or grief, just wanting to kill." Alan grinned, big and insane and he nodded happily that you get it, pointing at you to emphasize his next statement.

       "And without the inhibitions of understanding strength and when to hold back! You'll be able to kill with one punch to the proper place!" You squeezed your eyes closed, this bastard had to be stopped.

~~~~~~

        Chris and Leon burst through the front doors of the laboratory that you were being held at, guns trained and ready, only to find the place completely vacant. They both relaxed slightly, as the other members of the BSAA followed in behind them, doing a more thorough sweep of the lobby and doors leading elsewhere.

        "Something isn't right. This seems too easy." Leon stated, absently, digging out his phone and pulling up the GPS again, ticking his chin towards the stairwell to his right, not letting the fact that this is an obvious trap deter him, not wanting to waste another moment of worrying about it. He just wanted to find you.

        "Break up into teams. I want to make sure this place is absent of any kind of surprises. You four, come with us!" They all nodded, breaking away in different directions, Chris and his team following closely behind Leon as he bounded down the stairs two at a time.

         "This place is a God damned maze." Leon grumbled under his breath as he exited the stairwell into the white pristine hallway that broke away in several places. His heart was racing from both adrenaline and fear as he looked at his phone, and turning his head at every junction, his gun in his other hand. He had reluctantly left your coat back in Chris' vehicle and he absolutely despised that. He wanted it here, one part of you he still had, with him. "She's down this hallway!" He shouted, taking off like a flash.

~~~~

         Loud banging sounded down the hallway of the floor where you were being held, and a sadistic smile spread across Alan's rat like face.

        "Ahh, seems your calvary has arrived!" He exclaimed, clapping his hands, letting his full insanity show. The noises were growing louder, coming closer to you, as Alan made his way to you with the syringe. Fear gripped your heart like a vice as you continued your vain attempts to get free. "Are you ready to put on your show my dear? Your audience is almost here."

       "Cover the hallways! We are going in!" You heard a familiar voice calling, what was his name? Chris? The man who saved you from Alan the first time. 

       It all seemed to slow down, time, noise, existence as the needle descended to you and into the vein at your elbow. The doors burst open just in time for Leon to see you getting injected with the virus. The last thing you heard before being dragged into darkness was Leon's enraged scream.

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