#rest under the cut to save a dash
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because of you • part one
PART II • PART III • PART IV • PART V// REQUEST -> @sattlersquarry
❝ an enemies to lovers fic with Steve? 💙 maybe they have to put aside their differences to fight upside down stuff and realize they actually have a lot in common 👀 • 18+ | ( 2.1k – little bit of king!steve, mostly angst with a dash of fluff, enemies to idiots in love, steve x reader )
B E C A U S E O F Y O U • P A R T O N E
🎶 good girls ( john carpenter remix ), chvrches
“Why is she even here?”
“Steve!”
A loud smack cut the air in two as Robin slapped a hand against Steve’s shoulder, rendering the rest of group there in Max’s trailer silent.
Your arms were crossed tightly over your chest, cheeks burning under his gaze, lips twisted into a scowl and trying hard to hold back the daggers you wanted so badly to throw at him.
“She doesn’t know what the hell we’re up against! How’s she supposed to–“
“Steve, none of us knew either, cut her a break.”
“Cut her a break and then what? We all get eaten by a fucking melted people monster?”
“That’s not fair–“
“It’s fine! It’s fine, Nancy,” you cut the girl off, standing quickly from your spot on the couch.
They’d been talking like this since you showed up. Like you weren’t right there in the room with them and honestly you kind of wished you weren’t anymore.
“I need some air,” you grumbled before giving Steve a pointed glare and shouldering open the front door.
The air outside was crisp as you sat down on the front stoop. Not a cloud in the sky and sunlight washing everything in soft golden light, but it all still felt so dark. Like it was harboring thick shadows. Long, spindly, and pitch black. Waiting to wrap their twisted fingers around you.
Waiting to dig into you and squeeze tight.
Waiting to lift you twenty feet into the air and snap your bones like twigs.
Waiting to leave you for dead.
And here was Steve fucking Harrington asking what right you had to be there. Asking what purpose were you gonna serve amongst this “holier than thou” joke of an army. Steve, Robin, Nancy and Eddie had already gotten their asses handed to them by what they’d called demobats, Steve arguably needing serious medical attention, and they wanted to go back? It took everything you had to not leave right there on the spot.
Hell, maybe you should, you thought for a minute. You didn’t owe them anything, especially Steve, but you did owe it to your best friend. The one who basically had a hit out on him. The one who wouldn’t hurt a goddamn fly, but all of Hawkins had already decided he was guilty and you weren't about to leave him.
Eddie.
❝ SO SAVE YOUR BREATH, GIVE A LITTLE OF WHAT YOU
HAVE LEFT – DO THEY KNOW SOMETHING I DON’T? ❞
You met him two years ago under the bleachers at the Homecoming football game. It seemed like the perfect place to smoke the joint you’d messily rolled in the car right before you’d come into the stadium and apparently you’d been right, but someone else had already laid claim to it...
“Hate to break it to you sweetheart, but this is kind of my spot.”
He’d been all black leather and denim. Dark curls and clove. Silver rings and chains and heavy boots and maybe you should’ve been more intimidated, but the smile lines at the corners of his mouth gave him away.
“Don’t see a sign anywhere,” you’d shot back, no hesitation. Looked over at him all skeptics and attitude and took a long drag from your joint. Blew the smoke off in his direction and it made him grin like an idiot.
“Been sellin’ weed down here for like…the last three years so–actually, yeah. What the fuck, man. Someone owes me a sign.”
...And that was it, you were a goner. Laughing mid-toke and coughing so hard you cried and it made him feel so bad he gave you a baggy for free. Eddie "the freak" Munson and you – best friends.
Skipped all the stupid dances and football games with you. Paraded around the lunch room like an idiot with you. Threw fries back at the jocks for you when they called you a loser and sat on the floor in the bathroom with you when you cried.
So fuck “King Steve” Harrington.
You had every right to be there, probably even more than he did and you were gonna tell him to his face, but—
“Can I sit?”
The sudden sound of someone else made you jump.
“Jesus, Eddie.”
“Sorry,” he chuckled and sat down next to you. Gave you a sidelong glance and a small lopsided smile. “He’s really not so bad–”
“You’re joking. Right? Tell me you’re joking.”
The boy hummed, dropped his gaze down to the rings wrapped around his fingers and twisted the one on his thumb.
“He doesn’t want me here. None of them do,” you grumbled, frustration fed further by his non-answer and it pulled his eyes back up to you.
“Hey now, that’s not true–”
“Yes it is! Even Nancy looks at me like a kicked puppy.”
That pulled a laugh from him. Made him scoot closer to you and bump his shoulder into yours. “Listen, sweetheart,” the nickname made you soften, but you tried to keep your scowl in place, “We’re all in over our fuckin’ heads, hm? And Stevie boy…he’s seen some shit. He’s just trying to–”
“Just trying to what? Be a complete dickhead about it? Mission accomplished.”
Eddie sighed and roughed a hand over his face. Rested his elbows on his knees and laced his fingers together. He knew what you felt because he’d felt it too. Knew what it was like to get laughed at and mocked in the lunch room. Knew how it was supposed to be between him and the other boy. Hell, he nearly cut Harrington’s face off with a broken bottle a few days ago, but one thing was clear.
Change was possible and Steve Harrington was proof, he just wasn’t great at showing it.
“Alright. He could be less of a dick,” he conceded, propping his chin in his hand and looking at you with his big brown eyes. How could you be mad at that?
You mumbled under your breath about that not being the only thing, but fine, okay, only for you, Eds.
Reaching over he flicked at your fingers and looked at you from under his curls with a stern pinch between his brows. “He’s helping me, sweetheart. They all are. Shit, without them I’d probably be in jail already. Or in Carver’s trunk,” he tried a laugh, but it fell short at the end with the weight of his words and it made you grab at his hand and squeeze it.
“Shut up,” you chided softly, no heat behind it. The anger that had been swelling in your chest all but extinguished.
Silence settled between the two of you then, heavy and tinged at the edges with worry. With everything that was at risk and it started to gnaw at the pit of your stomach. What if you couldn’t fix it? And even if you could, this Vecna asshole was about to end the world anyway so what the hell did it matter?
How were a bunch of kids going to do anything about it?
“Ahem,” the door knocked into your back and jolted you back to earth. Pulled a gasp from you and when you looked up over your shoulder you felt your anger return ten fold. “We’re leaving, geniuses,” Steve announced, pushing at you with the door.
“Least you know you’re an idiot,” you mumbled under your breath, standing up from your spot to glare at him at eye level.
“Real cute,” Steve shouldered past you on the stoop, took the last two steps in one go and turned to face you both as he landed on the grass. “For you, Munson,” he said, throwing a mask at Eddie, “Courtesy of Mayfield.”
“What’s that for?” you couldn’t help asking as Max appeared at your side and pointed so casually – too casually – at the mask.
“Gonna steal a Winnebago. Get that on, dingus. Let’s go.”
“Nice,” Eddie grinned up at the red-headed girl and yanked the mask on over his head, “Thanks, Red.”
“Let’s go,” Steve urged, waving his hands at everyone to get out of the house and you felt your heart racing.
“Steal a Winnebago? Eddie. Fuck that–”
“Honey, I’m already a wanted man–” Eddie cut you off and readjusted the ridiculous looking mask a bit. “–c’mon,” he said, tugging at your belt loop to get with it.
“I–that doesn’t mean you can just steal–”
“We’re way past that,” Dustin chimed in, shoving past you just like everyone else, “Besides, if the world’s gonna end anyway, what’s it matter?”
Shit. The kid had a point. It was probably fine. It was just a trailer. Maybe you could give it back afterward? You needed it more than they did. Right?
“Dammit,” you grumbled under your breath, now the only one still standing around. “Wait for me!”
❝ THEY TELL ME I’M HELL-BENT ON REVENGE, I CUT MY
TEETH ON WEAKER MEN, I WON’T APOLOGIZE AGAIN ❞
The first time you ran into Steve Harrington was sophomore year. In the hallway before Click’s class. You were cramming everything into your bag, but struggling with your history book when you heard it coming.
Tommy Hagan’s stupid laugh.
Your stomach sank, eyes glued on your things and trying to ignore it. He was in your science class the year before along with his ditzy girlfriend Carol and they always made sure to get a spot in the back just to make out.
“Need some help?”
When you finally looked up at him he’d stopped right in front of you, the grin on his lips sharklike as Carol smirked out from under his arm. Another boy you didn’t know was standing just behind them wearing a stupid member’s only jacket, half unzipped, and had hair that sat perfectly in place. Too perfect.
“That looks heavy, hm?” Tommy said grabbing your book, voice all saccharine sweet and sharp around the edges. Flipping through the pages he pulled a face, clicked his tongue and weighed it in his hand, then made a show of dumping it on the floor. “Whoops. Sorry!” he half-laughed and your cheeks burned.
“Bite me, Hagan,” you snapped back, bending down to grab your book, and it only made his grin grow wider.
“Ooo. She’s fiesty today, Stevie. I like it.”
And then he chimed in. Stevie. The had-to-be-douchebag that everyone called 'King Steve.'
“Probably on her period,” he said scoffing a laugh, all confidence and bravado and the look on his face was so smug. Thought he was so clever and funny and when you finally turned around it was to take the two steps up to him in one.
“Really? My period? So original.”
It made him swallow hard. Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he blinked back the flicker of surprise glinting in his eyes. He took a quick glance at Tommy like he didn’t want to disappoint him and then hardened his expression. Crowded down over you and nodded.
“Explains you being such a bitch.”
And it took the air from your lungs. Stuck in your sides sharp like a knife and you felt your throat tighten as Tommy and Carol snickered, but you wouldn’t let him have the satisfaction. Not here.
“Yeah. Bet you wish you had an excuse for being such an asshole,” you cut at him and it pulled an Oh shit! out of Tommy as he doubled over laughing, Steve’s mouth dropped open in shock.
Your feet couldn’t carry you away fast enough as you shoved your book in your bag and turned to leave, but you refused to run. Refused to let them see weakness, and as Tommy yelled down the hallway after you about tampons you raised a middle finger high in the air to punctuate just how much you hated them all.
Eddie met you in the bathroom after that, the one nobody used on the other side of school, and you told him everything. He let you have the joint he had tucked behind his ear for emergencies, listened to you and told you they weren’t worth it. Especially not Steve. Because even though Tommy started it, Steve was the one who dug in. Could have left it alone but didn’t and that was what really got you.
How obvious it was he knew how shitty they were being, but went along with it anyway because he had to maintain his status. Had to uphold how ‘cool’ he was and keep the line in the sand drawn between him and ‘the freaks’ like you.
So he wouldn’t get a second chance.
And he wasn’t worth your time.
Not then and sure as hell not now.
[ NOTE: THIS IS PART ONE OF A THREE PART SERIES, PART TWO AND THREE TO COME SOON ]
crappymixtape™ • steve harrington masterlist // stranger things masterlist ♥️ reblogs and comments keep me going, friends! ily! ♥️
#stranger things#stranger things fanfiction#stranger things fic#steve harrington#steve harrington fanfic#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington x you#steve harrington x fem#steve harrington stranger things#steve stranger things#steve x you#steve fanfic#steve x reader#steve x fem#steve harrington series#steve harrington fic#steve harrington imagine#steve harrington angst#because of you#steve harrington smut#steve harrington fanfiction#steve harrington fluff
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Propaganda
Jeremy Brett (My Fair Lady)—"...he was beautiful. A strange adjective to use in describing a man. I use it not to suggest effeminacy or a kind of male prettiness, but in the same way I would use it to describe a throughbred stallion, Michelangelo's David or Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue. There was with Jeremy Huggins [Brett's non- stage name] a perfection and sublime symmetry in his features that was beautiful." [quote from "Bending the Willow" by David Stuart Davies]
Toshiro Mifune (Rashumon, Seven Samurai, Grand Prix, Stray Dog)—i love and respect my boi tab hunter (rest in peace you beautiful, beautiful man ❤️), but after i watched like 12 of his movies in a row on tcm last year, i ALSO love and respect toshiro mifune, son of a literal actual hatamoto’s (a high-ranking samurai) daughter, also very possibly related to the best judokan EVER, AND, he’s the guy who SHOULD have been obi-wan kenobi. the fact that he’s ALSO hot as hell just adds to his appeal.
This is one of four polls in the tournament quarterfinals. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage man.
THIS POLL LASTS FOR 24 HOURS.
[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]
Jeremy Brett propaganda:
"according to critic Kenneth Tynan a 'too beautiful' Hamlet."
"he’s such a himbo sunshine boy in my fair lady"
“not technically propaganda because it won’t let me save the images but just found out my bi king jeremy brett played patroclus https://www.jeremy-brett.fr/crbst_183.html and also apparently dorian gray in the 60s and basil hallward in the 70s?? range.”
"...as a dashing D'Artagnan in The Three Musketeers (1966/67) (Duelling is no problem! XD)”
“dropping to sleep - Jeremy is far too handsome to play d'art and also too tall, lol”
Toshiro Mifune propaganda:
"In addition, he spoke fluent mandarin and every time he was casted in foreign films, he said his lines in the language of the movie (although they ended up dubbing him. He wasn’t happy about it though).”
Submitted: this gifset
Also submitted: this video (yes, that one)
"Crucial Toshiro Mifune propaganda: THOSE LEGS."
"That is hella muscle. Go watch The Hidden Fortress, aka Star Wars A New Hope. His thighs deserve an award."
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May i ask for a one shot pls.
Can it be where the reader and miles is dating, but she's been acting weird and mile finds out there is a new spider man, and its really the reader.
A/n: wow It’s been a minute since I’ve written a full fic no? Pris is almost back babyyy~
Coincidence
Miles Morales x fem!spiderman!reader
( summary: being the new Spider-Man is hard, but hiding it from your boyfriend is harder )
!-!more under the cut!-!
You groaned as you walked through the hallway, stretching and rolling your shoulders to loosen the aching pain that spread across your entire body. You were sore, though after a night full of training how to swing around the city and stop crime you weren't the least bit surprised that it was so.
“Ayo Miles!”
The sound of your boyfriends name pulled you away from your mind as you turned towards the direction of the shout. There he was, Miles Morales, your boyfriend who you’ve been promptly ignoring for the past week and a half. You feel like shit for it but not too long ago you got bitten by a radioactive spider and became somewhat of a new Spider-Man, a Spider-Woman if you will. You’re still getting used to the new gig and the powers that come along with it and in your conflicted state you’ve been ignoring not only Miles but the rest of your friends as well.
You turned back around, not missing how his eyes barely caught yours right before you did and started walking towards your final class of the day.
Just one more class and then you could go....fight crime- after homework of course! Once again, you've been so swamped with this new Spider-Woman gig recently it's really had a terrible impact on your life. Your stress shot up after you scrambled to get your work completed so that you could train to help save the city that never sleeps. You never took that nickname more seriously in your life. It also sucks that your social life has dropped immensely. No more after school hangouts with friends let alone your boyfriend who you feel so bad for blowing off. Sometimes you think life would be better if you just cut everyone around you off but you don't want to lose them it just seems like the easy way out.
—TS—
You bolted out of your seat as the bell rang, dashing through the schools halls before the mass of students could begin to overwhelm them. You needed to get to Mays, do some calculus work, then suit up-
“Y/n!”
You shoes screeched against the floors as you stopped yourself from crashing into Miles, who stood in front of the main entrance, arms out ready to catch you if you tripped. You stopped in his arms and he firmly held you from falling forwards. You breathed heavily as you pulled back from him. "Why are you-" looking up, you winced as your senses skyrocketed, your "Spidey-senses" were activating as you looked at Miles, a sense of familiarity filled your mind.
"You're just like...-" Miles started, his eyes searching yours for any type of answer but you quickly remembered where you were supposed to be. "Miles! I-I gotta go-" You moved around him and dashed out the door, ignoring his calls for you to come back. With your backpack in hand you ran into the subway station, ready to head to May's house. She had found you initially after you'd been bitten, recognized the symptoms and took you in under her wing. She got you web-shooters and a suit and allowed you to train in the confines of the Spider-Lair.
Today was meant to be your debut! You were gonna go out, save a few civilians, meet the Spider-Man that had appeared after the original had died and make your name as Spider-Woman. But that's after you help May with her banana bread recipe.
Knocking on her door you smiled at the sight of the older woman as she opened it. She greeted you, beckoning you inside after introductions were done. The rest of your afternoon was spent finishing that calculus work and making banana bread.
After finishing both tasks were completed, you were ready to make your debut, but the doorbell had delayed that. You looked at May in confusion as she smirked and stood. "There's a slight change in plans," "what?" You wondered aloud as your eyes followed her across the room. "I wanted you to meet Spider-man first, get yourselves acquainted before I sent you out on patrols for the first time." She said as she closed in on the front door, grabbing the knob, she cleared her throat a bit before opening it. You could hear her greet someone, you could see the side of his suit so you knew it was the Spider-man. You turned away to calm yourself as the reality truly sunk in that you were about to meet spiderman, hero of New York!
May cleared her throat, "Y/n this is Miles, or Spiderman and Miles this is-" "Miles?" "Y/n?" You turned around quickly, noticing Spiderman's shocked expression as he stared at you. May's eyes flickered in between you both, her expression becoming increasingly more confused. "I knew it! I knew I felt something earlier- What is- You're a Spider-man too?!" Miles yelled, pulling his mask off near the end of his sentence. "Spider-Woman actually-" May corrected him and your heart sped up as you stared at the previously masked mans face. "I- I didn't- Miles? You're Spider-man!! And you never told me?!" You yelled in shock and he crossed his arms. "Technically I can be mad at you for the same thing." You shook your head, laughing in disbelief before a silence overtook you two.
"So, I'm guessing you both know each other than."
"She's my girlfriend-" May gasped, standing there for a moment before clapping her hands together. "This is great news! See, you both already know and care for each other so you're sure to have each others backs on the streets." You blinked and sighed at the enthusiasm of the older woman. "Let's go to the lair shall we?" She walked off, leaving you and Miles to follow her but you stopped him before he could.
"Can we just- talk for a second?" You asked and he sighed and nodded, leaning against the circular table in the kitchen. "Look I- I never meant to ignore you- well I did! But only until I figured all this stuff out. I was bit by some kind of spider, May found me and took me in, I've been training with her for a while and it's been really stressful." Miles eyebrows creased at the sight of your saddening expression. "Yeah I get what you mean, it took me a while to find a good balance." He scratched the side of his head, looking away from you for a moment. "We're still good right?" He asked and you immediately nodded, a small smile growing on your face. "Yeah we're still good Miles." You stepped closer to him and he followed your lead, grabbing you and bringing you into a solid hug before kissing the side of your cheek. You laughed as you pulled back, still holding each other comfortably. "I can't believe my boyfriend is Spider-man!" "I can't believe my girlfriend is Spider-woman!" He laughed along with you, the previous tension being forgotten as the humor swept it away.
"We probably shouldn't keep May waiting," you said, still giggling from the previous conversation. "Yeahhh good idea, lets go." You both started making your way to the backyard, and for the first time in almost two weeks, you held your boyfriends hand.
———
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Masterlist
#miles morales#miles morales x reader#miles morales x fem reader#fem reader#x fem reader#fanfiction#marvel universe x reader#marvel x reader#marvel#marvel universe#spiderman into the spiderverse x reader#spiderman x fem reader#spiderman x reader#spiderman miles morales#prismuffin
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mists of celeste ➻ 51
➻ pairing: ??? x fem reader
➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, smut
➻ word count: 21.1k
➻ rating: M
➻ warnings: language (additional warnings under the cut, pls heed them!)
➻ summary: Months into your stay aboard The Horizon, it becomes apparent that things are not as cut and dry as you thought, and that you might have bitten off more than you could chew with this crew.
⇐ previous | next ⇒ | masterlist
────────────
act seven ➻ part three
additional chapter warnings: cannibalism (dream), discussion of suicidal ideation, hallucinations
When you come to, you almost don’t realize that you have woken up at all because you open your eyes to complete darkness. The first thing you notice is the weight at your back, something digging into your shoulder blades and making you wildly uncomfortable, but that sensation is pushed to the back of your mind as your brain starts catching up with the reality you’re in. Your right arm does not feel wholly attached to your body in any way, and even when you attempt to use it to help move around in the cramped space you’re in, it refuses to budge at all.
Above you, there is a firm plank of wood that slots into your faux coffin so perfectly you imagine it’s aiming to act as your grave.
In your left ear, you hear a quiet yet unsettling whispering coming from outside the box.
“I know you’re there,” comes the distorted yet familiar tone, “I’ll pull every splinter of wood off this box to reach you. You can’t hide forever.”
You swing your left arm up as hard as you can manage given the limited space you have to deal with, ramming your elbow into the block of wood over your body. The huffs of your breathing make the enclosure feel that much smaller, and in turn, it causes your moves to lean more frantic than an organized attempt to escape.
“Keep struggling just like that. I like a fight~”
The voice belongs to San — there’s no doubt about that — and yet it sounds nothing like your San.
Twisting onto your side, you slam your left shoulder sideways into the wooden box, and that finally loosens whatever seal is keeping it shut. You tumble out onto the cold, metal ground followed by spools of what looks to be fabric and threads. Your right arm aches suddenly with a sharp pang in your upper bicep that makes you hiss and clutch at it desperately.
It’s dark all around save for one singular light in the distance, but it flickers into nothingness every so often.
“I’ll give you a head start if you’d like,” comes San’s cruel whispers from just beside you. A chill of terror passes down your spine, but when you turn to look over your shoulder, there’s nothing — and no one — there.
You hoist yourself up while still gripping your aching right arm. A bit of feeling has returned to it, just enough to let you twitch your fingers and make a weak fist with them. The light in the distance illuminates enough of the room you’re in to show you a somewhat clear path to the only exit, though the shadows around you have an almost sinister feel to them. You open your mouth to speak into the darkness, a witless hope that you can reason with the San that’s out there, but your voice bubbles up and dies on your tongue. With those hopes dashed, you resolve to simply make a run for it.
Breaking into a sprint, you launch yourself towards the archway leading to the exit as the shadows rise up to meet your every step like they’re chasing you. The boxes scattered throughout the room are like a maze keeping you from a safe and easy exit. When the light flickers out, you stall and count the seconds until it flickers back into its wobbly pattern again — thirteen plus a half. Each time the darkness swallows you, the exit seems to get further and further away no matter how much you run towards it while the light is on. A cry of frustration rests on your lips but the sound refuses to come out.
“Won’t you look at me, star?” San’s voice rises behind you once again. Darkness envelops the room.
Thirteen and a half.
“Do you fear me?”
Yes, you think. Your fingers squeeze around your bicep until your palm is wet and hot with some sort of liquid that makes your skin slippery.
Five and a half.
You tense. The shadows at your back feel so close that it’s almost like there’s a breath of cold air running down the back of your neck.
“Does my presence frighten you?” he whispers.
One.
You reel around just as the light comes back to life, intent to catch San where he’s lurking once the shadows are dispersed under the fluorescent haze. The world spins terribly even though you hardly moved much, and you topple over like a wobbly top onto your knees. The light has morphed into a solitary spotlight coming down from above onto you, blinding you so much that you try to block your vision to an extent. You look forward to the floor only to be met with a horrifying sight.
“…San?” you say under your breath in a slight panic.
There’s a body on the floor before you, and with the excess light that’s suddenly spilled into the room, you can clearly see that you’re inside the cargo bay aboard The Horizon. The place where you started your journey with this crew. And now the place where San’s slumped and crumpled body lies before you like a corpse. You reach out towards the back that’s facing you with a tremor in your hands that won’t go away. Your fingers close around a cold arm and twist the body so that you can see the face even though the build looks so starkly like San that you’re dreading it.
The moment you do, however, the face morphs and twists before your eyes until it resembles Minho. Gasping, you scramble backwards on your hands, tweaking your injured arm as you do. His lips are blue, as though he’s been dead for some time, skin pale and eyes wide open — bloodshot. Saliva runs down from both corners of his mouth, dried and flaking against his ghostly white face.
A strange whistling echoes throughout the cargo bay.
Minho’s corpse speaks to you.
“Why did you bring me here to die?”
You twist over onto your hands and knees, ignoring the flare of pain that shoots down your arm as you launch yourself forward in a vain attempt to escape. The whistling continues to ring in your ears, like a macabre song fueling your sprint out of the cargo bay and into the attached corridor. You move through the hallways frantically, passing room after room with open doors and faceless bodies inside each one. By the time you reach the mess hall, you’re out of breath, and your sanity is fraying at the edges because of the damn whistling that refuses to stop following you.
The lights here are flickering too, and the usual hum of machinery that radiates throughout the ship is absent completely. The tables in the hall are shoved to the side haphazardly and coated in a thick layer of dust. Beside one of the toppled tables sits Jongho’s guitar, broken on the ground with its strings snapped.
“There you are.”
You don’t have time to process who the owner of the voice is — you barely have time to brace yourself for the impact that strikes you from behind. It does nothing to save you from the impending fall, though the floor dissipates as you approach it face-first, and you swing into darkness instead. Next thing you know, you’re sitting in a chair with no way of seeing what’s around you and warmth blossoming across your face.
The hands that cover your eyes are not your own yet they are just as calloused and rough on your skin, but the voice against your ears is so soft by comparison.
“Are you ready, mon amour?” It’s Seonghwa who speaks with a foreign warmth to his tone you haven’t heard in some time. You bring a hand up to cover his, eager to pull him away and restore your vision. “Not yet, you haven’t answered the question.”
“I’m ready,” you breathe out in nothing more than a whisper.
“Good.”
Light creeps into your vision, pulling back the curtains of darkness, and what you see before you is both astonishingly beautiful and horrifying at once. You’re at a dinner table small enough to seat two, and across from you sits none other than your captain. Except unlike you, who possesses the freedom to move from the chair as you please, Hongjoong has ropes bound around his torso and keeping his arms stuck to his sides. He stares ahead at you, face oddly blank and expressionless. Seonghwa creeps into your peripherals draped in white robes that make him look like a saint sent from the heavens.
“Seonghwa.”
“Shh, mon amour. Let us prepare this feast for you to enjoy.”
A deep haze settles over your mind, whether from the odd sweet aroma in the air or from Seonghwa’s lilting voice. You do not feel fully present as you watch what unfolds next. As Seonghwa takes his captain by the hair and drags his head so far back that it seems as though his neck is the feast in question. Something glints in Seonghwa’s hand, but you realize it far too late, as the next second leads this dinner into something far more horrifying.
He splits Hongjoong’s neck open on the blade. Little crimson rivulets spill over the silver. Your brain is calling for you to take action, to stop this gruesome scene before it becomes worse, but still your body does not move. Seonghwa continues to wrench the knife along skin without relent, as though it is nothing to him, like Hongjoong is merely a slain animal for him to butcher as he sees fit, and you are terrified.
“Is this not what we are owed, Y/n?” Seonghwa says, angling his head down to the blade. He pulls his tongue along the flat where a minute amount of blood has pooled. “Our devotion deserves just rewards.” The edges of his sleeves are staining more and more by the second, though it is nothing but an afterthought in the moments that follow. Seonghwa turns his head further in to lay his lips along the seam he has created in his captain’s flesh. He sinks teeth in deep, and when he draws back, there is blood up to his nose and dripping down his chin.
“We’ve earned this, Y/n.” If your body could function according to your mind, you would certainly jump in your seat from the sudden intrusion of a new voice joining the fray. Yunho comes in from the left, out of a strange pit of darkness that seemingly has no beginning or end. He balances a knife of his own in one hand, fingers barely clutched around the hilt, but his grip shifts once he steps over to the table. It’s with a firm hand that he drives it directly into Hongjoong’s sternum. Or, what you believe to still be Hongjoong. His face is more obscured than anything, and his form does not seem recognizable in the slightest to you, but it was him before Seonghwa slit his throat. It must still be him now, no?
Then this man beside Seonghwa cannot be Yunho. You have never known him to be violent.
“We have all given him parts of ourselves, my star.” Warmth surrounds you. Before you realize it, you are standing, and San is there behind you like a mere extension of yourself. His arms wrap around your body, hand resting steady on the base of your throat. Hot breath pours from his lips and down the side of your neck. It causes a tingle to rush up and down your spine; though despite that, your body still does not feel like it is your own. “Does it not make sense for us to take in return?” San’s hands retract to rest on your lower back. He pushes you down like he wants to bend you over the table, but rather than letting your chest collide with the empty plates laid out there, he nudges your leg up with his knee. Like a puppet, you crawl across the table, sending utensils and glassware both to the ground. San caresses your head and squeezes the back of your neck in silent reassurance. That this is okay, this is fair, this is what you are owed.
When you reach the other side, Hongjoong is upright once more. It is still him, though you aren’t sure if there is relief in you upon seeing his face. Knife still in his chest, throat still slit and bleeding — now even with a chunk of flesh ripped out to add to the carnage — he stares right at you with strangely lively eyes. All this and yet the monster is still not defeated. What a fool you would be to believe that it would be an easy feat.
“If there is something you desire—” blood coats his teeth, making his crazed grin all the more insane “—you must tear it from my flesh.”
His fingers are cold on your wrist. You did not notice how close you came to the edge of the table, now teetering between the wood and falling into his lap, nor did you realize that you had brought a hand to his chest in the process. That’s where he holds you now, keeping your hand flat over his heart with an ice cold grip.
A phantom heartbeat makes itself known on your fingertips. A steady and calm ba-dum, ba-dum that gets stronger and stronger the more your fingers sink into flesh and bone.
Something shifts.
You don’t understand how, but you are no longer on the table. Hongjoong does not sit across from you any longer, nor are there even the slightest traces that he ever was there to begin with. The table is clean once again and set for one — you and you alone. You are already holding a fork and knife in your hands.
Seonghwa comes forward from the spot where your captain just was, dressed again in white but this time he is clean and free of blood. He sets a plate down before you, one you do not immediately look at because you are too busy examining his face for any trace of Hongjoong’s flesh and blood. He smiles without showing his teeth and nods towards the dish.
“Please eat, mon amour. You’ve worked so terribly hard for your meal.” He finishes his words with a full-blown smile. His teeth are stained red.
Before you, on a pristine plate, lies a still-beating heart.
It’s not the morning hour or your lover shifting in the sheets that finally pulls you out of your sleep, but rather a muted horror lingering in your body from a rather violent and gruesome nightmare that came upon you once you fell asleep last night. Despite your wishes to forget such a thing, it persists in your memory, even as you climb out of bed and make your way to the bathroom where San is already up and prepping for the day ahead.
“Good morning,” you mumble while rubbing the sleep from your eyes. He returns the greeting just as incoherently, lips wrapped around a toothbrush, but he still makes way for you to press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“Water’s still warm,” he pulls his toothbrush out a bit to get the words out, eyes on you through the mirror as you strip down to nothing. “I didn’t wanna wake you up.” He doesn’t need to explain a thing, though you’re certain he already knows as much so you don’t voice those sentiments out loud. You stand up straight to look at him through the reflection too. A small smile plays at your lips, one that’s meant to be reassuring. You hope the smile doesn’t drop too soon when you turn, but if it does then San plays the part of being clueless exceptionally well. He was correct about the water though, as it feels blissfully warm on your skin.
Your hopes to forget the dream that plagued you last night are dashed almost immediately, however, when you close your eyes to keep the barrage of water from spilling into them. It returns to you in a flash, like you are reliving it just the same, and the dream floods your senses fully. The metallic taste on your tongue horrifies you to the point of eliciting a small gasp from you that leads to water rushing into your throat and making you choke. You only realize that you’ve bit your cheek once you’re recovering from the sudden choking fit.
“Are you alright?” San sounds two seconds away from a serious panic.
“I-I’m fine, fine, just had an awful dream.” That isn’t what he was asking, but the realization dawns on you only after you’ve spoken.
The curtain pulls back a bit to show San’s concern in full. The soft pout on his lips makes you want to kiss him.
“I bit my cheek and choked on water because of it. And I was thinking about my dream. Wasn’t… I don’t know, it was just surreal and horrible.” You don’t imagine there to be any normal way to explain what you dreamt about in the slightest. Leaning forward out of the shower a bit, you plant a quick kiss against his frown to reassure him. “I’m fine, I just need to fully wake up and shake it off.”
“If you wanna talk about it…” he trails off, eyes still full of concern and trailing over your face even as he tastes your touch on his lips with his tongue. “I’m gonna head down and get some breakfast. Take your time.” He seems to note that you’d like space to mull over your nightmares, even if your reassurance hasn’t diminished his worry much at all. The curtain falls back into place, leaving you enclosed in the shower in peace, and you let out a small breath when you hear San leave the room.
You douse yourself with water and hang your head under the showerhead to let it pelt you from above in a vain attempt to clear your mind. The metallic scent of blood was so real and prevalent that you can almost taste it on the back of your tongue now, as the memory of the dream sinks back over you like a dark shadow.
Your limbs seem to move on their own as your right hand brings the fork forward to sink into the beating flesh of the heart. Blood spills out of the tiny pinprick holes your fork leaves in its wake. The scarlet pools at the base of the plate. The knife slips through the organ after some struggle, as though the thumping flesh is wrought with steel.
Seonghwa still stands across from you on the other side of the table with his hands folded in front of him like a steeple. He smiles, lips closed and tightly wound into a grin that’s almost painful to look upon because of how strained his expression is. He watches you cut away at the heart and take a small cube neatly onto your fork.
“To think he would let you of all people feast upon his heart,” he says, eyes wide and unblinking. You pause with the bite halfway to your mouth. The knife in your left hand clatters against the plate when you drop it unceremoniously. Seonghwa unfurls his hands and lays them against the pristine white tablecloth. “Tell me, mon amour, would you…” he swallows hard around nothing. You remain frozen in place, and it’s your turn to watch him now as he slides around the edge of the table and comes over onto your side. Seconds tick by at an agonizingly slow pace, and Seonghwa lowers himself to his knees. A trembling hand clasps around your thigh tightly. It takes you a moment to recognize the expression painting his features to be excitement. “Would you grant me a bite?”
Your hand moves the fork over to him without conscious thought. You coax his chin up with your free hand, fingers lingering on the underside of his jaw as his pretty lips part in an almost feral want.
“Ask nicely and perhaps I might.” Your voice comes out in a sultry tone that does not feel like your own despite it sounding like you. Seonghwa exhales a shaky sigh, his pupils blown out and sweat beading his brow.
“Please…” Seonghwa shudders and shifts his chin down, catching your thumb between his lips and nipping at the pad gently. “Just a bite.”
You split the seam of Seonghwa’s lips further open upon your thumb and wedge it between his teeth, finally bringing the fork down to his waiting mouth. His breath lies hot against your thumb. The soft pants he exhales are frantic, and his gaze upon your face is so unsettlingly steady that you cannot force yourself to be the first to look away. As the fork descends upon his mouth and pushes the small bite onto his tongue, you retreat and pull your thumb out of his mouth. Seonghwa moans around the morsel, a little rivulet of blood trickling down from the corner of his mouth as he shudders around the taste of Hongjoong’s heart.
Seonghwa’s chest is heaving when he pushes up on his knees and reaches for your face with both hands. You let him cup your cheeks, neatly manicured nails digging into your flesh as he tugs you down to meet his lips with your own. What follows is a mess — a kiss full of blood, saliva, teeth, and the lingering heartbeat resting atop Seonghwa’s tongue as he thrusts the wet muscle into you to coat the whole interior of your mouth with the taste of iron. The fork in your right hand hits the ground with a sharp clang that rings too loudly in your ears. You search the table blindly with your other hand until you find the plate with the rest of the heart on it, and when you close your hand around what’s remaining, the heartbeat thumps like it’s part of you.
Saliva connects your mouths when you push Seonghwa back and separate your lips. He’s dazed, still looking up at you like you’re some benevolent god offering him saintly blessings, and you do. As you swipe your thumb over your bloodied lip, you push the heart firmly against Seonghwa’s parted lips. He groans, eyelashes fluttering around the taste, and there’s a sick squelch resounding in the air once he works his teeth into the flesh.
“This,” he says through soft pants, twisting his chin down into his shoulder to catch his breath even as you force the organ further against him. It stains his pretty tanned skin with red streaks that drip down the front of his white garb. “This shall be our final feast.”
You come to again on the floor of the shower, hunched over with your head leaned into the corner of the tiles. The water beating down on you is icy now; any lingering warmth you had upon entering has dissipated while you were unconscious. Beneath your head where the water can’t quite reach is a streak of crimson. You lift a hand to your head first in search of the source of the blood but stop immediately when a fresh drop falls. Tapping your nostril with your middle finger first to confirm, you rub roughly at your nose with the back of your hand to sweep away any other droplets that threaten to come out.
The shower handle doesn’t budge right away when you reach for it blindly above your head, fingers slipping off the knob upon the first few tries. By the time you finally do get it to shut off as intended, you’re huffing your frustrations out in small bouts of profanities.
Your head hurts by the time you are able to finally pull yourself out of the shower and get dried off, but the nosebleed has stopped so you take it as a small victory. San set out a fresh set of clothes for you on his way out it seems, something you had forgotten to do entirely, and you smile as you see them laid out on the bed through the bathroom doorway. Even though you’ve thoroughly dried off, it’s still somewhat a struggle to tug your pants on, and your turtleneck is even more a pain in the ass. You slip into your boots by the door as you’re lacing up the corseted vest San set out for you overtop your shirt. You tie it tighter than is necessary, mostly on account of your thoughts drifting off to other things as you go about your routine.
Of all things to dream about, the cannibalism of your captain is a new — and quite startling — one. No part of you wants to revisit the visceral images that haunted you, and you aren’t sure you want to understand the subliminal messaging your brain is trying to communicate with you either. It’s best, you imagine, to push everything about it far to the back of your mind to be forgotten in the waking hours and only recalled when night falls again.
The corridor outside your shared room with San is void of life, though you can hear voices rising from the first floor of the hostel. Upon descending the stairs halfway, you catch sight of San standing near the foyer, one arm folded over his broad chest as he uses the other to accentuate whatever he’s talking about with minute gestures. Nightingale stands across from him, with the bright glow of his eyes tracking your every move as you descend the staircase.
“Pardon me then,” he utters through a nod in San’s direction.
“Oh.” San glances back over his shoulder, gaze softening upon landing on you. “There you are.”
“Sorry it took me so long.” You aren’t wholly certain how long you spent passed out on the shower floor, though given that San seems to have already eaten, you imagine it was enough time to cause a bit of worry.
“No worries, star, I spoke with Nightingale to pass the time. He’s found a charter for Soojin and Luca to take, one that’ll get them to one of the larger ports a few cities over. Setheno here is more of a trading hub than one meant for more widespread travel. Apparently, Nightingale intends to leave with them, though it doesn’t depart until the beginning of next week so you… you still have time with Soojin. Not sure if or when we’ll cross paths again.” San shrugs, extending his hand out to you as you step up to him. “He also mentioned that the two of you had spoken recently.”
“Ah that… I, uh, I’m sorry for not bringing it up sooner. We were preoccupied with other things and it slipped my mind. Since we had already discussed similar things so much, I didn’t want to bring it up again and again or seem vengeful by any means.”
San shakes his head quickly even before you’re finished speaking. His hand shifts around your hip to rest against your lower back. “I’m not upset, don’t misunderstand. Simply wanted to be transparent and let you know that we had spoken about it as well — just the time you went to speak with him in the training room, that is. I had already given him a heads-up after I told you that story making sure he knew you were wholly aware of it. Even though I told you the circumstances of our relationship and what Captain had me do to him, I am very glad that you heard it directly from Nightingale too. Not just my side of the story.”
“Did you by chance tell him I knew of your history before I did that?”
“It’s possible.” San purses his lips and looks off at the wall as he seems to rack his brain trying to complete the timeline of matters in his head. “I stopped by the training room first thing in the morning after I told you, to speak with Yeon — Nightingale — and let him know the extent of your knowledge about our history. To be frank, I also told him that he need not be the one to share that history with you as I had already done so because I didn’t wish for him to feel it was his responsibility in any way. It seems he wished to disclose it regardless though.” He shifts his chin down and looks back at you with a small smile decorating his lips. “It’s a miracle we even have a working relationship, given said history.”
“He… didn’t mention any of that when I spoke with him.” Though you sigh, it comes out more as a breath of relief than anything else.
“You were still in bed when I got up, so I imagine I was the first to accost him. I’m sure he thought it was an organized attack on his psyche when we both came to corner him separate times to dig up ghosts of the past.”
“Which would explain why he acted like a raging asshole who purposefully tried to drive a wedge between the two of us?”
San’s hand withdraws from your back, and he lowers his head. “Please do not — just.” A breath before he deigns to lift his head again. “If you say anything further, I will not be able to resist hurting Nightingale. Should he hurt you, then I will hurt him tenfold in return. So please, if you do not wish to see that then bite your tongue.” You take his face into your hands.
“Quiet those thoughts, San,” you murmur. His gaze chases your lips then flutters shut.
“You’re right, it’s not helping anything to think like that.” When he brings up a hand to cover one of yours, your chest tightens. You wonder, albeit briefly, if you’re of any help or solace to him as he is to you. “I’m supposed to go help Yunho stock some supplies for the ship in a few minutes. You wanna come along?”
“It’s not as though I have any other plans,” you shrug, letting your hands fall down by your sides in unison.
The morning air is far more welcoming than the ambience you experienced last night on your walk with Mingi. With bright beams of sunlight cascading down across the gorge and the dense fog lifted from the streets, it’s almost as though that place you walked the night prior was nothing more than a figment of your imagination. Just as your cruel nightmare had been. Minho is going to have the time of his life when he hears about it, you know that much for certain.
“Ah, there you are!” Yunho comes into your line of sight in a flurry of white as he balances a stack of boxes on the ground before you and San. “San, these small crates are ready to go on over to the docks, I’ll take care of the medications!”
“This is more than expected, no?” San says, brows knitting together as he releases your hand to take up the crates. Yunho stares for a moment with his mouth open and his jaw wholly slack before he winces and shakes his head.
“Yeah, I guess I messed up inventory because I had to shift some numbers around and alter some entries.”
“It’s not like you to do that,” you add, and the earring dangling from your right ear chimes with the movements of your head.
“Hongjoong said the same thing but…” he hesitates. His tongue darts out to wet his slightly chapped lips. “Something must’ve slipped through. It happens! I’m sure it’s not the first time I’ve done so.”
You take two of the crates atop San’s stack without a word, and it earns you a sharp pinch in the side from the man himself.
“Can’t let me show off my big manly muscles for you, huh?”
“What? You don’t wanna see mine?” you tease in return, nudging him with your hip.
“Oh I’ve seen you show them off quite well,” he hums as his gaze seems to trace your body beneath your clothes.
“Ew! Ew, stop being gross in front of me, I’m still here!” Yunho covers his eyes with his free hand, balancing the crate he’s holding on his hip and cradling it under his arm. “Let’s run these over quickly; Mingi and Jongho are already at the dock running a post to help load and transport supplies. Say, do you know if we’re offloading today too?”
“Mhm, Seonghwa and I are meeting with a number of buyers this evening,” San replies, sidestepping you slightly when Yunho nearly knocks into him. “As are Captain and Yeosang, I believe.”
“Ah… sweet freedom,” Yunho hums, but his tone isn’t as light and airy as it usually is. You dare to glance over at him, to try to catch his expression or the gleam in his eyes, but he masks his emotions masterfully.
“He’s been a bit incessant since we landed, yeah?” San talks as though he understands what Yunho means nonetheless, and although it excludes you to an extent, you are certainly good at making your own assumptions. And frankly — it wouldn’t take a genius to guess.
“You know him as well as I do. Can’t stand change even a little bit.” Yunho clenches his jaw. “Speak of the devil.”
Ahead, Hongjoong stands with Seonghwa’s tall and lithe form at his back like a menacing shadow. If possible the circles under his eyes are even darker than last you saw him, though you aren’t graced with the sight of face for long before he’s turning away in a clear attempt to avoid eye contact.
“Here’s the rest!” Yunho says as you approach the dock, and any remnants of his emotions are tossed behind the metaphorical mask he slips on when Hongjoong acknowledges your presence. “Also, Mingi, those pain meds are at the top of this crate. I kept a bottle with me back at the hostel in case you need more while we’re here.” He passes off the box under his arm to the Berserker, patting the side of it as Mingi nods.
“Is something the matter?” you inquire when Mingi turns to you next. He motions for you to add your crates to his growing pile, waiting to respond until you’ve securely set them atop the one he’s carrying.
“I’ve been having a killer headache since last night. Have you?”
You lock eyes with him just before he straightens and the crates block his face completely.
“No, I’ve been just fine—” it’s unwise at best to lie to Mingi, but to do so with Jongho just mere steps away as well is simply asking for trouble “—no headaches. Has anyone else been having them?”
“Lieutenant,” Mingi says under his breath. He shifts his body to the side just enough to block Hongjoong and Seonghwa from seeing his lips as he continues to whisper to you, “though that may be due to another reason altogether.” The Berserker turns away, and you straighten up, clearing your throat in the process as the weight of your captain’s stare bears down hard on you.
“That’s the last of things, Captain.” Yunho passes his load onto Jongho as San departs from your side to help organize the cargo in the transport.
“Seonghwa will follow along to help finalize the deal on that side of the gorge.” Hongjoong beams like a proud cat, but the man at his shoulder does not share the same sentiments on his solemn expression. “Do be good and behave. I am quite eager to be rid of all the excess goods we’ve been lugging around for so long.” You avert your eyes so that you do not have to see the way his sharp gaze tries to sear holes into your skin. His index finger drums against the band of one of his rings on his opposite hand like a metronome. Steady and unwavering, tick tock, a slow and deliberate rhythm.
Seonghwa’s chin dips to his chest as he nods, and the man turns on his heel to follow after the Berserkers without waiting for further instruction. You almost wish to go with him when you see what unfolds before your eyes next — your proud captain sidling up to Yunho and looping his arm around the healer’s lithe waist. The look in his eyes reminds you much of an apex predator. As Seonghwa had once mentioned sending Yunho into the lion’s den, that analogy is not lost on you nor is it an inaccurate one to say the least.
“What are we doing today, dearest?” he purrs against Yunho’s shoulder despite the rigidity he’s met with. Yunho only has the gumption to stop the man when Hongjoong reaches down and tries to lace his fingers through Yunho’s, only to grasp at air as Yunho instead clears his throat and dodges the wandering touches.
Hongjoong’s soft gaze shifts in an instant, and his lips draw into a firm little line as he once again attempts to grab Yunho's hand.
“What exactly is it you’re trying to do, Captain?” Yunho hisses through his teeth with so much venom that he spits a little.
In that moment, your oh-so-proud captain has the audacity to look like a kicked puppy, lips folding out into a minute pout, and the tension in Yunho’s shoulders melts into nothing half a second after. Tick tock. Like clockwork.
Yunho lets out a sigh, one akin to defeat. He waves Hongjoong off and pries himself out of the man’s grasp, leaving him to glower and stare at the side of Yunho’s head with barely concealed fury. “I’m going back to the hostel. It’s too humid today to walk around. Come with, Y/n? San will probably go along with the Berserkers.”
You glance back at the transport, seeing San still inside next to Jongho, and give a slow nod. When you fall into step with the healer, it takes everything in you to not pass a lot over your shoulder at Hongjoong, just to see his expression one last time before you go.
“Sorry, I thought he would follow if I didn’t ask you to come with me. The last thing I want right now is to be cornered again.” Yunho’s lips quirk into a crude smile as he speaks.
“I can’t blame you,” comes your quick response. “It’s hard to say what’s worse: being alone with him in silence or when he decides to open his mouth.”
“Both are…” Yunho laughs out of the blue. “Truly stressful.”
At the door to the hostel, Yunho pauses his stride and turns to look at you. The image of him driving a knife into Hongjoong’s chest flashes before your eyes. If he were an angrier man, one not afraid of violence, perhaps that would be a potential reality on the horizon. Either Hongjoong’s hold is truly so deeply rooted that those under his thumb cannot move, or he is merely lucky that those closest to him are incapable of harming him.
But this Jeong Yunho before you is more akin to a white lamb left on an altar, much like Seonghwa and all others Hongjoong delights in toying with.
He grins a tad awkwardly.
“How do you feel about going to a bar with me tonight?”
────────────
Your excess of free time leads you into the courtyard, though you cannot claim to be outside for the scenery and nothing else. Rather, it’s the man seated at the small table he was at last time you spoke with him.
“I didn’t even have to hound you to meet me this time,” he chirps as you sit in the chair adjacent to his in lieu of announcing your presence. “What a delightful change.”
Minho turns the book in his lap over so that the pages splay over his thigh, and when he folds his fingers over the back, the spine gives a slight crunch.
“May I ask you an odd question?”
This makes him perk up a hair, eyes flashing interest as he angles his torso more towards you. “That is what my job is for, in a sense.”
“Does your job also include the interpretation of dreams?”
Minho offers a shrug, eyes flitting up to glance at the sky before coming back down to reconnect that unsettlingly firm eye contact he seems so obsessed with.
“I’m no fortune teller or witch, but there is some science to it.”
“What does it mean to dream about eating someone?”
A laugh rips from Minho’s lips, and it quickly devolves into a cackle that has him doubling over on himself. He slides his book off his thigh, snapping it shut without bothering to mark the place he left off on. He gives it the same amount of care when he tosses it onto the table like it’s nothing.
“There are simpler ways to occupy my attention, Ghosty, I must say,” he says, still chuckling as he jerks his chair across the cobbles to face you head on. “But you always pick the most exciting options. Eating someone?”
“My dreams since coming here have been odd and surreal, much like intrusive thoughts but dialed up to eleven.”
“Well, you aren’t alone in that. I’ve been having strange dreams too though… I fear none quite like cannibalism.” He draws a hand up to his face, thumbing over his chin before continuing. “In any case, dreaming of consuming someone can mean a myriad of things. It can be sexual in nature, it can mean you feel so close with someone that your subconsciousness interprets that connection as a need to take that person into yourself. Or there could be a level of intimacy to such actions, the act of one giving themselves unto you so wholly that they give you their flesh. Dreaming of such things is not always cannibalistic in terms of literally wanting to eat someone in the waking world. I would not be concerned that you will suddenly have the desire to change your diet anytime soon. Sometimes those dreams steam from desiring someone heavily — either sexually or otherwise. If those you’re consuming in your dreams are faceless beings, then it could be as simple as your mind begging for a deeper connection or a level of intimacy that is neither sexual nor romantic necessarily.” Minho pauses to smile at you, eyes falling shut and creasing briefly before he snaps them back open. “But I could sit here and psychoanalyze you for days if not weeks and still not be able to give you a definitive answer as to what it means for you specifically to be having cannibalistic dreams.”
His tone leaves more to be desired, as though there’s another thought hanging at the end of his tongue waiting for its cue.
“And yet…?” you prompt, almost immediately regretting your curiosity. The chime dangling from your right ear lets out its melody when you tilt your chin and further seek his gaze. Minho leans forward at the waist and into your personal space.
“And yet I can piece together who it is you are consuming in those dreams of yours, hm?”
Though you smile, your eye is twitching.
“You fear the conclusions you come to on your own might be true, so you go to others seeking other answers but when they tell you that you’re correct, you become incensed.” Minho hums and folds his arms loosely over his chest. “Hardly a unique dichotomy. It is in our nature to become so defensive, after all.” The doctor moves one hand and flicks an invisible fleck of dust off the pad of his thumb. When he speaks again, it’s with a flourish of his wrist. “There is nothing to be ashamed of really. Desires are natural. Lust is powerful. A denouement is on the horizon. And frankly, it’s hardly your fault given how every piece has been moved with such care to bring you to such a mental state. You cannot be expected to have done anything else with the odds so stacked against you—”
Minho catches himself a beat too late, eyes flicking open and darting over to your face in an instant as his typically manicured expression slips into one of slight panic. He exhales a breathy laugh.
“Ah… I see now,” he mutters. You hold his gaze. “How easy it is for one to let their guard down…”
Your tongue feels like cotton, and the thoughts in your head have slowed to as near a halt as is possible. Though your lips move around unformed words and phantom questions, you can’t seem to bring yourself to ask. As the doctor said, you dread vocalizing your thoughts only to have them confirmed to be true. Even if you already know.
If he were to ask right now: what is it you are feeling?, then you aren’t wholly sure how you would be able to answer that. Neither dread nor disappointment stirs in your chest, though there is a deep ache. In truth, it’s nothing you did not already know even if you had hoped Seonghwa spoke the words purely out of contempt in the heat of the moment.
When your hatred turns to infatuation, I’ll be sure to tell you all the ways in which Hongjoong has orchestrated the destruction of your psyche since your arrival here.
Minho makes no effort to correct himself or cover his words; in fact, he deigns to say nothing at all.
“Aren’t you going to say something?” you say, unsure of your volume thanks to how loudly your heart is seeming to beat in your ears. The man opens his mouth, closes it, then squeezes his eyes shut.
“What is it you’re expecting me to say?”
“That you misspoke,” you answer almost before he finishes his question. “That you spoke out of line, based on assumptions, that — that…”
“What point is there in appeasing you with half-hearted words that you know to be lies?”
“You tell me, you’re the psychologist!” When you jut your hand out to him, Minho’s face returns to its usual candor. He folds his fingers around your outstretched ones, clutching the back of your hand tightly as he moves quickly and efficiently to kneel in front of you with his knees on either side of your feet.
“Ghost — Y/n, breathe.” His other hand moves to your knee. “You have to breathe. Deep breath in, hold it, hold it, now let it go. Again, again. Come on, again for me.” Your hand is trembling against his despite how tightly he’s gripping it. “It is not your fault. You did not know. You cannot blame yourself for this.”
You sink into yourself. “I should have followed Jisung off that fucking cliff.”
“No, no, Y/n, that’s what we’re not gonna do or say. You’re spiraling.”
“I’ve lost my fucking mind.”
“You’re having a perfectly reasonable reaction to uncomfortable truths.”
“I must be fucking crazy,” you say through a shaky laugh as you lean back in your chair and let your head dangle off the back of it. “I must still be sleeping, that’s it. I’m not awake yet.” Minho grips you hard enough to make certain that his nails bite at your skin, as though to prove you wrong. “I need to—” Fuck, you need to feel anything other than this crippling anxiety pulsing in your veins. You bend in half again in a blur of movement, rushing forward and into Minho’s space in search of something that is surely a detrimental mistake, but he’s quicker than you are even in this panicked state because he flicks his hand up from your knee to place it firmly over your mouth before you get too close to planting your lips on his. Something akin to disappointment burns in his stare, though it’s replaced so swiftly that you want to believe you imagined it. Cheeks flame with an inherent shame as a wash of realization rushes over you.
“Enough of that,” he states firmly, as though chastising a small child. “You are not sleeping. You are not dying. You are not insane or crazy or whatever other colorful word you can think of that is synonymous with those two things. You are having a panic attack, Y/n, and you will be okay.”
Your body stops fighting him so heavily then. The logic in his words, combined with how certain his tone is, blocks out every spiraling thought for just a moment. The tension in your shoulders slacks as you slump in the chair.
“Thank you,” he says under his breath, slowly bringing his palm off your mouth. “Now, I need you to breathe with me. Steady and slow, just following my movements. Breathe in as I clench my fist, exhale as I release it, okay?”
You wet your lips as you nod in the hopes that it will dispel some of your trembling.
“Do not look at my face,” he murmurs, hand raised by his head. And when, slow and steady like a pulse, he draws his fingers in until they’re a tightly wound fist, you let his motions guide your breathing. Though your chest burns, the tightness in your throat is far more pressing and weighty. While not impossible, it is difficult to a degree to gulp down breaths until the searing panic dilutes. The black coating the edges of your vision diminishes. It comes with regret though because looking upon Minho’s face in your peripherals shows you an expression of such deep pity that you glance away in an instant.
Is this the oh so glorious fall from grace that Seonghwa had been waiting for?
“Ghost of Eros, who have you become?” It’s Jisung’s voice that echoes in your ears. You haven’t allowed yourself much time to fall into these thoughts since his death, mostly to keep yourself sane and away from more hellish thoughts. You crave the allowance to cradle your head in your hands and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until all thoughts pop out of you, but Minho keeps your right one firmly occupied still.
“You used to be the most renowned sniper in certain parts of the galaxy.” Ah, not Jisung’s voice. Minho is the one speaking to you. Yet his tone is tinged with that same venomous pity as before. “Say, do you even remember how to fire a sniper rifle, Ghosty?”
“Of course I do,” you say as you come back to yourself bit by bit. “You just… it’s not something that can be described so easily without demonstration.” You glance down at where Minho kneels before you. From this angle you can see down past the high collar of his white coat, and a blossom of redness sits across his smooth skin near his collarbone and across the line of his shoulder. He shifts under your stare, and the shrug makes his collar cover the welts across his skin.
“Are you blind to how reckless you are?” he asks suddenly. “In all departments, to be fair, but very much so in terms of situations that would put you in danger.” His chin drops to his chest as the doctor lets out a sigh. At last, he releases your hand, pushing up on his knees to help him stand upright for only a second before he’s dropping back into his own chair. “You live like a person who does not wish to. Thus, I am going to ask you this outright, and you will answer me outright in return. Fair, no? Do you wish to die?”
“No,” comes your answer, as though it is the most obvious thing in the universe. Minho levels you with a stare once more, and it prods at your already soft and sensitive outer shell. “No, it’s not that I wish to die. If I were to die then… perhaps I would not mind as much as others might in such a position.”
The man across from you leans forward enough to set his elbows atop his knees.
“Do you think of Jisung often?”
You wonder if this man is truly so good at his work that he can see through to your brain at any given second, or if you wear your thoughts and emotions on your face to be read like a book. On the other hand, the question feels more of one being asked by Minho-the-human-being as opposed to Minho-the-snarky-psychologist.
“I try not to.” Then — “I do not want to.”
“Does that come from a place of guilt?” Silence is often the most telling response. “Allow me to frame things in a more digestible way for you. Let’s say I die trying to protect a person I love. Then that person blames themselves for my death… in that instance, I would see a need to claw my way out of hell to tell her that I am fine. The choice made was not one made lightly. That she has nothing to feel guilty about. Because it was not her fault. That she deserves to be happy more than anyone else, and more than anything, she deserves to live on. If nothing else then for the mere reason of honoring the life given to save hers. The cost of sacrifice is not her guilt.
“I understand that Jisung did much to harm and betray you in the days leading up to his death. Even before then, too. But know that on that cliffside, what your captain witnessed and informed me of in the aftermath of that hell was a desperate man throwing himself at the remaining threat to your life after Hyunwoo fell. He had a goal to push Hyunjin off that cliff as well, and though he failed, he did so in an effort to save your life. Were he a man intent to die from the start, then he would have let himself be killed before even leaving that barn. His final gift to you was his sacrifice, and in that, his remorse.”
“Ha… oddly, that makes me feel more guilty than before,” you mutter through a crude laugh. Minho shakes his head.
“I would not tell you this unless I was certain you were ready to hear it. We are not the amalgamation of others’ hopes and dreams, nor are we destined to carry the memories of those we’ve lost as burdens. Do not carry his death as a burden of guilt upon your shoulders.”
“And what of you, doctor? Do you think of him often?” you inquire in return, finding his gaze drifting upwards to the sky. He chuckles as a hand seems to move to the back of his neck with a mind of its own.
“I did not join him willingly, yet I did not leave him willingly either. I am coping with far worse things than the aftereffects of Stockholm syndrome.” You wish to hear the words he won’t say. I try not to. I do not want to. “What I told you of caged birds carving their way out of their prisons with their beaks… such things come from lived experiences. I fear I cannot share in your mourning or your guilt, and I can never be a person who will sit alongside you to exchange fond memories of a man who left me with no such memories. Unlike you, I have no choice but to carry his memory on the back of my neck for the rest of my life. What he did for you in his last moments was freedom to me. I am free because of his decision to save your life. That shall always be my fondest memory of him.” Morbid, yet you share an understanding in that.
“Perhaps it shall be for me as well,” you mutter, a little wistful, a little longing. “May I request something of you, Minho?”
“Again, I am no witch so I cannot promise to grant any wishes, but I shall certainly do my best,” he jokes, one leg crossing over the other. You think of the man always standing at Hongjoong’s shoulder, tired eyes bearing down on the ground more and more often these days as his cheeks grow gaunt.
“Please help Seonghwa,” you implore. The expression that crosses the doctor’s face is vaguely close to the one of pity he spared you not long ago, though you find it to be less demeaning and more sympathetic now.
“I cannot.” His lips barely move, like he’s sorry to share the words with you. “I cannot help him unless he is willing to come to me. Forcing my care on anyone always has an adverse effect, and it limits what I can do if I am lucky enough to not be shunned immediately. As much as I desire to help him… there is nothing I can do. Not unless Seonghwa finds me first.”
You glance down at your lap in an attempt to hide your disappointment as you nod. The crumbling remains of your relationship with the lieutenant are ground too fine for you to handle on your own. Even if you did have the ability to do so, you wouldn’t know where the hell to begin trying to mend things. Regret bites at your skin like a rabid dog latching onto your ankle and slowing your path forward.
“I suppose that’s all I wished to discuss,” you say, clearing your throat. Granted, you got far more than you bargained for when coming here to ask one simple question. Minho’s gaze maintains its emotion as you stand up. Something rattles beyond the gate, and you cast a sweeping look over the streets on the other side in search of the source.
“I’ve poked and prodded you enough—” Minho twists his head to look towards the fence along the front of the courtyard. Though slightly delayed, he picks up on that same rattling noise you heard moments earlier. “I’ve bothered you plenty for one day,” he continues. The rattling continues behind him, and if you did not afford him your attention then you would have missed the way his blinks come in rapid succession, how he inches himself towards the edge of his chair like he’s eager to bolt out of it. “I do not wish to overstimulate you by speaking further about these matters, but do please be gentle with yourself. Not only tonight, but in the coming days as well.”
“I’ll try.”
“I am always available,” he continues, swallowing roughly after speaking those four words. “Be well.”
“Same to you,” you murmur. You take one last glance over the edge of the spiked fence before you depart the courtyard the way you came and head back into the sanctity of the hostel.
Minho stands abruptly the moment you disappear behind the door, and when he does, a hand holding a none-too-inconspicuous orange bottle juts out from behind the wall the fence connects to.
“Enough of that,” he hisses. His eyes flit across the streets on the other side of the fence; his concerns, however, are baseless as the citizens milling about continue on their paths without sparing the scene a glance. A head of mussed black hair and dingy highlights pokes out from the same place as the bottle, then sharp red eyes come into view next. Minho is graced with the full extent of the Brute of Kebos’ face a second later. His steps carry him to the edge of the fence, close to the wall where he’s met with Mingi fully revealing himself.
“She was on her way out,” he argues. Minho wonders if the Berserker poked and prodded at your emotions the way he had.
“There was no need to draw attention to yourself in such a manner.”
Mingi huffs out a breath of air that sounds oddly akin to a laugh. He dangles the pill bottle over the spikes of the fence. It’s barely kept from tumbling down between his index finger and thumb.
“Captain’s orders.”
Minho feels a twitch beginning to make itself known in his right nostril. Foolishly, he stretches a hand out in a feeble attempt to snatch the bottle from the man’s grip, but Mingi yanks it back. He doesn’t even get to lay a single finger on it.
“And what does your captain desire from me this time?” The Scourge of the Black Sea and his crude bargaining chips, and even cruder methods of exercising them. Mingi glances past the man to the door you just passed through.
“He asks for the same thing she does.” Ah, so Mingi was listening to an extent.
Minho can’t contain the laugh that tears from his lips. “Then I’m afraid my answer remains the same: I cannot help someone unwilling to see me.”
“You’re incapable of knocking on a door of all things?”
One less knowledgeable might mistake Mingi’s words to be an attempt at humor. Minho leans forward and rests his forearms between the spikes lining the barrier between him and the pills.
“Have you ever heard of those old folklore stories and fantasy fictions about vampires? How they cannot enter a home without being allowed in first? My line of work is very much similar to that — I cannot force myself upon anyone, nor can I convince anyone to let me in.” He fixes his eyes on Mingi’s despite how much terror the sight of those red irises brings him. “Simple. As. That. I might as well not exist at all in your lieutenant’s eyes, and until he is willing to see me, then your captain’s orders are an impossible feat.”
Silence stretches between the pair. Mingi stares back at him, but there are no cues or indicators of emotion for Minho to glean from at all.
Then — Mingi twists the cap of the pill bottle off, and before the doctor can even suck in a panicked breath, half of the pills are dumped onto the ground on that side of the fence. At his feet. Some drum against his shoes and scatter across the cobbles. The twitch moves up to Minho’s eye, but he’s blinking so furiously that it’s hard to tell the difference between the annoyance and panic.
“I know you’re feeling antsy, doctor. Did someone take the stash you smuggled into that little pack of yours?” Mingi quirks a brow at him. The faint upturn of his lips tells Minho that the Berserker is enjoying this quite a lot, paying that sadistic voice in his head its dues in things other than blood. “Or did the real doctor finally figure out where his meds have been disappearing off to?”
“Tell…” Minho has to let his mouth form around the words on his tongue in silence for several seconds. He cannot tear his attention away from the bottle in Mingi’s palm. “Tell San to approach him and implore him to meet with me. Or you can do it. Either one of you should be perfectly capable of such a thing.”
“Good on you, doctor.” Mingi caps the bottle, and it’s like all the oxygen in Minho’s lungs comes alive as he starts breathing steadily again. The Berserker cups the back of one of his hands and sets the closed bottle in his palm, delicate and gentle, then with his other hand, he curls Minho’s fingers around the cylinder. Warm. “I apologize for my crude tactics. I was not the one who stole the medicine.” Mingi’s touch is like hot coals against his skin.
“I am aware,” Minho sighs through his teeth as he straightens up. His grip on the pill bottle is iron tight.
“I shall leave you to it then, doctor.” Mingi turns and disappears behind the wall once more, leaving Minho where he is. Once he’s certain that the Berserker’s steps have withdrawn, he shifts his jaw until it pops. A sear of pain ripples through his cheek.
Minho glances at the half-full bottle in his hand, then drops to his knees to pick up the fallen pills off the dirty cobbles through the wrought iron bars.
────────────
When you find Yunho again, it’s already late enough into the evening that you need to have your mask up even though the majority of the people milling about have neglected to do so. Yunho is not one participating in that majority, leaned up against the wall close to the hostel door with his arms crossed over his chest. Though you cannot see his face in its entirety, you imagine he gives you some sort of faint little smile when you pivot and make eye contact with him.
“Didn’t change your mind?” he asks with a tilt of his head.
“Dare I say I need a drink as badly as you do?” you jest in return, though the level of truth in that statement is far greater than you’d like to admit aloud. “Come on, there’s a bar just down the street.” He keeps pace with you despite his long legged advantage. Quiet lingers in the air between you, but it’s far from a peaceful one in your opinion; you both seem to have plenty occupying your minds, and those things are the exact reason why you’re seeking alcohol in the first place.
The bar, quaint as it may be, emanates a nice warmth that’s a welcome relief from the humidity of the evening. The purple-tinted glow of the streetlamps filters through the windows and casts colorful shadows across the tables and floors. People line the booths and the tables, leaving small pockets of unoccupied space near the corners of the bar, but it’s the actual bar itself that Yunho drifts toward with you following in tow.
“Whiskey on the rocks for me—” you’re barely seated when a bartender flits over to the two of you and Yunho puts in his order, leaving you to stutter out a quick “gin and tonic please” as he tries to make a speedy departure. To his credit, Yunho wastes no time in getting into the thick of things right off the bat. “I’m being made a proper fool of, aren’t I?”
Your thoughts drift back to the morning, to the ostentatious show Hongjoong put on, to the day prior when the captain did something similar with more success. Your heart aches for Yunho again, as it has so often these days.
“It’s hard to watch, isn’t it?” comes his second question, and this one is far easier to answer honestly.
“It is, a bit,” you mutter as the bartender returns with two drinks and slides them across the counter. You stare at the budding condensation on the outside of the glass. “But we’re all fools when it comes to love, aren’t we? I’ve ignored things that are very deeply… not right with San, choosing to ignore it time and time again because I want the love I have for him to be easy and simple.”
Yunho huffs out a rather exasperated sigh against the rim of his glass.
“I don’t even deserve this. I don’t deserve to be treated like this. What went wrong wasn’t my fault — it was fucking Hongjoong and fucking Seonghwa playing a dumb game of jealousy with me as one of the pieces. Seonghwa manipulated Hongjoong into getting what he wanted — just like he always fucking does — and then Hongjoong manipulated me into going along with it because he knows I would follow him blindly into anything.” Yunho tangles his fingers through his hair so roughly that your scalp aches just watching him tug at the strands. “Seonghwa just wanted to fuck Hongjoong, so why’d he have to drag me into it?”
“Yunho…”
Conversation slows to a halt between the two of you. The rumbling beats of music hanging about the bar seem so much louder in the absence of Yunho’s voice. Your fingers trace over the dangling chime attached to your right ear as your other hand flexes around the base of your drink. The conversation lulls to a halt long enough for both of you to finish your drinks and receive replenished ones.
“I know my place compared to him,” he says like the words are pure venom on his tongue, “and no one can take that place. I’ve long since come to terms with that.” When he laughs, the sound comes out wet and choked but his eyes only glisten with some form of loathing. “I thought I could get around it since the two of us are so damn different but that doesn’t change the facts. I’ll never be a killer or Siren or anything else of use to Hongjoong so what’s the fucking point? I failed at the one job I had — couldn’t do shit to help Mingi and got replaced by a shiny new doctor because I’m too involved in the personal lives of the crew but we fucking live together so how can I not be involved? Does he expect me to not make friends or have feelings or wants? God forbid I have wants!”
“Yunho,” you say again, louder and with a hand firmly pressed to his shoulder when his voice turns strained. He jerks his chin in your direction as though realizing for the first time since he sat down that you’re beside him. “Just let everything go.”
“I don’t want to be stuck in one place forever, chasing my tail and running in circles because I keep caving to a man who won’t ever…” Either his mind goes elsewhere, or he cannot bring himself to finish the thought. “I’ve been good at pretending I don’t know Hongjoong’s game all this time. Good enough to where he doesn’t seem to realize that I’m fully aware. But despite that, I let myself give in over and over again. I’ll never be able to get out if I keep doing that.”
“What is it you want then?”
“To make a decision for myself and not be judged for it, not have him looking down on me for it. I want… to have someone who isn’t Hongjoong.” Yunho dips his chin to his chest then looks up at you. His tongue runs along his lower lip before he catches it between his teeth and blinks several times in quick succession. The look would be undoubtedly flirtation if not for the deep nervous furrow of Yunho’s brows. “We’ve teased and toyed with the idea, haven’t we? Would it be so bad if we had each other just because we wanted to and not for any other reason?”
For once, you’re assuredly quick to reject the proposal.
“Even if I was fool enough to believe that’s what you truly wanted, I’ve never done that and had it be truly no strings attached.” Unless you were to count that time with Yeosang, though that feels like a different beast in retrospect. “To be strangers would be one matter, but with how messy and interwoven the threads are — that would be an unavoidable mess.”
“You’re right,” the healer mutters through a sad grin. His fourth drink arrives at the same time your third one does, but his pace hasn’t slowed one bit. “Part of me knows that I’m never going to love someone the way I loved Cassie, and there’s so much of me that would rather not try to fall for someone the way I did for her. In the beginning, things with Hongjoong were okay because my feelings for her were lingering and fresh, yet even after it stopped being about coping with the losses we shared, we kept going back to each other. I used to be tied to this idea of making things work because I fell for some part of Hongjoong that I don’t even know exists anymore. I want to be careless and free again without having to worry about how much collateral damage it may cause.”
“Look around: there are plenty of fish in the sea here.” You shrug your shoulders up close to your ears. “Plenty of people would love to have a nice tall man in their beds for a night, I’m sure.” In an attempt to bring some sort of levity to the conversation, you crack a smile and nudge Yunho with your elbow. He ducks his head once again, though this time, the tips of his ears are flushed bright red and he hides the rest of his blush from you by taking a drink. You laugh into your own glass.
“You’re quite intimidating, you know that right?”
“Hm?”
“Like, Cassie had a sort of soft beauty to her, even when she’d come to me with cuts and scrapes I needed to patch up, she still held an almost ethereal aura about her. You’re attractive in a really intimidating way. And that’s not me coming onto you, just to be honest, I don’t have any explicit reason in saying that. I find you objectively attractive, always have. Maybe it was actually really fucking hot to see you stand up to Hongjoong day one the way you did!” He’s laughing as your expression twists into one of shock. “You and San look really good together, yeah?”
Despite biting back a smile, you roll your eyes and push his hand, and subsequently his drink, down to the counter. “Had too much to drink already?”
“Well my eyes still work! What a mean sandwich the two of you would make.” Yunho’s sigh is half joking and half wistful. The corner of your lips quirks up even as you hold your index fingers up in the sign of an ‘x’ over your face.
“You aren’t the only one who suffered a bad experience sharing the dear lieutenant as a third,” you say from behind your fingers.
“Ah, what a good homewrecker the man makes.” You agree with the sentiment internally, because it feels too cruel to voice it. “I hope it doesn’t come between you and San, truly. San has… he’s finally found something to protect and hold onto desperately, and you’ve given him a stronger voice to stand on his own. Without heeding Hongjoong’s every whim, that is. So I hope that the two of you last for a long time.” Yunho shakes his head ever so slightly, lips curling around the rim of his drink. “Such serious talk for a night out! Have you found the freckles on his ass cheek yet?”
“Yunho! I’m not telling you whether I have or not?!”
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding! But really, you gotta give me more credit — that little pleasure piece down there was my doing.” The wink he sends you, coupled with the insufferable, shit-eating grin painting his lips as he speaks drives you to slap the back of your hand to his bicep.
“Where exactly did you learn to do all of that anyway? I doubt it’s something you picked up from your mother in the clinic.”
“I taught myself, for the most part. With lots and lots of videos. And of course, practice, back when the crew was larger and I had many more people readily eager and willing to be test subjects. We made frequent pit stops, sure, but I had to make do myself at a certain point.”
“Yet you don’t have any yourself?”
Yunho laughs. “I wouldn’t dare try to. I’m quite the pussy when it comes to pain. Stub my toe too hard and I’ll scream like a banshee.”
“It’s that bad?” you say through a laugh of your own.
“Jongho and San used to play this evil prank on me where they’d leave little things on the ground for me to trip over or step on, just to see who could make me cuss the loudest. They finally had to quit because the last time, I face planted into a wall so hard when I tripped that I broke my nose and busted my cheekbone. My poor, pretty cheekbone.” He cradles his cheek, eyes squeezed shut to add to the theatrics of it all. “Cruel bastards, the both of them!”
“My team in the military wasn’t big on pranks, from what I recall.” It’s not the liquor that makes you take a trepid walk down memory lane, but Yunho’s reminiscence has you thinking back as well. “One time I fell off the top bunk in our dorms, but that was because I yanked on the bed sheet too hard, all pissed over something stupid, then my hand slipped, I punched myself in the face, and fell off the bed in the process. I tried catching myself on the way down but landed so hard on my arm that I snapped my clavicle.”
“Holy shit? Holy shit, I bet that hurt like a bitch!”
“To say the least, but I think actually my pride was what was the most damaged at the end of the day. I mean what a loser way to break a bone.” You nurse your drink as Yunho laughs again, and a sharp pang of clarity hits you after the fourth sip. Laying your hand on his forearm, you naturally pull his focus to you, a curious and equally puzzled gleam to his eyes. “You deserve to feel happy, Yunho.”
His lips part like he wants to counter immediately — perhaps to tell you that he is happy — then a smile covers the momentary crack in his facade. It’s strained and pulls at the corners of his lips too hard.
“Having someone to fuck isn’t always the solution to that,” you continue before he gets the chance to make excuses or play the fool. “And I know I’m the last person who ought to be saying that, but it’s something I’m trying to teach myself too. If I can do it though, I know you can.”
Yunho’s expression does not give away much, though his brows are pinched together just enough to indicate that some thought in that head of his is causing some level of distress. Rather than offering up a response, he downs the rest of his drink like a pro and fetches enough credits from his pocket to cover both of you and then some.
“At least I don’t feel inadequate doing that,” he mutters, just barely audible, before pulling his gas mask up over his face. A sigh leaves your lips, but you follow him nonetheless, mimicking the same motion as you get up from your stool and follow him to the door. He doesn’t speak again until the two of you are out in the night air outside the bar. “Do you think there’s any happiness to be had where we are? Doing what we do?”
“If you wanted to wash your hands of it all, you could,” you say after a breath of hesitation. Yunho looks forward, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.
“Because I’ve not killed anyone?” he scoffs. The scrape of his heel over the cobbled streets echoes along with the sound. “How many wounds have I stitched up for criminals? To either keep them alive or make sure they can keep on doing as they please? My finger may not be on the trigger, but I am just as guilty of putting the gun in killers’ hands.”
You shrug your shoulders up, walking ahead of the man a few steps and turning to look at him face to face as he steps forward with you.
“The guilt is yours to bear as you see fit, but you are no more guilty than the mothers who birthed those criminals. You told me once that your job is to save lives. Do you measure the lives of those you save by their deeds, good or otherwise?” You spin on the ball of your foot to walk alongside Yunho again. “Then—” your index finger points to the sky, then angles down to the man beside you “—who are you to be the judge, jury, and executioner?” Yunho’s breath hitches. Perhaps your stare is a bit too harsh, a tad too uncaring. “San has killed innumerable amounts of people. He did unspeakable things in his past. Does he then not deserve to be saved by you, doctor?”
“That’s different, the circumstances were—”
“Ah, so there are circumstances to your judgment?”
Yunho hisses through his teeth, a sharp spike to his frustration that hurts your arm when he grips you hard enough to bruise. Though you could easily detach yourself from his grip and plant Yunho on his ass right here in the streets, you refrain from doing so sheerly out of curiosity. A longing for an explanation to his madness. The straps of your mask dig into the back of your head. Yunho has shoved you into a cramped alleyway that’s hardly big enough for two people, but he manages it well enough by pinning you to the wall of one of the buildings. You shift your jaw in an attempt to alleviate the strain caused by the mask biting at your skin.
“You do not understand. There are things I cannot wash my hands of,” Yunho spits out. His mask clanks against yours so hard that you worry it might break.
“Yunho,” comes your breath of warning.
His hand trembles where his fingers are latched around your wrist. When he speaks next, it’s without the same vehemence.
“I have a confession. I can’t blindly continue onwards while holding onto it. I… wanted you when you first joined the crew. I wanted you so badly.” His eyes flicker back to something more recognizable: familiar, warm, an inviting chocolate brown, searching for answers in your gaze. He finds nothing in the firmly set flat expression you’ve schooled yourself into mastering. “I wanted to do to you what Hongjoong does to me,” he continues. The bait bobs along the surface of his eyes, and you can see yourself taking a bite if you’re not careful. “Just to see… if it would be as easy as he makes it seem…”
“But you couldn’t.” A pesky strand of hair has gotten caught in the strap cradling your skull, and its nagging pain distracts you. “Because you’re not that kind of person.”
Yunho lifts a hand to your throat. It’s large and encompasses your skin with ease.
“Hongjoong has a way off killing you without letting you die. Like he’s reaching into your chest and ripping your heart out.”
Yunho’s fingers pulse around your neck, and they surely feel the way your pulse jumps and scatters into a frantic rate that betrays your panic before your expression cracks and the panic seeps through to the surface there. His grip loosens a hair, and his hand trails down a little too far for comfort. You recover from the lapse and snatch him by the wrist to stop his movements. When you dare to look up at his face, you find him staring upwards at the slivers of night sky between the tall buildings on either side of you.
“I know. I pretend to be dumb around Hongjoong but I know. I know Hongjoong is taking the damn painkillers, know he’s trying to make me believe that I’m taking stock wrong even though I’ve been doing it for years without issue — for fuck’s sake — just like I know that when I’m selected for missions it’s not because Hongjoong thinks I have any value being there. All he wants to do is spite Seonghwa. I know I’m only allowed to fuck Hongjoong because he won’t put his dick in anyone that isn’t Seonghwa. It’s always Seonghwa, Seonghwa, Seonghwa.”
“I know, Yunho, you told me already. It’s okay.”
“Ah, I’m sorry, I must be — I’m feeling the liquor a bit, that’s all. Don’t take anything I say to heart.” Yunho’s smile looks more like a sneer though. “Is it… could it be because I refuse to kill? I can’t — reason out why it is that I’m not enough?” His head collides with the wall above your head, and you have to jerk your head to the side to avoid bruising his throat with the hard edges of your mask. “If I should kill someone then—” you hear his inhale even through the filter of the gas mask, then his hand is up around your throat once more. Tighter this time, squeezing at the base of your neck in a way that is wholly ineffective if he were truly trying to murder you here and now. With his ramblings, however, you aren’t sure you can take those chances.
“Yunho,” you offer a final warning in the hopes of reaching the part of his brain that controls his reason. The fingers at your throat dig in like he’s aiming to take chunks of your skin out with his nails.
“If I am tainted, perhaps he will desire me more.”
“Please forgive me for this in the morning,” you mutter under your breath. His head tilts much like a dog’s would when faced with confusion. Unbeknownst to him, it only allows you better access to the pressure point you’re after, and your fingers jam up against it faster than he has time to react. His muscles are rendered all but useless, and you twist his body in your grip hard enough to make his knees give out. The second his knees thud against the ground, you slide your arm around his neck, bending your elbow just hard enough to restrict his air flow without doing too much harm. “This is for both our sakes,” you add just before his gaze goes a bit hazy and unfocused. He passes out in your grip seconds later.
There’s a moment of guilt that takes over you, one born of the panic in his eyes when you grabbed him, but given the circumstances, you’d much rather live with that than have him live to make a decision you know he would regret terribly. You loop your arms under Yunho’s and do your best to hoist him up enough for you to support a majority of his weight.
“You shouldn’t have to kill someone just for another to love you back,” you mutter to Yunho though he cannot hear you. “…I hope that you never have to break that rule you made for yourself.”
You can only be thankful that Yunho didn’t pick a bar at the other end of the city, and your struggle in walking back to the hostel with the much larger man draped around your shoulders like a sack of flour. When you flatten your hand to the door leading inside, Yunho’s head lolls to the side. You nearly slam his temple into the doorframe as you thrust the door open with your foot.
The lobby and attached lounge are both void of life; a far cry from the night prior where you came into such a warm and lively atmosphere. Now, you cross the threshold silently, passing empty chairs and empty couches in a sort of greyish lighting adding to the already dismal ambience. The staircase looms before you, dim and shadowy at the top like it's trying to mock you. The air rushes out of your lungs then back in quickly in an attempt to brace yourself for the upcoming struggle.
“Allow me.”
“I’m beginning to think you lurk around every corner just waiting for me to pop up,” you joke, half-serious as you look up at the man who has just stepped into view at the top of the staircase. He shoves his hands into his pockets, and with each step down the stairs, his sandals slap against the wood.
Five steps from where you stand at the bottom, Mingi tilts his head to the side, gaze drifting over Yunho’s limp form quick enough for you to almost miss it.
“You would be incorrect.”
He descends the rest of the way.
“I know, I know — it’s just a—”
“Every corner would be improbable as there are places where corners do not exist.” Mingi smiles first with his lips, then with his eyes when he squeezes them shut. You’re stunned into silence just long enough for him to relieve you of Yunho’s weight without argument. “But if I give away my hiding spots then you’ll know where to look for me.”
“…places where corners do not exist?” you murmur.
“You’re overthinking it, Ghost. It’s just a joke.”
“I didn’t kill him,” you say, nodding towards Yunho’s limp form that’s now supported by Mingi. The damn Berserker makes it look so easy that it hurts your pride, for no reason.
“Well, he’s still breathing, so if you had claimed to then I would be questioning both your sanity and how good you are at killing people.” Mingi’s words actually stir a laugh out of you — one of disbelief, but still a laugh nonetheless, and you shake your head. Loosening the mask around your face, you let it hang about your neck and suck in a breath of air unfiltered now that you’re in the safety of the indoors.
“He was rambling nonsense and on the verge of making… a terrible decision.” Your gaze lingers on the side of his face as Mingi hoists him up a bit higher. “It’s thanks to my intelligent decision to knock him out that I did not kill him.”
Mingi’s gaze sharpens on you.
“He made an attempt on your life?” What comes out as a simple statement at first morphs into a question by the end of it. Your subconsciousness drives you to rub at the base of your neck where the skin itches some still.
“No,” you say after several seconds of silence. “No, he was seeking guilt. I told him that there was still a way out of this for him, that of all of us, he could escape freely. He despised that answer quite a lot, and then—” a lazy wave of your hand finishes the thought for you.
“It is understandable. His greatest fear is inadequacy. Yet, he is a Normie. He is not capable of anything great. He has no place on this crew by comparison.” Mingi’s flat tone coupled with the brutally harsh words take you aback. Climbing the stairs slowly, you keep pace with the Berserker while eyeing the man draped over his back. Still unconscious, or a very good actor perhaps. “He is useless, and yet he remains. Because he is needed when others make mistakes.”
“Mistakes?” you hum. “Our captain seems to make a lot of those.” You ascend a few more steps only to realize that Mingi is not following you. Turning, you see him three steps below you, red eyes watching you with blank curiosity. You squeeze the railing tight in your left hand.
“Yunho should leave the crew, then.” Said as a statement, you almost don’t realize that Mingi is asking you if that is your true opinion until many seconds pass in silence.
“Yunho should… do what is best for him. What is best for his heart and mind both. If he is truly so miserable here, then why should any of us demand that he stay? If we — if we truly care for him then allowing him the freedom to choose is the best thing we can do for him. Even if we do not like the choice he makes. You know much about that, do you not?”
“I could have chosen to take the serum, yes,” Mingi says, shaking his head as he speaks. “You fought for my ability to choose back then, but that is different than now. Yunho has zero desire to leave. Given how you are speaking, you know that very well. He has made his choice. If you truly care for him, then is it not best to allow him to live with that choice no matter the consequences?”
Your tongue weighs heavier in your mouth, and an acrid taste is rising in the back of your throat. You try to clear your throat to dispel it.
“You have not yet given up on your hopeless ploy to save people who do not wish to be saved, Ghost.” Mingi’s gaze turns narrow, and he looks up at you through half-lidded eyes. “Or perhaps is that an excuse to cover up your subconscious intentions? Dispel those closest to the man you find so evil so that you may drive the knife into his chest without suffering deeper guilt.”
“Are you accusing me of something, Mingi?” It’s nothing short of a miracle that your voice remains steady and contained. He steps up one, two, three. Now he looms over you, bending at the waist just enough to be eye to eye with you, and there are mere centimeters between your faces.
“It is in your nature, Ghost, to kill those with authority over you,” he says, his breath huffing out over your cheeks. “I keep warning you time and time again. You will not succeed this time if you make an attempt. Do you truly wish to die at the hands of someone you cherish so deeply? Or have you deluded yourself into thinking that he will not be the one to execute you at his captain’s command?”
“And how do I know you are not doing your captain’s bidding right here and now?” You tilt your chin up and look Mingi in the eye without faltering. “How many instruments has he engaged to orchestrate my failure and destruction?”
“Oh, how interesting.” Mingi chuckles. “You finally caught on.”
“So again I ask if you are accusing me of something? Because if you were truly doing that, then I would not be alive and breathing right now, would I?”
“Between the two of us, you are not the only one guilty of regicide, Ghost. It is in our nature,” he repeats through a whisper that makes you shiver. “The question is… how willing are you to repel that part of your nature?”
“Are you?” Your gaze narrows on him as you hiss out your counterargument, but Mingi hardly reacts at all. You may as well have not said anything at all based on the way he blinks slowly back at you. “Let’s simply get Yunho upstairs,” you murmur, turning your chin away from the man and looking towards the top of the stairs. Mingi leans back enough to let you breathe easy again, and you steal a glance his way when he straightens up. “Where’s his room?”
“Hongjoong is in it.”
“What?”
“He had Seonghwa book one room for him and Yunho to share.”
“That’s—” utterly psychotic. You bite the words back though; you’ve frayed the ends of Mingi’s nerves enough for one day and it would be unwise to continue to do so further. And though your rage towards how Seonghwa has been treating you of late is not quelled one bit, you do feel some outstretch of sympathy solely on account of how downright cruel such a request from Hongjoong is.
“Yeosang and Wooyoung are sharing, as are Jongho and myself. You and San have a room, the doctor and Nightingale, then your friend and her small charge.”
You hesitate at the top of the stairs. The hand you have wrapped about the railing is so tightly wound that your knuckles are stained white.
“…Our captain had the lieutenant book a room just for himself?”
Mingi mumbles something, uncharacteristically quiet and under his breath. You do not press him to echo the words to you.
“Then let’s bring Yunho to San and I’s room. We’ve got a perfectly suitable couch he can sleep on.” The door to your room is blessedly right across from the stairs, and you give a series of light knocks to announce your arrival that’s met with no argument. San awaits inside, propped up in bed with a book set before him and the lamp casting light over the pages. His features mold into a smile that’s soft around the edges just before his gaze flits past you and finds Mingi lugging in an unconscious Yunho about his shoulders. The book snaps shut with a pop! and he slings his legs over the edge of the bed.
“Did something happen?”
“The two of us went for drinks, and he had a bit much,” you explain. “I, um, had to knock him out to get him back here.” As far as you’re concerned, San doesn’t need to know anything beyond that right at this moment. Mingi allows you such privacy and leads Yunho’s limp body to the couch across from the bed.
“Ah… Hongjoong and him are sharing a room too. We got back not long ago but — disturbing his beauty sleep is asking for death, pretty much,” San mumbles, bringing his hand up to his mouth. “We can leave him here no problem, right? Are you comfortable with that, star?” When he comes over to where you’re standing, his hand drifts to cup your hip, thumb tracing over the flesh through your clothes. You don’t think twice before leaning forward and pressing a kiss against the line of his jaw.
“Mhm, that’s fine. I actually suggested that too.”
“He’ll be fine on the couch for one night surely.” San cracks a smile that’s a little lopsided and very endearing. “Though, if he complains, I’ll just remind him of how much worse it could’ve been!”
Mingi clears his throat as he rights himself. His gaze slips from you to San then down to the man now sprawled over the couch cushions.
“And if he asks where his bedmate has gone?”
San’s lips fold into a more devious smile. “I’ll simply say I’ve borrowed him for a bit of fun!”
Mingi does not betray much with his expression, but you know that he does not find the excuse to be so believable that it will deceive Hongjoong.
“Then, if that is all…”
“Hm? Oh, yes, goodnight Mingi.” San offers a small wave but Mingi does not budge even as the Spectre turns to the bed.
“Thank you for your help. I appreciate it,” you say to the man.
“Of course.” He looks like he wishes to say more, but refrains on account of San, who’s begun to hum behind you as he crawls back into bed. “Goodnight.”
You exhale a breath that was lodged firmly in your lungs when the door snaps shut behind Mingi. It doesn’t take much work to rid yourself of your clothes and get into something far more comfortable, though glancing at Yunho on the couch leaves you with an inkling of guilt again. His attempt on your life was still very much that — you hardly regret stopping him the way you did (in fact, you left him practically unscathed) — but the place it was coming from was neither genuine or one born of reason.
“He came onto me,” you mutter over your shoulder. Once again, you hear the flutter of pages and a snap as San forgoes his book and redirects his attention to you.
“You are welcome to do whatever you please.” His tone holds no animosity; San can be perhaps a bit too forward with his emotions when he speaks. Tonight, you are grateful for it though. “Yunho is a very good partner, quite doting and accommodating to whatever needs and desires his partner might have.”
“Not…” you clear your throat. Abandoning the dresser, you move to the bed and slip underneath the covers. “Not in that manner. Though it was a topic of discussion briefly. As was the idea of a threesome, but I rejected both offers rather quickly.” You fold your hands over the sheets. It’s a struggle somewhat to look at San’s expression as he’s still sitting upright further up on the mattress than you, but his comfort comes in the form of fingertips tracing your hairline. An encouragement to continue, or a sign that he’s listening intently to what you have to say. “I suggested that he find others to sleep with instead. Can’t take him anywhere: people were ogling him from all sides while he was… lamenting his relationship struggles.”
“Far from surprising. He’s always garnered that sort of attention wherever we go.” San laughs as he runs his fingertips over your scalp. “It’s a shame…” He stops himself from finishing the thought, but you’re not given a chance to press him to continue. “You’ve not stopped trembling since you came in,” he murmurs. With his free hand, San moves his book off to the side table and sinks lower under the covers until he is eye level with your shoulder. “What…” San seems to weigh his words very carefully before daring to speak again. He settles on the most barebones question of all. “I’m always here if you need to talk, yeah?”
And you yourself cannot fathom why you’re trembling at all or when it began. Mingi failed to mention it to you, though you understand that it could have been mere courtesy. To confirm, you lift a hand from the sheets and watch your fingers shake like grass under unruly wind in the low light.
“Ah,” you let out a noise of realization. “I didn’t eat anything before or while we went drinking. Maybe that’s why my head’s bothering me too.”
“Do you need anything to help you sleep?”
“Mm, no, I just need to sleep it off.” You let your hand fall back to its place atop the sheets. “You said once that Yunho is the best drinker on the crew, right?”
“Best at handling alcohol by far, yeah.” San laughs a little as he angles his head down to rest against your bicep. “I’ve seen him down eight shots in a night and not even be tipsy afterwards.”
It stands to reason then that Yunho’s excuses of blaming the alcohol for his behavior are shoddy at best.
You do not fear Yunho, nor were you in any sort of genuine fear for your life back in that alleyway. Your brain barely perceived him as a threat — certainly not one to leave a lasting impression on you. And though it is odd, questionable even, and calls into question your sanity, you do not feel unsafe in San’s presence. There is a lingering unrest brought about by the severe lack of knowledge surrounding what Hongjoong may or may not have had him do to you since your first meeting, but the safety that comes with being beside San has not been called into question. When he tucks himself back under the sheets and rests his head in the juncture between your neck and shoulder, you are all too aware of the steady breaths coming from the couch.
Perhaps it is not that you are afraid, but rather that this unending discomfort comes from some deeper realization. Tonight, whether sober or not, Yunho seemed prepared to abandon that cardinal rule he set for himself: to never bring harm to someone. Solely because he believed it would grant him Hongjoong’s favor.
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A familiar landscape greets you when sleep finally descends, though it doesn’t come with the mild comfort of white sands and black waters. Grey dust pools around your feet, bare and sinking into the flaky terrain as you take a few tentative steps into the ruins ahead. Even in its dilapidated state, you can see that you stand in the remains of a church. Something acrid reaches the inside of your nostrils, making your lip twist in disgust. The stench of something long dead.
One pew remains intact. Upon it sits a figure with contrasting black and white hair split horizontally across the back of his head. His form is so perfectly still that it makes you wonder if he’s even truly there. When you push further into the ruins, the ground gives way with each step, making the grey ash climb up to your ankles. Something sharp digs into the soles of your feet. From what you remember of being in a place similar to this before, you do not want to look down.
“Wooyoung?” you call out. You grip the end of the pew to step carefully around it and look at your friend. He deigns not to return your stare; instead, his gaze is trained firmly on the shattered remains of what once was a stained glass window behind the pulpit.
“Do you know what used to be there?”
His question catches you off-guard, and as you shift to look between the window and his face, you shake your head. Then, right before your eyes, the glass trembles and morphs, broken pieces climbing up from the heaps of ash around the church. As though drawn by some magnetic pull, they move to fill in the frame. The picture fills itself out piece by piece, stained red by the moonlight filtering in from behind, and it makes the imagery all the more horrible to look at.
Long, bony fingers that stretch into sharp points spiderweb over a small face with closed eyes with even smaller hands clasped as though in prayer. The arms attached to the hands descend from above but there is no body to be seen, nor is there a face to put to the monstrous figure. The figure below — the child — kneels on a stone that juts out over a deep black abyss. In the empty space between the arms of the unknown beast, a red moon gleams. Below the abyss, separated by a thin bronze strip, there is a raven with its wings spread wide, and the head is turned sideways, its maw open and pointed towards the sky. The one eye that’s visible is the same red as the moon above it and the one currently hanging above your heads. Its talons curl around a bleeding heart.
“Daichi says that the murders… the sacrifices were always for the greater good of our people. What justification can there be for killing your children and grandchildren under the guise of being blessed by some unseen gods? I don’t get it,” Wooyoung mutters. He leans forward and places his hands on either side of his knees, clenching his fingers around the wooden bench. “If they had known what would happen to them, would they have still done so? Or would they have murdered more in vain attempts to beg for protection from their gods? Repeated the ritual in smaller and smaller increments of time until there were more adults than children? Or even… sought younger candidates for their plight?”
You deign not to answer any of his questions outright; they do not seem to be directed at you in the hopes of response anyway, but you doubt he’ll receive a response from either the ones responsible for the atrocities or those beings such sacrifices were for.
“Our ritual failed. Why?” Vague memories filter their way through your head but they aren’t tangible enough for you to grab hold of.
“I won’t die because of their fate. I won’t let them choose how my life ends or when it ends.”
“Our fates have been sealed, Tsukio. Isn’t it simpler to accept that?”
“Don’t call me that. That’s not my name. And yours isn’t — it isn’t Umiko!”
“They did not have the opportunity to conduct it.”
“Why?” you press again, harder and with more force to your tone. Wooyoung is selecting little truths out of the bigger picture.
“They…” Wooyoung stands suddenly, pursing his lips as he looks down at the floor where ash resides. You wonder if he too feels the slight crunch beneath his toes, if he knows what remains there. “…did not have enough children to do so.”
“They did not have five children to sacrifice?” you retort the second he finishes speaking, and a flush rises up his neck to stain his cheeks. In one blink, Wooyoung looks utterly ashamed, but in the next, a flash of anger takes over his face. You wish to inquire further, wish to know what sowed those seeds of shame, crave to understand that which you cannot remember yet Wooyoung can. None of your questions leave your lips, however.
“They did not deserve to bear even a single child if they were going to just raise their young for slaughter.” Wooyoung turns his palm to the sky, narrowed gaze glaring down at the ash painting his skin. He thumbs over it with his other hand. “I don’t like it here. I don’t want to be here.”
Before you can react, the world around you swirls like it’s in the center of a vortex, and the church dissipates into a haze of nothingness. In its place, black water stretches out before you. Your toes sink into soft sand and smooth stones now instead of ash and bones. The violent and sudden shift makes your stomach lurch, sending you forward to propel your hands forward to brace on your knees in a barely successful attempt to catch yourself as a dry heave ripples through your body. Wooyoung looks none too bothered in stark comparison.
“How do you do that?” Wooyoung watches you carefully out of the corner of his eye as you approach the spot where he crouches by the water. “I can’t seem to control any bit of the Dreamscape while I’m here.”
“That’s not true,” he sighs before patting the sand beside him. You take the invitation to sit down there, folding your legs underneath you. “You can, we share the same abilities in that way. You simply can’t remember how to do so.”
“Would you show me, if I asked?”
Wooyoung’s lips quirk a little, and he shifts to kneel in front of you. Taking your left hand into both of his, he flips your palm up to the sky.
“Close your eyes.” Two fingers dig into your palm. “Imagine a butterfly sitting on your hand; the type doesn’t matter, just picture it in your mind. Think about how it would feel, the shape and size of it, what it would look like.” You do as told without complaint or question, letting his instructions flow over you as he continues to speak. “It gets easier over time, and takes less time and effort. Like me now, I can change a whole landscape with just a thought. Or revisit old memories in the same manner. It starts small, though. Thinking something into existence out of nothing. Keep focusing on that image of a butterfly in your hand… and eventually you open your eyes—”
Your eyes flit open when you feel the slightest phantom touch against your palm.
“—to something amazing,” Wooyoung whispers through a smile, looking down at the same spot on your palm.
There in place of his fingers sits a small butterfly with wings painted blue and black. The wonder that bubbles up in your chest is palpable, like the wings of that very butterfly are beating frantically against your ribcage. It folds its wings in and out on your palm, small spindly legs testing their strength against your flesh, then in the blink of an eye, it brings itself into the air and flutters up and away into the starry sky. You lift your hand closer to your face, and your fingers trace over the spot where the creature just was as though another might pop up in its place.
“So, yes, you are capable of altering the Dreamscape as you see fit. You likely have already done so here and there; perhaps, not consciously, as Seonghwa mentioned to me you only feel able to use your abilities if your life is under duress. That makes sense — to an extent, it’s true. Your Siren genetics act as a barrier of sorts to defend you in times of need, but you are equally capable of using them in other circumstances.” Wooyoung reaches both his hands out, motioning for you to let him take hold of yours. This time he cups both your hands together. His palms are warm against your knuckles, and his fingertips skate over your wrists. “Now try again, with something bigger. The same way as before.”
An image blooms behind your eyelids when you shut your eyes, and as you focus on bringing the creature to life with your mind, Wooyoung’s honey tone seeps into your ears.
“While you won’t be able to do this in real life, it helps to start trying to hone these abilities in the Dreamscape. Learning to focus your energy into something, to pull from an invisible pool within you — these are both key in being able to draw upon your Siren abilities in the real world. It’s easier when your body is asleep because there aren’t any external stressors happening at the same time — so long as you aren’t ripped out of sleep early.” Wooyoung’s hands withdraw from yours, but you can still feel the heat emanating from them so he must remain close. “As a Siren, you can do all sorts of things that others might find odd and unnatural. But that’s how the universe works, no? San has his endless stamina, can blend in with shadows to conceal himself, has that Spectre constitution that lets him run faster and jump higher. Yeosang has his intelligence, the elevated mental capacity that comes with being an Elitist. A natural tendency to lean towards logic over emotionality, and everything comes easier to him even if it’s something he’s never tried before. Mingi and Jongho have their unmatched strength, but also the unfortunate side effect of absorbing the emotional auras of those around them which makes Berserkers more prone to aggression and violence due to an overstimulation of the limbic system.
“And people like you and me, Seonghwa — what we have is a legacy. It differs from person to person. No two Sirens will have the same extent of ‘powers’, however, I despise calling our abilities that because it sounds childish. We’re all born with our intuition. You’ve felt it before with both Seonghwa and myself, and I know I’ve mentioned it to you. We can sense another Siren’s distress and push out energy to soothe or provide comfort. Similar to Berserkers, a bit, in that we can feel what other Sirens feel. Some history books even claim that the first settlers on Celeste were Berserkers and the gods of Celeste blessed them to create Sirens, though I find it hard to believe. The key difference is that rather than absorbing emotions from fellow Sirens, we possess something of a heightened empathy.”
Wooyoung withdraws his hands completely, quicker than you expect him to, and the haste in his movements bring you to open your eyes and look over at him. His gaze lingers on your hands. Whatever words he was going to share with you are lost as his lips part to let a sigh slip out. Something soft writhes between your palms, fluttering and beating a few times before quiet warbles emit from the space. You part your thumbs, gingerly and ever so carefully, to reveal a round budgerigar so young that its adult feathers have yet to fully come in. It twists its head around, surveying the surroundings with beady black eyes, before stretching its small wings and unveiling the black striped pattern across them.
“You… made a bird.” Wooyoung reaches out to it with his index finger crooked like a perch, and the bird climbs up without hesitation. It remains unphased when Wooyoung brings his face close to it, merely letting out a little warble and tilting its head at him. “Incredible.”
Without another word, Wooyoung lifts his hand up above your heads, and the bird immediately takes flight. You watch it disappear into the trees across the lake with a similar feeling of wonder as before when you created the butterfly. Wooyoung’s gaze lingers longer than yours, seemingly consumed by thoughts you aren’t privy to, and when he turns back to you at last, his expression is more troubled than anything.
“As I was saying — Sirens, we can shift the density of our bodies to go through objects like a wall or a door, though it is more difficult to master as you risk getting stuck inside whatever object you’re trying to phase through. But, well, it’s different for you. Most Sirens cannot go through living things, or rip a man’s heart clean out of his chest.” Wooyoung gives you a sympathetic smile.
“Nothing we don’t already know,” you reply with a shrug.
“Seonghwa mentioned a certain incident that occurred on Dorado.” Wooyoung winces a bit and looks down at the sand. “He was asking me questions, at least. I put two and two together based on what we had talked about that one time and asked the right questions to get the information out of him. Not maliciously! I just needed to be certain about why he was asking, in case — so that I could understand better. I ended up doing some research on a few of the databases Hongjoong has access to, and there are records of Sirens being able to do similar things. Most, unfortunately, were captured by the military or slavers to be used as weapons. Some were test subjects as well, and there are a few detailed studies about being able to phase through living beings. Other records showed that militaries use Sirens as batteries to power other soldiers with their blood, which is horrific. I couldn’t stomach to look into that for long, it was just too gruesome.”
“Then it’s possible that both you and Seonghwa could do so?”
Wooyoung hums, nodding a few times, “Yeah, in theory. I’ve never made any attempt to do so. And Seonghwa never mentioned it before he learned of you doing so. Had you ever done anything similar before then?”
“With a living creature, no. Early on when I first joined the crew, I recall being able to pass through bullets without taking harm on my first mission. Then when I was captured with San, I was able to free myself by phasing through ropes.”
“Both of those instances were likely your natural instincts jumping out as a form of self defense.”
“What of your ability? Daichi mentioned it some time ago, that we were found to be most apt for sacrifice because we were Sirens not meant to exist. He implied that I shouldn’t be able to rip a man’s heart out with my bare hands, just as you should not be able to kill Sirens within the confines of the Dreamscape.”
“If I am able to kill Sirens here in the Dreamscape, then it’s a tad terrifying to think of what forsaken ability you were given. And to be fair, ripping hearts out is a mighty horrifying ability to have, so it might very well be what sets you apart. Though Daichi is limited by the constraints of our knowledge here, as far as I know. Unless there is an unknown entity that resides in the Dreamscape alongside him, then he only shares information which we already know. Hence why he can be so damn dodgy when answering questions. I’d assume that at the time when you told you that, he was gleaning knowledge from the two of us, or potentially Seonghwa. Seonghwa believes that you should not be able to do what you did to that man; that was why he approached me asking for information, because he has some inkling that you and I are not the same as him.”
“He’s inconsistent at best,” you say, drawing a confused glance from Wooyoung before clarifying, “Daichi is. Sometimes it truly does seem like he only knows what we know, but other times, he speaks in riddles and circles as though he knows more than he lets on.”
“Something of an unreliable old man, hm?” Wooyoung jokes through a soft laugh. “I know he dislikes me because he fears me. I have tried and failed to kill him before. But because so much of his identity is an oddity to me, I’m not sure if I can hurt him at all. Regardless though, he loves to remind me that I was supposed to die alongside you and three other children a long time ago. I don’t believe him when he says that we were only meant to die because we were special. We were marked to die as babies. Our abilities did not come until later, until after the cult had conducted all sorts of experiments on us. That cult was the same one who made us a dyad, with the hope that in the future we would have been able to further a stronger bloodline. Why would they have gone through so much effort for children marked to die?”
You recall this somewhat from what Wooyoung has told you in the past.
“We were part of a group of children used by a defunct sect of the main church… an old, defective sector that had broken off a long time in the past and taken their teachings with them…There were thirty children to start, all chosen from birth and offered by their families for the tests, yet each year, more and more children died. By the time the Ritual Year came along, there were only seven children left, and among them, both of us remained…It wasn’t something given at birth, not a gift from the gods — it was a harsh result of cruel and repeated testing and experimentation that kills dozens of children. Except, despite us successfully making it through that ordeal, we were still meant to die in the ritual, as a sacrifice to the gods.”
“Perhaps they wanted to find a way to halt the sacrifices,” you mutter, toying with a bit of loose skin around your pinky nail. “Instead of sacrificing children to be blessed with Siren abilities, maybe their intent was to make it so that Sirens could be self-sufficient without gods. I imagine… any parent doubtful of the church’s teachings would have been eager to find a way out for their child.”
“I suppose that much could be true. I remember next to nothing of my parents, even less of my grandparents, so whatever beliefs they held true to are a mystery to me.” Wooyoung inhales so sharply that he winces a little. “Regardless of any of that, it’s a good sign that you're still able to tap into your abilities. It means more might come back to you as time continues to pass.”
“Sometimes it feels more like I’m regressing rather than moving forward,” you complain, dropping your hand and leaving your cuticle be for now. Wooyoung hums.
“It makes sense, given what you’ve been forced to go through lately,” with his words comes a tone so full of reassurance that it makes your chest ache. “An overload of new information on top of relearning yourself — learning that much of what you thought you knew to be real was a carefully constructed lie. No one would blame you for having those feelings. It could very well be that your own mind is getting in the way of you remembering what it means to be a Siren in an attempt to protect you from further harm. Since your mind may be uncertain what’s real and what isn’t, you could be unintentionally blocking yourself from honing your abilities and can only tap into them in life or death situations.” Wooyoung reaches out across the space between your bodies and sets his hand down on your knee. “I promise I’ll do my best to help you distinguish between what’s real and what isn’t. I can only do so much if your mind subconsciously thinks that whatever memories are still locked behind the wall the serum put up are dangerous. But I do like a challenge. Hell, I made an Elitist fall in love with me, so what’s some pesky military medicine compared to that?”
You purse your lips, letting one of your hands cover Wooyoung’s and give it a small squeeze.
“You’ll have to forgive me if I rely on your optimism too much. It’s hard for me to be as confident as you.”
“That’s okay. I’ll be positive for both of us!” Wooyoung twists his hand in your grasp and pushes it upwards with his own. Your fingers splay out against each other, his extending past yours by several centimeters. “When we were little, my hands were smaller than yours. I thought I’d never hear the end of it with the way you so mercilessly teased me.” His eyes turn glassy as he looks at your palms pressed together. “Before I moved into Yeosang’s room at the castle, when we shared a cot in the broom closet next to the kitchen… we would compare hand sizes every night, and I always insisted that my hands would be bigger than yours one day. After we were separated and you were forced to leave, I would hold my hand up to the ceiling and ask you if it had finally outgrown yours.”
It sends a pang through you knowing that Wooyoung has to relive these memories alone, that you cannot share in the nostalgia the same way he does. You hardly know what to say now, so you intertwine your fingers and cling to him as tightly as you can without causing pain. His hand trembles in your grasp, the same way his smile wobbles.
“How lucky I am to finally see the day where I can say I was right to your face.”
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You’re stirred awake by a gentle nudging against your shoulder, and it isn’t until your consciousness starts processing what’s going on that you hear San’s voice filtering through the haze of sleepiness.
“Hey, star, we gotta go downstairs.”
“Mmhmph?” you grumble, hand grabbing at air a few times before it finds purchase on San’s warm and solid bicep.
“Yunho wants to introduce us to the owner of this hostel. He claims — he says it’s his father.”
genuinely am seriously so thankful and grateful and touched by everyone who has been sending love and messages lately, even if just to say they've been thinking of me/moc or rereading in the long wait it truly truly motivated me to keep pushing onwards and keep going despite everything :')
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a/n: good god where do i even begin TT if not for an apology for the obscene and absurd and stupid amount of time it has taken for me to get this out 😭 genuinely was wanting this to be posted in january but holy heck look at the time it's.... may... kms...
nothing will make up for the long wait but i do hope you enjoyed this chapter nonetheless!
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
#ateez x reader#ateez series#hongjoong x reader#seonghwa x reader#yunho x reader#yeosang x reader#wooyoung x reader#san x reader#mingi x reader#jongho x reader#ateez fanfic#mists of celeste#caly.writes#ateez fic#ateez ff#moc: spoilers
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Condor Two
RE4! Leon Kennedy x Reader
Summary- You're Leon's partner, separated by villagers when you arrive in Spain.
Word Count: 3425
Established Relationship
A/N: Something different, there will be more to the Family Matters series coming soon!
I should’ve gone with Leon, you thought. Maybe if you had, you wouldn’t be tied to a pole and helplessly watching a Spanish police officer being secured to a pyre. What a way to begin your search for the president’s daughter.
Even more frustrating, you could hear Leon talking in your earpiece, trying to reach you. But with your hands literally tied, there was no way for you to respond. You hoped Hunnigan would be able to get a location on you. Of course, Ashley Graham remained the priority. But knowing Leon, he wouldn’t rest until he’d recovered the both of you.
The scent of old manure and death filled your nose. Your wrists and ankles ached and burned from the ropes binding you. At least you didn’t have to go looking for that village, you supposed. Still, you doubted that you’d find Ashley here.
As the sun rose, you surveyed your surroundings. Old wood buildings surrounded you. Chickens, cows, and pigs roamed freely and the villagers… well, you didn’t know what to make of them.
You and the officer tied to the pyre had been ambushed. They’d slashed the tires of the police car that had brought you out here and quickly overwhelmed both you and the officer. There was a throbbing in the back of your head where you’d been hit before waking up here. Wherever ‘here’ was.
Villagers wandered aimlessly through the small town, muttering things under their breath in Spanish. Something wasn’t right with them. Black veins covered their pale skin and their eyes were wild. It didn’t even seem like they fully registered pain. Some were covered in cuts and blood that they hadn’t bothered to clean and the bandages you did see were old and dirty.
“Condor two,” came Leon’s voice again, “Condor two, do you read me?” You rolled your eyes and groaned. You wanted nothing more than to answer him. “Y/n, where are you?”
Waiting for Leon to find you wasn’t an option. If your suspicions were correct, you were next on the sacrifice list.
The villagers had taken your guns when they’d taken you, but they hadn’t stripped you of your jacket. The small knife sheath strapped to your forearm was still hidden beneath the sleeve. There wasn’t much room to move, but you could move your arm against the pole just enough to free the knife from its sheath.
Warm leather fell into your hand and you gripped the handle as tight as the rope would allow. The angle was awkward and your hand was already beginning to cramp, but you slowly began to saw away at the rope.
Keeping an eye on the villagers, you watched them begin to gather in the middle of town where they’d constructed the pyre. As long as you stayed quiet, hopefully, you’d avoid drawing their attention.
A thought crossed your mind. How were you going to save the officer? He struggled and yelled, pleading with the villagers to let him go. His words carried no weight.
The ropes around your wrists fell to the ground. Now you just had to free your ankles and then–
One of the villagers approached the pyre, a thick burning stick in his hands. Before you could blink, he tossed it into the wood pile and within seconds the whole thing had gone up in flames. The officer screamed and flailed. The smell of burning flesh filled your nose and you knew there was no saving him.
Heart pounding, you reached down and cut the rest of the ropes. Finally free, you crouched down and quickly dashed between the nearest buildings. If there was anything you knew for certain, it was that you couldn’t stay here. You didn’t stand a chance against a whole town with only a knife.
You turned the corner and skid to a stop. Not everyone was in the town square. An old woman stood in front of you, a pitchfork held firm in her bony hands. She raised the pitchfork and swung so fast you were barely able to dodge. You dropped to the ground and kicked her feet out from under her. You were on her in a second, pinning her shoulders down with your knees and driving your knife into her temple.
She lay dead and you quickly searched her body for anything that might be useful. Your shoulders slumped. Nothing.
Mud squished behind you and you turned to find a group of four more villagers stalking toward you.
"C'mon," you muttered, frustration laced in your voice like venom. There was no winning this fight. Your only choice was to turn tail and run. But to where? The last thing you wanted to do was run deep into the woods with nothing more than you knife. So what–
An axe whizzed past your head, lodging itself into the wall behind you. "I take it we can't talk this out," you said. The villagers only growled back at you.
You vaulted over the fence next to you as they pounced, narrowly avoiding another axe. Then you were running as fast as possible.
Branches scratched your skin, mud sloshed and slid beneath your feet. You didn't know where you were going, and nor did you really care at the moment.
You burst through the trees and found yourself in a small clearing. You stopped to see if anyone had followed you and when you didn't hear anything but the sound of rustling trees and chirping birds, you let yourself relax.
"Condor one," you said, reaching to activate your earpiece. "Condor one, I'm here." No reply. "Leon?" Nothing. You tossed your arms. Of course your equipment would stop working the instant you were free.
You looked back toward the village. Smoke rose into the sky. The screams of that poor officer still echoed in your ears. You knew you needed to go back, that if you were going to find Leon the best place to start looking was there. But having nothing more than your knife to defend yourself with made you hesitant.
Still, it's not like you had much of a choice.
"You got the stench of battle on ya," a rough voice said. You whirled on your heels, knife ready. A man in a black cloak stood behind you, a purple mask covering the lower half of his face. "You can put the knife down, I mean you no harm."
"Who are you?" You demanded, not lowering your knife.
He chuckled. "Just a man tryin' ta make a living. Got some rare things on sale for ya, stranger." He held out an arm, revealing a variety of weapons and ammunition along the inside of his sleeve.
"Impressive," you mused. "But I don't have any money. So thanks, but no thanks."
"Nothin' wrong with doing things the old fashioned way," the merchant replied. "How 'bout a trade?"
His offer was tempting. You didn't have much, but maybe there was something you could give him in exchange for that pistol you spotted on his sleeve.
You lowered the knife and folded your arms. What did you have to offer? Your knife wasn't worth much and you were hesitant to part with it. Aside from that… Your heart sank as you remembered the one valuable you did have on you.
Leon had gifted you a necklace on your birthday last year. A beautiful silver piece with a small yet intricately detailed bird hanging from it. He never told you what it had cost, but you knew it had to be expensive. Subconsciously, your hand came up to touch it.
"That's a fine piece you got there," the merchant said.
You didn't want to, but it could mean the difference between life or death. After a moment of silence, you asked, "What will it get me?"
"It may be small, but this beauty packs a mean punch." He showed off a revolver. "And as a first-time customer, I'll toss this in free of charge." He flaunted a can of first aid spray. "Whaddya say, stranger?"
Given the circumstances, you weren't sure you could pass up the offer. Reluctantly, you took off the necklace and handed it to him. As promised, you received both the revolver and spray.
The merchant must have noticed how your eyes continued to follow the necklace as he held it. "This is in good hands, I assure you. Now, don't go gettin' yourself killed." There was nothing more to say. The deal was done. With a simple nod, you turned away and began to trek through the forest back toward the village.
You felt naked without the weight of the bird against your chest. Ever since Leon had given it to you, you'd almost never taken it off. What would he think when he saw you without it? That necklace was his silent claim on your heart.
Romantic relationships between agents were frowned upon, forbidden almost. As far as the agency was concerned, it was a conflict of interest and if anyone found out, it was likely they'd separate you. Leon couldn't have that. He needed you as his partner both on and off the field, to be sure you were (somewhat) safe and alive.
He must be worried sick, you thought. Unless it was absolutely necessary, Leon hardly ever allowed radio silence between you two. It had been hours since you last had contact with him. Hell, the last time you saw him was when he left the police car to find the first police officer that had wandered off, instructing you to keep an eye on the second.
You checked the chamber of the revolver. Six bullets. Six shots. You had to make them count.
You tried your earpiece again. Still no answer. Maybe the signal would get better the closer–
"Mother of god!" You yelped, pawing at your ear in pain. A loud screech filled your ear, followed by the sharp crackling of static.
A voice was coming through the other end. It was Hunnigan.
"Condor two," she said, "What is your status?"
"You could warn me next time before you almost blow out my eardrum," you shot back. "I'm still breathing. All four limbs are accounted for. I'm on my way back to the village."
"Negative, Condor two," Hunnigan replied curtly. "There's a good chance Baby Eagle is being held in a church by the lake. I've sent you the coordinates."
"Well, I'd love to see those, but I've lost pretty much all my stuff." You could practically see her rolling her eyes.
"Alright, I have a lock on your position. Head north from your position. Leon is on his way there now."
"Roger that, Roost. Condor two out."
You finally managed to find a path leading north. So far you'd encountered no one else and you hoped it'd stay that way. You wanted to hang on to your six bullets for as long as you could.
"Condor one?" You tried again. If Hunnigan was able to reach you now, you should be able to reach Leon. Right? "Leon?" Silence. You'd be having a serious chat with your techies when you got back.
The lake couldn't be too far now. Trees and brush was beginning to thin and that musty lake smell began to hover in the air. The gravel path you walked along slowly turned into a muddy trail. You emerged onto the bank of the lake. A castle stood menacingly in the distance on the other side. To your left, you saw old wood scaffolding webbing up the side of a cliff. A dock sat just underneath it and at the top, you could just barely make out a church's roof.
Looks like that was where you were heading. With a new determination, you began the long walk over, falling back into the treeline to avoid detection from the water and clifftops.
~~
Ashley Graham was the priority. She was the one they were here to save. Even if one of you had to be left behind or killed to do it, she was the objective.
But Leon refused to leave you. Even if he had to take your body back to the States, there was no reality where he left you here in this hell.
He'd come so close to you in the village. He'd seen you through his binoculars and then you were gone. Once the villagers had retreated into their church, he'd searched the place high and low, finding only your guns and equipment. He was fearing the worst knowing you were out there with only a knife, assuming it hadn’t given out on you yet.
He continued along the winding path, still trying to catch his breath. The village chief had nearly choked him to death not long before and he still felt the ghost of his fingers on his neck.
"Looks like you're in quite the rush, stranger." Leon stopped and rolled his eyes. It seemed like this merchant was there at almost every turn.
Oh well. Leon could stand to lose some excess weight from his bag. As he opened his mouth to reply, his words caught in his throat. There, among the vast array of goods, was your necklace.
"Cat got yer tongue?" The merchant chuckled.
"Where the hell did you get that?" Leon said, his voice low.
"What? This?" The merchant held up the necklace. "An exchange with a traveler lookin' to keep their head on their shoulders."
A part of Leon wanted to be hurt that you'd traded it. But his more rational side understood that you didn't have a choice. He'd found everything but your knife in the village and he knew well enough that you'd need more than just that to make it through this.
The merchant was a reasonable enough man. Leon was sure he could trade something to get the necklace back. Without a second thought, he rummaged through his bag and pulled out two silver goblets and a handful of gems he'd found in the village.
"Must hold sentimental value if yer gonna trade all that for this," the merchant observed. "Can't put a price on that." Still, the merchant tossed Leon the necklace and stashed away the rest. "Pleasure doin' business with ya."
That was easy, Leon thought. Much easier than he anticipated.
Pop pop
Leon perked up. Two solid gunshots had come from the direction of the church. It had to be you. It had to be.
He took off running, not caring if he drew attention to himself. He had to find you.
~~
The church was crawling with villagers. You'd managed to kill three already, but the rest materialized from everywhere. From behind the church, from the graveyard, from the way of the lake, they were everywhere.
Down to four bullets, you had a choice to make. Ashley could be just within reach. You could potentially thin out this crowd for Leon by the time he got here, make his job easier at the cost of (most likely) your life.
Or you could turn tail and run. You refused to keep running.
Someone grabbed you from behind, wrapping their arm around your neck to choke and hold you still while another prepared to swing their axe.
You dropped your weight and threw the one holding you over your head. Grabbing your knife, you threw it as hard as you could. The one holding the axe fell with a hard thud. You ran and pulled the knife free, turning just in time to stab it into the head of another.
A pitchfork came flying at you. It whizzed past you, the spokes just barely missing your arm. Blood began to flow from the wound but you had to keep fighting. Any hesitation could result in your death.
Four more surrounded you, cornering you against the fence. Your drew your pistol and fired twice. Two flew back and dropped to the ground. Two bullets left.
You took aim once more and just as you were about to pull the trigger, something slammed into your back. You were thrown fast and far, landing hard against a headstone. The pistol clattered out of reach and when you went to pull your knife, the blade snapped from the hilt.
Your arms shook as you tried to push yourself up, only for them to give out and leave you nearly limp against the headstone. A monster of a man towered over you, a massive hammer held menacingly in his hands. He raised it high over his head.
Time slowed down. Memories began to flash through your mind. Your first time meeting Leon at bootcamp. Sparring with him in the middle of the night, comforting each other when the whole world felt like it was collapsing in on you. The first time he kissed you.
A sense of peace washed over you as you watched the hammer begin to fall, sunlight glinting off of the metal.
No. You couldn’t let it end like this. You rolled, the hammer meeting the ground where your head had been not a second before. Scrambling to your feet, you dove for your gun. Back on your feet, you shot down two more villagers. Better to have them dead now and not wait for them to gang up with the big one against you.
Your bullets were gone and your knife was broken. You scanned for anything you might be able to use. The brute marched toward you, hammer ready. You lept over headstones, ripping a shovel from the hands of a dead villager.
You turned just in time to bring the shovel up to meet the hammer, stopping it in its path. The wood handle splintered, your arms shook with the strength it took to keep the hammer from you. The handle cracked into two pieces and the brute charged into you, throwing you hard against a tree and knocking the air from your lungs. He charged again, hammer high and then–
BANG!!!!
The man stumbled back forward. Another BANG and he fell to the ground lifeless.
“Y/n?” came Leon’s voice. A second later he was in front of you, cupping your face in his hands.
“I had it handled,” you muttered.
“Of course you did.” He helped you sit up the brushed your hair away from your face. The urge to pull you into his arms was overwhelming, but with the beating you just took he didn’t want to risk hurting you even more. At least you were alive. “Think you can stand?”
You nodded and let him help you up. Your legs were shaking and your head felt dizzy, almost falling into Leon as you tried to regain your balance. He held you against him until the world stopped spinning and you could stand on your own again.
“What happened?” Leon asked, his arm tightening around your waist, almost as if he were afraid that you’d disappear the moment he let go.
“Got bored, decided to go sightseeing,” you replied. He gave you a look. “We were ambushed and I have been hit in the head too many times today.”
He nodded and dug around in his pocket. "I found something I thought you might want back." He held up the necklace you'd traded with the merchant.
"Leon…" Guilt and shame came over you, but also relief at the sight of it. "I'm sorry, I–"
"I know," he said, moving to fasten it around your neck and tucking it under your collar. "You didn't have a choice, I get it. I also found the rest of your stuff."
A weight lifted off your shoulders. Your pistols felt like a comforting blanket as you strapped them back on. "What would I do without you?"
"Crash and burn," Leon said simply as he hooked an arm around your waist and drew you back to him, crashing his lips against yours. He pulled away and smirked down at you, knowing the kiss left you breathless.
It took a moment for you to regain your senses and when you finally registered the knowing look on his face, you swatted his chest. “C’mon, Romeo. We still have a job to do.” It took another moment for your feet to start moving again, your body wanting to stay wrapped up in his arms. They couldn’t waste any more time. “Baby Eagle’s still waiting for us.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Leon watched as you quickly approached the front gate of the church, a new pep in your step. He’d do everything in his power to make sure you weren’t separated again.
#leon kennedy#leon kennedy x reader#leon s kennedy#leon scott kennedy#resident evil#resident evil x reader#re4! leon kennedy#resident evil 4#re4 remake#re4 leon#leon x reader#resident evil leon#leon s kennedy x reader#x reader#leon kennedy fic#Leon Kennedy
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Solo Horse And Rider
Nine poses for a solo rider and horse, plus all-in-ones. There are some issues with clipping reins (when using posed versions) and floating feet - please see details beneath cut!
You will need:
- Pose Player
- Teleport Any Sim
- Horse Ranch EP
Useful, but not required for the poses to work:
- Iberian saddle and Medieval Engraved Bridle With Reins
- Reins For Posing Bridle
Download here (always free)
SFS | Patreon
TOU: you may adjust for personal use to avoid clipping etc., but please do not reupload/paywall/claim as your own.
Other CC used: Leg bells and braided mane/tail/forelock by SchrodCat | Default replacement horse skin by @minervamagicka | Celebrimbor armour by @plazasims | a slightly edited version of Apricot Blossom Preset by Simsboo
I'd love to see them used! You can tag me on Twitter, Instagram, or Tumblr. I repost. ❤️ Thank you @ts4-poses and @alwaysfreecc!
You can easily browse more of my posepacks using my Ko-Fi gallery. Tips are appreciated but never required!
Details of known issues under cut to save your dash:
These poses have been annoying me for months lmao. I made them last year but ran into a couple of issues: at the time, all-in-one horse and rider poses posed out of alignment when placed off-lot with TOOL, and I also couldn't stop the reins from clipping in game (they are posed, and don't clip in Blender). I specifically wanted poses with reins because I have a hard time drawing them in, as I only have a mouse.
My off-lot bug seems to have been solved, and although I still haven't figured out why the reins are slightly off in game, I figured it probably doesn't matter: in the time Horse Ranch has been out, I've noticed most people draw reins in themselves.
I adjusted them slightly to work with the gorgeous new medieval saddle and stirrups by @morningstarequestrian , since that's what I'd be using my poses with, but although the rider's feet are resting on the stirrups in Blender, in game they hover. I don't know why and by this point I don't care enough to find out LMAO.
I've kept the original placement of the rider's hands and the reins on the horse rig, so you can use it with the LeiaMaria bridle for posed (but occasionally clipping) reins, or with any other bridle and draw the reins in yourself. In medieval art, most horses are shown to have two reins (one decorated, one 'normal') so I think using it with Morningstar's Medieval Bridle like this works fine (I would have drawn reins in myself if I wasn't lazy). The poses work with EA saddles, but I don't have other CC saddles-with-stirrups so can't say if the placement is off for others.
#ts4-poses#ts4 posepack#sims 4 posepack#sims 4 horse ranch#sims 4 horse poses#ts4 horse poses#sims 4 medieval#sims 4 fantasy#herecirmposes
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Sentence Sunday ✨
I can show you lies
'Cause I'm a real tough kid, I can handle my shit
They said, "Babe, you gotta fake it 'til you make it" and I did
Lights, camera, bitch smile, even when you wanna die
I was grinning like I'm winning, I was hitting my marks
'Cause I can do it with a broken heart
Beloved mutuals and pocket pals... I honestly don't know what to say for myself. This is a case of 'I listened to a song too much, I had an idea I knew I was never gonna write' turned 'I'll just throw it out as a prompt' --> 'I'll just make a moodboard' --> 'Oh god, I've written over 1k words in place of a summary'. SO. Have... whatever this is, T Swift influenced Buddie actor au. Under the cut to save your dash.
Honestly, if the world still exists in the morning, Eddie Diaz doesn't really give a fuck. His girlfriend left, claiming he's still not over his late wife, and his teenage son, the last thread connecting him to said wife, went to go live with his grandparents. After, of course, blaming Eddie for pushing 'yet another one' away. Christopher wouldn't even look at him before he went.
Then there's Anita Mills, his agent, who is probably a few blood pressure points away from a stroke at this point. Assuming she doesn't fire him first.
Let her, he thinks, grabbing a bottle of Maker's Mark from the cabinet. He has a string of blockbuster films to his name, not to mention a commendable collection of Oscar's and Emmy's. Not that they made his parents proud or kept his wife from leaving him before she died. But they exist as proof that he's had a successful career. Between investments and liquid assets he has more money than he would know what to do with in a hundred lifetimes. So, fuck it.
Eddie breaks the wax seal and twists off the red cap. He doesn't even bother with a glass, not really seeing a need. He's never been a big drinker, but lately his tolerance has grown considerably. Indulging until he passes out seems like an ideal use of his time right now anyway. If he wakes up after? Well, he'll consider that a success.
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"Hey! What the hell?!" Eddie manages, coughing and trying not to choke on the ice cold water hitting his body. He opens his eyes to see Mills towering over him, glowering and holding an empty vase. He swipes a hand across his face. "Seriously, Anita, what the fuck was that?"
"I don't know, Eddie, you tell me." She disappears for less than a minute, returning with a hand towel she unceremoniously drops on his chest. "Help me out here. What's today?"
He wriggles himself to something resembling sitting and leans back against the coffee table. "What's today?" He parrots back dumbly.
Anita crosses her arms and quirks an eyebrow. "I asked you first."
Today, today, today. Where was he supposed to be- "Shit! The interview with, uh, fuck." He snaps his fingers and racks his brain trying to remember a name or a face. All he knows is they're important.
"Claudette Collins. Very good, Eddie, you got it part way."
"Give me ten minutes, I'll put myself together and we can go," he says, fighting the violent wave of nausea that hits as he scrambles to stand up.
"Save your poor carpet from getting puked on and sit the hell down."
"What? No, I can-"
"Eddie," Anita interjects, "the interview was five hours ago. The interview with the Claudette Collins. The one that took me months of phone calls, groveling and cashing in favors to get for you."
Fuck. "Anita, I'm so sorry. How-"
"Save it." Anita holds her hand up, effectively silencing him. It takes him back to being seven years old and having to explain why his dad's truck had an enormous dent in it. She rests her hands on her hips, pacing back and forth as she purses her lips. Eventually she sits in the leather armchair situated in the corner. "Eddie, you and I have known each other a long time. A long time. I've been your agent since you walked into my shitty office back in Dallas. Given your impressive display of awards, I'd say we've done pretty well together."
She inhales sharply, rubbing at her temple. Anita doesn't mince words, it's part of why he's always liked her. He never has to question where he stands. She says 'jump' and he knows exactly how high. It's not difficult to guess what's coming next.
"Eddie, I know you're going through a rough patch. What you're dealing with is hard enough without seeing it splashed on every tabloid and trashy website. Not to mention none of those places knows the real story, so it's all a bunch of 'she said he might have said' bullshit. But you've made it through tougher things." Anita doesn't need to clarify that she's talking about Shannon's death and how his parents tried to take Christopher. "I don't know what's happening this time, but I need to take a step back. My wife has made it very clear that all of my attempts at stress management are not working and that if I can't get it under control I shouldn't be surprised when I come home to an empty house. So."
Eddie swallows, waiting for the inevitable and cursing himself for pretending he wouldn't care.
"I've talked to a few friends in the business and found someone willing to take you on."
What?
"What? You're not firing me?"
Anita's features soften. "Technically, yes. I am very much dropping you like a scorpion I found in my boots. However, like I said, I found someone willing to work with you. The name is Bobby Nash. He runs a smallish agency but don't let that throw you. He's cobbled together some pretty impressive talent. I assume you've heard of Evan Buckley?"
Eddie scoffs. "Of course I have. Who hasn't? Christ, he's everywhere you look. I can't pass a damn bus stop without seeing his face." A few details begin to click into place within Eddie's muddled brain. "Bobby Nash is his agent?"
"Sure is. And we all know the stories about Evan's past aren't the type you trot out at parties. My advice is that you don't look a gift horse in the mouth, go with Nash and do whatever he tells you to do. He even has a role in mind for you, costarring with Buckley. What do you say?"
What else was there to say? If Eddie didn't want to get blacklisted or wind up as some washed up tragic Hollywood story, being gossiped about where everyone - including his son - could see what a failure he was...
"I guess I say- when can I meet him?"
"Good answer." Anita clasps her hands together and gives him her signature smirk that tells him she approves. "Just leave everything to me."
Up to this point, Eddie has trusted Anita implicitly with all the messy business that comes with having him for a client. Why stop now?
tagged by @loveyouanyway @spotsandsocks @wikiangela @tizniz
np tagging @actuallyitsellie @epicbuddieficrecs @a-noble-dragon @mountedeverest @fortheloveofbuddie
@weewootruck @saybiwithme @bidisasterevankinard @shipperqueen6 @ramonaflow
@taketheplanspinitsideways @dangerpronebuddie @theotherbuckley @stereopticons @kitteneddiediaz
@daffi-990 @diazsdimples @your-catfish-friend
@thekristen999 @filet-o-feelings @underwaterninja13 @lizzie-bennetdarcy @rainbow-nerdss
@steadfastsaturnsrings @inell @jesuisici33 @rmd-writes
@shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @queerbuckleys @bi-buckrights @elvensorceress
@bucksbiawakening @giddyupbuck @hoodie-buck @indestructibleheart @ladydorian05
@lemonzestywrites @monsterrae1 @statueinthestone @slightlyobsessedwitheverything @the-likesofus
@thewolvesof1998 @watchyourbuck @welcometololaland @wildlife4life and anyone else who wants to 😘
#hippo writes#buddie wip#actors au#not what i saw myself doing today#but when is that ever true#fic: lights camera bitch smile#seven sentence sunday#sentence sunday#sunday sentences#do i know what i'm doing?#not a clue
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Inspiration Saturday/ Several Sentence Sunday
I started a new wip. No one look at me.
The inspiration from this shamelessly comes the fact that I've been working in labour and delivery for the whole month of May and there's an obstetrician/pediatrician couple here that always see each other in the OR and I instantly thought of Buddie. So please enjoy the first (long) snippet of Doctors AU, featuring Obstetrician!Eddie and Pediatrician!Buck. The rest of the 118 will also feature in the obstetrics/pediatrics field, although roles are yet to be confirmed. I'm not 100% sure about this and a little nervous about sharing it cause sharing words has felt weird lately, so I'm sorry if it's not great!
Tagged for Inspiration Saturday by @inell @hippolotamus (eventually smh) @cal-daisies-and-briars @dangerpronebuddie and @daffi-990 (I will be getting to all your snippets so soon!) Snippet under the cut to save your dash.
Eddie pushes through the doors of the NICU, his chest heaving. He doesn’t do this; he doesn’t let patients get to him. He’s a professional. He performs a surgery, delivers a baby, stitches up the mother and moves on to the next one.
Except today, he can’t.
Eddie strides down the corridor until he’s in the nurses’ station and begins to scour the brightly lit electronic board with all the patient’s names.
He can’t shake the feeling that he’s fucked up, that he should have called it sooner and rushed the mother to surgery the second he’d been asked to see her. She’d been labouring for hours, and she was tiring when they called him in to review her. One look at the monitor by her bed had told him all he’d needed to know – that her and her baby were in distress, and something needed to be done.
But, she’d clutched his hand and begged him to let her try just a bit longer.
Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and takes a shaky breath as he tries to rid his mind of the memory of hearing the baby’s heart rate drop on the monitor. Even after being an obstetrician for 10 years, nothing will ever prepare him for the gut-wrenching fear that comes during an emergency. The way you hold your breath and will it to increase, counting in your head as you wonder how much longer you let it go before you dive for the emergency button. He’d done an examination when it was clear the heart rate wasn’t going to recover, to see if there was any chance she could push the baby out, and his heart had sunk into his shoes when he’d felt the umbilical cord before he was even up to his second knuckle.
Taking some deep breaths through his nose, Eddie opens his eyes and scans the board, trying to find the name. It’s possible it’ll be too early – the nurses might not have admitted the baby on the system yet, but the pit in his stomach grows with each passing second that he doesn’t find it.
There’s a noise behind him – someone clearing their throat – and Eddie spins around as a deep, calming voice speaks.
“Hey man, can I help you with something?”
Eddie is instantly taken aback by the man in front of him. He must be new, because Eddie’s certain he’d remember if he’d seen this guy in the OR, and he’s looking at Eddie with concern, his eyebrows furrowed and blue eyes piercing into Eddie’s. He’s tall and muscular – obscenely so for (Eddie assumes) a pediatrician, with dark blond hair that’s been plastered with a criminal amount of hair product. He’s in a pair of delicate pink scrubs, with a white lab coat over the front. There’s a small, rainbow watch hanging from the breast pocket of his coat, and a name badge on his chest, with two tiny feet drawn just beside his name.
Evan Buckley.
“Hey, I’m Dr. Diaz – uh – Eddie,” Eddie says, awkwardly extending a hand towards the man. His grip is firm but warm, and his hands are soft, although Eddie’s not sure exactly why he’s noticing that.
“Dr. Buckley,” the guy replies with a friendly smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Everyone calls me Buck. You looking for someone in particular?”
Eddie turns back to the board with a frown, folding his arms, and Buck sidles up next to him, mirroring his stance. Their shoulders brush, and Eddie notices how the guy is just a couple of inches taller than him. Interesting.
“Yeah I’m – uh – I’m looking for baby McKinnon? Born about an hour ago via emergency caesarean due to cord prolapse and obstructed labour, resuscitated immediately after birth and bought here.”
Buck frowns and pulls out a list from the pocket of his scrubs.
“Is everything okay with the mother?” he asks as he scans his list, “You’re an obstetrician, right?”
“Yeah, she’s fine, pulled through surgery and is in recovery now. Just wanted to check up on the baby – he looked pretty rough.”
Buck lets out a deep sigh next to him and Eddie whips his head around, doing a double take when he sees Buck’s expression.
God, no, please no, let him be okay, let him have survived, he’s just mixed up with someone else.
“I’m sorry, man,” Buck says gently, resting a hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “We couldn’t stabilise him. He was so hypoxic and they couldn’t intubate him and we – I’m sorry.”
Eddie must make a noise because the hand on his shoulder tightens. His chest feels tight, like he’s not getting enough air, the world is beginning to spin. He take deep, gulping breaths of air as he tries to regulate himself, but it’s not use.
It’s too close. Too much like Christopher. His son, his perfect, 7-year-old boy, looked just like that kid when he was born. Eddie’s too close to this. He’s gotta get out.
“Hey, are you okay?”
Eddie shakes himself from Buck’s grip, blinking furiously as tears threaten to spill down his cheeks.
“I’m sorry, I’ve gotta – I need to go,” he says hurriedly, his voice cracking, and he turns on his heel. He doesn’t run from the room, but it’s a close one. He barely even registers Dr. Buckley calling after him as he briskly walks down the corridor, practically throwing his swipe pass at the door, and then he’s in the stairwell before he knows it, drinking in the crisp, cool air as he slides down the wall and comes to a rest on a step.
Fuck.
No pressure tagging @theotherbuckley @watchyourbuck @bidisasterevankinard @neverevan @babybibuck
@aroeddiediaz @spotsandsocks @bibuckbuckgoose @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @nmcggg
@jesuisici33 @wikiangela @loveyouanyway @exhuastedpigeon @houseofevanbuckley
@epicbuddieficrecs @kitteneddiediaz @hermscat @worriedbisexual @thekristen999
@slightlyobsessedwitheverything @actuallyitsellie @idealuk @simpingforhotfictionalcharacters @loserdiaz
@elvensorceress @underwaterninja13 @rainbow-nerdss @smilingbuckley @steadfastsaturnsrings
@spagheddiediaz @thewolvesof1998 @fortheloveofbuddie
#james writes#yeah yeah i know#I really need to focus on my actual wips#but I wrote 1k of this in one dump so who knows#buddie wip#buddie#911 abc#eddie diaz#evan buckley#911 buddie#911#911verse#911 fanfic#eddie x buck#eventual buddie
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A silly wulf sits on your dash..
Look at this! this is an image i found on WereNet from ALLLLL the way back in 1999! His file was only called "Walt.gif" though it was a still image, unless there's a way the rest of the gif was lost? I've named him Walter. I might go save a few leftover images from old therian sites like that :3
Og backgroundless img under cut
It looks really messed up because the webpage is white and ig they didnt colour him in? sorry about that
#this is so cool#dog therian#dog theriotype#canine therian#canine theriotype#therian#dogkin#alterhuman#therian stuff#therianthropy#therian community#target audience >#wolf therian#wolf theriotype#wolfkin
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One Piece Marinefold arc Whitebeard Pirates x Tengen Uzui!Reader and they are a divison Commander. And Hella strong. You can do male or female Tengen, just thought this would be fun.
-The moment the ship hit land, you leapt off, holding your chained weapon together, a bright grin on your face as the marines shouted to attack and you beamed, “It’s time to get flashy!!”
-You charged in, leading the Whitebeard Pirates into battle, focused on your target, Ace, who was up on the scaffolding, his execution imminent.
-You were one of the fastest members of Whitebeard’s crew, and pairing it with your raw strength and skills, it was no wonder that you were a commander, and one of the most feared, mainly because by the time someone saw you, you had already cut them down.
-Despite knowing the only mission was to rescue Ace, you were intent on taking out as many marines as possible for what they did to Ace, and if you ever saw Blackbeard, you weren’t going to hesitate.
-Whitebeard knew that you were going to do what you wanted, and he didn’t care, as he trusted you, he trusted your judgement and he knew that you would help the rescue mission succeed, no matter what, as that was the type of person you were, willing to do whatever it took.
-Vista shouted after you, “Leave some for the rest of us!” you just laughed, looking over your shoulder, “Then catch up!” You were such a little shit sometimes as many of the marines around were trying to attack, angered by your disrespect.
-However, if they wanted you to be more respectful, then perhaps they should do something worth respecting and be able to last more than a second or two in combat with you.
-When Ace’s little brother, that little flashy upstart, Luffy, arrived on scene, you couldn’t help but grin broadly, seeing what he had done, breaking out of Impel Down, rallying the other inmates, just to save Ace.
-You knew that you had to help Luffy, and you were quick to dash towards him, picking him up under one of your arms, “Stay with me little brother!! I’ll get you to Ace!”
-Luffy was initially surprised by you suddenly grabbing him, but you were easily leaping up, avoiding the crowds, charging towards the scaffolding.
-Ace couldn’t help but grin, seeing both you and Luffy there as you dropped Luffy, turning to face the charging marines, “You get Ace free! I got this!!”
-Luffy didn’t know you, but he immediately got to work, getting Ace free, while you slashed at the approaching marines.
-You grinned, seeing one of the admirals charging towards you and you swung your blade, getting into position as you felt heat from behind, signaling Ace was free, “Get to the ship!!”
-You locked up with Kizaru, who was impressed with your skills, able to dodge his Devil Fruit abilities and showing your combat prowess, and you didn’t even have an ability of your own! This was the result of hard work and natural talent.
-When Whitebeard called the retreat, you were one of the few left on the battlefield, still fighting with Kizaru, who had to admit he was smiling as well, he rarely got to go all out like this, and the feeling was mutual.
-Kizaru managed to swipe at you with his icicle blade, slicing up your face, over your eye, blinding you in one eye, but you returned it, kicking him hard in the stomach before sending him flying, leaving him with wounds that his ability couldn’t heal.
-Once back on the ship, many were in awe of you being able to handle an admiral, but Whitebeard just laughed, finding it amusing, calling you ballsy, but you just grinned, “I prefer the term flashy!”
-Laughter filled the ship as Ace was being hugged all around, while Marco was trying to heal your eye, but unfortunately, the eye was useless and you got a flashy eyepatch to wear over it, hiding the scar, as you didn’t want to scare the beautiful ladies one you all got to safety~~
-Luffy and Ace both hugged you, thanking you for your assistance and you couldn’t help but laugh warmly, finding their thanks amusing, as you felt like it wasn’t worth thanking, as you knew that you were going to get Ace back.
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MAWS - An Allegory for Autism, too?
God like…there have been so many amazing posts about maws right now, and I don’t want to detract from any of them because I absolutely agree with how powerful an allegory the show is in regards to being an immigrant/alien.
But at the same time I just. I have been literally losing my mind at how autistic Clark feels. And at this point I can’t tell if I’m seeing things that aren’t there or he really is just so god damn ‘tism it makes his experiences of being othered two- and triplefold.
Like. Okay. He keeps acting on what he thinks is just or morally right in the moment, but sometimes struggles to see the social signals (or bigger picture) that might indicate somebody is deceiving him. If he does realize he’s being deceived, he does the right thing anyway even if it’s to his detriment--because he can’t accept looking away from a problem he might have resolved. Helping someone, no matter how difficult or unreasonable.
Okay.
When he’s trying to protect himself from Lois. He tells the truth in the most evasive way humanly possible, and because he thinks she’ll find him dashing from saving people he comes off as dissembling. He is convinced that he has charmed her to no end with his alter ego since he’s Such A Super Cool Strong Normal Guy as Superman, and that she couldn’t possibly be suspicious any longer because he told the truth. Lois wants to throttle him for lying. He has no idea as to why that is--and is openly surprised that she’s upset.
This is not even touching the fact that he lived for YEARS with Jimmy and literally destroyed stuff in front of him by accident, and never once thought Jimmy knew some shit was going on with him. Jimmy, being subtle and considerate, didn’t snitch because he was a homie. Clark does not notice in the slightest. ‘IT COULD HAVE BEEN THE SCREWS’ ASS.
This also not touching on the “How did you know you were bulletproof?” “I didn’t. I just knew you weren’t.” Despite pervasive signs that his powers weren’t operating as they should in that area. Despite knowing Lois was still upset with him and may not forgive him, could hurt him with what she knew.
Okay.
I'm going to put the rest under a cut because I never go on short tangents:
In a lot of New Age illegitimate medicine and psychological constructs, autistics are often conceptualized as people with ‘special powers’ or religious enlightenment in accordance with some manifestations of their disability. Clark’s superspeed and strength and heat vision can EASILY be seen as an extension of that. However, what I really want to talk about is the latest episode’s super hearing.
Most autistics have sensory issues, both with textures but also with hearing. A very common surprise for undiagnosed individuals, for example, is that they use music and headphones to stim in a more socially acceptable way. Particularly loud noises or constant loud chatter can cause distress otherwise, and having constant meltdowns/catatonia reactions isn’t feasible for survival.
Of all his powers that might be a weakness I think it is a fascinating--and honestly, deliberate--choice that speaks volumes (please pardon the pun). Because that’s the horrible thing about having sensory overload with your hearing; you don’t always have a choice as to what you’re subjected to. Ear-piercing alarms can flare at any moment, people can play what they consider harmless pranks, or day to day fighting to focus can make every sound feel like nails on a chalkboard from the overstimulation.
While Clark is able to distinguish voices if he knows what to look for, lack of sleep and rest tremendously weaken his ability to focus. I noticed that as the episode wore on, there was a distinct and exponential progression. At first, when he overdid it and didn’t sleep for a day or so, he still managed to operate without hurting himself or risking others. But as he kept pushing himself without rest to answer every cry for help, he grew progressively and sharply overwhelmed. He quickly became overstimulated by the mounting flurry of oncoming stimuli (e.g. the truck about to hit someone, dodging people around him, the relentless super hearing flooding in) and began to react in ways that were careless and random.
Though his powers appear supernatural and inexhaustible, we are forced to face the fact that he still possesses hard limits. Even if autistics seem more capable than NTs at points, there is a reason “high-functioning” became an obsolete terminology with which to differentiate people on the spectrum ‘who seemed to be above average’. Because just as we see Clark forcing himself to exert his superpowers until his body collapses to prove he is good, autistics also push themselves to be useful/helpful/amenable/inobtrusive in order to be accepted as something not other/monstrous.
(Please note, by the way, towards the end of the newest episode--his power comes out in a flash of blue, overpowering light as the last of his strength begins to wane. A surefire sign that he was truly at the end of his endurance before he’s knocked unconscious.)
The fact that Clark starts to learn how to listen in for people so fast, but also doesn��t think to tune them out (if he can) adds even more to the first point too. Because he can’t turn it off in full, it means he has no way to ignore people who are hurting no matter how small--and for him that places the cognitive burden of making a choice. And he can’t choose not to help people.
Okay.
Clark’s incipient refusal to discover more about himself, the sheer overwhelmed look he had as a child--but also as an adult--at the prospect of having to rewrite and re-evaluate everything he thought he knew about himself. There is no excitement, no positive anticipation. When he chooses to face it, it’s because he perceives a kind of responsibility to better understand/control his powers to help more people. And it’s because his friends support him that he ever finds the will to do it. He has no desire to acknowledge or define his otherness head-on. (Once again, he can only act with courage on behalf of others and/or to ultimately win their acceptance.)
GOD. AND. AND how he tells Lois how much she made him “come out of his shell” and forced him to face the world, to stop living in his formerly simple bubble. How autistics instinctively hate breaks in routine and the unknown and the horrible ordeal of change, especially if they have trauma linked to it. But he was trying because yeah, as people we need new and varying stimuli to be happy and healthy. To be alive is to change, whether one likes it or not.
How part of the reason Lois is so dear to him is because she makes him feel capable and safe when he has to face the truth of his difference and change. (THIS IN THE CONTEXT OF THE LATEST EPISODE. “CLARK, JUST TRY TO BE NORMAL”. I’M EATING MY SHIRT. THE ENDLESS OSCILLATION BETWEEN HIS DESPERATION TO BE NORMAL BUT ALSO STRIVE FOR MORE, AND HOW LOIS ANSWERS BOTH THOSE WARRING CALLS WITHIN HIM JUST BY BEING HERSELF.)
SCREAMS.
Okay.
The most recent episode being a direct result of Lois and Jimmy’s acceptance of his alter ego Superman. Because of course Superman is the preferred variation of himself. Everyone loves Superman. Everyone finds him cool and heroic and dazzling. Jimmy gets social media acclaim that he enjoys from it. Lois has a Cool Guy Boyfriend, and she told him outright she thinks he’s amazing in the last episode when he complained about being weird.
Why go back to being Clark? Under the unending burden of his new super hearing, he seems to be so drowned in voices that he forgets a very important one: Lois. She loved him as Clark long before Superman existed, the lumbering gentle giant who always treated people with dignity and respect was more than enough for her to fall in love. And that’s why it’s so poignant, but also so unbelievably devastating when she asks him to be normal in the newest episode.
Because what she was trying to say was “Please stop overexerting yourself, you’re hurting yourself. This is only going to end badly if you don’t rest and think about how you want to move forward. You’re enough as you are. You’re enough as Clark Kent.” She was trying to tell him that Superman isn’t all that matters, that Superman is a person with feelings and needs and vulnerabilities, just like anyone else.
What makes this miscommunication so powerful to me is that it’s clear Clark’s ability to differentiate has become confused ever since Lois and Jimmy accepted him. How much of him is Clark, how much of him is Superman? Before, when he had decided Superman was too much for him to handle and something that needed to stay hidden, he knew how to behave day to day. But now that the aforementioned operating precept has been dismantled by their acceptance, what is his blueprint now? To be freed of his chains, but to be too afraid to leave the cage--he becomes so openly and rapidly lost. It was easier when he didn’t have to choose or think about it.
Okay.
Like. I can see how it could be construed as a result of his inexperience, right? He’s never met intergalactic beings, so how would he know? He only just unlocked his powers as Superman, so of course he’s clumsy about it. He wasn’t a born fighter or a trained one, so of course he’s going to be a little green when he’s in combat.
But that’s the thing for me. It’s not that he doesn’t always have the time to re-evaluate, or strategize, or notice he’s being deceived. He just has such an unwavering sensibility, this one-track sense of “I am strong. So I must protect. And to do that I need to act.” And a lot of times this is as far as his thinking goes. And if that isn’t the most autistic shit imaginable, I’m really not sure what is.
The overshot clumsiness of his movements and occasional awkwardness, how he’s learned to smooth that over by being helpful to people or meek to be accepted. Like. I swear to god this show is going to kill me.
So much of the reason he tanked so badly in this episode was because he was using a broken coping mechanism to its absolute extreme. And instead of listening to his bodily and mental signals that he could no longer sustain helping every single person in the world, he just forces himself to push through. He’s so desperate to prove he’s a good person and belong, he doesn’t notice that it’s literally destroying him from the inside.
The mask that is Superman, and the unmasking that is the mindful and imperfect Clark Kent. That everyone adores Superman and wants him to fulfill their every need, no matter what it costs him to be that person. The fact that the moment they learn he’s an alien or see the raw extent of his power (pushed to unsustainable limits in desperation) he becomes a horrible, inhuman threat and a monster. The fact that it’s his friends and his family who see him unmasked as Clark and love him just as he is, that they care little for what Superman can give them because Clark is already enough. That they love Clark precisely BECAUSE he is somebody with weaknesses and flaws and imperfections, that adore his quirks and endearing fumbling.
The horrific reality that the more he leans into his masking out of desperation to be accepted, the more he estranges and incites violent rejection in the people around him. Even if he wants to do the right thing, he is so staunchly and too openly opposed to the malice of others that they hold grudges from the stark, exposing contrast. How choosing to be Superman can endanger and estrange the people who love Clark, isolating him even further. And yet when he is unmasked and acts like himself, he is hardly ever taken seriously or people take advantage of his meekness/willingness to help.
The first episode. When he just keeps chanting ‘be normal be normal be normal’ and the more pressure he puts on himself, the more he hyperfixates and the less his actions align with his intentions. The way he can never do both and can only manage to sustain one at a time. The core conflict that’s ever present; the desire to be ordinary under the reality that you are extraordinary, with the agonizing knowledge that you never had the choice to live under so much difference and scrutiny.
The never-ending autistic battle of being socially acceptable to the detriment of your greatest virtues: your passion and your honesty. To be left feeling empty and drained despite your success, no closer to self-satisfaction or feelings of human camaraderie. The reality of being always forced to choose between one bad option and a worse one, that the only choice you have is what you’re willing to sacrifice. That people will toy with your vulnerabilities no matter how desperately you try to conceal them, how your weaknesses will be a game or a spectacle to the rest of the world.
How one has to wonder to what degree the Superman witnessed in Lois’ memory capsule was pushed to the very brink. Or the pointed lack of context: what brought him to such extremes, what could inspire so much indifference to the pain of others? How, while it is frightening, he is a person just like anyone else--who possesses the potential for raw good and raw bad. Why is it that everyone so easily believes that his potential will be negative? Why is it so difficult to have faith in someone who is trying so hard to be good?
The irony of Clark’s predicament, that the sincere fulfillment he feels upon helping others is precisely what inspires fear in those who insist on their comparative self-serving normality.
“What’s your angle!? What’s in it for you?”
“Trust me, kids. Nobody puts on that big a show of being good. Unless they’re hiding something…All he wants is to pull cats out of trees? Yeah, I’m not buying it.”
“He’s not normal like you and me….If he really wanted to hurt us, what could we do about it?...Just him having a bad day could spell the end for us…Well, not all of us share your faith.”
“You want to be number one? You don’t get there by writing fluff. You go for blood. That’s something Perry never understood. Do you?”
The unbearable but inevitable fact that being autistic is a perpetual experience of loss. If you are not selfish or egocentric like the rest of the world, you are naive and weak. If you exhibit an ounce of self-centered desire or emotion, you are something that must be eradicated for the greater good. No amount of good that you accomplish can ever balance the scales of what has been lost or spent to sustain you, because at the end of the day your life is considered one without value. It is irrelevant that entire military regimes have collectively decimated and endangered thousands for their so-called “results”, because you as a sole actor are so much easier to blame and trample.
The enduring fact, especially in a culture so absorbed in easy answers and harsh binaries, that the human mind does not care for the struggle of truth.
Anyway if you need me I’ll be clawing at the walls thanks
#my adventures with superman#maws#i just haven't been able to stop thinking about this#its like the newest episode made it impossible to question any longer#i hope this made sense to someone???? other than me#is it obvious that this weeks episode made me cry a little haha#stares into the distance So Normally#the way experiencing maws clark kent can be something so personal...
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Stray Gods Character Design Thoughts
In order we're going Pan, Apollo, Persephone, Eros, Aphrodite and a little bit of Venus! Disclaimer that I have no professional experience in character design at all, so these are only my vibes-based ramblings and observations purely for fun and because my brain simply won't shut up about this game haha. Also I will freely admit Pan probably gets the most attention in this because of who I am as a person and where my heart truly lies at the end of the day lol
PAN
Ok, first of all I have so many questions and they all delight me. This guy is the god of the wild places ("Where else would I be, but among the trees and the wild things?"), he lives in a magical garden on top of an office building... and he’s walking around everywhere in an expensive three piece tailored suit (when Freddie accuses him of being a sleaze in a cheap suit he protests mildly that his suit is anything but cheap haha). The cut of it is really carefully thought out and planned, but the bold colours under the grey coat and (studied I am sure) careless details like the tie also make it fun and playful. Which is pleasingly coherent with the general theme of his character in the writing too and I adore it.
This is not the point, I know, but I’m wondering how he makes that work just like. Practically now. Has Athena fixed up Olympus with in-house laundry service? And other sentences I did not expect to type out today lol. Ah well he’s wily I’m sure he has his ways.
I can't heap enough praise on it, this design is SUCH an interesting and elegant marriage of the immediately recognizable satyr features and thus animal symbolism with all its added pagan weight in a post-Christianity setting, and the sort of ‘man of wealth and taste’ imagery of the devil at the crossroads they clearly want to evoke, especially in his first scene. And partially through his mannerism there’s also an added element of like… eccentric but surprisingly competent college professor — just look at the way he carries himself whenever he isn’t putting on the charm or when he’s being guarded and self-contained. That little hands resting on his back pose exudes ‘nerd’ so deeply to me haha. (Incredibly fuckable nerd, to be sure, but still!)
you don't fool me buddy I know what you are. I know all the trouble you went to to get a book.
His body language shifts very quickly between wild playful expressiveness and a sort of nonchalant urbane detachment that borders on coldness sometimes, and it fascinates me. Especially since that more refined unavailable side seems to be something he’s deliberately cultivated, to some extent. When Grace calls him out on how boring it sounds to just let yourself go numb and distant to survive, he doesn’t deny that at all, only saying that at least it’s been quite effective.
Putting the rest under a cut to save people's dashes! I may, as they say, have gotten a tiny bit carried away.
Physically he’s not very imposing — he’s only a little taller than Grace, and the shortest of all of the love interests, which I find somehow very charming and also plays into him being more of a guile-based character. “Seeing as I am neither big nor truly bad, it behooves me to be wary of those who are both” indeed!
I’m fairly sure he’s the character wearing the most layers. Even his hands are mostly covered by gloves. He partially covers up his eyes with the tinted glasses — interesting, as one of the features that most give his real nature away with their sidewise pupils, and the lenses are tinted purple as the complimentary colour to yellow, so it downplays just how bright they are. All together it’s very much a ‘well, he’s certainly got to be in there somewhere’ sort of vibe at times. (Since he also seems to care about his clothes quite a bit — he complains about scuffing his pants during the climb in the Medusa mission if you go the lockpick route — I have drawn the conclusion that getting him out of all of that must take quite a bit of time, no matter how much practice he’s probably put in over the years of meeting 'delicious people' lol)
It’s a design that manages to give, at the same time: animal-featured ancient god, deal with the devil, teacher, overtones of con man if you’re inclined to be Freddie-levels of uncharitable lol, eccentric rich weird uncle… there’s a lot going on here and somehow it all works haha. He isn’t wearing any jewelry at all unless you count the glasses, which now that I’m looking at the rest of the character designs in this game is actually fairly rare among them!
His eyes really are incredibly bright when uh naked as it were, though. I like the implication that he is aware of this and actually goes out of his way to downplay it, even when he’d normally be wearing glamour anywhere it would strictly matter for it to show. Between that, the meaningful zoom in on him at the Underworld when Apollo says that all the Idols can be themselves there even if they don’t look human, Pan claiming he’s been distrusted and side-eyed by the others basically since the beginning and seeming kind of frustrated and hurt about it, in his deflecting way, and the implication of a hierarchy among the Idols at least under Athena’s leadership in this stained glass painting (notably all the visibly non-human Idols/hangers on are at the bottom, and Hecate, Asterion and especially Medusa are the characters most affected and confined by the oppressive status quo Athena upholds)...
this one! sing it with me now EVERYBODY LEAVES THIS PLACE ALIVEEE ok we can move on
you know, some possible Subtext and Implications going on here, I’d say. (It is only potential subtext and implication, though, so, you know, take my extrapolations here with a grain of salt!) He certainly doesn’t do himself many favors with the persona he’s built up in regards to being trusted and included either, but his status as a little bit of an outsider does seem to precede that so I feel like it’s more of a response than the main cause. Along the same lines he gets much more testy about the Green route of ‘I Can Teach You’ than he does about you just not choosing him in the Red one, he takes that pretty gracefully. So it is the being deliberately kept on the outside and openly distrusted and dismissed that gets to him. (To be clear I don't think openly distrusting a strange guy showing up in your living room like that is at all unreasonable either haha I just think the nuances of his response are enlightening as to where he's really coming from)
this one isn't even to illustrate anything it's just because I love him so much and think he's pretty I'll be real with you all
Anyway I just keep thinking about how incredibly tender it would be if sometimes, when they’re in private, Grace takes his glasses off to see his eyes better and he lets her. That shakes something deep in my soul apparently. That fucks me up but like in a good way.
APOLLO
- Apollo’s style of dress leaves his navel helpfully exposed for the copious amounts of depressed gazing he habitually subjects it to. (I say this not entirely without affection.)
a crumpled tissue of a man
In keeping with his incredibly emo mode, there’s very little colour involved and he doesn’t take much care to present anything with care (look at the state of that shirt and tell me if Apollo has picked up an iron in the last forty years), BUT interestingly he’s not entirely open and unadorned, he does wear that network of jewelry across his chest and neck. Which I think is to show that the old Apollo is not entirely gone (“There he is, god of the sun”), even if he has been a sack stuffed with sad for a long time now. I wonder how many of these things are leftover preferences from being only Lucas — presumably the tattoos at least are from before he fished Apollo up from the sea? If I’m reading the vibes right on that, the blue of the tattoos and the gold of the sun… thingy he wears with the jewelry are the main splashes of colour in his design aside from his hair, and they’re both ‘leftovers’ from both his previous lives, surfer bro and solar deity recently fallen on hard times. Physically he would be tall and imposing, parodically built, except that he carries himself with all the confidence and panache of a damp depressed dishrag.
Also I can’t believe this guy is walking around everywhere in sandals. Apollo makes sad flip-flop sounds wherever he goes, including when he steps up during ‘The Trial’. That’s so amazingly pathetic (affectionate).
We can see from the photo with him and Calliope that he wasn’t always quite this much of a mess. Once, he did his shirt up a whole maybe four buttons and wore something that wasn’t beige!
Intellectually I acknowledge that it's a design meant to provide fanservice, even though I personally could not consider this guy in a sexual or romantic light if you gave me a thousand years to build up to it. (I've said it before but if he's anything to me, he is the incredibly fail father figure continually letting me down in tiny ways I never had.) Godspeed to the Apollo-enjoyers out there, though, Summerfall gave him those abs and that poor little meow meow energy just for you and it's your right to enjoy that
- Pan and Apollo also bring out some really interesting contrasts both as characters and designs when you hold them up against each other:
Once you scratch the surface a tiny bit Pan clearly has just as much self-loathing as Apollo (“If Athena had taken me up on my offer, the Idols would have been better off” uh. Okay buddy we’re gonna have to process that one together later what do you say), but where Apollo is completely helplessly open in his misery at all times, you need to unbutton Pan at least three layers until you get a honest or straightforward emotion out of him and I think that’s amazingly carried through into their visual designs. It's Good Visual Storytelling Brent
PERSEPHONE
- I’m fairly sure the colour of Persephone’s suit is supposed to evoke pomegranate seeds. See and judge for yourself I suppose:
She also has details on her coat that depict foliage and growing plants, but colour-wise they and the rest of the detailing is in the blue-green that symbolizes the Underworld and so death. Her jewelry is gold, which — and I’m about to do some reaching here, I’ll be big enough to own — could play in with Hades being the god of riches as well as of the dead/the underworld. Probably it’s because it works well with the colour scheme, but I’m going to pretend that it’s because even if she didn’t get the throne she did get that motherfucker’s hoard when she killed him <3 Love that for her. Her jewelry is more rose gold than Apollo’s yellow gold, too. Watch me go for even more of a reach: between the necklace and the watch, those round discs of gold remind me of the coins put on the eyes of the dead but like you know repurposed since she doesn't need them to pay the Ferryman. I never promised I'd be reasonable in this did I.
The short hair works real well for the butch vibe and looks amazing no notes, but I think it’s also a deliberate way to differentiate herself from her younger self — when speaking of Demeter’s death, she says that moment was also the final death of that young her, ‘that girl with the long hair who loved her gardens’. Clearly the Idols do a lot of reinventing themselves over the ages in more and less conscious ways.
She has a tattoo of what looks to be foliage and a skull across her left chest and arm. I really like that idea of her having the testament to both sides of her — goddess of spring, queen of the underworld — directly on her skin, under two layers of clothes that each represent those aspects. The one on her arm looks like stalks of grain tied together to resemble the bones of the hand/forearm, maybe? which is metal as fuck, needless to say.
She is TALL and scary and the staging always plays that up, Grace tends to look up at her like O.O. I love how sharp she is too.
Also she is incredibly hot but you don’t need me to tell you that you all have eyes I assume.
EROS, APHRODITE and VENUS:
- I love literally everything about Eros’ design except his hair. Not even the concept of the haircut and colours or anything, just the way it’s rendered. It looks like one strange flat cap I can’t quite make understandable in three dimensional space as hair in my head lol. Other than that it’s a banging design though, the delicate see-through material over the leather BDSM harness is genius. Choosing this form of sensuality and attractiveness for him to embody -- one that is so deeply queercoded -- also works super well. The warmth and vulnerability of his body language on top of it is *chef's kiss*. just. please define his hair a bit more and it's perfect haha.
- I'm not sure I have that much to say about Aphrodite’s design except that of course she is beauty she is grace etc., it takes a lot of thought to make such a simple design shine and by god did they do it she’s so stunning. Also interesting how her dark blues and greens with cool/silvery details contrast with Venus’ warm reds and pinks and… brass? Idk I don’t really understand jewelry haha. All warmth and soft romanticism, anyway, it looks nice. (Side note but I love Venus’ rose tattoo.) Eros and Venus have much more matching colour schemes and they both bring those islands of warmth standing around Aphrodite in her shimmering ocean coolness. (Which of course is something she has to deliberately put on before going into public these days, and is unselfconsciously glamorous in the way of an old timey Hollywood starlet, as the blue route of 'The Ritual' lampshades)
:') *whisper* everybody...
Venus is wearing pearls, which is pleasing considering her connection to Aphrodite (and the backgrounds of the 'Lost in a Moment' variant of 'The Ritual')! and both of her and Aphrodite's outfits go for a shoulderless look to great effect.
ETA: When the camera is close on Aphrodite you can actually see that she has dark circles under her eyes, only partially covered by the makeup :'( I didn't notice that before I played through 'The Ritual' on a bigger screen today
All in all I just want to acknowledge what a fantastic job the character designers at Summerfall Studios have done! There are some really fresh new takes on these mythological figures here, and it makes so much sense within the world the game presents without resorting to well-worn and tired iconography, I really do admire it greatly.
#stray gods#stray gods pan#stray gods apollo#stray gods persephone#stray gods eros#stray gods aphrodite#sorry about the varying quality of the screenshots I have done my best lmao#if there's anywhere you can get the sprites in high resolution I couldn't find it so uh well be gentle lol#it's SO hard to track down scenes where you see them all in full figure and decent clarity#stray gods meta#meta#i don't even know if this is coherent anymore but it IS out of my head which is what I needed it to be haha I am free!! for now
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Closure
Mingyu (SVT) x fem!reader
Tags: angst, slight fluff, but this is just angst until the end (a little comfort?)
WC: 2.5k
Warnings: nothing aside from angst im sorry
in which ex!mingyu and fem!reader see each other at their favorite resto
There was comfort in the silent chatter of the restaurant. The warm lights added a soft glow to her skin and everything else around. She sat alone near the floor-length windows, where the rest of the tables for 2 were. The place looked exactly like it did a year ago, the plants and décor, save for the new employees. It had been that long since she sat down in this restaurant, completely avoiding any chance of dining in this all-too-familiar venue.
A hushed conversation between a waiter and a new guest made her look up as they walked towards the tables. In between the diners who ate away and chatted away wove through a tall man that she would recognize anywhere. His hair was neatly swept off his forehead, a dashing smile on his face as he thanked the waiter, and his button-down shirt aptly pressed crisp.
Mingyu sat down, promptly looking around as his server took away the menu and put down his drink. She debated whether or not to keep her gaze, but her mental battle took too long because he had already locked his eyes onto hers. His stare changed from surprise to confusion to recognition in a few seconds, but not once did he break eye-contact. Her hands were in her lap, twisting in anxiety, so she grabbed onto the pendant that sat between her collarbones.
-
A year ago, this restaurant bustled just the same, but she never noticed it. How could she? When in front of her sat the most magnetic and charismatic man she has laid her eyes on. He carried himself with such confidence that never crossed over to arrogance, all while being kind and patient. No one else in that room could ever steal away her attention, she was a sunflower and he was the sun.
Mingyu’s smile never faltered as he cut up her food for her. He always insisted that unless necessary, she lean on him for anything, and he’ll do the rest. Both were firstborns in the family, and Mingyu knew the emotional tax that she had to pay for the rest of her life. Unlike him, she wasn’t lucky enough to be born to an ideal family. So, from the moment that their relationship progressed into something more serious, he told her “Baby, it’s time for you to accept things and accept happiness without worrying about the consequences.” Naturally, she was taken aback, hearing such words for the first time in her 2 decades of living.
Throughout their dating phase, she has always subtly refused a lot of his attempts at doing things for her, never wanting to be a burden, much less to the person she likes in fear of driving him away. That is, until one day a week after they had agreed to date exclusively, he wanted to buy her the computer keyboard that she had been eyeing for months. It wasn’t expensive, but it fairly costed more than a regular keyboard, so she knew she had to save for it. Mingyu, who had a better paying job, wanted to buy it for her as a gift. So, in the end, he bought it for her as a surprise, which led to a small argument, but Mingyu’s assurance struck something in her that made her realize how scared she had been of letting other people do things for her.
Their relationship was set to be endgame. Mingyu’s parents loved having her around, she was always invited over to their house for dinner, spontaneous trips, and holidays in a different city. Her family treated him like he was already part of the family, he was included in family dinners, get-togethers, and they relied on him like he was their son, cousin, and brother. They have met each other’s friends as well with no hitch. To them, this was it, and that was what Mingyu had always told her before they went to sleep.
“You’re it for me, baby,” he whispers as he tucks her hair behind her ear, laid across her with his other arm under her neck.
She giggles, softly hitting his shoulder. “Where is this coming from?” she says while shaking her head, a grin on her lips.
“Baby, you’re my dream girl. Everything I’ve ever wanted in a partner is in you,” he chuckles. “If 13-year-old me found out that you would be my girlfriend, he would never believe me.”
However, like any relationship, misunderstandings were inevitable. Mingyu always wanted to be the strong one in the relationship. He wanted everyone around him to be able to rely on him; and for that to happen, he felt like he could never show any of the struggles he faced. The one person he could never lie to was her, it would take every ounce of strength in his body and then some more to tell her anything other than the truth. Because that was her, she hated nothing more than liars and cheaters. Her family was torn apart by lies and infidelity, and he knew he would never be able to forgive himself if he made her go through that again. But Mingyu was Mingyu, and the last thing he wanted was for her to feel like she couldn’t lean on him just because he was having troubles of his own.
As a result, whenever things went wrong for him, he shut down and drowned himself in work. He took more projects at work, more responsibilities in hopes that if he had more work than problems, then he would never have to think of them. Ever observant, she would take notice that he would come home later than usual, avoiding conversations, and forgetting to take care of himself. For days, she would beg him to talk to her.
“What happened to me and you against the problem, baby?” she sobbed, sitting on the floor while he occupied the sofa, his head in his hands.
“I thought we always talked things out, that we’d never leave the other in the dark.”
“I’m sorry, love. I just got so caught up in everything, I thought I could just bury it all down.”
She looked up at him in disbelief. It was not just him forgetting to take care of himself, but he also forgot that there was someone at home waiting up for him every night, just to find out that he was purposefully avoiding her and sometimes even drinking out late at night without any notice. This led to smaller arguments and him lashing out at her for the smallest things, which he would then dismiss as just nothing. “So, you thought just lying to me and shutting me out was better?”
At this, he blanched, as if a bucket of cold water washed over him. He did not realize just how far he was in his head, even neglecting his dream girl in the process.
“No, baby. I’m sorry, okay? I don’t want us to fight over this, it physically hurts me when we fight,” he knelt next to her, one hand over his heart and the other cupping her jaw. “I’ll be better for you, no more hiding.”
For the following weeks, it was good. Mingyu communicated better, she learned when to give him space. But Mingyu was a man of habit, and she was too observant for her own good. The change in behavior only lasted for so long until they were back to their old habits. This meant that there was a suffocating tension between them that they never addressed until she exploded.
“How are you so okay with me begging for your time? Begging for you to talk to me?” She stood far from him on the other end of the coffee table. Her face was swollen from crying the whole day, her nose red. She had been waiting for him to get home the whole day, dreading this conversation that she felt might be the last. For weeks, she had asked him over and over if they were okay or if he was having any trouble. Because not only was he affected, but she was too and their relationship. It reached the point where she would assume the worst, because she knew nothing, and he told her nothing. She asked herself every day if she was lacking anything, if there was someone else who was giving him what he needed. This was not a thought she wanted to entertain, but when he was giving her all the reasons to think otherwise, what could she do?
“I’m not. I’m trying, okay?”
His curt answer only served to rile her up more. She felt pathetic and desperate, begging for her boyfriend to stop treating her like she was just a gust of wind. In the end, they decided to give it a break and just go to sleep. A feeling they both hated, but maybe they needed to give things a rest.
Things just sorted themselves in time. She got used to his absence, only asking how he was once in a while, and he kept engrossing himself in work. On his birthday, she surprised him with tickets to an amusement park that he’s been wanting to visit for about a year but never got to because of his schedule. She planned this trip for a month, making sure that he was free on that day.
For the rest of the month, they filled the roles of a sweet couple. The problem was swept under a carpet and left simmering. She knew that at one point, this would blow up in their faces. The way they were acting like they were just playing their parts was unsustainable. It felt like the relationship was superficial.
-
“I need you to sit down for what I’m about to tell you,” he looked at her with sad eyes. Her heart dropped to her stomach, and she started bracing herself for the worst. It was like she went through all the stages of grief all at once in her head.
He explained that while on his way from work a week before, he felt lonely. It was his birthday week, and he was looking for someone to come talk to him; so his solution was to download an app and find a person to keep him company. The sinking feeling was gnawing at her, but she kept a straight face. She expected this anyway, so there was no surprise in what he was saying. However, the betrayal that she felt was nothing like she anticipated, nothing could ever prepare her for the gut-wrenching feeling of being betrayed by the person you thought would never hurt you.
“I’ve been begging you for months to talk to me, begging for even 15 minutes of your time so we can sort things out,” she started with resignation in her voice, “but you wanted to go and find a stranger to talk to, to keep you company on your birthday?”
“I promise you nothing else happened, and I didn’t end up meeting anyone.”
“I don’t fucking care. You had a girlfriend at home, willing to make everything work, but you just find it so easy to keep treating me like I’m nothing. And now you’re out here acting like you’re fucking single. You can’t even be bothered to text me that you’ll be out late because you were out drinking with your friend and her boyfriend.”
“How could you look at me and tell me you love me?”
Mingyu spent the night crying and apologizing. He knew he didn’t deserve any forgiveness, but he at least wanted to let her know that he was sorry and that he didn’t cheat. That same night, her best friend picked her up along with a bag of clothes and a heavy heart.
-
After the fallout, they had a conversation to discuss what happened and finalize the breakup. There, she found out that the reason he was shutting her out was that Mingyu’s family was falling apart, and that his boss at work was giving him a hard time. His parents were getting into constant screaming matches and fights, needlessly dragging him into the arguments. At work, his boss berated him on almost a daily basis and criticized his work that was otherwise praised by the rest of the company. As they talked, she understood, like she always did. Like she would have if only he had told her, but it was too late.
Mingyu was never a bad guy in her eyes, nor was he a bad guy in reality. He was always patient, understanding, and he only ever wanted to take care of her and her needs. However, in the midst of all that, he forgot to take a moment to check on himself and cope properly. In the end, he neglected himself and those around him. He always put others first, but it ultimately destroyed him and his relationship.
-
He noticed her fingers wrapped around the red pendant upon her chest, a gift that he saved his first ever paycheck for. It was a dainty gold necklace with a red clover that hung from it. He always thought that she looked her best in red, so he decided on the color and a clover because she had always been his lucky charm. His dream girl, sitting tables away from him still donning the gift he worked so hard for, in their favorite restaurant. Mingyu wanted to walk over to her table and catch up, maybe find the words to ask if she still felt the same after all this time. However, he knew deep down that that wasn’t best for them.
When Mingyu’s eyes flitted down for a second, she became all too aware that she was holding onto her necklace. A habit that she did to soothe her nerves. She knew he recognized the necklace; it was the only thing she kept after storing away all the gifts he gave; the keyboard, the game merch, and even the restaurant napkins that he wrote little notes on. It was the only thing she kept, because even after all this time, it still gave her comfort, like she’s somehow still hearing reassurance. However, that was the end of it, she only kept it because of the sentiment and the memory that once upon a time, she loved deeply and that she was loved dearly.
With a sigh, they exchanged small smiles – a quiet understanding that they tried, but they’ve come to the end of their chapters in each other’s lives long ago. He mouthed a “thank you” to her, which she responded to with a nod of her head before looking away.
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hi! i'm sorry this was a little hurtful, but this one is a little personal to me hhh i hope you guys liked it. i needed to let this one out before going back to studying :D don't be shy to come to talk to me about how this made you feel! <3
#mingyu scenarios#mingyu angst#kim mingyu scenarios#kim mingyu angst#seventeen angst#svt imagines#svt angst#svt fanfic#seventeen fic#kim mingyu#mingyu#seventeen#seventeen scenarios
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since @vaspider ordered several Gay Items from me (thanks spider!) i decided to post all of them properly here for you. if you wanna buy anything just message me and we'll get it sorted!
OCTOPRIDES £6 EACH
i can make these lil bitches in any flag colours. they are adorable. they are friend.
putting the rest under a cut to save your dash but the octoprides are frankly too cute to be in dash jail
resin multi layer storage tower (it weighs 900g!) £40
wooden storage box with 'stained glass' effect £10
i can make more storage towers in the flag of your choice. i cannot make any more square wooden boxes as sadly the base boxes have been discontinued (i do have round ones though)
bird earrings £8 / bird pin badge £6. these are wood base, painted, and then coated in UV resin. can be made in any flag since i'm. you know. painting them myself however bird supplies are limited (craft shop stop discontinuing my supplies challenge)
'sippers' gay cocktail earrings £7. i can also make these in any flag colours
'forbidden snack' gummy bear pride flag charm £3 yup, you guessed it, i can make any flag colours
large perler paint drip heart (as keychain or badge) £5
yeah so again with the customisable colours thing on all perler hearts. with a resin coating so they don't break apart.
medium perler paint drip heart (as chain pendant or leather cord) £3
itty bitty perler paint drip heart - £2 as charm, £3 for earring pair
'somewhere over the rainbow' earrings £6. 5 pairs total available for now
queer crystals magnets £5. ony one of each design limited edition etc
these random badges £5. there are two 'crystal queer'. one each of the others
wooden badges £2 each, only one of each design
wooden heart flag badges £2 each but i can make those in any flag
small pride potion £3 (2 for £5) / large potion £6 (2 for £10) available in any flag
UV reactive rainbow rings £4 one each in sizes 6, 7, 8, 10, 11, and 12 (@sinothetimes has the size 9 one)
beaded bracelets £3 each 2 for £5 these are all random thrown together as i go. vaguely in flag colours. one of each design pictured.
#yes i ship anywhere and international shipping from the UK is normally very reasonable#okay love you bye
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Hey if you’re still taking requests, can you write Team finding Leader Whumpee who is absolutely broken and terrified while Whumper just generally acts creepy towards said Leader Whumpee?
(Decided to do this with my Dark Leader characters! This may or may not be canon…we’ll see!)
(TW for creepiness, LIGHTLY implied noncon but NOT explicit, I’ll keep it under the cut in case, guns, kidnapping, eye whump, blood)
“He’s not in the basement!” Felix called out, running up to meet the rest of the team.
“Well find him! Look harder!” Quinn shouted, barging through every door they could.
Vincent was missing. The person who’d taken him had left a note, leading them to the coordinates of the abandoned house they were searching through. It was an obvious trap, but they didn’t care. Vincent needed to be saved, and they could fight off whatever rag-tag team decided to mess with them.
Kari and Damien were breaking down a door that was locked while Ian tried to pick other locked doors. Quinn used all their energy to shove through closets and cabinets to find their leader.
“Hey! There’s an attic!” Felix shouted, and the group ran over immediately. Felix was right—there was an attic, and it was cracked slightly open.
Quinn pushed through the others and tried climbing it, but Damien held them back. “Behind us,” he warned. “I know you wanna get up there for him, but you’re still pretty new…He’d wanna protect you.”
Quinn huffed and let the rest of them go up first. They were upset, but Damien was right. They were faster than they were strong. They needed to play to their strengths.
The team made it up into the attic and Kari shined a flashlight to look around. Almost immediately, they heard a muffled cry. Quinn jumped up and dashed toward the noise. “Vincent?! Is that you?”
Finally, the flashlight landed on what they were looking for. It was Vincent—and he was in horrible shape. His face was littered with bruises and cuts, and since he’d been stripped down to shorts, many other bruises and injuries could be seen on his body. He was gagged and blindfolded, tied cruelly with barbed wire by his wrists and ankles. Whoever did this to him had also cut his hair. His then thick, shoulder-length hair was now short and messy above his ears. Something that had mattered so much to him was gone and ruined.
“Oh my god—Vincent!” Quinn fell to their knees and tried untying him, but the barbed wire made it difficult.
“Come on, help me!” They cried over their shoulder, but gasped when they realized why it was so silent. The light flicked on in the attic. Each one of their teammates had been apprehended by a guard, a gun to their head and a hand over their mouth. What sort of team had the bodies and resources for this?
“Hi, Quinn.”
Quinn immediately tensed. That voice. They never thought they’d ever hear it again. They turned their head to see one of the subjects of their nightmares. Arguably, the worse of the two.
Hunter.
“Did you miss me, babe?” Hunter chuckled and crouched down to Quinn’s level. When he reached to grip what was left of Vincent’s hair, Quinn shot their hand out to stop him, but Hunter quickly countered with a small hand gun to Vincent’s head.
“Careful.” Hunter grinned at how Quinn immediately backed off. He continued his motion and pulled Vincent up by his hair, causing the man to groan miserably.
Hunter pulled Vincent so his back was held against his chest. In one hand, he lazily pet Vincent’s ruined hair. In the other, he held the gun with a deceiving grip.
“L-Let him go,” Quinn said shakily, their fear betraying them. They couldn’t look Hunter in the eyes, still. Weren’t they over this? Why were they such a coward?
“God, listen to yourself. ‘Let him go!’ Fucking adorable,” Hunter mimicked, laughing and letting out a long sigh. “Haha…no, I’m not gonna do that, Quinn.” He moved his hand to caress Vincent’s face, loving how the other man flinched.
“Stop it,” Quinn choked. They didn’t want to see the looks on their teammates faces. This was happening because of them.
Hunter was only fueled by Quinn’s words. He held the gun against Vincent’s head and moved his hand even lower to graze his throat, squeezing it threateningly for a moment before beginning to move down to his chest.
“Hunter, please!” Quinn finally looked up to meet Hunter’s eyes. They were crying now. “Listen, I…I know you did this because of me, so what’s the deal?! Just get it over with!”
Hunter relished in the eye contact for a moment before relenting and moving his hand back up to the man’s hair. A tear slipped through Vincent’s blindfold.
“You know, Daniel’s birthday is this weekend,” Hunter started casually. “I thought you’d be the perfect gift, but…I knew your captors would never let you go, so…” He pressed the gun harder against Vincent’s head. “I took care of it!”
“They’re not my captors. They’re my team. My family. More than you or Daniel ever were,” Quinn snarled.
“Uh huh.” Hunter sighed boredly. “Anyways…I’m gonna give you a couple of choices,” he continued. He addressed the rest of the team as well as he spoke. “Option one: I give Vince here back to you, and in return, you give us Quinn. Plus, neither of us will bother each other again. We won’t be allies, but…we won’t be enemies.
“Option 2, of course, is we take all of you. Dismantle your team from the ground up. Use you all for free labor, or…” Hunter chuckled. “Something along those lines.”
“Take me,” Quinn said immediately, to the loud and muffled protests of their team. “Take me, I-I don’t care, just leave them alone.”
Hunter smiled. “Okay, one vote for Option 1.” He nodded at the guards holding the others. “What does everyone else think?”
“If you take Quinn, you take all of us!” Kari shouted, met with sounds of agreement from the others. Quinn turned around, shaking their head.
“No, please!”
“And what does the big strong leader think?” Hunter untied Vincent’s gag and blindfold. Quinn and the rest of the team gasped when the blindfold fell down. The black fabric had hidden the blood. One of Vincent’s eyes was gone.
“Take…take us all,” Vincent croaked. Quinn screamed in protest.
“And that’s five to one for Option 2!” Hunter exclaimed. “Men, you know what to do.” He smirked deviously and flicked the light off in the attic. Quinn heard four shouts of pain before they were knocked out themselves.
#whump#whump blog#whump community#whump writing#whump scenario#tw blood#creepy whumper#tw kidnapping#intimate whumper#tw implied noncon#tw eye whump#tw guns
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𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐚𝐰𝐧 | autumn features (november edition)
pairing—aemond targaryen x f!reader
summary—an accurate and detailed account of what had truly happened to lady tyrell at court, ages to ten and six to ten and nine.
word count—9.6k
warnings for this chapter—besides the typical hotd nonsense, there are spoilers for further events in hotd at the very end of this chapter! also tw sa (not at reader) and death
tagging @thesadvampire @curlszx88
masterlist. ☕. autumn features. part 1. part 2. extra. ♥
Aegon is well into his cups, despite the hour. There are great lines under his eyes and a flush on his cheeks, messy, bed ridden hair and sloppily thrown on vestments that make him, alone in the hall doused in morning sunlight, seem more as a drunken patron of a local bar rather than a prince. The line of soldiers clears after your entrance and the doors shut with a loud, groaning sound. It echoes, rushes past you and into the carved ceiling. His attention is stolen from the cup in hand and redirected to you.
The change in his expression is instant – from a frowning, stony face to a delirious smile, “…Morning, sister.” His eyes roam your body, down the exposed slope of your shoulders all the way to the tidy hems of your new dress, “Looking…dashing this fine hour.”
“What an hour indeed, brother.” You squeeze between your teeth. He hums, takes a generous gulp; a red drop runs down his chin, as if he was feasting on blood. The sight repulses you, “Hope I’m not intruding.” Your voice does not hold the gentle timbre you present to the rest, but rather a sharp edge that will cut cleaner than dragonsteel if prompted. Your eyes burn into him. He merely snorts.
His chair slides backwards with a creak, “Intrude all you please,” He raises his glass to your honour, “you know I’d never mind, my wife-that-never-was.”
“What privilege do I have for you to call me so.” He doesn’t take your sarcasm to heart—he never does. Mostly he’s too drunk out of his mind to care about your thorny words, “And here I was—“
“Save your speeches for someone who cares to hear them.” He interrupts you, though not unkindly. He’s smiling into his drink before tasting it again, “What do you want, sister?”
You raise a brow, “Would it be so strange for me to seek out your company?”
That gets his attention. Even his posture straightens. There’s a beat of silence before his laughter disrupts it, “Well, then,” He shrugs, drowns his cup, sets it harshly on the table, “you’re engaged to my brother, I’m married, but—“ He smacks his thighs in invitation, “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
“A conversation will do.” You state.
“And you will find that my lap is the only place I’ll care to listen.”
“Charmed, Aegon.” You bite, “Your eloquence truly has no limits.”
“I hope you to find that my actions are much more engaging than my vocabulary.” He tuts, and a slow, pleased smirk pulls on the corner of his lips, “It would be like nothing you’d felt before, I’m certain. Seven be my witness.”
“What did you do?” The severity in your voice catching him off guard. Stumped, for a moment, he can only stare at you, at your rigid, angry features, tightly clasped hands. But he falls into his role easily, so unperturbed and easy-going, smiling to himself without a care in the world.
“You’ll have to be a bit more specific.”
“I know it was you.” You say, approaching, and he wilts in his chair a little under the scrutiny of your gaze, “So tell me. Enough of these games, just spit it out so I could fix the mess you have made.” He can’t quite look you in the eye. After a pause, he mumbles something incomprehensible, “Speak up.”
“I didn’t do anything, alright.” He snaps, “Could I at least hear my crime before being prosecuted?”
You huff, “Hear your crime? Don’t be daft, Aegon, your jokes are unbecoming—“
The heavy wooden doors suddenly cry at the hinges and part—in comes a shivering servant girl, her head bent down, holding a pitcher of wine in her trembling hands. She briefly lifts her glassy eyes, the same colour as your own, and quickly looks downward once more, “I-I brought more wine for the Prince.” She announces, but her voice is quiet, rasp, near choked.
You note her untidy dress, dishevelled, (colour) hair, bruised skin around her arms, neck, and shoulders. It’s only too easy to imagine yourself being the recipient of Prince Aegon’s unwanted affection—that was a life you had been saved from. Your gaze slides back to Aegon, and his cheeks are burning red, as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
The servant girl scrambles to pour him wine, and all it takes is a twitch of his fingers for her to startle and spill most of it on the floor, “I-I am so sorry, your grace—“
“Come.” You tell her. Setting the pitcher down, she obeys and stumbles over, bottom lip bitten from fright. She tries to adjust her skirt and wipe the remnants of the drink from her hand somewhere where you wouldn’t notice. Tears steadily stream down her cheeks, more and more with each step she takes, and you can barely look at her without flinching, “Have you told anyone?”
She sniffles, “N…No, my lady. I, I only—only went to fetch the wine—“
“Go to my room. Use the servant corridors, and make sure no one sees you. Wait there till I return.”
“My lady—“
“Go. Now.”
She bows and scrambles out the backdoor. Silence reigns broken by your angry breaths. You’re boiling from the inside, and all of that frustration trickles down to your hands where you fiddle with your rings. You think this is what it would feel to burn.
Grinding your jaw you turn to Aegon, “You disgust me.”
He doesn’t pretend to be surprised, merely dips his head, like a child scolded. He scowls, “You forget yourself, Lady Tyrell. You’re speaking to a Prince—”
“Fuck you.” You spit, “Fuck you and your court and your vile antics.”
“Well, if you’re offering—“ He growls, “my lap’s up for the taking.”
“I’d rather hang.”
“And you soon will if you keep speaking like that. Fuck.” He pours himself a drink, downs it, and then pours another, “This the crime I’m punished for? Feeling awfully altruistic, aren’t we, sister? Didn’t give a shit about any of the others, but since this one looks like you—“
“We look nothing alike.”
“You do.” He states, “And you should find my opinion no different from my brother’s—Gods, if you only knew—“
You raise a hand, “The only thing I wish to know is what you told Aemond.”
He leans back in his seat, watching, oddly sober, “Told him what?” He inquires, his voice ringing with a genuine note of curiosity, “That your whole bloodline is full of leeches? Or that you don’t give a shit about the people or the servants in this castle?” He snorts, “Doubt that would be a surprise for him, now, my darling wife on the other hand—“
Your fist thunders down on the table. The cutlery shakes and his cup nearly tumbles over, “Damn it, Aegon!” You hiss, “Tell me what lie you’ve spread so I could salvage this before a greater conflict arises.”
Stunned, he simply stares, “…Had…had something happened? Between you and my brother?”
You gape at him, “…You imbecile.”
“I’ll have you know I had no part in this—“ He quickly states, “—whatever this is. I’m innocent, and quite frankly, you blaming me so baselessly—“
“Seven give me strength…”
“What did you do, anyway?” He asks, “I saw Aemond was in a mood but I just figured—“ He shrugs, “—well, he’s always in a mood. So I didn’t figure anything, really.”
You watch him for a moment, straightening up, “…So you mean to tell me that you truly had no part in this?”
“In what? Trying to break you up? No, learned—“ He quiets quickly, taking his glass.
“Learned what?”
He shrugs again, eyes roaming around the area, “That it’s a bad idea.”
“Oh, a bad idea, I recon?”
“Your intellect almost rivals your beauty, sister.”
“And it shall surely surpass it once you tell me what had happened.”
He holds up a finger, lips turned downward, “…Just to preface, I meant no harm—“
“Speak and I shall decide on the fact.”
“—it was, just, simply, a long…lonely night.” He continues, “And I just, well I figured,” He smiles, though it’s uncomfortable, “not my brightest moment, surely—“
“I’ll grow old before you finish if you keep dallying so.”
“I went to your room.”
“What?”
“And so happened to meet my brother half way and really, now, he was not pleased in the slightest, I almost—where are you going?” Noting your retreat, he stands, “I wouldn’t have done anything!” He calls after you, “Just a chat, (Name)! A fucking chat with an old friend! Gods, you’re prissy just like my brother. You two are perfect for each other! Fucking perfect, you hear?”
The last of his voice gets cut off by the closing door.
You move through the labyrinth of the castle in quick, light steps, hands folded, and though your thoughts blaze with an unfurling scheme, your face betrays none of that inner turmoil. Your ears are hot, and the dress is much too tight to rush in, but you prevail and even manage to beam at the idling lords and ladies on your way to Queen Alicent’s quarters.
Ser Criston must have informed her of your nightly ventures by now – he had caught you in one, but she would be right to assume it had not been the first time you broke a sacred codex of courtly manners. What she thinks of you now may be no better than what Aemond assumes, yet—his name spurts a different image, one that brings this strange tightness to your chest and makes you slow your pace, if barely.
You imagine him there, in the shadowy corridors, lost and conflicted, a wraith that had risen from the grave to seek out something precious. Would his face look even lovelier in moonlight? Would his hair be un-brushed, un-braided, tousled, as if he had ran his fingers through it sleepless before finding you? Would he have remembered to done his leather eye patch, or would he had knocked on your door barefaced, with the emerald gleaming in the dark? Would he had smiled once you invited him inside, or would he had fled before reaching you?
You think that you may have been waiting for him on the eve of his name day, alone in your silks, alert for a gentle knock or a push on the door that informed of a visitor you had been anticipating. Your heart was beating in your throat, and you were restless, pacing back and forth, and while you had assumed you were simply anxious to report to mother, perhaps there had been a different cause entirely.
As if summoned, he appears from behind the corner and you nearly run into his chest, stopping just in time. Momentarily stunned, he says nothing; you note his hands clench into firsts before loosening, promptly hidden behind his back.
“Lady Tyrell.” He greets with leer, and you have, by now, realised that the brothers only refer to you as that when they are deeply displeased or wish to wound you—to remind you that you are not family, despite growing up with them, despite loving them, despite being promised to one of them. And from Aemond, your name sounds particularly dull, as if you were nothing but a passing acquaintance.
You would like to think that it does not hurt, to think you had felt worse, and surely will feel worse in the future – this court and it’s secrets and it’s deceit will wear you down, eventually, as it does to most. But it does hurt. It’s a small poke to a wound that’s barely scabbed and prone to bleeding.
“You seem to be in an awful hurry.” He comments when you don’t respond, “Pray tell where is it that you’re running. Or is someone chasing you, perhaps?”
You keep your smile cordial, “I have important news for your mother the Queen I wish to deliver. Excuse me.”
You brush past him, but his firm hand on your forearms halts you, “I’m curious about this news. Indulge me?”
Even through layers of linen and leather his touch burns you. You would shrug him off, if only it did not feel so pleasant, “It is best kept between your mother the Queen and I, my prince.” His face does not change at the nickname. You recall when he was young, when his cheeks would blaze bright by your call.
He had been gentle once, pliant in your hands. You could have moulded him into anything you wished to.
Vhagar never gave you the chance.
He chuckles—it’s a deep, hoarse sound somewhere in the back of his throat, “Something even I can’t know? My, must be of the gravest importance.”
“It is.”
His hold slackens and you break free. Two steps are all you manage to take before, “Pretty dress.” He says, and it’s an indolent remark. You turn back, “Is there an occasion for it?”
“I’m a Tyrell.” You remind, “I have many pretty dresses, as you should know.”
“I was only curious if there was someone you wished to impress by wearing it.”
“If that were the case, that would only be my future husband, who, as it seems, does not care much for my efforts. I must away, now.”
“Husband, you say?” He wonders aloud, mirthless, “If memory recalls you have been promised to a few.”
“Yet I’m set to marry only one.”
He hums, “Yes, though, you were quite adamant in breaking off that engagement as well—or am I wrong, Lady Tyrell?”
He’s so smug with his observations, so effortlessly poised despite pointing a dagger to your throat. You swallow, and your composure cracks—that smile you had practiced so many times in the mirror falls, “I should think a prince would have better things to do than insult his lady wife,” You speak, “but once again, you Targaryens prove to be unpredictable. If you have nothing else to say—“
“Did you see my brother?” He questions, and his eye is fixed on you, watching carefully for any unplanned movement, any twitch and pull of a lie.
“I have,” You admit, “and if you must know, he is why I must see the Queen in the first place.”
“And it is so important that you can’t even tell me.”
You take a step closer, frowning, hissing, “There’s a serving girl in my quarters, one of many to which he shows his affections, and unless you wish the line for the throne to be even more complicated than it already is, I suggest you leave this be.”
“In your quarters?” He raises a brow, “Pray tell, does she look like you as well?” His hand comes to touch your hair, but you swat it away with a slap. There’s faint amusement in his voice, though his features are as if set in stone, “Perhaps she even bares your name and title—“
You turn away. It’s a quick spin and retreat and you feel your throat closing, lashes trembling, molars grinding. But your back is straight, and your head is held high, and you think of Highgarden and the flowers, carefree days of tea ceremonies and rehearsals, as he continues talking, his voice growing further and further away. Once out of sight, you bitterly wipe a stray tear from your cheek.
He had been gentle once, how had he become so cruel?
Queen Alicent had always been most kind to you, and you had always supposed that she regarded you more as a daughter than her own—more as a child born out of her womb than any of the Targaryens she must call her children. Her sombre features were always quick to break into a smile in your presence, and she loved to hold your hands, trace the lines of your palms, and talk about anything, be it the weather. And when your presence is announced, by Ser Criston of all, she swiftly brakes away from her papers and stands to greet you.
Your exchange is quiet; voice soft, ruptured by a devotion you feel somewhere deep—it’s heavy, ivory, without it you’d feel like missing a bone. You report dutifully, as any good-mannered lady should, of the vile actions of the Prince. She is not astounded by the news, and meets it with a tilted head and a small grimace.
Arrangements are made to brew a tea for the poor girl waiting in your bedchamber. Before you leave Alicent calls after you gently, “I know that you are innocent.”
That dark, red room full of incense flashes in your mind, and you glance at her. She smiles, “Ser Criston had…told me he had found you wandering on the hour of the owl.”
“I was only out to clear my head.”
“I know, my—“ She pauses, clears her throat, “I know, (Name). I know. But where I believe you, others may not, so I only ask of you this: no more. I know, I know you may feel…trapped, at times.” She says that word with such heaviness and hurt you feel she is no longer referring to you, “But,” She composes herself hastily, “but it’s the way it is. Such is our duty, as women of the court.”
“I understand, your grace.” You bow, “It was foolish of me. I shall never do so again.”
You see your murky reflection on the polished floor, the cap of your satin shoes embroidered and jewelled peeping out under the hems of your dress—the same shoes your wear to visit the poorest of districts in King’s Landing. The soles are no longer spotless and the rubies had been coated in a thin layer of dust. They don’t sparkle anymore with every step you take down the crumbled stairs. The peasantry sticks to corners, crevices, small nooks where they can hide and feel safe with the walls of their shabby homes protecting them. They watch you with weakly masked awe and distrust. The crowd of soldiers slinks behind you, keeping their distance by your request.
A flock of servant girls trail alongside, arms-linked and cheery, carrying woven baskets of fruit and silk you intend to give out to those less fortunate. It’s a bi-yearly trek, all of the sake of reputation. Your heart does neither weep nor ache at the sight of a sick child or a whoring mother selling her body to feed her family—these streets, with their filth and sweat and doleful hope, do not inspire much to you at all.
It’s a hot afternoon. You are all purged under the rays of the sun.
Your hands grasp smaller ones with a twirl, and you smile and laugh with the children you pulled into a short dance, “My lady!” One of the servant girls squeak, “You’ll ruin your dress!”
“I have others.” You respond easily. The children hold you so tightly you think they do not want to let you go.
“My lady,” As evening slowly draws across the sky, one of your handmaidens springs to your side with a whisper, “I must inform you of what I’ve heard.” Your head barely tilts to the side, so her lips would speak into your ear only. The streets swim with patrons; your guards march in the back with their armour reflecting the setting sun, “Though, I fear to even speak it, for, my lady, sweet and gentle as you are, you may faint.”
Gracefully, your hand extends, and she produces a linen cloth on which you wipe away the grime from your fingers, “Things seldom surprise me anymore, Laenora.” You utter. The hike to the castle is long, and your legs have grown tired and smile stiff from all this theatre, “But if you feel as though it is something I may not care for, save it for yourself.”
“I think you should know, my lady, though it’s no subject for one pure as you.”
“Do not speak of purity here, Laenora. These people do not know of it.”
“Indeed, my lady, and thus you find my conflict. The news I bare comes from the mouths of the women themselves, and I trust their secrets, as they trust in your coin. It’s about the brothers, see—both of them have become frequent visitors of the Street of Silk.” She nearly mouths the name, repulsed to even voice it. A frown lines her lips and her eyes gleam with sadness—surely, you would find this news most unpleasant, especially since your husband-to-be is entangled in this hearsay.
The news of Aegon is hardly news at all, and Aemond, despite his mostly polite behaviour, is still a man. Perhaps he had taken your comments to heart, “…I see.” Is all you manage to say. It’s not disappointment you feel, though it’s not nothing, either.
“But that is not all, my lady,” Laenora resumes, “no, not at all, for what comes next is, I’m afraid, what may shock you still.”
“Well, speak it.” You state plainly, lifting your dress to trudge up the stairwell—the expanse of the castle looms ahead, towering under the gem-blue sky.
“The women had told me, yes, they’ve said, and I could find no lie, for they love coin, their truth is bought, much like their bodies—see, my lady, they indeed confessed, that once the princes come to visit, they only request girls that bare your likeness.”
You inhale sharply and your heart tumbles to the pit of your stomach, as if you missed a step by accident. You glance at her, and she is as serious as she ever was, apologetic, almost, to have to relay such indecencies. You recall what Aegon had hinted at many moons ago, and now it all suddenly makes sense.
“…This is…” You begin, not certain how to weave all of your thoughts into a coherent sentence, “Well…”
“Troubling news, my lady, I know.” She murmurs, and her hands come to hold yours tenderly, as if you would bear the weight of this secret easier if it’s shared between two, “I’m sorry, but you must know, I fear, you must.”
“You mustn’t tell anyone else. Not a soul.”
“I will not, my lady, this I swear; it shall be kept between us only.”
The next you see Aemond is by the dinner table doused in candle-light. The old walls of the Keep echo with silent chatter and clanking cutlery, Aegon’s offbeat laugh or loud jousting of his cup. The King is much too ill to ever join for supper anymore—he you see little, only when invited by the Queen herself to pay a visit. The Lord Hand keeps the King’s seat warm whilst he’s resting. You had noticed this subtle shift in power veer and spill over into blatant occupation. The décor had changed, too: all gloomy and wooden and in reverence to the Seven.
Aemond does not look at you; he seems to skip you as his gaze roams around the table. He is still at cross with you, and when you meet the next day in Helaena’s room, he hardly speaks a word.
The weeks shift into months and your name day looms over the horizon. The fog-laden morning in King’s Landing brims with sleep. The Dragon Pit reeks of flesh and blood and odour, and you have trouble keeping your grimace at bay. You shift in your armour: thousands of leather straps dyed in deep evergreen and fashioned to hold by pins of silver baring the Tyrell crest.
Sunfyre trails the clouds before stooping to the roof with a mighty roar. The sound nearly knocks the wind out of your lungs. Aegon, beside you, laughs merrily, “Sister!” He calls you; the ground shakes as Sunfyre lands, a smelting hot breath of putrid air gushing past the lot of you, “Ride with me, why don’t you?”
“Aegon!” Helaena scolds, fixing her gloves, “Must you jest now?” Her own dragon, Dreamfyre, is being escorted from the Pit, mollified and gentle, much like her. The dragon-keepers speak in High Valerian – what they say is beyond you, and though the language is beautiful, it’s too sharp, like a whip, or a gleaming tooth of a dragon, “Sister,” Her loving smile calms you, if only for a moment, “you needn’t be nervous—“
But her words are drowned in a far-off roar that cracks the sky into two. Aegon is still laughing as he saddles Sunfyre, staring into the swirling clouds and at the vague shape of a massive body casting an even greater shadow. The Queen shakes her head and closes her eyes, as if to shield herself from an upcoming headache. Noting your gaze on her, her lips twitch into a painful smile, “We shall see you shortly. It will be a…” She glances up, “A…quick flight, I recon.”
And there, from the forming storm clouds emerges Vhagar with a splint of sunlight raining down with her. She circles the Pit, slowing, before, gradually, she descends and you note a mane of white hair twirling from behind her head. You hold onto Helaena as she clings to you from the fearsome quake: dust dances in the air a hot vapour slices past your cheeks. The keepers gather, sharp staffs in hand and faces healed in boils, ushering you closer with curt, displeased motions. You dare not move.
You had met Vhagar only twice and it was enough to dissuade you from ever meeting her again. It’s her eyes that frighten you most, ancient and intelligent—she has seen cities burn and be raised again from the ground up, and had, surely, been part of many of such conquests. She’s massive, a body that radiates heat and smoke, with glimmering scales and acute, angular bones. You must crank your neck to look at her, and you grind your jaw to keep your lips from trembling.
This, you think, is what all of it had been for: all of your lessons and ceremonies and late-night dance practices. Perhaps even your own conception. Born and raised to get the only thing the great families of the Seven Kingdoms do not have – dragons. It doesn’t matter which. Power is power, and one breath from either Dreamfyre or Vhagar would leave but a charred shape of you on the floor.
You taste dirt and blood on your tongue, but your features set into grim determination. The leather is uncomfortable and it scathes your skin, but you try your best to ignore it. I’m no warrior, your mind sounds discouraged, I’m not made for this. But your dread hardly matters, if at all. It’s their world and their rules, and the Targaryens have never been considerate.
The keepers help you up, and as you climb, Aemond extends his hand for you to take. Whether he feels the quiver of your body or not is hardly a concern—the beast rumbles beneath you, and one wrong move and you may fall and injure yourself, perhaps incurably. You keep your eyes strained downward anticipating any sudden shift or warning of Vhagar’s discontent. It never comes.
Plopped onto the saddle in front of Aemond, you feel his chest hit your back; silken hair frays in the sides of your vision, and his chin dips to touch your shoulder, “You best hold on tight.” You hear the smirk in his voice more than see it, and your fingers clench around the reigns so tightly they go numb. His arms cage around your waist, “Would you like to steer her?”
“Aemond.” You hiss.
“Surely you know the way to your own home better than I.”
Sunfyre takes off with a gust of wind and a howl; Vhagar stirs beneath you, “I trust your memory, my prince,” You state, “for if you can find my room in the shadows of the night, surely you’ll be able to navigate to Highgarden in broad daylight.”
He stiffens, and the last you hear before take-off is a shout in High Valerian that nearly deafens you.
You feel like something tore out of you and was left with Queen Alicent watching her children fly Reach-ward—your stomach drops and you feel sluggish and heavy, as if the ground was calling back to you. The wind tears at you and it’s so strong that it makes your eyes water and lips frost; in daze, you fall into Aemond’s embrace. He’s mercifully silent about holding your weight. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed it.
The dragons dance and weave through the clouds. Dew collects on your armour and your nose and it’s so cold you barely catch your breath—but then the vistas open, great plain fields and far off mountains soaked in sunlight, the castles and halls of the Red Keep and the maze of the city all minuscule, toy-like, as if made from clay and wax. The world seems to fit in the palm of your hand. Momentarily, you lift it, as if to touch that great expanse, and you laugh, bell-like and wondrous.
“Told you!” Heleana shouts through the noise of flapping wings, “You needn’t be afraid, sister!”
You flash her a smile before Dreamfyre dips and rushes to catch up to Aegon. The journey continues for hours before the first stop. You ride along with the sun, and when night falls, you slumber in the grassy fields under the starry sky, and take flight once more when day breaks.
Its high noon and tears have dried in the creases of your eyes. Your muscles are stiff and aching and your arms and thighs sting from the imprints of fine leather. Before you, the alabaster towers of Highgarden manifest and grow larger. You lean in as your skin prickles with anticipation – finally, after years of playing at court, you are home.
Yellow-violet wild-flowers swim in your vision. Rose-vines cling to sturdy, ivory stone and sling from windowsills—the air is tinted with pollen, and the ground underneath your feet has never been so unsteady. A flock of servants and soldiers greet you in the outskirts of the city, and the girls hold your arms and all you can see are their grinning faces and flushed cheeks as they dote on you.
“Oh, my lady, Gods be good, you poor, poor woman—“
“—your hands, oh, gracious be the Seven!” One aches once she pulls off you glove.
“—and your hair—“
“—everyone has already gathered awaiting your return—“
“—you must feel faint, my lady, please, away with us—“
“Someone fetch the honey-wine! What had the royal cooks been feeding you—“
“—and the rose-water! Oh, I dread to think—”
“---prepare the oils! This way, my lady—“
“—come, come please, mind your step—“
Aegon’s hearty laugh does little to distract them from their mission. They seat in you a plush, velvety chair in the shade of a white linen tent, and they are quick to fetch the brushes and silk cloths wet with warm rose water and dab fragrant oils under your jaw. Helaena is soon seated beside you, and she’s much more receptive to the loving touches of the maids. They wipe the sweat off of her forehead and rouge her cheeks, fix her braids and help her pick a dessert from the assortment of buns, tarts, pies, glossed, syrupy candy, and melted chocolate cups.
The princes watch the scene unfold with varying states of amusement—Aegon seems ready to burst from laugher and Aemond does not seem to be affected at all, save for the brow he had raised once one of the maids remarked about the stench. It pervades, the smell of dragon, of warm blood and sweat and torn flesh, and it seems to cling to your skin no matter how many oils the maids rub into it. They are dissatisfied with such and entrance, and regard the Targaryens and their large pets with cautious, bleary eyes and pouted lips.
It must seem so silly to the princes, this exuberant greeting. But they fail to understand where they are. Helaena giggles as she sips wine mixed with honey; the girls brush her hair, the pointy edges of golden pins shining when caught in light. One word from you and the maids would slip something into the drink or the powder that coats the princess’ cheeks; weave poison into her robes, or the guards, with a raise of your hand, would slit their throats now or when they slept.
They’re in the court of roses, now. They hold no power here. No one outside the Reach does.
Once the servant girls decide that you’re presentable, a carriage of refined wood and silver ornaments rolls around. They lead Helaena to it, holding her hands and smiling at her words, though you know they likely do not understand what she’s saying. You seldom do, as well. Prince Aegon takes a seat by his wife, already nursing his second cup and entertained without end, delighted by such attention.
A guard brings you a steed, white as snow and smooth as satin, the finest horse in our stables, he says. It’s a lovely mare, and you gently run your hand down its snout. You smile, and it’s just a tad happier than it usually is, “She’s beautiful. Thank you.”
You mount her easily, and this saddle is much more confortable. “Will you not join us in the carriage, my betrothed?” Aemond questions.
You glance at him, “In full armour? I think not. We shall speak more in the castle. After the ceremonies, that is.”
“I should like to ride a horse as well, then.”
“Why? Haven’t had enough of your dragon?”
He grins, though you’re entirely certain he’s mocking you, “I only think it wise that husband and wife should meet the kind people of Highgarden alongside one another. Or would you disagree?”
The guards and stable-hands turn away from Aemond’s prompting look and seek your guidance instead. Bored, you comment, “Get him a horse.”
“Right away, my lady.”
The gates part to the sound of trumpets. The carriage rolls in first, and then you follow along with Aemond, who, despite getting what he had wanted, seems personally slighted by the act of your servants. Petals dance in the air and coat the road underneath the wheels of the carriage. The noise is deafening—people are clapping, waving, celebrating and singing, with their flowers and cups held high over their heads. The royal family rejoices at such reverence, but you know, and it’s a prideful inkling in your chest that these crowds had gathered for you.
You, only daughter of the Lord of Highgarden, you, wonderful lady Tyrell, you, princess-to-be in the wake of your name day have returned home. To them it would seem no different than as if you had returned from war. The twin dragons, Sunfyre and Dreamfyre, take to the sky. The crowd screams in delight at the display. As you weave through the roads leading up to the castle, you don’t stop smiling.
Past the blooming gardens and twinkling fountains, bakeries and shops of finest silks, smithies and jewellers and ripe orchids next to stained glass Septs. High ranking lords and ladies gather by the castle, and your path is paved by yellow roses. There’s music, fragments of sonnets lost to the rhythmical sound of drums, and the air is tinted with so many fragrances that it makes your head spin.
You dismount and dip your head in greeting before entering the castle you grew up in. The hall is lined with soldiers bearing the Tyrell crest and only marginally quieter than outside. The painted ceiling is just as you remember it – vivid and detailed, a depiction of the mythical reign of the first King of the Reach. It’s all gold and ivory and intricate carvings on polished wood. The Red Keep pales in the shadow of this opulence.
At the very end of the hall you spot your father sat in his seat, not unlike a throne. Beside him stands your mother, smothered in her silks and shawls and great luminescent pearls. She’s smiling to herself in the same way she has taught you how, and their position in the very back of the room on the chequered floor reminds you of chess.
This is nothing but a game, too.
You halt, and the Targaryen children stop behind you, silenced by the grandiosity of their surroundings.
“Lady Paramount of the Mander, daughter of the Lord of Highgarden, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach and Warden of the South,” The announcer’s voice rings shrill in the silence, “Lady (Name) Tyrell.”
“It’s good to see you again, father.” You voice.
“Along with come the princes of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, the children of the Protector of the Seven Kingdoms: Aegon, Aemond, and Helaena Targaryen.”
Aegon leans over to you with a whisper, “…Not much of an introduction in comparison.”
Welcome to the court of roses, you wish to say. You only smile.
Your name day is but in three months, and if all the lords and ladies that matter wish to attend, the invitations need to be sent out immediately. Your day is spent signing letters and melting in hot steam baths. You return to your room late into the evening.
It is just how you have left it that many years ago, large and spotless, aired out well. You smell flowers, and when you move to your bedside window, from it you see the rose gardens and a fountain in which you would throw coins into with a wish. What was it that you had wished for? You can’t recall, but you know it had been something dear, something that made you hold the coin to your heart and shut your eyes real tight. But what could a girl that has everything even dream of? You suppose you’ll never know.
Despite the rough journey, sleep does not come. When the fires are blow out and the castle is silent, you leave your room. The guards standing watch merely dip their head in acknowledgement—you know that, even if the King himself demanded them to state where you had left, they wouldn’t say a word, not unless your father ordered them. Their loyalty to the crown only goes as far as you.
It would be a fib to admit that when you entered the library, you hadn’t expected to find Aemond there. Perhaps the only reason you only came here is for the fact that you knew he could not sleep, either. You felt it, in your heart of hearts, and you went into the room quietly, almost anxious to disturb the sacred peace that pervades it.
It’s a large space, lined by tall bookshelves full of heavy old tomes. The collection of scrolls and books is almost as impressive as in Old Town, if not more—most of them had been collected from the great ages past, gifts from Targaryen kings or bought from the best treasure hunters in Essos. There are relics fished out the Narrow Sea and sunken treasures; custom busts from the Westerlands and diadems from the Vale; cases of old Dornish armour and even fragments of engraved stone from Sothoryos, or so the legends go. The air smells like dry parchment, ink, and sandalwood. If Aemond were to explore any place in Highgarden, it would be here.
He’s sat by a large table with a book in hand, and he has changed out of his coat and leather into pale linen robes. The flickering light paints strange shadows on his face, and you must admit that to you, standing there, between the arches, he looks lovelier than anything you had ever seen. His eye lifts to catch you and the book shuts harshly. His jaw moves, and he slowly sets his reading down.
“Out on one of your walks, I take it.” He mutters. You hum, pretend to be interested in a book pressed in leather in vellum. The printed title reads THE HISTORY OF HOUSE TYRELL, “Is this your first stop?”
“The night is young,” You say, not at all troubled by his tone, “and I am home after many years.” You glance at him, “I shall walk where I please.”
He opens the book again, though his eye does not move to skim the pages, “How did it end, by the way?” He says just a tad louder, “With that servant girl in your room.”
“With tea.”
“I heard the taste is quite bitter.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“How curious.”
“Why is that I am prosecuted from a crime I did not commit?” You question, drawing closer, “I don’t understand, Aemond, what had I done to upset you. Should I swear in the Sept for you to believe me? Or take off my clothes so you could check for yourself?”
He pauses mid-turn of a page, and his eye grows wider in the dim light. He turns to you and you smile, satisfied with such a reaction.
“Awfully quick to suggest that, (Name).” He bites, leaving the book once more. He stands, and his anger is made clear by a scowl, “Must you always disrobe yourself to prove the truth?”
“Why, my proposal was most innocent in nature,” You say, “I figured that, seeing as my lips speak only lies, my actions would persuade you to drop this hearsay, since you would be able to see for yourself. Though,” You feign exhaustion with a shrug and a sigh, “I suppose there’s not much to expect when you have only one eye to see now, is there, husband?”
His fingers cage around your wrist and pull, harshly. “Release me at once.” You snarl, trying to break free. His touch burns under the raw imprints left by your armour. Pain shoots up your arm. He does not budge.
You hit his chest, and when he refuses to back down, you hit it again, “I shall have your hand for that.” He says, grasping the other.
“Then take it.” You hiss, “Take it and my tongue, as you had sworn to do on many occasions. Keep on your promise, my prince, for I shall come to think you dishonour your word.” You reel in, glare into his eye, “And what good is a man that does not keep his word?”
He breathes out, his lips quirking with a smile, “As you wish.”
He captures your mouth in a kiss that knocks the air out of your lungs, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulls you flush against him. Your hands plant on his shoulders, and in retaliation you bite his lip which only serves him to push you to the wall. Your head aches but neither of you let go, limbs tangled and breaths spent, nails clawing at his shirt and his fingers tearing at your dress.
You taste copper and when he pulls away his lips are swollen, the lower bleeding from your bite. You stare at it, transfixed, and when you meet his gaze you feel dizzy for no one had ever regarding you with such desire. He steps back, releases you, and you feel weak in the knees. He wipes the remains of the kiss from his lips with the back of his hand, “…Satisfied?” He asks. His voice is hoarse and your heart leaps faster just so you could hear more of it. Your jaw clenches, lips thinning into a line. He grins, “I take your silence as a resounding yes, then. Do have a good night, Lady Tyrell.”
The celebration of your tenth and eight name day begins well into the morning, with Tyrell banners fluttering in the wind. Heaps of flowers decorate every corner, and even the townies that are not invited to the feast done their best robes in case you would be wandering around. The main hall brews with life once the sun sets beneath the horizon—candles and incense, silk shawls, gold and glass roses, the finest delicacies coin can buy.
The pile of gifts grows larger—from Pentosian rugs made from the richest yarn, pearl encrusted porcelain eggs for jewellery, to amber pins and rings from the Summer Sea. The lords, with their sons and daughters, keep adding to the mass that crams the table. The King, sick as he is, does not manage to hide the awe from his features, “Those are some fine riches.” He tells the Queen.
She smiles, slightly, taking a sip of her drink, “Indeed. Perhaps rivalling the Lannister dowry, even.”
“Your daughter is most beloved.” Says the King to your mother.
“She is, truly,” She agrees, her eyes catching you dancing with a lord from Old Town, “and there had been many that fought for her hand. Many of which had been your cousins, your grace.” This she says to the Queen.
“We figured,” Your father continues, “that it would be best to marry her to someone we know and trust.” He glances at Lord Otto Hightower seated by the Queen.
“And thus, combining our strength and our armies,” Your mother smiles at the King, “and the rich history between our houses. A splendid union, I believe.”
“Aegon would have been a good husband.” The King notes. The said man himself is drowning cups by a table full of ladies from the Vale.
“That we do not doubt.” Your mother chirps, “Only we thought, and we acted in the interested of the crown and its people, that a Prince Targaryen should have a Targaryen wife.”
“My son’s not the king,” Viserys says, “why on earth should it matter?”
Your mother glances at Lord Hightower, “Yet he is the first-born son, and so, privy to tradition.”
“How well said.” The Queen mumbles.
“What is more, your grace,” Lord Otto speaks up, “we have noticed a…growing affection between Lady (Name) and Prince Aemond.”
“Truly, they had always gotten along beautifully.” Your mother remarks.
“And is it not better to wed from love?” Your father proposes.
The King looks to his wife, and he is old, and weary, and he regards her with something akin to sadness, “…I suppose you are right, Lord Tyrell. A marriage born from love,” He holds her hand weakly, and something within Alicent cracks cleanly into two, “is a fine, strong union. I couldn’t have thought of a better idea myself.”
As parents continue their idle chatter, you bow to the lord that had been keeping you on your feet for a while now. The dance is over and you’re spent, and as soon as you lift your head a glass of wine is placed in your hand, one you gulp down greedily. The visitors clap as the musicians tune their instruments. Aegon is whispering to a blushing maiden dressed in pale blue; Helaena is smitten with a Baratheon Lord that keeps suggesting her pastries; Aemond sits alone, watching, his drink grasped tightly in his hand.
Before you catch a break, a Lannister lord saunters over, requesting a dance. You’re much too giddy to deny him. His advances are halted when the King takes a stand, and the hall falls into a hush. He smiles, though it seems more as a grimace, and holds up his cup in a toast, “I wish to say a few words, if the lady of the house permits me.” He begins, and his request is directed at you, one you graciously accept with a shy dip of your head, “Many years ago, I, too, was ten and eight, and not nearly as smart nor as charming as our deeply treasured flower of the court.” The crowd laughs, and your hands land on your beating heart, “It is a privilege, I do think,” He continues, “to call you family, and a great honour to have you wed my son.”
Your eyes flick in Aemond’s direction, only to find him already looking at you.
“Thus I toast to your health and beauty and eagerly look forward to saying yet another speech at your wedding.”
The crowd cheers. You can barely contain your joy. The Lannister lord tries his luck yet again, though this time Aemond replaces him. The former tries to protest but one look and he retreats, frightened. You can’t help but laugh. The musicians strum a tune.
“And here I figured,” You speak, palms aligned with his; you circle one another, at ease, despite in the peripherals of everyone in attendance, “you wouldn’t dance with me.”
“I’m only performing my duties as your husband.”
You snort and spin and your dress fluffs and the ornaments in your hair jingle, “Not yet.”
Somewhere deep down you know you should be angry with him and his coldness, but you can’t find it in yourself to care.
“But soon.” His hands fall on your waist and he lifts you, “Have you thought much of it? Our wedding.”
“Mother hardly lets me speak a word of anything else.” You state, passing him; you fall a step back, “She’s deeply concerned with the invitations. And seating arrangements.” You comment slyly, as if divulging a great conspiracy.
A smile pinches on the side of his lips, “It’s awfully long, I recon.”
“Every lord and lady worth a coin will be invited. If only to sit outside and watch from afar.”
Your arm slinks around his shoulders and he pulls you close, his nose brushing your cheek, “Do I have a say in this arrangement?” But his voice is missing its usual sarcastic drawl.
He’s light on his feet, refined. You would expect nothing else from a brilliant swordsman, “Only if you wish.” You murmur into his ear.
“Then I should like to wed you alone.” He says as you part, “With no audience.”
“Do you not fancy the Lannister lords?” You raise a brow, “I do think they’re quite funny.”
“I don’t fancy any lords.” He states, “Least of all, the Lannisters.”
You twirl with a laugh, “Then let us invite no one,” You sing, “and let our witness be the moon.”
“Considering how fond our families are of theatrics, I doubt such a thing would work.”
Reunited once again, you stand close as the floor floods with dancers, “I shall not tell if you won’t.” You say, glancing at his lips.
He exhales harshly and lets you go. So ends your dance. Your arm is locked with Helaena’s and you’re spun once more.
The festivities continue long into the night, even after you retire. Drowsy and drunk and barely able to stand, you unclasp the necklaces and lose the gloves, throw it all onto the vanity. Your earrings, then, and at last, the pins and ornaments in your hair, and you see your dazed reflection in the mirror, and you smile to yourself, buzzing. Usually, you would not allow yourself such indulgence, even alone. But there is no one around, and you are ten and eight, and you are young, and beautiful, and happy.
And absolutely wine-drunk. Aegon made sure of the fact.
Incense curls into white smoke. Your room drowns in candle light.
The door slowly creaks open and you startle, heart skipping a beat when a tall, slender figure enters and shuts it behind him. Aemond is still in his festive robes, though his shirt is unbuttoned, and his hair is frazzled from the wind. He briefly marvels at the pinks, greens, and lavenders of your room. Such soft colours.
“You should not be here.” You say, though it’s hardly a request to leave.
“Your dogs made my journey quite a hassle.” He says, voice rasp, thoughtful. He’s referring to your guards, “One was most adamant to not let me through.” There’s a note of warning in his tone.
You smile, tilt your head, “They have a sworn duty to protect me.”
“He swayed my hand.”
You quirk a brow, “Surely you didn’t hurt the pup?”
He hums, approaching, “As I said,” but when close enough, he doesn’t move to touch you, “He swayed my hand.”
“I shall need to have a talk with my father, then.” You remark, “For if only one tried to defend my honour, we have little use for the rest that did not.”
His hand lands on the side of your jaw—it’s rough from training, yet all the more pleasant. “I thought you stuck to your quarters on the hour of the owl.” You murmur.
His gaze jumps between your eyes, “You know very well that I do not.” He admits, “Where were you, that night?”
“Out to see my mother.”
“Why?”
You gulp, “I couldn’t sleep. I waited for you, but you never came.”
“I did.” He says, “But you were already gone by then. Why not tell me?”
“Would you have believed me?”
“No, I suppose I wouldn’t have.”
“You hurt me, you know.” You tell him.
“And I fear that if you marry me,” His thumb caresses your cheek, “I may hurt you yet.”
You smile, “That is a risk I am willing to take. Only if you promise to never be so harsh with me again.”
“I am unworthy of you.”
Your lips, once again, grace the ragged skin of his scar, “You’re a worthy prince, I know‘t.”
He kisses you again, though it’s soft this time, tender, and you can taste the wine in his mouth. His arms snake around your waist and your tangle into his hair, carding through it.
“I have craved your mouth,” He murmurs as he breaks away, peppering kisses down your neck, “for a long time. As a man in the desert craves cool water. And now that I have you,” Once you’re face to face again, your fingers gently pull at his eye-patch, “How could I ever think to let you go?”
“Then don’t.” You whisper, and finally, he’s unmasked; the leather falls to the floor, forgotten, and the prettiest emerald you had even seen glimmers in candlelight.
“Is that what you want?”
“It is what I had always wanted.”
He kisses you again, and it is as if you are back in the library, no longer fighting the passion that grew over the years. His hand sweeps over the vanity and all of its continents fall to the floor, though neither of you care enough to part. And as you’re seated, legs parted, and his warm hands working on the knots in your corset, the party continues with music and howls of joy. The visitors dance and wine is spilled and the moon shines through the clouds, illuminating a shooting star.
But they feast on foals at dawn.
The Red Keep quakes with a wail. In one wing, Helaena is crumbled to the floor, screaming, pressing her dead child to her chest as if her beating heart would wake him.
On the other side of the castle, you watch as first sunlight casts on the cradle drenched in blood. Maids buzz around you and cry, and all you can do is stare at the forming puddle on the polished tiles before you fall to your knees, your fingers gripping at your stomach. Your girl, your only one, long awaited and beloved, dead before her first name day.
The Gods are cruel and war is kind to no one. You don’t recognise the sound that leaves your lips. You hardly comprehend the pain. There are hands pulling at you but all you can see is the blood. How red it is, and how much it looks like fire in the light.
Fire and blood, have you not lost enough?
FIRE & BLOOD, EXCERPTS FROM THE CHAPTER “FLOWER OF THE COURT”
Princess (Name) Targaryen, nee Tyrell, Lady of Highgarden, was the only daughter of the Lord Tyrell and his lady wife. She came to court young in preparation to marry Prince Aegon II as a conspiracy to become the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, as concocted by the shared interest to unite the forces between the Tyrell and Hightower families. The circumstances as to the switch between the princes is unknown, though it is said that Prince Aemond and, then Lady, (Name), were deeply in love and had requested to marry. […] Their friendship was solid and love unwavering, and it said that they got along well as children and were even closer as adults.
[…] Princess (Name) was kind and deeply beloved by the court and peasantry alike, and she is said to have loved her people in return. Her selflessness is, to this, day, remembered, and a garden of the best flowers from the Reach has been tended to in the Keep in her honour ever since […].
[…] with the death of Prince Lucerys […] came the death of Prince Jaehaerys, the heir to the Iron Throne, and Princess Visenya, daughter of Princess (Name) and Prince Aemond Targaryen. The deaths of the children took a terrible toll on the Greens and greatly weakened their resolve. […].
Soon after the dance began, Princess (Name), along with numerous servants and her mother, died in the siege led by Prince Daemon Targaryen. Prince Aemond Targaryen did not find out of her passing till […].
And so ended the summer of Princess (Name)’s reign and came to the winter of her wake. Her father, Lord Paramount of the Mander, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach and Warden of the South, remarried shortly after, though it is said that he never recovered from the death of his daughter and lady wife.
notes: ty everyone for such a warm & loving response from everyone regarding this fic <3 i unexpected fell in love w it & i’m so glad to see that u have, too! this chapter was supposed to feature like 10 more things, but i couldn’t add all of that since then a) it would be too long, b) narrative wise, it would drag on & not make sense. i might write some one shots regarding these two, though ^_^ thanks again, everyone! can’t wait to see my babygirl in season 2
#aemond targaryen#aemond x reader#aemond targaryen x reader#hotd#game of thrones#imagine#imagines#got x reader#house of the dragon#house of the dragon x reader#hotd x reader#aemond one eye#angst#autumn features 2022
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