#the title of this fic was from 'ballroom extravaganza' by dpr ian | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

traumxrei-archive · 2 years

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【 when the world stopped for you 】

summary: it's jamil viper's birthday and he isn't too enthused...until the prefect waltzes into his room, promising surprise and a magic carpet ride. and who was jamil to refuse such an offer?

author's note: welcome to my homage to jamil viper ! i did want to write a character study type of fic, but i thought he deserved some fluffy comfort for his birthday, so here it is, refreshingly late >:DD i hope you enjoy the fic ^^

characters: jamil viper x gn!prefect

word count: 2.5k

tags: happy birthday jamil viper !!, he's done w/ the prefect, but is he really if he likes them ?, they take a magic carpet ride "a whole new world style" (jamil is jasmine and prefect is aladdin lmao)

[ or read it on ao3 ! ]

Birthdays weren't something that Jamil celebrated. The memories of birthdays from his childhood were of his sister's small hands shaking him awake. The lamplight illuminating the kunafa his parents made, singing hushed songs before the work day started.

He would end up having one bite of the kunafa before rushing off to wake up Kalim for his morning lessons. The white-haired boy always had some magnificent gift waiting for him, which he always respectfully declined, no matter how much he wanted it. Because he was taught that 'it isn't polite to accept grand gifts from your master.'

Living in the Al-Asim household for so long, he had seen his fair share of birthday parties and banquets. It happened often each year, with each of Kalim's many siblings having their own parties every birthday. Even Kalim himself was known for hosting one of the most extravagant and beautiful parties for his birthdays back in Scalding Sands.

So it was to his surprise that he was the one getting the "birthday banquet" treatment at NRC. He knew how this went down. You get an outfit and a party after school was over. That was what happened last year. Yet he still couldn't get used to all the hustle and bustle.

Jamil stared at his own birthday outfit bitterly, the failures and mistakes of his second year stinging like a phantom wound. Certainly this was enough celebration. He already got enough birthday greetings to fill a jar, and he didn't even have to make breakfast. He didn't need a party on top of that.

Nonetheless, Jamil dutifully put on the suit, feeling the slide of cool fabric against his skin. Even if he didn't like the ritual, NRC had good taste in fabrics at least.

He had just slipped on the bolo tie when his door slipped open. He frowned, turning, "I thought I said no enteri–"

He froze when he saw the person standing at the door. Grinning widely, the Prefect waved, "Hey, birthday boy!"

Jamil winced, "Spare me, please."

"But I haven't seen you all day, senpai, and plus," They closed the door behind him before flopping next to his desk. "It is your birthday."

He rolled his eyes lightly as he fastened the rosette on his clothes, "It's not like I'm having the time of my life here."

"Right," They drawled, picking up one of the stray books on his table. "You're the type that hates when attention is all on you, huh?"

He stared at them pointedly before they laughed, "C'mon, at least appreciate all their efforts! They're kicking up quite the storm out there for your birthday."

Jamil stopped his movements, "Please tell me there aren't any animals."

"There are no animals."

"Prefect. Lying isn't good for you."

"Well, maybe I saw just one parrot–"

"That Kalim–"

They clapped, "Well, before you storm out, I have a proposal that I think you'd be interested in."

"A proposal?" Jamil huffed. "What, are you going to magically somehow make the party go away?"

There was a rustling sound that sounded awfully loud in the brief silence of the room. Jamil did a slow turn, seeing Kalim's carpet fluttering right next to the Prefect. There was a cheeky smile on their face as the looked at him.

"No."

"But I haven't even said anything yet!"

"Wait," Jamil held up a hand, effectively stopping their on-coming speech. "How did you even get to that? I thought I locked up it in the treasury."

"You see," They started, standing up to let the carpet wrap around them like a shawl. "I feel like Tassel has a sensor or something. It likes me quite a lot so it came to greet me when I was sneak— I mean, walking around."

"Tassel?" Jamil asked, watching as one of the carpet's corners shook in recognition. "You named the carpet?"

"Hey, Kalim liked the name," They pursed their lips as if offended. "Besides, the important part is that it likes the name. Now let's go already, or else it'll be too late."

"Late for what?" Jamil paid them no mind, instead reaching for his magic pen.

Which...wasn't there.

He let out a deep sigh, turning to see the Prefect dangling the pen from their grasp. He knew that they would go to great lengths to get things their way, using any trick that they could, yet...

"I guess Ruggie's lessons are working huh," They preened lightly at their achievement. "You didn't notice a thing!"

"That really isn't something to be proud of," He stood, approaching them. Well, it wasn't like he said 'no' in the first place. "So, where are we going?"

"Really? You're coming?"

Jamil looked away from that starry-eyed look of theirs, "Quickly now. Or would you like me to change my mind?" Now that got them moving, dragging Tassel into a prone position before helming the carpet.

"Before you ask, I got lessons from Kalim for this," They chimed in, patting the space right next to them. "So don't make this all for nothing." Jamil climbed on, reluctantly holding on to the flying carpet's edge.

With a few encouraging whispers to the carpet, the two set off into the darkening sky. The breeze that kissed his skin felt almost cool, heralded by the sun's dying light. And he couldn't take his eyes off the horizon.

"Hey, no looking!" They scolded over their shoulder. "It's no fun if you ruin the surprise!"

"Alright, alright," Jamil closed his eyes, holding on to the Prefect's shirt for purchase. "No need to yell." They really were something, asking him to ride blind on a magic carpet.

"You know, I feel like the thief from that story that Kalim told me about before," Their voice was closer, like they were sitting next to him." What did he say again? Ahem, 'Tell me, princess, when did you last let your heart decide'?"

"You're calling me the princess?" Jamil asked after a beat, confusing even himself when he indulged in their ramblings.

"I mean, I am playing the role of the thief, so naturally you're the princess," They snickered slightly. "Would you like me to serenade you too?"

If his eyes were open, he would've rolled them by now, "Just focus on getting us wherever we're going in one piece." And that was that, until Jamil felt their hand settle over his eyes as they came to a halt.

"Okay, ready?" They said, sounding like they were behind him now. "Take a step down, I'll guide you." Jamil could feel the heat of their hand at the small of his back, gently directing him as he took steps blindly on the sand.

"If sand ends up getting in my hair or this suit," He said in a warning tone. "You're going to be cleaning the Scarabia kitchens for a while."

"Yeah, yeah," They snorted; as if the possibility had never crossed their mind. "Just focus on walking, we're really close." The wind once again teased at his hair, ruffling the stiff folds of his suit jacket. He couldn't help but listen to the steady sound of their breathing, focusing on that and the yield of the sand underneath him.

And then he could see again.

His eyelashes fluttered as his world was set aglow once more, the sun's last rays clawing across the desert in a magnificent display. All above, the night sky desperately bled its colors into the day, as the night always yearns to be with its counterpart. At least that was what those fairytales told him. And now, he couldn't help but believe in it. He watched, entranced as the sun was swallowed by the horizon line, and as the moon rose, barely missing its counterpart by just a few seconds.

While the moment felt short to him, Jamil didn't know how long he stood there. He turned around, trying to find the shining shams to his muted qamar, and—

There they were.

Their face radiated with happiness, a delighted smile directed right at him. And just like how the sun's rays reflected off the moon, Jamil couldn't help but mirror it with his own smaller smile.

"Did you like my gift?" The words were spoken so softly that Jamil was sure it was the winds that carried them over to him; over the arm's length of space that valleyed between them.

"Wasn't it more like nature's gift to me?" Jamil couldn't help but feel the lightness in his shoulders as he bridged the gap, teasing on the tip of his tongue as he grinned.

"Hey, if I didn't convince you then you wouldn't have seen it!" They turned, and he followed entranced as they walked over the top of the sand dune. "You should give credit where credit's due." The last of the sun's light bathed them in petal red, making Jamil's heart beat harder against his ribcage as he realized that, oh. They were really that important to him all along.

"Let's go back to Tassel befo—"

The sand beneath them gave way, pitching their body over the edge of the dune. And Jamil lunged forward, his body crashing right into theirs and sending them both tumbling down the dune. He winced, drawing them closer to him as they kept falling at gravity's mercy, before finally slowing down to a slide.

A beat of silence spanned between them, punctuated by labored breathing.

"Jamil? Y-you good?" They coughed from where they were, still squished against his chest. He let go instantly feeling his face flame at their closeness.

"I'm...fine," Jamil groaned as pushed himself up on his elbows. They sat on their haunches, still halfway on his lap as they stared at him. His voice turned flat, "And you got sand in my hair. You got sand everywhere."

They laughed hysterically at that, throwing their head back, "Oh, man, I was thinking that maybe the roles got reversed, and you turned into the thief for a second, but...guess you're still the princess."

"This isn't funny," Jamil said, yet he felt the corners of his lips twitch into a smile. "I have a party to go to in a bit." He made no move to get up, finding the warmth of them comforting in the nighttime dessert.

"Well, isn't this celebration enough?" They asked, settling into a more comfortable position— now sitting on the sand, their legs monopolizing the space between his own as they faced him. "We've been celebrating you this whole time, after all."

His pulse jumped, "Since...since when have we been celebrating me?"

"Since I came to your room. The carpet ride, the sunset, walking up the sand dune, and even falling down the sand dune—while unplanned— it was all for you," They returned his stare unabashed. "Me being right here, right now...it's for you, senpai."

"...Thank you," The words were spoken in quiet, and this time the wind carried his words instead of theirs. It stirred up his loose hair and he couldn't care less at that moment. He had never seen such an earnest attempt at celebrating his birthday as the one that they had sprung on him.

"Hey, senpai..." They leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially. "Could I give you another present...?"

His gaze dropped instantly to their lips and he knew he was fucked. Oh Sevens. Oh Sevens, Jamil was absolutely ruined. He wanted to kiss them. He wanted them to give him a kiss. That was not good. He closed his eyes instantly when they leaned in a bit more. That was until he felt the press of something against his cheek.

His eyes flew open and he could see something that looked like a....snake plush right in front of his face. A snake plush. A plush. You had to be—

A shaky laugh tumbled out of his lips, "P-Prefect, I-I'm not...five."

"Hey, I thought it was perfect since it looks like you," They pulled the doll back making it nod. "Look, Little Viper, say hi to your predecessor."

"Did you just call that 'Little Viper'?" He stifled the fondness swelling in his chest even if the words weren't directed at him. Was it possible to feel envy for an inanimate object? Jamil really must've been going crazy.

"Would you rather I call it 'senpai' instead?" They were kidding, but Jamil was almost tempted to say 'yes'. Instead he took the plush from them, turning it in his palm. Okay, maybe it looked just a little bit like him. But he definitely wasn't going to admit it out loud.

"Now, let's get back before Kalim freaks out about you being gone," They held out a hand which Jamil immediately took. Tassel seemed to be floating just ahead of them, as if it was waiting for them to finish talking this whole time.

"And will you take responsibility for the sand?" He tugged at their entwined hands, drawing them just a little closer.

They blinked at him owlishly; strangely flustered, "Y-you mean the kitchen deal...right?" Sevens, what would happen if he leaned in and kissed them right then and the—

He patted their head, heat singing his neck once more, "Yes, I do. Now give me back my pen. I would like to maintain my reputation, at least amongst the other dorm members." They uncharacteristically handed him back the pen with no further gripes; something he attributed to their fluster earlier. He made quick work of the sand; the spell coming to him easily after years of practice, leaving them sand free in no time. He joined them on the carpet once more after fixing up his hair.

This time, he sat behind them, resting his chin against their shoulder as they drove. It was warmer that way, he decided to tell himself, trying not to notice how stiff the Prefect's shoulders were. Maybe he wasn't the only one who was...struggling with their feelings.

"Hey, Prefect," Jamil murmured lowly, his lips close enough to brush their ear. "Could I make a request?"

They flinched slightly before relaxing once more, "Mm? F-for your birthday?"

He clenched his fist as he spoke again, "In the future, I... Would it be okay if I..."

"I-If you...?" They asked, and Jamil could almost feel the quickening thud of their heart pressed against his front.

"Come with me on a trip in the future," Jamil decided. "I'll make sure you have fun." He settled for something simple. It would be too hard to voice those complicated feelings with careless words. And there would always be next time.

"Yes," They said quickly before letting out a short breath. "I mean. I would love to. As long as I don't have to save up too many thaumarks to go."

"It's a promise, sukkar," Jamil secretly smiled, hoping that they couldn't feel it from where he was leaning against their shoulder.

Maybe birthdays celebrated were not a waste of time. Maybe it was worth making a fanfare over for once. Maybe going on outlandish carpet rides with someone that makes his heart feel alive was exactly the way to celebrate those days. Maybe this was the way he wanted to celebrate his birthdays from now on.

All that he knew was that he would enjoy this moment while it lasted; before he was thrown into the party that would be thrown for him. And besides, if he needed a little break then...what was stopping him from stealing into the night with them once again?

tysm for reading ! i hope you enjoyed the fluff ^^ if you'd like to check out more jamil viper works, or otherwise, here's my masterlist :D

[ tiny factoids / translations for the fic !! ]

kunafa is a dessert that's made in many arab countries ! the dessert is comprised of a crispy layer of shredded pastry moulded around a cheese or cream filling. it's usually served straight from the oven with a healthy drizzle of sugar syrup :D writing this is making me want to eat it...but here's a link to a kunafa recipe for the curiouser !

qamar / shams : these two words mean 'moon' and 'sun' respectively in arabic. and as for the tale of the moon and the sun being lovers...it was a story that i heard when i was younger though i'm not sure of its origin (i'd love to know if someone does know ^^ drop by my ask box !!)

sukkar : haha. yeah, this basically means 'sugar' in arabic. it's jamil flirting with the prefect. arabic endearments are just 10x more romantic to me, especially from jamil <33

#/trau writes #jamil viper deserves more fluff #he deserves to have So Much Fun and happiness on his birthday #he deserves fun silly goofy fics #the title of this fic was from 'ballroom extravaganza' by dpr ian #i mean the lyrics are too good #'when the trees are all burning / and the stars will keep on turning / and i know i won't stop searching'#'for the moment when the world / stopped for you'#such emotions and feelings this song is #/trau fics #jamil viper x reader #jamil x reader #jamil viper #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twisted wonderland fics #twst fanfics #twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland

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doiefy · 1 year

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ballroom extravaganza (m?) // kim doyoung, jung jaehyun // preview

The house on the hill has been a mystery for some time. Some say hell, most say heaven—but for the good and wicked alike, it remains a safe haven built by a faceless group known as the Seraphim, on a foundation of secrets they're willing to take to their graves.

For 27-year-old Jung Jaehyun trying to escape a family and job he hates, the manor is an easy distraction: wealth and extravagance where no one knows his name, and endless entertainment riddled with the type of danger he craves. But for the Seraph who catches Jaehyun's eye one late night, it's nothing short of home. Although held together by a twisted love and afflicted by paranormal activity, the mysterious inhabitants of the house are Doyoung's only semblance of family.

Whether by fate or sheer coincidence, the two are brought together to reevaluate the ground they stand upon, and the horrors buried beneath. And to come to the slow realization: their worst fears have been in front of them the entire time, rooted firmly in both their mortal bodies and broken souls.

genre: angst, paranormal, horror

pairing: kim doyoung x jung jaehyun (yeah i'm fully aware that you nerds don't read mxm but did I ask? no :))

word count: 4.2k preview, ~50k full fic

warnings: heavy language, blood and violence, minor character death, smoking. full fic includes alcohol, drugs, sexual content (not explicit smut but heavy references to/implications of rather intense sexual relationships. despite this, minors pls dni for everyone's sanity), some vague indication of undiagnosed mental conditions and stigma, generally this fic is pretty heavy but I've become desensitized as fuck writing it lmfao.

expected release: july 2023 at the latest or i will literally go insane

this was very much (and obviously) inspired by dpr ian's mito 2, from the general ✨vibes✨ to the chapter titles. absolute banger of an album, do give it a listen while reading. tag list available by dm/ask.

one: seraph

The skies begin to bleach red And the stars begin to fall.

AT DUSK, Seraph’s Hill was truly a surreal sight to behold.

It held the briefest moment between evening and night frozen in time. While the rest of the world darkened to a deep indigo, the property sat isolated, still bathed in a brilliant amber glow. All beige brick and polished marble, it seemed to cradle the sun’s remains between its soaring rooftops and overgrown balconies. It stopped the celestial bodies in their orbits, rewriting time, rewriting space and natural law, all in some vain attempt to retain a few more minutes of daylight. The fountains spewed molten gold, the gardens flashed iridescent colours, and the stone statues lit their wings ablaze.

It wasn’t especially angelic or heavenly, despite its name. It was hardly coherent, if you stared at it for long enough: a strange mismatch of architecture styles, something vaguely between Mediterranean revival and neoclassical, with gothic fountains out front. The lack of coordination was all due to Leliel’s indecision at the time of its construction—so thought the estate’s various visitors. But as the original story went among the Seraphim, Azrael had murdered the original contractor, prompting the hiring of a second person to finish the job.

On this particular evening, the pearly gates swung open for a black car. Behind the wheel, Kim Doyoung looked out across the property—he had one hand steering the vehicle, and the other hanging casually out the window with a cigarette stuck between two fingers. The gates closed behind him, silently, on well-oiled hinges. Even the automated clang of the lock was muted, so as to not disturb guests; peace was just another one of Leliel’s attempts to emulate paradise.

He pulled the car up the driveway, making quick observation of the yard. There was no one in sight; no sign of his contact, and only a handful of familiar vehicles parked behind the west wing. He was to meet a man who had every ill intention against the Seraphim; and it seemed he had arrived too early.

Most would feel restless at this point, either overthinking the entire ordeal or simply irritated by the notion of waiting, yet Doyoung was strangely calm. He parked the car, snapped the key out of the ignition, and hastily pulled the visor down to check his reflection.

The goal was to look effortlessly presentable for this meeting, and not like he had been on the road for several hours. Unfortunately, the black eyes that stared back at him from the mirror harboured exhaustion. The smoke spilling from his lips made for an even harsher appearance, leeching the colour from his cheeks and adding grey streaks to his long locks of jet hair. Someone had once told him he was a visually conflicting person: all soft curves dressed in angular shapes, fair skin marked with black tattoos, a gentle voice paired with an intense gaze. He understood now, their reasons for confusion, and how his strange sense of fashion could be disadvantageous at times like these.

He combed his fingers through his hair and tied it at the base of his neck—as well as he could, anyways; it was still too short to stay in place for too long. A bit of cream to soothe the dry patches of skin on his hands, then the cheap cologne he kept in his bag, to mask the potent smell of gas and blood. The cigarette met his lips one last time before he climbed out of the car and crushed it underfoot.

“There you are.”

Doyoung turned, his back meeting the side of his car as he searched for the source of noise. Confusion took him a moment later, when he registered a woman’s voice and a soft silhouette on the wall—dusted with the golden rays of sunset, harmoniously one with the gentle autumn breeze. She stepped out of the shadows in a flash of long, silver hair and silver jewellery. With mean eyes and a deep crease in her brow, she must have been in her early, if not late, thirties.

This certainly wasn’t who Doyoung had agreed to meet with.

“I’m sorry?” his voice came out relaxed, almost a little slurred. There was a long pause before he spoke again, this time tired. “Prince Seir sent you?”

“Foolish boy,” the woman murmured; her speech was so unnecessarily dignified and irritating, but Doyoung said nothing of it. He wouldn’t bother.

Instead, he mustered a wry grimace. “You are Prince Seir, then.” He gave a curious tilt of his head. “Why waste so much of your time convincing me that you were a man?”

“You lot who frequent this hellhole don’t seem like the type to take a woman seriously,” she snorted, throwing her head back. Her silver hair cascaded down her back, catching moonlight between each individual strand. “The women here are treated like whores and servants, isn’t that right? You likely call them to your room for entertainment.”

Doyoung scoffed. “I don’t care for women, ma’am. Never have.” He paused, realizing how that must have sounded to her. “I’m not interested in women.” It didn’t seem to help; she pointed an accusing finger at him.

“You’re really something, boy.“

“And you’re a bitch who’s wasting my time, despite my trying to take her seriously. Now, are you going to give me a job? Or will we be here all night?”

The woman stared at him for another long moment, clearly enraged. Doyoung almost wondered if he was hallucinating—her figure seemed to phase in and out of existence, and her deep anger was so out of place on a set of soft features. She could’ve been a trick of the light, a product of the disturbed mind; and Doyoung could wake up stoned and piss drunk, nowhere near the current scene. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

At last, she spoke. Paired with a deliberate, impatient gesture of her hand came the words: “Come with me.”

Doyoung obliged, following her out of the lot. They walked wordlessly up a gravel road and past a gate, into a garden. It was surrounded on all sides by white walls and arched windows—the centrepiece of the property. Eden was a stunning display of wealth and beauty.

Lanterns dangled from every rooftop, flanking tall, white columns. Water spilled from a colossal arrangement of natural stone. Twin paths of interlocking stones circled the pool, splitting at a particular junction where they then lead to several smaller courtyards. Each alcove housed a statue and overflowing pot of vibrant flowers that climbed up the walls on twirling stems. Doyoung paused before a marble statue of a young maiden and dropped a single coin in her basket, as had become customary. Supposedly Israfel had started the tradition after waking up hungover at her feet.

But the silver-haired lady ahead of him didn’t seem to know this; and even if she did, she didn’t care. Seir snapped her fingers impatiently, and Doyoung hurried to catch up.

They arrived at an alcove on the opposite side of the space, and were greeted by a stone king on his throne. He stared down at them unkindly, his fist tight around his scepter. Without hesitation, the woman reached for his crown, stuck her hand within the circlet of stone, and pushed. The back wall of the alcove, covered all over with ivy and wild begonias, quivered. Then with just the slightest resistance, it swung inwards to reveal a dark tunnel.

The woman fished a flashlight out of her pocket and switched it on. “The Seraphim’s lair.” She gave the stone king a patronizing pat on the shoulder, then sneered at him in contempt, “Hidden behind a statue of a king. A little too on the nose, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps,” Doyoung muttered wryly, and followed her into the tunnel.

With a bit of effort, they replaced the wall, though Doyoung thought it was an issue of little importance; at this hour, most would be far too intoxicated to notice.

Once the wall had been pushed flush against the statue, they were swallowed by darkness. The flashlight did little against it, but Seir forged ahead with confidence, leaving Doyoung to stumble along. It was silent for the first few minutes, before classical music began to drift through the walls, adagio and mezzo piano. Snippets of conversation followed. There was a broken moan, and then a flirtatious laugh. Slow inhales. Satisfied exhales. Deep within the walls of the property, the pair bore witness to a multitude of illicit activities.

At long last, it fell quiet again. The ground began to slope downwards, steeper and steeper, until it reached a short flight of stairs. Seir paused at the bottom, feeling carefully along the wall for something. All of a sudden, a dirty yellow glow washed across the room—what looked like a storage closet, only about two arm spans across. Pinned to the furthest wall was an arrangement of photos and notes: the Seraphim, their names, images, details, entire floor plans for the estate in which they supposedly lived.

“What is this?” Doyoung asked. He was taken aback, to say the least, by the sheer amount of detail, not to mention the unknown motivations behind it all. He stepped forward to take a closer look, reaching instinctively for the photo that had slipped loose from the corkboard. The image of a striking man with black hair and eyes flashed before him, then vanished as Seir slapped his hand away.

“Don’t touch,” she hissed.

“I was looking.”

“Look with your eyes. You’ll touch them soon enough.”

“These are the targets?” Doyoung raised a brow, doing a quick count of the photos. Eight. “All eight of them?”

Seir gave a dissatisfied growl. “I did most of the work, didn’t I? How difficult could it possibly be for you to kill them, when all the details are so conveniently prepared for you?”

“I wasn’t complaining,” Doyoung snapped. “And I don’t doubt my abilities. I doubt your abilities in miraculously tracking down every last detail about the eight most mysterious men in the city. Forgive me when I say I’m skeptical.”

“That isn’t your concern as a contract killer. You have no loyalties, you’re paid to do as I tell you, not to refute—”

Doyoung snorted in disbelief. “I’m not allowed to be curious? Believe me, you’re not the only person who has been after the Seraphims’ true identities. This house is a mystery, and I want to know how you solved it.”

There was a beat of empty silence. Then the woman's lips curled back in visible disgust, revealing a set of gleaming white teeth. Her hatred was unmistakable. “Go dig through a shithole first, go get dirt under your fingernails, go whore yourself out to the most despicable scum of the earth, then maybe you’ll figure it out yourself. You have no idea what I’ve done just to get here.”

“Well, then I commend you—”

“Your praise won’t change my mind, boy.”

Doyoung frowned. So she was conceited enough to be condescending, but not quite enough to break at his praise. Fine. He could resort to other methods.

He turned his attention back to the Seraphim, noting their angelic names and dangerous appearances. No two looked the same—each visually unique on their own—yet when lined up one after the next, they began to blur into an indecipherable, melted concoction of facial features. Brown eyes and dark gazes. Grey hair, wild manes, red lips, stained mouths. Uriel scowled at him from behind a pair of red-tinted glasses. Matariel watched with immense judgement, as if her hair wasn’t white as snow and there wasn’t a thick layer of cream blush smoothed over her cheeks.

“You’re missing one,” Doyoung noticed after a few moments—an obvious gap between Leliel and Uriel, and a name written in big, black letters: “Azrael.”

“He’s been dealt with,” Seir replied shortly.

“Didn’t leave his photo up? X his eyes out with a red marker, maybe?”

“You talk too much,” she hissed in frustration. “And Azrael was the worst of them. A cold-blooded murderer. He killed my brother.”

Doyoung scoffed. “And you hiring me to kill eight people doesn’t make you any worse than him?”

“You have no idea what type of people they are. You have no idea what they do.”

He sighed, taking two steps back. The shadows parted for him, and the room fell incredibly still, incredibly silent—and it did so incredibly quickly. One second, the woman’s voice bounced back and forth between the walls, filling the entire space with anger and disdain. The next, she was barely a whisper. Standing about an arms’ length away from Doyoung with her back turned to him, she had become strangely small in his eyes.

“I’m well aware of the things we do, dear prince.”

The silence wavered, trembling as metal appeared between Doyoung’s fingers. There was a visible refraction against the far wall and a shrill warning as something cut through the air. Then his left hand was on the woman’s shoulder and his right was drawing metal across the soft flesh of her throat. Her mouth dropped open in a silent scream, and her eyes bulged out of her skull.

“You killed an innocent man,” he murmured.

He let her crumble to the ground.

The waves crashed. Crimson lapped at his shoes. The weapon hung limply at his side, dripping rhythmically, shimmering with molten amber. He watched the pigment seep into the dead woman’s hair; he watched the white strands float down the red river. Unconsciously, he let a string of curses spill from his lips, then reached for his lighter. What a mess.

Azrael walked out of the room a few minutes later, picking blood off of his nails and bleeding smoke from the mouth.

“You’re making a mess, Doyoung.”

Doyoung looked down. Indeed, there was a trail of bloody footprints behind him: where he stood, they were pink marks against the glossy floor tile, and where the door opened to the hallway, they glistened bright red. Too distracted by his thoughts and the gruelling cleanup after Seir’s murder, he simply hadn’t realized.

Now Johnny peered at him impassively from behind his desk—neither understanding nor upset, simply observing and strangely quiet. Doyoung could feel similar stares from the others around the room; though the other Seraphim were more forthcoming with their opinions, much more outspoken than their leader. Yuta sat in the corner, snickering in amusement and wiping at the red lenses of his glasses. Donghyuck waved at him mockingly. Jungwoo mumbled a pointed comment beneath his breath.

Scowling to himself, Doyoung stepped out of his shoes. He approached Johnny’s desk without them, and set the evidence down for his inspection: a clear plastic bag that held every photo, every paper, every piece of writing from Prince Seir’s wall. In his annoyance and carelessness while taking them down from the cork board, he’d torn several pieces and crudely taped them back together.

“How did you kill him?” Jungwoo crooned from where he sat, fanning his freshly-painted nails with a magazine.

Doyoung responded with only a finger drawn over his throat and a quiet correction: “Her. It was a woman.”

“And how did she manage to piece this all together?” Johnny asked; the room quickly returned its attention to him. He had laid the images out on the table, and was glowering down at them—as if flimsy, blood-stained papers still had potential to do harm. Perhaps they did; the notion of intruders and spies in their midst was hardly encouragement.

“Ugh! That’s the photo on my driver’s license!” Donghyuck cut in, whining obnoxiously as he sauntered over, clearly and horrifyingly drunk. He reached for the two halves of his photo, only to have them snatched away by Johnny.

“Enough,” the elder grunted, gently pushing Donghyuck into a chair and returning his attention to Doyoung. “Well? Do you know?”

Doyoung hesitated—he knew exactly who Johnny would blame if he told him—and he resisted the urge to look at the person in question. “She found the old service tunnel in the east wing,” he started, then paused to survey the leader for his reaction: Johnny narrowed his eyes, but said nothing for the time being. “She snuck around our quarters through the walls and installed cameras in the air vents. That was enough for her to get images of our faces and hear our names.”

“And what about you? She had never seen you before tonight?”

“No. I got lucky. The vents in my room aren’t part of the network in the east wing, and even if they were, I was out of town for a few weeks. She mistook Jeno for me while I was gone.”

Johnny’s jaw tightened. “And she had him killed.”

“Yes.”

The revelation brought a deathly hush. Doyoung was right: they had gotten lucky. Had Seir hired any other person to kill them, had they been even a little less prepared, any one of them could have met the same fate as Jeno.

“Mark,” Johnny sighed at last, locking gazes with the one person who had kept his quiet this entire time. “Come here.”

Mark obediently shuffled to his feet, rising out of the shadows. The expression on his face was already wounded, like he knew what was to come; and when he stood motionless before the leader with his head lowered, he took on the form of a child awaiting chastisement. For several moments, Johnny simply looked him up and down, all prior emotion having disappeared from his eyes. For several moments, the air hung still, as they all held back from doing anything they might regret.

Then Johnny lashed out, striking Mark across the cheek with little remorse.

The sharp sound of contact rang through the room, snapping everyone back to attention. Yuta looked up, frowning. Doyoung tensed. Even Donghyuck seemed to sober, and momentarily quit his garbled whining.

They all knew: Johnny didn’t get violent often.

“John,” Yuta said in soft warning, but it went disregarded.

“This keeps happening, Mark,” Johnny said lowly, leaning forward against the desk so he could stoop a little lower and meet the younger man’s gaze. “Why is that? Did you forget what I asked you to do?”

Mark shook his head no—he remembered exactly what he had been told—but Johnny answered for him anyway. “I said we needed to tighten up our security. Any corridors we’ve stopped using, any rooms that could potentially give us away, I told you to block them off. So why haven’t you?”

There was a shaky breath. “Taeil said not to.”

“Taeil told you that?”

Mark nodded slowly. “He still needs access to plumbing. And ventilation. So I made the corridor accessible on both sides, but only to us— I-I thought he told you—”

“Fine. If Taeil said not to, fine,” Johnny snapped. “But you can do better than some hidden fucking entrance behind a statue that anyone can find.” The pause that came directly afterwards conveyed an even harsher warning. His voice dropped in volume, not low enough to be inaudible, but enough to sound especially cold. “You disappoint me, Mark. You’ve disappointed me too many times. For your sake and the rest of our sakes, I hope this is your last.”

“Johnny,” Yuta called his name again, this time sharply. “Lay off him.”

“When he learns his lesson,” Johnny replied through clenched teeth. “He could’ve gotten one of us killed. Hell, Jeno’s already—”

“You’ve put him through enough.”

Watching wordlessly from the sidelines, Doyoung expected Johnny to snap—to round on Yuta the way he had with Mark, claiming to have done no wrong. He waited for the room to dissolve into chaos, as it often did. But to his surprise, Johnny stayed quiet. He averted his gaze, clenched his jaw, and held back the words that were clearly on his tongue. “You can go, Mark,” he said at last, his expression easing from anger to discontentment when he caught sight of Yuta on his right. “I’m sure you’re busy.”

And to the rest of the Seraphim present, “You’re all dismissed. Doyoung, I’d like a word.”

Mark shuffled out of the room with his eyes still glued to his feet. The rest hauled a drunk Donghyuck along, and Yuta brought up the rear; he closed the door on his way out, leaving Doyoung and Johnny alone.

“You’ve been hard on Mark,” Doyoung said after a few moments, once the footsteps in the hall had faded away.

“I’ve been hard on everyone,” Johnny corrected him. There hung an air of exhaustion around the angel of night, and it was clear as day. His hair hung in dark tendrils around his face. His complexion had gone uneven, dark around his eyes like he hadn’t been sleeping well. While he usually donned various silver accents and expensive accessories to blend into the crowd upstairs, his appearance tonight was rather plain. Doyoung had left town on business only two weeks prior; but this and the thick tension he witnessed earlier suggested things had taken a turn since then.

“Should I be glad that I wasn’t here?” Doyoung asked, noting the collection of cigarette stumps in Johnny’s ashtray—it was normally empty.

And Johnny replied shortly, “I’m sure things were worse on your end.”

He wasn’t wrong; the red stains in the backseat of Doyoung’s car and the duffle bag he’d thrown in a bonfire were enough testament.

“Well, the cleanup was rather—”

Johnny wrinkled his nose in disgust. “I don’t want details.”

Doyoung watched in mild amusement as the leader rummaged restlessly around his desk for something. “I’m worried,” Johnny said absentmindedly as he produced a new pack of cigarettes from the drawer. So the collection of black remains in the ashtray did belong to him, Doyoung concluded as he watched; it seemed Johnny had fallen prey to old habits.

“About what?”

He was left waiting for an answer while Johnny fished a lighter from his pocket and raised it to the cigarette between his lips.

“Everything,” came the delayed reply, flat and emotionless, tight with irritation. “Business has been getting worse. Guests are getting bored and leaving for good. Taeil’s gone off the rails too. He’s deaf to reason.”

“What did he do now?”

“He thinks he can solve all our issues with chemistry.” His face lit up with remembrance. “Right, don’t drink the tap water, he’s laced it with something.”

“Again?”

“Yes, again. Some sort of sedative. He thinks it’ll keep people soft and pliant and dumb enough to consider extending their stay. It doesn’t matter, because it won’t work. Now all of this—” Johnny spread his hands for emphasis. “—these people sneaking around the house and trying to unearth secrets that don’t exist? Strangers putting bounties on our heads when we’ve done nothing wrong?”

“I wouldn’t say we’re completely innocent.”

Johnny gave a bark of emotionless laughter; he couldn’t deny it. The drugs and illicit substances, Doyoung’s side hustle in contract killing, Taeil’s bloodied lab in the basement, countless other things that he had lost track of. All for the sake of found family, for the sake of the most important people in his life and for the sake of their collective sanity, he would allow it.

“Tell me everything,” he said at last, resting his smoke on the rim of the bronze tray.

“Everything about…?”

“This Prince Seir you met.”

So Doyoung told him. He told him about the strange trails that had been left in dark corners of the internet and old clubs of a nearby town. They were subtle messages, sent by an individual who needed a “job” fulfilled on Seraph’s Hill. He told him about Taeyong, who had noticed a strange alias checking in and out of the estate every now and then, the same one Doyoung had seen online. Then about Jungwoo, who passed Doyoung’s name through groups and groups of distant associates, until it reached Seir herself—at which point she contacted him by email.

Johnny never interrupted nor spoke. He maintained the same posture in his chair and took occasional drags from his cigarette, never moving more than was required. Though he was quiet, he was hardly a good listener: unresponsive, horribly vague when he did react, always maintaining an overwhelming presence that loomed uncomfortably over Doyoung as he spoke. He felt as if he was talking to a brick wall, and at the same time, like the brick wall was staring into the very depths of his soul, passing judgement on every word that came out of his mouth.

“You’re on the internet often, then, if that’s how you stumbled across her.” Johnny peered at him with intrigue when he finished. “Forums dedicated to us, online discussion about us… Tell me, what do people say about Seraph’s Hill?”

“A lot of bullshit.”

Johnny was cross. “What do they say?”

“That we’re a house of mysteries. That it’s strange, how people can come in sober and ready to unearth our secrets, but always wake up wasted the next morning.”

“Doing drugs does that to you.”

“The water tastes weird. The statues in the back gardens are creepy. The whiskey is fucking overpriced, and the blonde bartender is sexy. That kind of bullshit.”

Johnny said nothing. For the next minute and a half, they listened to the gurgling of water in the fountains and the classical music from the ballroom. The hands of the clock behind them moved along without noise, but Doyoung heard ticking in his head.

“Thank you,” Johnny said at last, and put his cigarette to the dusty metal of the ashtray. A steady stream of smoke escaped his fingers, fading to nothing. “You can go now.”

Doyoung got up from where he sat, only to see his leader’s expression shift once more—almost like he’d remembered something important. There was a momentary pause, and he seemed softer.

“It’s good to have you back, Doyoung.”

He nodded in agreement; it was good to be home.

On the other side of the property, moonlight fell between the iron gates of hell—illuminating the crimson streaks on the prince’s face, and guiding the two figures who escorted her. Her silver hair made glimmering lines on the concrete, and her broken body scraped haphazardly along the ground. There was no need to be delicate, so long as her innards remained intact for what was to come next. She passed into the underground, eyes wide and unmoving, frozen in their sockets.

And a cloud passed over the moon.

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